After all that horndog posting I'm a lil soft on ddba Dex rn :') the concept of a North Star being out the window but he still needs things and/or a person to fixate on to be able to focus/be centered
Allow me to indulge 🚶🏾♀️
No warnings, just fluff and this'll be tagged as a mini fic; "you" and "she" used; fem reader, reader has a cat bc I'm biased asf and he seems to like cats, reader dialogue in blue text
940 words I fucking love him your honor.
Imagining being his next door neighbor and managing getting close enough to him. You know him as "Tony" but you watched the news. You were very aware who he was, but if he didn't want to be upfront about it you totally understood. He was still closed off but didn't mind a few conversations here and there just to fill that little void that craved normalcy
The sweet old lady from down the hall (I forgot her name I'm sorry 💔) gushes over you two all the time. You had a calm, soothing energy to you and Dex could feel himself wanting to be around you way more often. He doesn't need a North Star for guidance anymore as he ages, but there was still that itch to have a focal point. Something to admire and mimic in his everyday life to be a better person. Actually want to make something of himself in his own selfish way. It's weird but it gets him through his days
You've come over a few times, he's gone over to your place a few times. You have a cat and she lovesss him. The first time he came over she was weary at first, causing him to frown a little. But when you reassured him that she does that to everybody and to let her smell him, he took that a little personally. Because he wanted to be like you and wanted anything associated with you to rub off on him. So when he sat on the lounge chair and leaned down to let her smell his hand, she immediately warmed up to him and jumped into his lap.
He went stiff for a moment but then he saw your smile. It was like the sun stepped inside the cozy apartment.
You did regular check ins. He didn't because he didn't really understand why you did it, though you didn't take it personally. There was one time he attempted to do exactly what you did, but when you opened the door he kinda just stood there and attempted a smile (it was mostly teeth and it didn't even reach his eyes). You appreciated it nonetheless
He'd be gone for periods of time but you didn't worry cause he always came back. It wasn't hard to tell his footsteps apart from the other tenants and you came up with a little game to guess how the day went based on how hard or soft he walked
Here's where things really change. He was gone for a whole day and didn't return until like two in the morning. Beat up, bloody, his suit stuck to his skin with sweat and grime. His mask barely tucked into his pocket and once he reached his door, he slowly looked over there you were, key in hand about to open yours to. Neither of you said anything, just stood there in silence.
He's slightly panicked and thinking oh shit, I fucked up. How do I explain this? Will she think differently of me? She might never speak to me again. A gradual whirl of thoughts crowd his mind before your simple question slices through it all
"...need some help?"
And that's how he ended up sitting across from you while you tended to his wounds. Zero experience in this but luckily he wasn't a pint of blood away from dying. You didn't know how to do stitches but he waved that off and said he'll do it himself. Your cat sat near his boot to comfort him. He thought she was just taking in his scent again
You watched from the kitchen as you made hot tea. Eyes stuck to the large scar along his spine. He knew you were staring but didn't care to point it out. After he's done with his stitches you drink together and drink in silence until he says:
"You already knew who I was."
It wasn't accusatory. Observant.
"I think anybody with a phone knows who you are," you chuckled. He mimicked your laugh--a little more awkwardly. "Doesn't change anything though."
"It should." He replied. "I'm not exactly a role model."
"I didn't say you were."
"Why help me?" He asked quietly. Genuinely curious as to why you'd do this knowing all the bad shit he did. You shrug.
"Cause I'm a role model," you say with a full smile and laugh. The sound makes the inside of his chest warm. "You need rest."
"Nah. Not big on sleep."
Your brow raised.
"Why not?"
He says nothing and just taps on the side of his head.
"Too loud."
Your eyes soften. Standing up and holding out your hand. He just stared at it. So clean. Untainted. But you don't move until he finally takes it in his. Rough, calloused. Pretty sure he's never held someone's hand before. Like, literally, ever. The feeling of your hand in his is almost like it burns.
You lead him to your couch and sit. He sits next to you. You pat your lap and he narrows his eyes.
"You can sleep on my lap. It might help."
He wants to say this is ridiculous but the sleepiness starts to hit him in your presence. With a soft sigh he adjusted and laid down
"This might not work." He mumbled. Then he felt you gently caress his cheek scar. His first instinct was to swat your hand away but it actually...felt good. Weird.
"Give it a chance," you say in a softer tone. When your nails met his scalp, you could feel his muscles tense, then eventually relax. And within ten minutes, he was sound asleep.
in a perfect world, johnny would be the first to retire. he would be the first to find someone, fall head-over-heels in love, and throw all of his hard work and dedication away in favor of a quiet life by the ocean. it would be tough, at first, it would take years for him to truly shake the weight of the war from his bones, but he would do it. he would rather be a good husband, a father, than just another tragedy in an endless string of them. he would marry you as soon as his retirement papers cleared. he would give you a home full of laughter, and children, three at the very least, maybe a dog. he would be at every ballet recital and sports game, every parent-teacher conference and award ceremony. he would grow old with you, dance with you in the kitchen even at the ripe age of sixty-something, would complain about his creaking back right up until the bitter-sweet end. john mactavish would make a fine husband, given the chance.
kyle would be the next to jump ship. one day, he would see himself in the mirror, and he’d realize that he doesn’t recognize the man he has become. the years have taken their toll on him, he’s tired, he’s scared, he’s angry. his youth will have passed him by, and he’ll have forgotten to enjoy it. all the time he should’ve spent falling in love, and planning for the future, and making stupid decisions so he would have them to laugh about one day, was spent on the front lines, fighting somebody else’s war. he’ll decide that he wants no part in any of it, not anymore, and he’d turn his papers in the following morning. he meets you after, somewhere casual, maybe he’d spill his coffee all over you in his rush to get somewhere that, in retrospect, was entirely unimportant. he’ll buy you dinner to make up for it, and then again the next week, just in case his debt hasn’t been settled, and again, every friday for the next several years. he’ll marry you sometime in between, something small and intimate, with his brothers in arms as your witnesses, maybe he’ll finally give his mama the grandbaby she’s been begging for his whole life. kyle garrick would choose to be a better man, given the chance.
simon wouldn’t retire by choice. not in any world, not even a perfect one. but, eventually, it’s bound to catch up with him. even the world’s most capable soldier is vulnerable to his own damn humanity. he’d be forced to return to manchester, sooner or later, older, meaner, sore all over, all of the time. he’d buy a bike, a passion project, just something to keep his hands busy, lest he goes mad in his empty house, nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. it wouldn’t be enough, in the end. it can’t chase away the skeletons in his closet or tell him that it’s okay to be scared of the dark, even at his grown age, so he would do what any half-sane man would, and adopt a dog. a retired military mutt, just like him, who’s greying at the snout and growls at little kids when they pass by on their bicycles. he’d meet you at a dog park on a sunday afternoon, would remember your face but not your name. not until you chase him down in the street some weeks later, at least, and claim that his boy got your girl pregnant. he’d pay the vet bills, and he would help you find good homes for the puppies, and then, he’d stick around still, because he, like any stray, is desperate for a place to call home. you’d let him stay so long as got his boy neutered. he wouldn’t give you kids, wouldn’t burden you with his last name, but he’d damn sure love you. simon riley would learn to be happy, given the chance.
john wouldn’t retire until he’s already halfway to too late. the kids are nine and twelve already, old enough to resent him, and you’ve gotten used to having the bed to yourself, setting the table for three instead of four, brushing your friends’ comments off when they bring up how strong you are, doing it all on your own. your worrisome heart would sink every time the doorbell rang unexpectedly, or when he went too long without contact, fearing for the worst. it would not be some big, sudden revelation on his end. he’d notice in fragments. no, he doesn’t know his kids’ teachers’ names, and, no, he didn’t know that your son was diagnosed with asthma last summer. he can’t remember the last time the two of you celebrated an anniversary, or went out for dinner, or talked about anything that mattered. he wouldn’t make a big show of it, wouldn’t even tell you that he was considering it, but you’d wake up one morning, expecting him to be long gone, and he’d be stood at the stove, burning eggs, and he would never leave you again. he’d do what he could to make up for lost time. he’d schedule date nights for the two of you, without prompting, he’d take your boy fishing sunday mornings, share all that hard-earned wisdom over soggy sandwiches and plop his boonie hat on the kid’s head to keep him from burning in the summer sun, he’d sit on his daughter’s bedroom floor with a tiara on his head, sipping shitty tea from plastic cups, and he’d thank god. john price would right his wrongs, given the chance.
but this isn’t a perfect world.
john mactavish dies at twenty-seven, shot in the head by a man who should’ve died two years prior. you bury him before you get to marry him. your daughter’s born three months later — she’ll never meet her father, but she has his eyes, and his smile, and you know he would’ve loved her. he always wanted to be father.
kyle garrick spends the rest of his life fighting for a cause he doesn’t know if he believes in. your paths don’t cross in that little coffee shop, because he’s on the other side of the world, getting shot at, while you go about your life none the wiser. he dies at thirty-six on an operation no-one’s allowed to talk about, desperate and alone.
simon riley kills himself a month after his sergeant’s untimely demise — not like anyone can prove it. it’s impossible to claim that he walked into the line of fire intending to be shot down. what exactly was going through his mind, no one knows for certain. in your late twenties, you adopt an old military mutt, who’s greying at the muzzle and growls at your neighbor’s kids.
john price signs the divorce papers when you send them, because he knows it’s unfair of him to keep you tethered to him. he watches your children grow from afar, through the pictures you send and the quiet, solemn voicemails you leave. you never stop loving him, but you can’t wait around for him forever. you three are the only ones left to attend his funeral, when the time comes. you’re the only one with something kind to say.
pairing: benjamin poindexter x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: in which you patch dex up after spending the morning arguing, and despite how hurt and angry you still are, you can’t resist taking care of him just like he can’t resist crawling back to you.
content warnings: blood but no explicit mention of his fight or injuries, undefined relationship but they're in love, ddba dex
a/n: got done with my finals today and spent the entire day editing this. i have been waiting to post this week for two entire weeks. fourteen days. and i finally got around to it who cheered!!
wc: 5.6k
Usually, you were used to the sound of your window opening, but tonight, you hadn’t expected it at all.
You’d been lying awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word from the argument this morning. So when you heard the knock, your entire body went still. You raised your head from your pillow, the cool air of the room hitting the back of your neck. Through the thin curtain, you could see Dex. One hand braced against the glass, the other pressed low against his side.
You exhaled slowly and pushed the covers away. Your bare feet touched the cold floor, and you shivered slightly.
He looked worse than you’d expected. Even through the distorted blur of the old glass and the streetlight from the city below, you could see the dark smear across his suit.
You pulled the window up. It stuck for a moment and you had to put your weight into it, before the frame finally gave in.
He stared at you. Whatever you could see through the bullseye mask and it wasn’t much, showed his hazel eyes staring straight into yours, filled with guilt and hurt.
You knew why the hurt was there, obviously. You’d put some of it there yourself this morning.
Now, his gaze flickered down to the window frame, then back to you. The window had never been closed before. In all the months he’d been coming here, you’d always left it unlocked
You didn't say anything. What was there to say that hadn’t already been said, screamed, or left to fester in the silence between you?
Instead, you just turned to the side, stepping back from the window, and let him finally drop inside.
He moved slower than usual. You noticed the grunt of effort he tried to swallow as he lowered himself down. His boots hit the floor and he swayed for just a moment before catching himself against your desk.
You could see the dark wet gleam of blood seeping between his fingers, even through the fabric of his suit.
You didn’t say anything. Instead you just stepped forward and tapped his suit with one finger. “Off.” You walked past him, into the bathroom, leaving him standing there in the dark of your bedroom.
The bathroom light stung your eyes as you flicked it on, and you blinked against the glare. You pulled out the first aid kit, the one you’d had to restock three times in the past two months. Behind you, you heard the sounds of him undressing.
He knew the rules. You’d made them clear the first time he’d shown up at your window, dripping blood onto your carpet. No blood on your bed and no suit on your sheets.
When you came back out, the first aid kit tucked under your arm, he was sitting on the edge of your bed. He was down to his black boxers, the rest of his suit folded by the window. He was sitting with one hand braced against his waist, leaning back slightly, his head tipped up toward the ceiling.
You rounded the bed, coming to stand beside him. From this angle you could see the damage was worse than you’d thought.
There was blood around his eyebrows, smeared and half dried into the hair above his right eye where something had split the skin. His knuckles were torn raw, but his waist was what drew your eye and your stomach turn.
You almost winced, but you managed to keep your face neutral, the way you’d learned to do over the months. He watched your face like a hawk, Any flicker of fear or disgust, and he’d shut down.
He tilted his head just slightly, hazel eyes finding yours, trying to figure out how much you hated him after this morning.
The argument from this morning hung over both of you. You’d been concerned about his excessive fighting and he hadn’t taken it well obviously. He’d never taken concern well, it always sounded like criticism to him, like proof that he was doing something wrong and that he was wrong.
You weren’t sure if he kept coming back because you were the only one who ever welcomed him back or if it was because he genuinely loved you.
Maybe it was both.
You bent down slightly, knees hovering over the ground next to his thigh as you finally started cleaning and unlike the other times, you didn't warn him about anything. Tonight, you just pressed the cloth directly against the wound.
He grunted, a sound that punched out of his chest before he could stop it. His muscles locked up under your hands and for a split second you felt him fight the instinct to pull away.
His eyes shot down to you, caught off guard by the fact that you'd done that, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew better.
Instead, his hands carefully came up to your hair.
You felt his fingers graze the side of your head. He was about to hold it back for you, like he always did when you cleaned him up. It had become his way of being useful, when you were taking care of him. He'd gather your hair in his big bloody hands and pull it gently away from your face and hold it in a ponytail so it wouldn't fall forward into your work. And usually, you'd smile to yourself at the gesture and he'd feel good about himself for just one second.
"Don't," you muttered.
His hands dropped like they'd been burned. For a moment, he looked almost confused, then his hands went back to your bed instead, gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles went white. The fabric bunched under his fingers as he pressed down.
You glanced at his hands before looking away again. He'd hurt your feelings too much this morning. You hated arguing with him, because arguing with Dex was like arguing with a brick wall. You also hated him not listening to you. You were just trying to keep him alive, and he acted like that was an unreasonable request.
He was now looking away, pissed off as well, because you wouldn't let him touch you. But you could see the hurt taking over his face anyway. You could see the confusion underneath the hurt too, because this wasn't how it usually went. Usually, you were patient and usually, you let him have his small gestures because you knew they were the only way he knew how to say I love you.
You bit your lip and started working again, pushing all of that down where you could deal with it later. You cleaned carefully around the bloody gash. The antiseptic soaked into the gauze, turning pink as you dabbed away the worst of it. You could feel him clenching his abs at some point out of pain, the muscles jumping under your fingers, but he didn't let out a single sound.
Like always, you couldn't resist brushing softly over his abs as you worked. Your fingers traced across the muscle just above the wound, because that was just who you were with Dex. Gentle.
You could feel Dex relax under your oh so familiar touch and when you glanced up, you saw his eyes were closed. You couldn't help the warmth that filled your body at that.
It spread through your chest like honey and completely against your will. You'd been trying so hard to stay cold, but seeing Dex, Dex who was hypervigilant about everything and everyone, close his eyes and give himself fully to you despite the horrible morning you'd both had together it made you feel too many things.
He trusted you. That was the heart of it. He trusted you not to hurt him while he couldn't see and he trusted you to keep being gentle even when you were angry.
"What happened?"
He finally opened his eyes, looking down at you. Those dark hazel eyes found yours, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You could see him considering the question, turning it over in his mind, deciding how much to tell you. The answer, when it came, was exactly what you expected. "Not important," was all he grumbled out.
You stared at him and his dark hazel eyes stared back.
His eyes clearly said drop it without him having to actually say the words, but you'd never been good at dropping things, especially not when his blood was still drying under your fingernails.
So you looked down again, focusing on the white bandage you were smoothing over his waist, but your fingers pushed harder than necessary.
You could hear him almost chuckle at that, but it just made you push harder, pressing your thumb into the muscle just next to the bandage with enough pressure to make a point. He stopped chuckling real fast. His breath hitched once, and then he went quiet again, his jaw tightening. Good. You didn't need his attitude right now.
After a while, you were done with his waist. You smoothed the edges of the bandage one last time, before finally standing up.
Your legs protested. You'd been kneeling longer than you realized, and the stretch sent pins and needles shooting down your calves. You straightened slowly, rolling your shoulders back, feeling the ache in your lower back from leaning over him for so long.
You stepped away from his thigh and stood directly in front of him. Even sitting on your bed, he was almost at eye level with you. You still had the advantage of height, and you used it, looking down at him with an expression you hoped was unreadable.
He looked up at you, and without being asked, he automatically opened his legs for you. You didn't hesitate, stepping in between his legs, close enough that your knees brushed against the inside of his thighs. You reached out and grabbed his chin, lifting his face up to you.
Your thumb and forefinger, pinched gently beneath his jaw, tilting his head back so he had no choice but to look up at you. He could have pulled away, but he didn't.
It was a nasty cut on his cheek. The blood had dried, trailing down his neck. You studied it, calculating the best way to clean it without getting antiseptic in his eye, and that was when you felt his hands wandering up your thighs.
His palms were warm and rough against your bare skin, calloused from years of gripping weapons. He brushed them softly up and down your thighs, a touch that sent goosebumps rising across every inch of skin your shorts didn't cover.
You flinched at his touch. He felt it immediately and his hands gripped tighter in response. His fingers pressed into the flesh of your thighs, holding you in place, afraid you'd step back.
He stared up at you, waiting to see if you'd push him away or not. His eyes were dark, flicking across your face.
You stared down at him for a long moment, wondering what you yourself were going to do. Part of you wanted to push his hands away and part of you wanted to remind him that he didn't get to touch you like this after this morning. But you just let him, because at the end of the day you cared about Dex so much it hurt.
Then and there, he'd grip your thighs harder.
Sometimes you'd press a little too firmly against a tender spot, or the antiseptic would sting more than expected, and his hands would clamp down on your legs, fingers squeezing the soft flesh of your thighs.
But then, immediately after, he'd soften his grip. His thumb would rub softly over the spot he'd just squeezed as if saying sorry.
He stared at you a lot. Had you not been friends (?) with Dex for so long, you would've been concerned. Anyone else, staring at you like that, would have set off alarm bells, but with him, you'd learned that the staring was just something he did.
As you cleaned carefully, wiping the last traces of blood from his cheek, he finally spoke again.
"Did you not want me here?" he asked.
You paused , the gauze still pressed against his cheek, and just looked at him. There was a slight furrow between his brows that meant he was bracing himself for bad news.
"A bit late to ask that question, don't you think?" you asked, eyebrows raised.
"Still wanna know the answer," he said as his hand squeezed your left thigh.
You stared at him, and you thought about lying for a second but then changed your mind.
"No," you replied.
And you knew him so well that you could tell his face fell. To anyone else, his expression probably wouldn't have changed at all, but you knew.
"Good to know. I'll get out of your hair," he mumbled.
He started to move. His hands left your thighs, and you felt the cold absence immediately. He braced his palms against the bed on either side of him, preparing to push himself up to walk out of your room and probably out of your life for good this time.
But your hand just slipped down to his neck. Your fingers found the warm skin just below his jaw, palm curving around the side of his throat. You held him back from trying to stand up. You could feel his rapid pulse beneath your palm. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and your fingers shifted with the movement.
"You're already here. Not worth leaving now."
Dex almost resisted the touch. His body was screaming at him to leave and to get out before you could hurt him worse.
But then he stilled, his head tilting slightly into your palm like a flower turning toward the sun. He couldn't help it. Even hurt and angry and confused, he couldn't resist your touch. It was the only thing that had always been able to reach him.
He stared up at you, those dark hazel eyes searching your face for a sign that you weren't going to change your mind and shove him away.
You didn't give him any of that, but you didn't let go of his neck either.
He stayed silent, so you carefully took care of the cut on his cheek. The anger had drained out of you somewhere in the last few minutes. You didn't feel the urge to hurt him anymore. You just wanted him to stop bleeding. You just wanted, for one moment, to not be fighting.
Your fingers were soft against his skin as you dabbed the last of the blood away. You smoothed a small bandaid over the cut. He let you work without complaint, his eyes never leaving your face.
But as soon as you were done, he stood up. You stumbled back, your hand falling from his neck. He didn't look at you and just walked toward your closet.
You watched, confused, as he reached inside. He knew exactly where to go, the bottom shelf on the left, where you'd folded his things weeks ago and never bothered to move. A few shirts and a pair of sweatpants.
He grabbed his clothes, the ones he usually left here for mornings after, for nights when it was too late or too cold or too dangerous for him to leave.
"What are you doing?"
"Don't worry about it," he mumbled.
He didn't look at you as he said it. He just grabbed a shirt and pulled it over his head. The fabric caught on his shoulders for a moment, and he had to tug it down, the movement making him groan slightly at the pain in his waist. He reached for the sweatpants next.
You stared at him for a long moment, watching the way his hands shook as he grabbed the fabric. Watching the flush creeping up the back of his neck, red and splotchy.
He was upset, having just realized that you didn't want him here. And he'd gone ahead and assumed the worst. That was how his mind worked. One rejection meant all rejections, one closed window meant every door was locked forever. In his head, your no hadn't just meant not tonight. It meant you were done with him, that you'd finally come to your senses, that he'd been right all along to expect this.
You could see the genuine power it was taking him to remain calm.
God knows Dex never stayed calm when he found out people were leaving him.
You finally stepped into his space, blocking his path to the closet, forcing him to either look at you or look away. Your body was close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.
"You leaving?" you asked, and your hand came up to stop him from taking the sweatpants. Your fingers closed around the fabric, tugging gently, and he let go easier than you expected.
"You care about me leaving now?" he chuckled, but there was no humor in it.
He reached above your head for the rest of his clothes, his arm stretching past your shoulder, his body brushing against yours for just a moment. You could see his hands shaking up close now.
"Dex," you finally said.
He didn't look at you, but he stopped reaching for the closet. You grabbed the sweatpants out of his hand and stuffed them back in the closet, pushing them to the back of the shelf where he couldn't easily reach them.
"All I'm saying is that I—" you started, but the words got stuck in your throat. You didn't know what to say.
How did you explain something you didn't fully understand yourself? How did you tell him that you wanted him gone and wanted him closer at the same time? That his presence hurt and his absence hurt worse? That you were angry and scared and still, somehow, desperately in love with him? His eyes were weirdly red rimmed as he stared at you.
"I'm upset, okay?" you finally said, and the words came out embarrassed. "You hurt me this morning. And I'm just—taking it out on you now, I guess."
Dex's red rimmed eyes searched your face, looking for the lie, because in his experience, there was always a trap. People didn't just say I'm upset and leave it there. There was always something they wanted from him in return.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," was all he said.
"Yeah, well, you did," you chuckled without any real joy. "You accused me of trying to hold you back," you said, hating how your voice broke. "And then you told me you wouldn't want to see me again, if i kept voicing my concern." You grimaced. "You don't think I'd be hurt by that?"
And he really didn't. Dex didn't think that words like that had an effect on anyone, because in his mind, he was basically worth nothing. So why would him telling you that you wouldn't have to put up with him anymore hurt you so much? To him, it wasn't anything bad. It was just true. Of course you didn't tolerate him. Who could? Who would? He was surprised you'd lasted this long, honestly. He'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the first night he climbed through your window.
Dex stared at you, processing your words, and then gave the only answer he knew how to give. "No."
Your shoulders fell a bit, as if you'd expected the answer. "Well, I was," you replied, staring back at his eyes.
He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a single word out, you were already gripping his shirt.
Your fingers curled into the black fabric at his chest, bunching it up. You were close enough that he could see how shiny your eyes were.
"Off," you mumbled. "It's not good for your injury," you tugged at the hem of the shirt again.
He opened his mouth, clearly about to make a joke about you taking his clothes off. You could see it forming in his expression. It was his default defense mechanism. He'd deflect with sarcasm and make you roll your eyes so he didn't have to acknowledge whatever he did to you.
But you shot him a look and he closed his mouth, but that small smug grin stayed on his face.
Obviously he didn't let you take it off. He just reached back to his neck, grabbing the collar of the shirt, and pulled it over his head. He folded the shirt carefully, before turning back to the closet.
He reached past you, his arm brushing your shoulder, and gently placed the folded shirt back alongside the sweatpants you'd stuffed in the back. He took the sweatpants out again, folding them before tucking them back into their spot on the shelf.
Meanwhile, you turned your back to him and finally started tying up the first aid kit. But your mind was still reeling from how you'd admitted what you were feeling to him. You weren't good at that. Neither of you were and you'd just laid yourself bare in front of him.
Behind you, Dex didn't know what to do. He stood there next to the closet, shirtless, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides.
Should he just go home? He could climb back out the window, disappear into the night, give you the space you clearly needed. It would be the safe thing to do.
But he didn't want to leave. He never wanted to leave. Every time he climbed through your window, some small part of him hoped he wouldn't have to climb back out.
What did you want him to do?
Usually, after you patched him up, he'd stay with you. You'd sit beside him on the bed and you'd talk about nothing and everything and as you talked, you'd brush your hand softly over his chest, your palm resting right over his heart.
He liked that the most. When you had your hand on his heartbeat.
He wasn't sure why. Maybe because his heart was always pounding from all the adrenaline and the pain and anger. But your hand was the only thing that got it to calm down.
But now after the argument were you going to make him sleep on the couch? He wasn't sure his back could handle it. The couch was old and too short for him, and he was already sore from tonight's fight. Sleeping on the couch would mean waking up stiff and angry and probably more than a little pathetic than he felt right now.
His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, a casual pose that cost him more effort than he wanted to admit. His eyes followed you as you moved around the room.
When you returned from putting the first aid kit away, you glanced at him and stopped. Surprise flickered across your face for just a moment, but then realization dawned on you.
So you just walked over to your bed and pushed away the covers. The sheets were still rumpled from where you'd been lying earlier. You sat down on the edge of the mattress and looked up at him.
"You not going to join?" you asked.
Like a puppy, Dex followed. Had he been anywhere else and had anyone else watching, he would have rather shot himself than ever let anyone see how eagerly he just went to bed.
He crossed the room and settled on the other side of your bed, his body sinking into the mattress beside you. He was careful as he moved. His waist injury pulled and he had to adjust his position three times before he found one that didn't send spikes of pain through his side. A small sigh of relief escaped him as he finally laid down. His head found the pillow he always used.
You were still sitting against the headboard, staring down at him, where he stared at the ceiling. You watched him for a long moment, taking him in, but then you finally scooched down, laying down next to him.
The mattress shifted under your weight, and you felt him adjust slightly beside you. Your shoulder brushed against his arm, and neither of you moved away from the contact.
"Want the covers?" you mumbled.
Sometimes he didn't want the covers. He got overwhelmed by them sometimes, especially when it was hot or when he was having nightmares and woke up sweaty and panicked.
He shook his head, his hair rustling against the pillow. So you let the covers stay barely past your knees, the fabric pooling somewhere around your thighs. You could see goosebumps rising on his arms, but he didn't seem to care.
"Thank you," he said after a while.
His voice was rough and quiet. He was still staring at the way the lights from the streets hit your ceiling, probably using them as an excuse not to look at you.
"I'm not trying to hold you back," you whispered after a long silence. "I'm just worried." Your voice cracked slightly on the last word, and you hated it. You hated how much power you were giving him over your emotions. "I don't want to lose you," you said after he stayed quiet.
He turned his head on the bed, glancing at you. His dark hazel eyes found your face in the dim light and you turned your head.
Now you were facing each other on the pillows, inches apart, close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips. His eyes were wide and surprised. You knew him well enough to know how much those words meant to him. You'd shown him in a hundred small ways, but you'd never said it quite like this.
"I don't want to watch the news and have to hear that you died, Dex," you whispered.
Your voice broke on his name, and he could swear he saw tears in your eyes. You blinked hard, trying to push the moisture back. You glanced away again, forcing him to admire your side profile instead.
"Why not?" he whispered.
It was a sick question, he knew that. He knew the answer should be obvious, but he oh so desperately just wanted you to say it out loud.
He needed the words to exist outside of his own head and he needed them to be something he could hold onto when the darkness became too much.
You turned your head and your eyes met his. "Because I love you," you whispered. "And I can't live without you."
You watched his face as the words landed, watched the way his expression shifted through a dozen emotions in the span of a single second.
Dex felt a lot. He just wasn't sure what it was. There was a pressure in his chest, like his heart was trying to expand beyond the confines of his ribs. His throat felt thick, his eyes felt hot and there was a strange ringing in his ears.
Had he been like anyone else, he would have known it was love.
All he knew was that it didn't make him feel bad. So he just stared at you, his dark hazel eyes unreadable, before saying quietly, "My waist doesn't hurt that much."
You let out a wet chuckle. You could feel the tears threatening to spill over again, but you blinked them back, focusing on the absurdity of the moment.
"You suck," you whispered, but you knew this was his way of asking you to come closer.
You slid across the sheets until you were pressed against his side. The mattress shifted under both of you, and you felt his hand come up to rest on your back, fingers splayed wide.
You rested your head on his chest, staring down at his injury. From this angle, you could see the white bandage clearly.
He stared down at your soft hair. Soft, unlike anything else in his life. He'd spent the night being hit by sharp and hard things. He'd been thrown around into god knows what type of buildings, his body slamming against walls and floors and whatever else had gotten in the way. That's what he knew most of the time.
Less of the time, he knew a soft body like yours. Your hair spilled across his chest and he found himself mesmerized by the way it moved when you breathed.
When your fingertips traveled to his injury, he shivered. Your fingers traced the edge of the bandage with no pressure. It didn't hurt, but it made goosebumps rise on his arms, his stomach clenching involuntarily.
You halted for a second, your fingers freezing against his skin, probably worried you'd hurt him. But then you continued, tracing it gently, following the line of the bandage from one end to the other.
"Did a good job," he mumbled, his eyes following your movement. He watched your fingers trace across his skin.
"Hm, thanks," you hummed, your breath warm against his chest. "Have lots of experience."
He chuckled at that and you felt the vibration under your cheek.
You closed your eyes for a second, enjoying the oh so not rare sound, but rarely ever genuine sounding sound. You wanted to capture it in a jar and keep it on your nightstand, something to listen to on the nights when he wasn't there.
His hand found your hair, fingers threading through the strands. He let his palm rest against the back of your head.
You looked up at that, meeting his eyes. Your cheek dragged against his chest as you tilted your head back, chin pressing into his sternum. Your hair splaying across his chest.
"I'm not going to argue again with you, but I think you should know that I'll always worry," you whispered, your eyes searching his face. "And i might say things sometimes."
His thumb paused its circles on your neck, pressing just slightly harder. "I think I can handle that," he mumbled, his hand now wandering down to the back of your waist, his fingers brushing lightly under your shirt.
You shivered. His fingers warm against the bare skin of your lower back, rough calluses dragging gently over the soft curve of your waist.
He noticed and his eyes flickered with something that might have been satisfaction, but he didn't say anything. His other hand remained on the other side of his body until you tilted your head over his body and grabbed it softly. Your fingers found his and you guided his hand downward, pulling it across your hip.
You placed his hand on your thigh, spreading your fingers over the back of his, pressing down slightly so he could feel the softness of your skin through the thin fabric of your shorts.
"Warm," you mumbled.
You didn't like the bed covers either. You'd told him that once, early in the morning, when the sun was just rising and he'd asked why you always kicked the blankets off in your sleep and grabbed his hands instead.
They're too warm, you'd mumbled, half asleep, your cheek pressed against his shoulder. I run hot.
And he'd said, My hands are always warm. and he didn't mean it in a good way. His hands were always warm from gripping knives and guns and from the adrenaline running through his veins. He didn't think you clinging to him was a good idea, if you hated excessive warmth so much.
No, you'd corrected, turning to look at him with sleepy eyes. They're the appropriate type of warmth.
So now his hand rested on your thigh his fingers spread wide to cover as much skin as possible.
He stared down at you, and he wished so badly the words could come out as easily as yours did. They were right there, sitting on the tip of his tongue, pressing against the back of his teeth. Three words. Eight letters.
He'd heard other people say them. Seen them in movies, read them in books, watched strangers on the street murmur them to each other But for him, they felt impossible.
He wasn't good enough to tell you that. That was the thought that stopped him every time, the voice in his head that had been there since childhood, whispering poison into his ears. You're not good enough. You're not worthy. You're not the type of person who gets to say things like that.
He wasn't a good person. He wasn't the type of person to say those things. He didn't think he was allowed to utter such words, especially not to someone as good as you.
But he could show you. He could try, at least. So he just brushed a hand over your thigh, his palm gliding across your skin trying to warm your body as much as he could.
I love you, the strokes seemed to say. I love you. I love you.
You smiled.It was small, a smile that he might have missed if he hadn't been staring at your face.
Maybe one day he'll say it. Maybe one day the words would come. Maybe one night he'd look at you and they'd finally break free. Maybe he'd whisper them against your hair, or murmur them in the dark when he thought you were asleep.
But maybe he won't. Maybe the words would always be too hard. Maybe he'd go his whole life without ever saying I love you.
Either way, you were content. You were content enough with feeling his calm heartbeat under your hand and the just faint brush of his lips over your soft hair.
domestic simon . i don't really know what I want cuz I'm new here but I'll like anything from you
idk if this is domestic to you but its domestic to me alright. grr. don't say stuff like ill like anything from you or ill kiss you on the mouth. also this was supposed to be a short blurb but uh. yeah.
Calculated Risk
simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader
Simon took that moment to take a sip of the mug of coffee you left on the counter next to you, and made a face of exaggerated disgust just to hear you giggle. “Tea’s completely dead,” he muttered, “Tastes like leaves and a pinch of disappointment.”
“Good thing I didn’t make that for you, then,” you whispered, still a little breathless, your chest vibrating against his ribs as a chuckle got to you.
“Dreadful,” he said, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips, though the thumb tracing your jawline was incredibly gentle. “Next time, try coffee. Or water. Hard to botch water.”
[2k] domestic!! simon comes home to his wife, shared baths, and the promise of something more! size + height difference if you squint, implied sexual content, scars, touching as a love language <3
reblog and/or like for a kiss, feedback is much appreciated! not proofread.
The quiet of the suburbs always felt a little too loud to him at first. Out here, away from the constant, low-frequency hum of base generators and the distant thud of rotors, the silence had a weight of its own. It often made him hyper-aware of his own mass— a massive, scarred shape cutting through the soft, cream-colored hallway of the house. Between the crocheted works and plants in pretty pots, Simon barely felt like he fit in. Unless he saw the smile his existence brought up to your lips, he wouldn’t belong.
He slid the mask off of his face the second he entered the house. Didn’t need the skull to guard the door. But habits of a lifetime couldn’t just vanish; his jaw remained set, eyes heavy and scanning the room out of sheer muscle memory until they finally landed on you. And boy, did his shoulders drop upon the sight he’d been dreaming of for so many weeks away.
You were standing by the kitchen counter, bare feet pressed against the cool hardwood, mindlessly stirring a mug of tea that had likely already gone cold. Evening light bled low through the blinds, casting long, familiar shadows across the floor. Quiet murmur of a random video playing on your phone filled the empty space but you didn’t seem too focused on that either. You looked tired. Not the hollow, hyper-vigilant exhaustion of a soldier but the soft, heavy weariness of a civilian who’d been carrying the quiet stress of an empty house for three months too long.
Simon moved without a sound, a trick of the trade he couldn’t —nor wanted to— unlearn, but he purposely let his large frame shadow the light so he wouldn’t startle you.
When you looked up, the tension in your shoulders melted visibly. “Simon,” you breathed, a small, fragile sound that seemed to pull the air right out of his chest.
He closed the distance between you in two heavy strides without a word, his massive, calloused hands reaching out to gently but firmly cup the sides of your face. His gaze was just so, so soft as he smiled at you, his thumbs, rough and lined with a history of violence, tracing the soft line of your cheekbones with an agonizing tenderness. He used just enough pressure to anchor you, to let you know that yeah, he was here. He was home.
You let out a long, shuddering exhale, hands coming up to wrap around his thick wrists, fingers finding the steady, heavy pulse ticking beneath his skin.
With no words still, Simon leaned down, burying his face into the crook of your neck. He was a solid, towering wall of heat, smelling of the crisp outside air, cheap travel soap, and the faint, undeniable scent of just him. The physical presence of him immediately filled the kitchen and the rest of the house, pushing out the loneliness of the last few months.
“You’re late,” you whispered against his shoulder whilst pulling him into your embrace, your voice thick.
“Traffic,” he joked humorlessly, the low vibration of his voice traveling straight into your bones, a grounding frequency that signaled, safely and finally, the wait was over. His large arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest until there was no space for even an atom to pass through between you, lifting you just a fraction off your feet as if to remind himself that you were real, whole, and exactly where he left you. “Missed my girl.” he said, and you hummed as a response.
Simon didn’t do anything halfway. When he looked into your eyes and his gaze dropped to your lips, you knew it wasn’t a casual glance. The deliberate, locked-on focus of a man about to claim the only sanctuary he had left in the world wasn’t unfamiliar to you at all. He lifted your chin up with the broad flat of his thumb, his grip unyielding but careful nonetheless, as if he were still adjusting to handling something that didn’t require a safety switch. When his warm, chapped but determined lips met yours, it became a deep, bruising slow-burn of a kiss that tasted of the salt on your skin and the cold air he’d brought from the porch.
He pulled you closer until you forgot how to breathe anywhere else, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in the short, coarse hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him down until a low rumble caught in his throat. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your mouth to carry back into the dark with him, to be there for the lonely showers and long nights away from home when it’s just him and his imagination. His large hands slid down your spine to lock you against his hips then, and you pulled away for a breather.
Simon took that moment to take a sip of the mug of coffee you left on the counter next to you, and made a face of exaggerated disgust just to hear you giggle. “Tea’s completely dead,” he muttered, “Tastes like leaves and a pinch of disappointment.”
“Good thing I didn’t make that for you, then,” you whispered, still a little breathless, your chest vibrating against his ribs as a chuckle got to you.
“Dreadful,” he said, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips, though the thumb tracing your jawline was incredibly gentle. “Next time, try coffee. Or water. Hard to botch water.”
“You’ve been in here for five minutes and already writing an upset Yelp review,” you complained softly, leaning your weight into him. “You look like shit, am I saying anything about that?”
“The flight was miserable. Those seats are just not built for people with actual skeletal structures,” he let out a slow, heavy breath, his chest expanding against yours. He buried his nose into your hair for a brief second, inhaling deeply before straightening up. “My looks, nothing a bath couldn’t fix. Your tea-making, though—”
“—asshole—”
“Join me?” he muttered softly, already taking your hand and tugging you toward the hallway. “I’m too big for the tub alone, I’ll displace all the water and ruin the drywall. Won’t happen with the two of us in.”
You didn’t see the logic, but hey. Endearing excuses.
The bathroom was the one room in the house Simon had insisted on remodelling himself, reinforcing the flooring beneath the clawfoot tub because he’d convinced himself his sheer mass would send it crashing through into the kitchen. You told him that he wasn’t that big, which might have hurt his ego a bit, but the determined look on his face was enough to let him do just about anything.
He turned the brass knobs with efficient, practiced movements, the steam rising quickly to fog up the mirror and soften the sharp edges of the room. He stripped out of his heavy tactical layers and the dark civilian jacket without a word, his body a map of thick, jagged scar tissue and harsh lines that always seemed too brutal for the soft lighting of the house. But there was no hesitation in how he moved around you, because he knew that you saw nothing but beauty in between those lines. He helped you out of your clothes with those same massive, calloused hands, his touch devoid of urgency now— just a quiet, meticulous care.
Simon stepped into the water first, before he reached up to haul you in after him. He sat back against the sloped end of the tub, pulling you down between his thighs so your back was pressed squarely against his chest. The water rose dangerously close to the lip of the tub still, and you chuckled at the sight.
“See?” you murmured, tilting your head back against his shoulder. “We’re a milimeter away from a flood.”
“Calculated risk,” Simon rumbled, large arms wrapping around your middle, anchoring you deep into the hot water and against his body. “If anything happens, we can always tell the landlord a pipe burst. He’s terrified of me. He won’t check.”
“He’s terrified of you because you keep threatening him over nothing.”
“Why would I let my pretty wife fix things while I could threaten the landlord into doing it?” his chest vibrated a bit in quiet laughter, and you smiled, resting your eyes while your head found his shoulder.
A comfortable, heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the gentle sloshing of the water whenever Simon shifted his legs. He took the bar of soap from the ledge, his massive hands working up a thick lather before he brought them to your shoulders. His movements were slow, rhythmic, rubbing the tension out of your collarbones with a blunt pressure that made your spine go pliable.
“You’re too quiet,” you murmured, puddle under the soothing warmth of his hands. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” he said matter-of-factly. “My brain is currently a flat line. It’s fantastic.”
“Lie to me better than that, Riley.”
Simon paused, his soap-slicked hands resting heavy against your ribs. He leaned forward slightly, his mouth brushing the damp hair away from your ear.
“Thinking your skin is too soft for this house,” he murmured, gravelly voice dropping an octave, losing its sharp edge entirely. “Thinking three months is a stupidly long time to spend looking at dirt and concrete and metal when I could have been looking at this. Touching this,” as if to show his point, his arms wrapped around your middle again, fingertips dancing down to your hips, thighs, then back to your waist.
You turned your head slightly, catching the icy blue of his eyes through the steam. “That a compliment, from the Ghost?” you smirked.
“Don’t call me that here,” he muttered, though there was no heat in it. He dipped his hand into the water, rinsing the soap from your shoulders in a slow, sweeping motion. “Out there, I’m a weapon. In here, I’m the idiot who let you buy white rug for the hallway knowing damn well I wear muddy boots.”
“It’s cream, not white. And you love that rug.”
“A menace is what it is.” Simon said as he pulled you tighter against his chest, his chin resting on the top of your head. His arms locked around you like a vice, warm and unyielding.
The heat of the bath had done its job, turning your limbs heavy and fluid, but the rhythmic graze of his calloused thumbs against the skin of your waist was starting to spark a very different kind of warmth. The exhaustion that had weighed you down for months was shifting, sharpening into something tight and electric.
You shifted against him, the water sloshing precariously over the ceramic lip of the tub as you turned around in his lap to face him.
Simon’s breath hitched, a low click in the back of his throat. His hands instinctively slid up to grip your hips, holding you steady as you straddled his thighs. Up close, the usual deadpan indifference was entirely gone from his face. Jaw clenched tight enough to have the muscle tick, shadowed eyes dark, dilated, and entirely fixed on the bare goddess in his hold.
“Felt like you were too tired to move,” he muttered, voice dropping to a rough, dangerous gravel that rippled right through the water and into your belly.
“I was,” you whispered, leaning in until your lips brushed against his with every word. “Then you touched me.”
A certain look flashed through his eyes— the look of a man who had been starving for three months and had just been handed everything he ever wanted. His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging in just enough to leave a bruise you’d gladly wear tomorrow, pulling you down flush against him. Simon’s head tilted as his mouth moved a mere millimetre from yours, breath hot and demanding. “Rug wasn’t enough? Want me to ruin the sheets too?” he chuckled. “Get up.”
pst. hey you. you might like this.
@sheepispink @missj609 @ynight14 technically this isn't that other fic but still-
cw: please check the tags. please. please. this is the final part of this little series, and i'm sorry it took me a while. but it's here. okay bye.
wc: 3.1k
(as ever this comes with the caveat that virginity is a social construct okay actually bye)
prev: part one: the night before / part two: the morning after
three weeks later
he's still there. in the back of your brain. in your thoughts when you can't sleep and you hand snakes between your thighs. in conversations with your friends at the pub when they show you how to order a sti test online and tease you for going home with some random bloke that looked vaguely like a serial killer.
you think about him more often that you liked to admit. him inside you, on top of you, the weight and the heat and the solidness of him.
the way he looked at you like there was so much more he wanted to say as you parted ways.
he hasn't text you.
you haven't text him.
you're vaguely embarrassed by yourself, sometimes. the cliche you've become. unable to stop thinking about him and that night.
but now you have an excuse to text him, a reason.
you've already started rehearsing it in your head, trying to make it sound casual.
hey, not pregnant, by the way… want to hang out?
something that didn’t sound like you’d been waiting.
the universe has other plans though.
it doesn't care about your rehearsed lines.
what you want.
how you pictured your life going.
two pink lines.
you had sex once.
once.
and you've ended up with two pink lines staring back at you, bright and undeniable, on the plastic test sitting on your bathroom counter.
your fingers find your temple, pressing in, half convinced a pain response will wake you up and this will all be a nightmare.
it doesn't.
this is very much your real life.
the memory you've been clinging onto tarnished like old copper in just under three minutes of waiting.
your hand closes around the plastic test. for a second, you’re ready to throw it, to get it out of your sight, like that might undo it, make it less true.
your arm tenses - then stops.
you hesitate, breath catching somewhere in your throat.
you pull out your phone with a trembling hand. make sure the time stamp is on, like you know the proof will matter. take a picture of the test staring back at you from the counter.
you grimace. toss the test into the bathroom bin, staring at the closed lid for a moment, wishing - desperately, irrationally - that everything else could be dealt with just as easily.
three weeks and two days later
“12:30 tomorrow? yeah, i can make that.” your voice comes out steadier than you expect. your heartbeat still kicks hard in your throat, but your words don’t waver. “do I need to bring anything?”
“lovely. just your last period dates if you have them, and a list of any medication you’re on. you’re all booked in. have a nice afternoon, love.”
the line clicks dead. you lower the phone, stare at the dark screen for a second, then toss it onto the sofa. for a moment you just stand there, pulling at your hair to try and feel something other than numbness.
one night. one careless, stupid night with a man who didn’t know what to do with you the next morning, and now here you are.
you know you have to tell him. you told him you would.
you reach for your discarded phone, tap out a quick message, attach the photo of the pregnancy test with its two pink lines. send it into the ether before you can overthink it..
“congratulations. you managed to knock me up. let me know if you want to talk about it.”
three weeks and three days later
you’re ten minutes early because of course you are. the clinic is softer than you expected - warm lighting, pale wood, colourful posters that try their best. it doesn’t change the weight pressing down on your chest, but it makes it slightly easier to breathe.
you’re sure about this. you have been since the second line appeared. this isn’t the right time, you’re not ready, and you refuse to bring a child into the world tethered to a man who you really don’t know.
still. the certainty doesn’t stop the ache.
simon hasn’t replied. not a single word. and yeah, he warned you he might go dark, but the knowledge doesn’t ease the bitter twist in your stomach. it took two people to create this situation. yet here you sit - alone in a padded chair, with clammy palms - carrying every consequence while he’s off doing fuck knows what.
the nurse calls your name with a gentle smile. the appointment moves quickly: medical history, questions, blood pressure. then she gives you an apologetic look. “we still need to do a scan for accurate dating. you don’t have to look at the screen. i can keep it turned away.”
your shoulders lock. you nod once, sharp.
you’re too early in your pregnancy for an abdominal ultrasound, so you end up half-naked on the couch, knees apart, heels together, trying to focus on the nurse’s stream of chatter - her dog’s carpet accidents, the awful new Italian place on the high street, how the weather’s been all wrong lately.
it’s nice, really. helpful.
the transvaginal ultrasound wand is uncomfortable but not unbearable. the nurse lets you know where she's going to touch you and when, when to expect pressure, when to expect discomfort. she keeps her promise; the screen stays out of sight. when it’s over she gives you privacy to dress, then hands you two leaflets.
“scan puts you at just over three weeks. you’re eligible for either medical or surgical. medical you can do at home. surgical is a day procedure, but you’ll need someone to collect you afterwards.”
you stare at the leaflets, the words blurring. the reality crashes over you again - not doubt, but a deep, hollow ache that this is even happening. that you’re the only one that gets to make the decision. that it’s a responsibility you can’t share.
that there's not even anyone next to you to carry the weight. you could've told a friend - should have, really - but you couldn't bring yourself to turn something they tease you about over drinks into a life lesson about the importance of contraception.
but still. the company would be nice.
the nurse covers your hand with hers, “take a few days to think, love. call us when you’re ready. and if you need to talk, we’ve got counsellors.”
you nod, throat tight.
you’re doing the right thing. you know that in your bones.
it just stings that you’re the only one dealing with the consequences of your shared actions.
four weeks and three days later
you'd decided on a medical termination. considered surgical for the benefit of waking up and knowing it was over, but the idea of being able to curl up on your own sofa whilst going through the process won out.
you'd been to the clinic yesterday, taken the mifepristone, started the process, stopped the pregnancy developing any further.
now you stare at the second tablet, the misprostol, aware that once you take it there's no changing your mind. not you think you will. in fact you know you won't. but the finality of the decision still registers.
you tuck the tablet onto your tongue, take a sip of water, feel the pill get stuck slightly in your throat as you swallow. text a friend to let them know you've taken the meds, promise you'll check in every thirty minutes; unwilling to let any of the friends that offered actually sit with you and watch this happen.
you send Simon one more text:
"bit late to talk about it now."
then you… wait.
the first message simon sees when he turns his civilian phone back on at base is yours.
"congratulations. you managed to knock me up."
the words blur on his screen, breath catching in his chest.
shit.
then he sees the date you sent it. a week ago.
his breath catches again.
a week. a week that you've had to deal with this by yourself. a week to decide what you want to do with your situation. the situation he got you into.
then he sees the second text.
"bit late to talk about it now."
so you decided, then. without him. good.
he doesn't know why guilt settles heavy on his chest.
maybe because he should have been more responsible, grabbed a condom, made sure to at least pull out.
maybe it's because he knows that your first time having sex is always going to be vaguely tainted by the outcome.
maybe… maybe because he hasn't stopped thinking about you either. the noises you made. how soft you were under his hands as he split you open. the way your gaze lingered as you parted ways. the way your number has sat in his phone, ignored in practice but thought about in theory.
and maybe? because he's glad that you've made the decision he would have wanted you to. he doesn't want a kid. never has.
his thumb hovers over the call button on your contact, hesitates.
he doesn't dial.
instead he turns, heads down the corridor to one of the tech guys offices, walks in without knocking.
“need you to get me an address.”
you're curled on your sofa with a film you've seen a hundred times before on your tv, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, just… waiting. you haven't had much other than mild cramping so far; twinges across your lower belly that remind you of period cramps. your head snaps to the hallway, staring at the front door of your garden flat like you can see directly through the white PVC of the door and identify who's on the other side with sheer willpower alone.
one hour and forty two minutes later your doorbell rings; that deep, croaky chime of an original victorian era doorbell.
you can't. obviously.
so slowly you stand, roll your shoulders, tuck the hot water bottle you've been clutching to your stomach into the front of your leggings; the action rounding out the silhouette of your stomach in the very way the medication you've taken is going to avoid becoming real.
when you pull the door open simon riley stands on your doorstep like he doesn't quite no how to exist in a quiet suburban neighbourhood bathed in afternoon light - too big, too broad, dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans that make him look like he'd rather be blending in with shadows than stood here at two in the afternoon. his eyes drop immediately to the hot water bottle bulging in your leggings, then flick back up to your face.
you stare. just for a moment. and when you speak your voice is cracked, "how the fuck do you know where i live?"
he smirks, slightly, because of course your first response is that. then he shrugs, "got my ways." a beat and then softer, as soft as a man like him can manage, "gonna let me in?"
you hesitate, then step aside. he moves past you, careful not to let brush against you - but you still catch the faint scent of him. clean soap, gun oil, something warm and unmistakably him that you remember from the night you spent in his bed.
he stops in the middle of your living room, eyes scanning the blankets, the half-drunk tea, the dimmed television before he turns to face you.
"you doin' this alone?"
you lift your chin, "didn't have much choice. there's a time limit on these things. couldn't wait for you to get back to me."
he flinches, almost imperceptibly. "wasn't a criticism." he mutters, voice rough. "i'm… askin' if you want me here whilst you do it."
the question lands between you like live ordinance.
at the same time a sharp cramp coils through your lower belly - sharper now, twisting - and you press the hot water bottle tighter against yourself.
"why?" it comes out sharper than you mean for it to.
simon's gaze doesn't move from yours.
"because i put you 'ere. least i can do it sit with you through it, love."
you try for a laugh, but it cracks halfway. "you don't owe me anything, simon. this was a… joint endeavour."
"i know." he mutters, taking a step closer. "but i'm still askin'."
another cramp hits, even harder, your breath catching in your throat as you bend at the middle, pressing the hot water bottle against your skin like you can burn away the pain. you turn away, walk slowly back towards the sofa. he follows, lowing himself into the armchair across from you like he's worried he might crowd you.
for a long time, the only sounds are the television murmuring and your occasional sharp inhale as the misoprostol does its job. simon doesn’t fill the silence with useless words. he just watches you, quiet and steady, until the pain builds enough that you curl onto your side with a low groan.
at that point he moves without being asked, shifting into the sofa, carefully sliding in behind you and pulling your back against his broad chest. one hand presses against the hot water bottle on your stomach, replacing your own trembling one.
"breathe, love." he murmurs against your hair.
you do. in through your nose. our through your mouth; focussing on moving oxygen rather than how safe you feel pressed against him.
"i've thought about you." you whisper during a lull between waves of pain. "too much."
"me too." he murmurs back, voice rough, like he's confessing something.
you twist your neck to look at him, "you didn't call. or text. or… anything."
“neither did you.” his thumb strokes slow circles over your hip, careful. “thought maybe you regretted it. the whole night. me. how it 'appened"
“i don’t regret the night,” you rpely quietly. “or you. just maybe… the consequences. there’s a difference.”
simon is silent for a long moment. when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “i 'aven’t stopped seein'you under me. the way you looked at me. like you were surprised you could feel that good.” his hand presses a little firmer, pressing the warmth against your aching stomach. “then I got that message and all I could think was… i did this to you. and you were handlin' it alone. 'ad to, because i wasn't 'ere.”
tears prick at the corners of your eyes. you don’t know if they’re from the pain or from the weight of everything else.
“i didn’t want to need you,” you admit. "but i… wished you were there to talk through it with. not… to have an opinion. just…" you trail off, unsure how to describe the fact you wished he'd been there just to be there.
“i'm sorry.” his lips brush your temple - the barest ghost of a kiss. “but i'm 'ere now.”
the worst of it comes two hours later.
you start shake and sweat through it on the sofa, and simon stays exactly where he is - solid behind you, murmuring quiet things against your hair when the cramps turn brutal. he helps you to the bathroom when you need it, doesn’t flinch at the blood, wipes your face with a cool cloth after. runs you a bath whilst glancing around your tiny bathroom - the art on the walls, the disco ball light, the fluffy pink towels that seem a world away from the situation you're in - watching from his seat on the closed toilet lid as the bathwater turns pink.
at one point you cry.
not loudly, not dramatically. just silent, fat tears that leak out of your eyes and down your cheeks and drip into the bath water.
simon silently reaches over to wipe them with his thumb. he doesn't say anything stupid like it'll be okay.
the worst passes. he helps you change into clean pajamas, lets you curl up against him in your bed, exhausted and hollow, head on his chest whilst he holds you in the circle of his arms.
“i'm not good at this,” he says quietly. “the normal… stuff. relationships. stayin'. but i haven’t stopped thinking about you. not since outside the pharmacy.” a beat and then, "and i half convinced myself you'd wished you'd done it with someone… softer. who didn't call you a fuckin' slut whilst he was inside you."
you manage a small, rough laugh. "didn't bother me what you called me." you reply, honestly. the sex wasn't the problem. the result of it was. then you sigh, tilting your head back against his shoulder. "what are you saying, simon?"
“i’m sayin'… if you want me to leave after this, I will. but if you want me to stay - for a while, or longer - i’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.”
you’re quiet for a long time, listening to his heartbeat under your ear.
“i’m a mess,” you whisper.
“so am i.” his hand strokes slowly up and down your back.
you close your eyes. imagine a life where you wake up with him in your bed and not as a memory.
and right now? you can't.
not with the memory or your first night together tangled up with the consequences of it.
"maybe now… maybe this isn't the right time. for anything. for either of us." it's almost painful to say. the words catching in your throat like tiny blades, chest aching in a way that's agonizing but sure.
he makes a small, gruff noise of acknowledgement, something that hides the way your rejection feels like a kick in the ribs. "maybe not love. but i'm stayin' for this."
and he does. he holds you through it. through the night, until the worst of the pain has passed and you're left with nothing but relief and a slightly hollow feeling in your bones.
when he leaves neither of you offer to call.
six months later
same pub garden. same man. six months of distance between you.
six months of going on dates and taking much less interesting men home from the pub with you.
six months of life experience. of finding your feet in a post-simon world.
your eyes find his across the crowd of tables and chatter. you freeze, just for a second. but then you smile - real, open, unguarded.
one hundred and eighty-two days have softened the sharp edges of everything that happened. what once felt like a knife between your ribs has changed into something that feels almost tender.
he stares for a moment, expression unreadable, shoulders tight.
then something shifts. a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, barely there, but enough.
as you start walking toward him, the only thought in the back of your brain is that maybe now is the right time.
find the night before here - you don't need to have read it to get the vibe.
2.1k words of the aftermath of the night before, where neither of you know what to fucking say.
cw: afab+f!reader, references to lost virginity (a/n virginity is still a social construct), no actual smut but references to it, possible pregnancy mention.
shit.
that's the only thought in your lightly hungover brain when your eyes slam open. for a split second you're not sure where you are; sleep dazed and confused. memories from last night flickering through your head like a slideshow.
put your clothes back on, we’re not doin’ this.
might be a virgin but you're still a fuckin’ slut.
gonna make you cum on my cock.
you hurtin’?
go the fuck to sleep.
the room looks different with sunlight filtering through the blinds; feels different without the weight of simon on or around you. with just the cold space of where his body had been for company.
your hand reaches tentatively between your thighs as if to assess damage and immediately withdraws when you feel the half dry sticky mess between them.
shit.
it's the second proper thought too; panic spiking in your veins when you realise that in between you begging for him to fuck you and him actually doing it neither of you even thought about a condom. a of nausea ripples through youwhilst your mind races through the possible consequences of this one particular action. scanning the corners of your mind for the nearest pharmacy and what you can remember from school about when to test for STIs.
you force your hand back between your thighs; pressing and probing. sore. but nothing that not getting fucked like that again for a few days won't fix.
again. stupid. you push that thought away as soon as it arrives; pulse slamming in your throat as you briefly consider what it would be like to see him again.
if you could reach in and probe your brain inside your skull to assess for damage there too, you would. instead, you flick through the memory book of last night your brain has created for you and see if any of it makes you flinch.
it doesn't.
it just makes you press your thighs together like your body is saying more of that.
that gets pushed away too.
simon's in the kitchen when you appear. straight backed in his chair at the small dining table like he's awaiting execution. an overflowing ashtray and half empty mug of coffee in front of him the only evidence that he has actually moved at any point whilst you've been sleeping.
he's been up for hours - habit, even off duty - long before the sun came up, had plenty of time to think about what he's supposed to say to you in the aftermath of your first time.
he hasn't come up with anything. he's just stared at the wall and tried very hard not to crawl back between your thighs.
he stubs out the cigarette clenched between his fingers when he sees you, eyes raking over you - from the messy hair to the bare legs to the hoodie you've clearly rifled through his drawers for.
“made yourself at home, i see.” it comes out sharper than he means it to, words thrown like knives in the quiet of his flat as he attempts to cover the tightness in his chest at the sight of you in something that's so clearly his. his jaw works for a second, teeth grinding audibly before he jerks his head towards the kettle, “sit down, i'll make you a coffee. you look like you need it.”
you just roll your eyes, dropping down into a spare chair and reaching for the packet of cigarettes in the middle of the table. “good morning to you too, asshole.”
simon can't help but smirk as he stands, stretching before flicking the kettle back on. “there she is.” he thinks to himself as he hears a lighter click behind him “there's the edge that made me bring ‘er home. not whatever… christ, not the fucking mess she turned into when…” he cuts the thought off; unable to think about last night too hard without feeling his cock twitch in his sweatpants.
he doesn't say anything else. neither do you. there's just the familiar click of a lighter and your inhale of smoke behind him as the kettle boils.
the silence stretches, uncomfortable in a way that you feel in your stomach.
simon knows he has to say something. but he doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to say the morning after he's had someone's virginity given to him on a platter.
“how are you… doing this mornin’?” it's like it physically pains him to say it, the words almost a grunt as he shoves a coffee towards you. black, no sugar. no questions about if you take it any other way.
you don't.
you take a drag of your stolen cigarette before shrugging. “m’fine, simon. sore, obviously. cunt aches, stomach aches, thighs ache. not sure i’ll sit right for a few days. but i’ll live.”
he shrugs. “i did warn you.” there's a tense moment where he just looks at you, eyes unreadable. he clears his throat slightly, glancing away towards the kitchen window. “and… mentally?” like that's even more painful than asking about your physical state. like he's forcing himself to ask a question h s not sure he wants the answer to.
you bark out a laugh - sharp in the morning quiet - not necessarily at the question, but at the way it's asked. “do you usually give a shit about your one night stands feelings, simon? or am i getting special treatment? because i don't need it."
he levels you with a look that makes your stomach twist; like you're both stupid and infuriating and he doesn't quite know what to do with you. “doesn’t count as special treatment when you bled on my fuckin’ sheets.” he snaps back, before visibly reeling himself back in - shoulders forced to relax, hands unclenched at his sides. “i’ve never been in this situation before. i shouldn't have done it in the fuckin’ first place but then you… christ you were beggin’. lookin’ up at me with those fuckin’ big eyes of yours an’ beggin’.”
well, he's got you there.
that was exactly what you did last night. somewhere along the line you'd lost your entire spine and begged the man in front of you to fuck you for the first time. the man you'd walked up to in a dimly lit smoking area, who'd brought you back to his flat. who'd tried to not fuck you and failed spectacularly.
the same man who's now looking at you with an expression that says if you don't say something in the next ten seconds i’m going to explode and take you down with me.
you blink, like you're resetting yourself, gesturing at him with the cigarette still dangling between your fingers. “and now i do know what it’s like. and you were right. it did hurt for a bit. but then it was really fucking good.” you can see his jaw tense when you say hurt, eyes flashing with something you don't know him well enough to read.
“i did say you wouldn't walk right for a week.” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. he slumps back in his chair, almost weary looking. tired not just from a lack of sleep, but from the weight of things that sit heavy in his bones. “look, i did somethin’ i wouldn't normally do. i’m not… i'm not the sort of cunt most people want for their first time. i hurt you. i called you a fuckin’ slut. an’ i don't want you to be… traumatised for life or some shite because i let myself think with my fuckin’ dick.”
all you can do for a minute is blink.
completely unnerved by the honesty in his voice. the ripple of tension that belies the concern he doesn't really know how to show.
“you're right. i did beg you. i wanted it. wanted you.” it comes out softer than you mean it to; something about the juxtaposition of the man who'd fucked you so brutally the night before and the one sat here now - almost vulnerable in the cold light of morning - making your heart twist in a way you hadn't expected. “i don't regret it. even if it happened with some random bloke from the pub that i'll never see again. i wasn't… it's not like i was saving myself or something, simon. i just hadn't got round to it yet. and yeah, you were a bit of cunt. but it's not like i didn't like it. i… didn't want you to be soft with me. didn't want to be treated like i was fragile.”
you can feel heat licking up your neck when you remember just how much you liked it. how much you liked his hand on your jaw
“more than a bit of a cunt.” he says flatly. but then he nods, letting himself believe you. “long as i ‘aven’t put you off.”
the corners of your lips twitch, “nah. i reckon i’ll do it again.”
he squashes the ember of… something that flares hot and sharp in his chest at the image of you doing that with someone else. he clears his throat, “i said i'd get you breakfast.”
you shrug, “don't eat breakfast.” your lip gets sucked between your teeth, teeth digging in hard enough you taste copper. “...but you can take me to the pharmacy.”
he freezes. already pale face takes on a pallor that makes him look grey. neurons firing. brain making connections. he didn't even ask about birth control. didn't even pause to consider the possibility that you wouldn't already be on something.
he's usually so much more careful than this.
“fuck.” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face again. “didn't even fuckin'... fuck. yeah. i’ll take you to the pharmacy.”
you walk out of the consultation room with a purple EllaOne box and a packaged pregnancy test to pee on in three weeks clutched to your chest. low risk, probably, where you are in your cycle. but not impossible.
you don't get a chance to take out your purse from your bag to pay before simon is slamming his card against the card reader over your shoulder.
“not gonna make you pay for it.” he mutters as your eyes flick up to his. “should ‘ave worn a fuckin’ johnny.”
“should have. didn’t.” you sigh back, bundling your goods into your arms and turning to leave.
out on the street simon looks down at you, eyebrows knitted together as he nods at the pregnancy test in your hands, “you gonna let me know what that says?”
you raise your eyebrows in response, “didn't think you'd want to know. thought you'd just cross your fingers it's negative and some random kid doesn't come knocking on your door in eighteen years.”
his face pales again at the concept.
then you just shrug, “can text you. if you give me a number.”
he gives a jerky nod, eyes flicking away from yours for a split second - so quick you wouldn't have caught it if you weren't watching closely. “i might not be able to answer straight away. depends… depends on a lot of shit. but i do want to know. give me your phone.”
you hand your phone over in silence, watching as he taps his number in - then dials, letting his own phone ring twice before hanging up. “got yours now too.”
you try not to think about why he might want it.
you just nod, taking your phone back and sliding it into your back pocket. “guess this is goodbye then, simon.”
for a minute he doesn't say anything, just looks down at you with brown eyes full of something that you can't unpick.
then he nods, a jerk of his head more than anything. “yeah. guess it is.” his mouth opens like he wants to say something more, like there's a million things at the tip of his tongue he wants to let loose into the air between you.
he doesn't.
you turn to walk away, then hesitate - reaching out to place your hand on his arm. “you didn't break me simon. you just showed me what i was missing. so… thanks. take care, yeah? i'll text you in three weeks.”
you leave before he can work himself up to a response - or before you can say something pathetic and needy like call me, please - already forcing yourself to tuck him and last night away at the back of your head as a memory. as something that will become a talking point over drinks with the girls, something you'll think about late at night with your hand between your legs.
he stares at your retreating form.
he should be doing the same. he should be filing you away as just another notch on the bedpost. another name in his metaphorical little black book. he should be praying to a god that he never believed in that in three weeks there's only one line on that pregnancy test.
he's not.
he's thinking about the shape of you under his hands and the way tears pooled in your eyes when he'd split you open for the first time in your life. the noises you'd made. they way that you'd looked at him like he'd given you a gift that no one else could.
he shakes his head.
heads back to his car and tries not to think about your number in his phone.
three weeks. then he can wipe you from his brain for good.
virgin!reader x simon riley. cw: virginity loss (an: virginity is a societal construct), afab+f!reader, mild (so mild) degradation, lightly implied age gap. 2.9k words of just pure, mindless smut.
simon riley who won't fuck virgins. he knows he's too big, too mean, too rough.
so how the fuck have you ended up in his bed?
probably because you're the one that approached him; eyes half lidded as you stared up at him in the smoking area. sharp smile and sharper words. you'd dragged your thumb over the scar on his cheek like you'd been invited and didn't flinch when his first response was to snap his teeth.
but now, legs splayed open beneath him in his bed? that edge was gone. replaced with something soft that he doesn't know what to do with. that he's not sure he should even touch.
he blinks when your legs close to cover yourself as he drags the flimsy lace you call panties down your calves with his teeth, sitting back on his heels to stare at you - eyes hard, cold. his shirt is on the floor somewhere, long discarded - revealing more scars than you can even count.
“you done this before?” his tone is flat, neutral.
like he already knows the answer.
you blush, skin darkening around your neck before it crawls up your face. “...yeah.” it's hesitant. unconvincing.
he just shakes his head, “liar.” it's a snarl, before he balls your panties up in one fist and throws them at you. “put ‘em on. get dressed. get out. we're not doin’ this.”
your lower lip actually wobbles as rejection washes over you. he feels like a prick for all of a second before remembering that his refusal is for your own good. you're too young, too sweet for a man like him to take apart for your first time.
but then your hand finds his wrist; fingers pressing into tattooed skin before your thumb drags over his pulse and you look up with him with those big, doe eyes.
“please. i just want to know what it's like.”
his resolve wavers. he wants to see what those eyes look like when he fucks his cock into you. when he splits your pretty cunt open.
“please.” accompanied by wet, fluttering lashes.
his resolve snaps.
his hand finds your jaw; fingers pressing into your cheek as he brings your head off the pillow and angles your face to his. “i'm not going to be soft with you. not going to be sweet. i'm going to fuck you. you're not going to be able to walk right for a week, love. still want to know what it's like?”
you tremble slightly but you nod, the motion stifled by simon's grip on your jaw.
“fuckin’ fine.” he shoves your head back down against the bedding. “don't fuckin' complain if you're half dead tomorrow.”
his teeth sink into your neck as if to prove a point and you arch against him, fingernails digging into his shoulders as he sucks a bruise below your ear that you know you'll have no way to hide.
his teeth sink in again, lower this time. leaving an imprint in the swell of your breast; hand forcing it's way between your thighs to stroke over your clit. mean, tight little circles - no warm up, no preamble. just enough friction to make your thighs shake and your brain go fuzzy.
your legs start to close around his wrist and he forces them back open. “nah, love. you wanted this. don't fuckin’ try and hide from me now. not when i’m gonna ruin your sweet little cunt later.”
you can't help the way you look at him even as your breath hitches- like a rabbit caught in a snare. and maybe, that's what you are.
he just smiles. sharp. cruel. knowing.
his teeth scrape over your hip, he forces his shoulders underneath your knees as he sinks down the mattress. fingers moving from your clit to your folds; spreading them open just to watch the way you're dripping onto the sheets from a few rough touches.
“look at you. might be a virgin but you're still a fuckin' slut. ruinin’ my sheets. wonder if you taste as good as you look?”
your face screws up in embarrassment, but the way you're tugging at his hair to pull his mouth closer to your cunt gives you away. “find out.” you murmur back - more confident than you actually feel. because right now, with this massive, scarred man you don't know between your thighs? you're anything but confident.
“eager thing.” he mutters against you, before flattening his tongue and swiping it in one long stripe from your entrance to your clit. you cry out; a breathy, whimpering noise you've only heard from your laptop speakers before. he pulls back enough to murmur, “huh. you do.” before his scarred lips latch on to you in earnest.
the noise that you make is half animal and half pure, unbridled need wrapped in a moan. fingers tightening in his hair and dragging him against you. hips bucking up hard enough that his hands have to slam them back down to the mattress, pinning you - immobile and at his mercy.
he growls into your cunt; the sound sending a jolt straight to your lower stomach that spreads down your thighs when he curls his tongue against you again.
you can feel your wetness mixing with his saliva and running down onto the sheets; hear just how slick you are every time he flicks his tongue against you.
“christ, dove.” you can hear the smirk in his words as he glances up at you; watching you watch him.
his eyes don't leave yours as he presses a finger against the leaking entrance to your cunt, pushing his way in up to the second knuckle as your eyebrows knit together and those big, pathetic eyes widen even more.
you whine as he rubs the pad of his finger over the squishy spot on the front wall of your cunt, gasping when he crooks his finger instead; breath coming out in a hiss through gritted teeth. pleasure with trepidation mixed in.
“like that, love?” he murmurs against your clit before swiping his tongue over the swollen bud, “want me to stretch that pretty little hole out some more? gonna need to if I'm gonna fit my cock in there.”
the way you nod is pitiful. overeager and far too sure of yourself for someone who's only had their own fingers inside their cunt before. fingers that are much more slender than the ones currently fucking into you.
“of course you fuckin’ do. can't get enough can you? fuckin' slag.” he grins against you, before you feel his index finger pressing at the entrance to your cunt too.
you hiss at the immediate sharp stretch, trying to crawl away up the bed from the intrusion; but simon just lays an arm over your waist to pin you in place. “nuh uh love. you asked for this, remember?” he pushes the second finger inside, curling them harshly as your breath hitches and your thighs tense.
and then he just doesn't stop. he suctions his lips against your clit again, sucking it into the wet heat of his mouth just to watch your eyes roll back and your jaw drop open.
heat grows in your belly; in your thighs. spreading upwards from where he's lavashing attention on your cunt - pulling tight like an elastic band about to snap.
he curls his fingers harder against the inside of your cunt; fucking his fingers in deeper until he feels you tense around them.
“fuck - simon - fuck.” it's a garbled whine as your orgasm crashes over you; tensing so hard your stomach muscles begin to immediately ache. he doesn't stop, just works you through it; overstimulating you until you feel a second orgasm begin to build almost immediately - too much, too soon.
it's a short, sharp peak that you tumble over with a mewl at the same time you feel…something else. a pressure in your lower abdomen that you haven't felt before. your shoulders round against the mattress and you cry out again; a gush of liquid splattering over simon's lower face and hand.
your hands immediately cover your face in embarrassment when you realise what's happened; peering through your fingers down at simon who's looking up at you with a more than satisfied glint in his eye.
“fuckin' hell.” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to watch the way slick mixes with squirt and covers his wrist; before lapping his tongue against your cunt again. “you realise you could be the title of a porno right? fuckin’ virgin squirts from gettin’ fingered.” there's a pause and then, “fuckin’ uncover your face. just means I've done a good job. silly fuckin’ bint.”
he drags his teeth over your inner thigh before sitting back on his heels again. you drop your hands, fingers grasping at bedsheets below as he finally drags the fly of his jeans down and shoves them down over his hips; disregarding them next to the bed with the rest of both your clothes.
you actually swallow when you see his cock spring free.
it's thick, hard - heavy. red swollen head with pre cum leaking from his tip. you watch with wide eyes as he strokes himself once, twice - before crawling back up your body and catching your mouth in a kiss.
his tongue pushes past your lips, flicking against yours before he pulls back enough to mutter, “told you that you taste good.” before sealing your mouth in a kiss that's pure heat.
he drags the head of his cock through your folds, gathering your slick before rubbing it down his shaft with one hand.
your face pales. “simon… s’not gonna fit. it can't… i can't.” you hiss against his mouth - it's almost pleading.
he just laughs; lining himself up with your entrance but not pushing in, just testing. teasing.
“you can. and you will, love.” he murmurs back, teeth scraping along your jaw before finding your earlobe. “but if you tell me to stop i will. jus’ know once you're off the ride you ain't gettin' back on it again. now, you ready or are you all fuckin’ talk?”
half of you wants to say that actually yes, you are all talk. that there's no way in hell that you're even going to consider letting him put that monster he's calling a cock inside you. that you'll take the loss and walk out of here without your organs being completely rearranged and he can get himself off instead.
but you don't say that.
you nod. a desperate little motion that has simon’s lips quirking in a smirk again. “say it. say you want me to fuck you.”
you hiss again - half frustration and half embarrassment. “please. want you to fuck me. please.” it's quiet, almost inaudible - but it's there, honest and raw and a little bit scared.
for all simon's promises that he wasn't going to be gentle, or soft - there's something in him, buried deep in a place he never looks, that breaks slightly when he hears the tinge of fear in your voice.
“look a’ me.” he growls, fingers finding your jaw to direct your gaze to his. “i'm gonna fuck you now love. an’ it might hurt a little bit to start with. but then it's gonna feel good, i promise.”
the first press of his cock into you makes you cry out, fat tears immediately pooling in the corners of your eyes before running down your cheeks. you're sure he's about to tear you clean in half. simon's eyes don't leave yours as he swipes the tears away with his thumb; other hand still holding your jaw.
and oh god your eyes. they look just as big and beautiful and pathetic as he thought they would. wet lashes clumping together as you blink away the tears.
another press in, another cry from you. not just pained this time; not when he feels the way your walls are giving around his cock, moulding themselves perfectly to the shape of him. not when he hears your breath hitch and feels your hips buck slightly to try and take him deeper.
“okay? jus’ a little more love. gonna take it all for me, aren't you?” it's a rhetorical question; he's already pushing further inside you. he's so hard that you can feel every ridge and vein as they drag across your walls, fat head catching on parts of you that you didn't know existed or that could make you feel this good.
when he's fully seated, buried inside you to the hilt he stills. releases your jaw; drops down to his forearms either side of your head. he waits for you to catch your breath, for the tears to dry before he moves again.
but when he does move, it's brutal. a drag of his cock almost all the way out before he snaps his hips against yours hard enough that you arch off the bed - but the cry you make this time isn't pained. it's a cry of more of that.
so he gives it to you. he fucks you like he promised he would. hands roaming every inch of you; kneading at your hips and your breasts. mouthing at your nipples and neck and everywhere else he can reach whilst he drives into your sensitive cunt over and over again.
and you're gone.
the ache has settled into something so overwhelming good you can't think straight; can't breathe right. your nails scrape down his back and he actually moans as his pace stutters for a second; so you do it again just to hear him keep making those noises.
he shifts slightly, hitching one of your legs up around his waist and for a second you think you might actually pass out, or maybe even die. that this slight change in position that has him dragging against the most achingly perfect spot inside you might actually just cause you to cease to exist.
when he sees your eyes actually roll back he nips at your jaw again, “see love. told you it would feel good, didn't I?” and oh god does he sound smug about it. “an’ look at you. takin’ me so fucking well. like this cunt was made for being ruined by me.”
you can't do anything but moan as he snaps his hips again, snaking a hand between your bodies to rub the pads of his fingers over your clit. “gonna make you cum like this. gonna make you cum on my cock like the little fuckin’ slut you are.”
you can't help the way you rut against his fingers; chasing the now overwhelming pleasure he's giving you. chasing the heat in your belly and the ache in your thighs. you've stopped being able to form words, brain fully offline now. the only noises leaving your mouth gasps and cries and the occasional whimper when he presses against you just right. every filthy praise he whispers in your ear only driving you further and further towards the cliff edge you're teetering on.
he feels it before you do, feels the way your cunt starts tensing around him; squeezing him so tight it's like a vice. “fuckin’ cum then.” he hisses against your mouth, before flicking his tongue against your lips to get you to open for him.
this time when your orgasm hits it's like a tidal wave; whole body tensing underneath simon's. and you scream, in a way that you thought was made up by romance novelists and porn studios but you now understand is so, so real.
simon fucks you through it, fingers never stilling on your clit, until he's sure he's dragged every last inch of pleasure out of you. until you're limp and soft and glassy eyed beneath him, murmuring his name over and over again like he's offered you a salvation you didn't know you needed.
he feels his own release building; balls tightening as the ache in his stomach grows. two more snaps of his hips and he buries himself inside you with a grunt; cock twitching as he fills you completely. your cunt absolutely milking him dry - every last drop emptied into your soft heat as he trembles and drops his forehead to yours. the warmth of it spreads through your aching insides and it’s almost soothing; almost enough to dull the throb that's there now that the pleasure has dwindled away.
simon pulls out of you with an obscene slick pop, dropping down onto the mattress next to you. not pulling you in, but not pushing you away either.
“you hurtin’?” he asks quietly. “there's blood on the sheets.”
your brain is still fuzzy, not really back online. but you shake your head. “bit sore. aching.” there's a beat and then quieter, “...sorry about the sheets.”
“shu’ up. daft cow.” only then does his arm land over your waist and pull you to him, tucking your head under his chin. “don't give a shit about the sheets.”
you take a shaky breath, “just let me… breathe for a second. then i’ll get my shit and go.” but the way your hand snakes across his stomach, tracing scars very much says you don't want to leave right now; not when you're aching and vulnerable.
simon's grip on your waist doesn't loosen, “said I wouldn't be soft or gentle. didn't say I was gonna treat you like i’m payin' you. go the fuck to sleep. i’ll get you breakfast in the morning.”
Chiwetel Ejiofor is such a good fucking actor, literally going to go watch Backrooms again tmrw, Clark was such an interesting character and the pool room scene was so eerie I loved it. Casting rlly ate with him.
