contains: edging, degradation, sub!reader, finger sucking, name calling (slut), fingering, reader has two orgasms, he gets sweeter at the end (mdni)
guys this is so short so i might write a part two
your back arched impossibly off the bed as you turned your head to the side and let your mouth fall open in a silent “o” shape. jake kept rubbing his thumb over your swollen clit relentlessly.
almost immediately after coming down from your high you whined "that's not fair jakey- i told you i wanted to come around your fingers"
you could already feel the tears gather at the corners of your eyes as your hand pushed into his chest.
it wasn't fair.
"so fuckin' ungrateful huh?" he grabbed your hand and pinned it above your head. you squirmed.
"maybe if you had held off your orgasm like I told you to..." he looked down at where your body was now pathetically arching.
"stay fuckin still" he slammed your hips down.
"babyyy" you whined again as your legs kicked behind him, where they were wrapped around his waist.
"'s not fair."
"y/n, baby, just quiet down. hm? d' you wanna feel good?" he tipped your chin up so you looked at him.
you nodded.
"just be good for me then. can you do that? he tapped his finger on your chin and forced two of them into your mouth
you sucked.
" there. like that "
he pulled them out and brought them down where he nudged them at your entrance.
" you're a fuckin slut. " he pushed them inside and you gasped.
"is this what you wanted?"
"fuck jakey" you moaned breathlessly.
"you gotta be quiet y/n-"
he pulls them out and continues gently massaging your clit.
you arch into his touch and moan, already feeling that knot start to form in your stomach. It’s not your fault when he looks this good above you, his messy hair falling over his eyes.
jake already realizes this by how you're arching into him.
"gonna hold off f' me okay?" he watches you nod absentmindedly as his fingers rub against your clit.
unfortunately, it's game over when he gathers the wetness leaking out of your hole and resumes stubbornly rubbing your clit.
"fuck" the friction is too much and before you can stop yourself your hips grind back against his fingers and you're coming.
his brows furrow in disappointment but he doesn't stop touching you until you're panting and pushing him away.
you immediately whine and cover your face with your hands, half embarrassed, half disappointed.
he guides them away and presses a kiss to your forehead
"so fuckin' dumb for me. hm?" he searches your gaze and you look away, embarrassed.
you had one job.
"it's not my fault" you pout slightly
he tilts your head back towards him.
"oh is it mine?"
you don’t reply and he can tell you're beating yourself up enough, you don't need another punishment.
he lies down and guides you onto his chest, where you settle with a pout.
"'s okay baby. you'll get better at that" his fingers scratch gently at your scalp, making you feel sleepy.
"we'll just do a ton of practice mkay?" he murmurs as he presses a kiss onto your head.
"don't get sulky on me."
"wanted to come around your fingers" you explain, still sporting that subtle pout that tells him you're not over it.
"i know baby but you gotta learn to hold off f' me"
he sighs as he holds you tighter.
"besides… you look really fucking hot when you come like that. all needy and whining like im not giving you enough. you're so cute" his hand comes to rest on your hip and only then do your eyes dart down and notice his massive boner.
*reminder that interactions, asks, reqs are highly appreciated <33
sfw + nsfw. overstimulation & premature ejaculation (simon). his metal arm has a vibrator function. unprotected sex.
mr. riley is a new regular.
hulking, broad-shouldered, always hunched like he's trying to fold himself into something smaller. dirty blonde hair, hoodies that swallow his frame, gloves that never come off— not in winter, not when the air conditioning is broken, not when it’s so hot outside that the pavement wavers under the sun. you see him come in once during a heatwave, sweat beading at his temples, looking like he just came from hell itself. but the gloves stay.
always.
he’s quiet. doesn’t talk much unless he has to. keeps his answers clipped, never makes small talk, never lingers longe,ur than it takes to grab his order and leave. you might’ve found him intimidating if it weren’t for the fact that his dog, riley, was the exact opposite.
big, fluffy, and absurdly well-behaved. the kind that made strangers stop and coo when they passed by, all soft ears and wagging tail. an instant favorite among customers. an absolute menace to simon.
because the dog likes attention. loves it, actually. practically demands it. and, more specifically— he likes you.
so the moment simon steps up to the counter, riley is already perking up at your voice. tail wagging, eyes locked on you, waiting expectantly like he thinks you’re about to drop an entire steak into his mouth.
"oh! mr. riley! the usual today?"
simon grunts. closest thing to a yes you ever get.
"and a pup cup for little riley, i take it?"
the man sighs. “he’s gonna get fat.”
but he still swipes his card. no hesitation.
riley whines at the accusation, staring at him with something close to betrayal.
you slide simon’s order across the counter after a moment, the movements routine by now.
he reaches out. his right hand hovers over the cup. fingers stretching, hovering, like he’s trying to will it into his grasp.
nothing happens. his fingers twitch, but they won’t close.
you see it— the way his jaw tightens, the sharp curl of his lip like he’s biting down a curse. the tension in his shoulders. the exhale through his nose.
“mr. riley?” you ask carefully.
his scowl deepens. he tries again— too hard, too fast— his grip locks up, crushing the cup before he can stop himself. the lid pops off. coffee splatters over his hand, dripping onto the counter.
you yelp, stepping back on instinct. he doesn’t.
he just stares down at his hand. impassive. like he hasn't been baptized by scalding liquid.
“shit- hang on-” you scramble around the counter, heat rising up your throat, words spilling out in a rush. “jesus, are you- your hand-”
“s’fine,” he grunts.
his flesh hand flexes at his side, but the other— the one that had crushed the cup— stays frozen, unmoving.
you don’t believe him for a second. ignoring his protests, you reach for his wrist, peeling off the soaked glove before he can stop you.
you freeze.
metal. not sleek, new, high-tech metal. not the kind you see in sci-fi movies, gleaming and futuristic.
no. this is old. dull, scratched, worn— something that’s clearly been through hell and barely made it out. the joints look stiff, the plates dented in places, the wiring almost exposed near the wrist.
your mouth opens. closes. opens again. “… huh.”
his brow lifts slightly. “that all you got?”
you blink, tilting your head. “kinda thought there’d be… more wires. sparks. terminator shit.”
a beat. then, maybe, the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips.
“disappointed?”
“a little.”
you keep staring, the sight settling in your brain, cataloging every detail. not military-grade. not some brand-new prosthetic straight from a lab. something about it makes your chest tighten.
“has it… uh, been this iffy for a while?” you ask, glancing up.
simon shrugs with his good shoulder, the movement almost dismissive. “yeah. thing’s temperamental.”
“like you,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.
his brow arches slightly, but he doesn’t deny it.
you glance around the café, nerves twisting in your stomach. no customers. the clock ticks lazily, the smell of coffee and vanilla in the air. you bite your lip, thinking.
“so, uh- i’m an engineering student,” you start, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your apron. “and… i mean, if you wanted- i could take a look? maybe tweak it a bit?”
his gaze snaps to you. it makes your stomach flip, and you wonder if you’ve just crossed a line you hadn’t realized was there.
“… you want to mess with my arm?”
“not mess! i mean- help. like… it’s kind of what i do. circuits, mechanics- prosthetics aren’t that different. probably.” you wince. “unless you’re, like, secretly part robot with classified tech and i’m about to get black-bagged or something-”
“you talk a lot,” he deadpans.
“nerves,” you shoot back, cheeks warming. “so… yes? no? totally fine if it’s weird.”
he exhales through his nose, staring at you like he’s trying to figure you out. the silence stretches. then—
“… got tools?”
your face lights up. “back in my car!”
“figured.” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “fine. but if you break it worse-”
“i won’t,” you grin, already grabbing your keys. “trust me.”
“don’t say that,” he calls after you. “famous last words.”
…
simon would rather take a bullet than admit it, but you turn out to be a problem in his life.
because after that first fix— crammed into your car that rattled like it was held together with duct tape and prayer— he walks away with a hand that actually works for the first time in months.
no stiffness. no lag. no bullshit. he clenches his fist and releases, watching the fingers curl and straighten without a hint of resistance.
it feels foreign. unnatural. smooth in a way that it should be but hasn’t been for a long, long time.
so when he asks how much he owes, expecting a number, you just tilt your head and grin.
"tell me your full name. i don’t wanna keep calling you mr. riley."
simon stares at you like he’s weighing whether he can get away with walking out without answering. then, like it pains him— "simon."
you laugh. “you look like a simon.”
…
he doesn’t try to make it a habit, coming to you.
really. he doesn’t.
but prosthetic specialists are expensive, and he’s not exactly drowning in engineering contacts. the local mechanics won’t touch prosthetics (liability reasons, mate, can’t help ya), and he sure as hell isn’t stepping into a clinic unless he wants some lab rat poking and prodding at him like he’s a cutting-edge science project.
so when his arm starts acting up again, he does what he always does.
he ignores it. it’ll be fine. he can live with it.
it starts with a bit of stiffness. a missed grip here and there. nothing major.
then his fingers start locking up at random, the servos stalling, the whole limb feeling like it’s dragging behind the rest of him.
not ideal. not something he can use. three weeks in, and it’s a fucking liability.
he caves.
simon times it carefully. dead hour. mid-afternoon. when the café is empty and you’ll have a second to spare.
he walks in, orders a pup cup for riley, and waits. he doesn’t wait long.
the moment your eyes flicker to his gloved hand— how his fingers can't even curl anymore— your expression drops.
your shoulders tighten, brows knit together, mouth parting slightly like you’re about to scold him before you even know what’s wrong.
"simon," you say, voice sharp like he just admitted to a felony.
before he can so much as blink, you’re untying your apron.
"break," you toss over your shoulder.
your coworker barely looks up. just shrugs.
simon exhales through his nose. he should’ve just ripped the damn thing off himself.
your car is just as a mess as it was last time. empty water bottles on the floor. a crumpled hoodie in the backseat. textbooks piled in the passenger footwell, some open, some stuffed with loose papers. it smells faintly like vanilla air freshener and stress.
riley jumps in first, hopping into the backseat like he owns the place, and promptly curls up across the mess of loose papers and crumpled receipts.
simon says nothing. just lets himself into the passenger seat, shifts slightly to get comfortable in the too-small space, and watches as you slam the driver’s side door with a little more force than necessary.
you’re fuming.
he can feel it radiating off you like an overheating engine as you shove his sleeve up and strip the glove away.
he glances down. yeah. even he has to admit— it looks rough. the plates are slightly misaligned. the servos are dragging. the tension in the fingers is off, the whole mechanism resisting movement like it’s gummed up with sand and bad decisions.
"oh my god, how long has this been going on?"
his eyes flicking to the side. "three weeks."
you go still. "THREE WEEKS?!"
riley lifts his head from where he’s sprawled out in the backseat and whines at the sharpness of your voice. simon rubs at his temple with his good hand, sighing.
"three- jesus, simon, if your arm has a problem, you come to me right away!"
"didn’t wanna bother you."
you make a strangled sound, something between disbelief and frustration, already yanking open your toolkit with more force than necessary. "bother- oh my god, you idiot," you snap, flipping through your tools at lightning speed. "this is- unusable. how were you even functioning like this?"
"managed."
"you shouldn’t have to ‘manage.’ that’s the point of a prosthetic!"
simon huffs, shifting his arm slightly as you mutter curses under your breath and start unscrewing the external plating.
riley rests his chin on the back of simon’s seat, watching the whole thing unfold with his big brown eyes, tail thumping softly against the pile of forgotten assignments.
"can feel your judgment," simon mutters, breaking the silence.
"good. let it sink in."
riley lets out a low whine, nudging the back of simon’s neck with his nose.
simon sighs. "yeah, yeah. i know."
the dog lets out a single huff, like he agrees with you.
you pause long enough to glance at riley, expression unimpressed. "at least he gets it."
"gettin’ ganged up on," simon mutters.
riley whines. you don’t even look up.
"good.
his mouth twitches. he tells himself it’s a muscle spasm.
you don’t look at him when you actually get to work. simon notices.
he’s sitting there, arm bared, cables exposed, and you’re bent over the mess of wiring like he’s not even in the room. like he’s just another machine in need of fixing. your hands move with quick precision, fingers deft as you pluck out worn components and replace them with fresh ones. you mutter to yourself, little noises of satisfaction or frustration depending on what you find.
it’s unsettling. not you— no, you’re fine. better than fine. competent. but it’s been a long time since someone’s handled his arm without hesitation, without the kind of quiet reverence people get when they realize how much damage a man has to take before he needs one of these.
to you, it’s just broken. something that needs tuning.
he flexes his fingers the second you flip the switch.
his hand moves fast. smooth. no delay between thought and motion. he rolls his wrist. it hasn’t felt this natural in weeks.
"good?" you ask, still gathering your tools.
he moves his fingers again. watches them articulate, watches the precise shift of metal joints. "yeah," he mutters.
you nod, already packing up, already moving on.
he watches you.
then you say it, casual, like an afterthought. “don’t worry about it.”
simon doesn’t blink. he knew you were going to say that because apparently you're the next coming of the good fucking samaritan. it still pisses him off.
he glances at you. at the torn-up upholstery of your car, the loose wires under the dash, the check engine light that’s been on this entire time, the faint but definite smell of something burning.
he drums his fingers against his knee. “i’ll fix your car.”
you argue about it, of course. insist it’s fine, like you don’t hear the death rattle when you start the engine. simon doesn’t argue back. doesn’t need to. just asks— when’s the last time you had it looked at?— and watches you press your lips together.
thought so.
“two days, at least,” he tells you.
your horror is almost funny. “two days?”
“maybe three.”
you stare at him like he just told you your dog died.
he pats the dashboard. “i’ll do what i can to keep it alive.”
it takes one day. he calls while you’re still half-asleep. “your car’s a lost cause.”
you meet up later so he can walk you through the damage in person.
you listen. don’t talk much, don’t get defensive. just nod as he points things out, as he explains the alternator’s failing, the battery’s shot, the brake pads are gone— and yeah, he’s still pissed about that one. your transmission is a liability. the engine’s practically running on fumes.
you sigh, dragging a hand over your face.
“i need my car,” you grumble. “i have plates to pass. blueprints that cannot get wet, or my professor will deduct major points. and-”
“i’ll drive you.”
you stop. blink. “what?”
“i’ll drive you,” he repeats, like it’s obvious.
you look at him, wary. “don’t you have work?”
“on break.”
“friends?”
he shakes his head. “not really.”
“family?”
he actually laughs. there's no real humor in it.
something shifts in your face. simon sees it before you do, the flicker of discomfort, the way you adjust your stance like there’s something you want to say but don’t know how.
simon doesn’t let you say it.
“tell me your schedule.” he shuts the hood like the matter’s settled. “text me when you need a ride. i’ll be there.”
you cross your arms. “so i get a chauffeur for fixing one prosthetic?”
he flexes his fingers. “you underestimate how much these cost.”
you roll your eyes. “you act like i replaced the whole thing.”
“you might as well have,” he mutters. “damn thing actually works now.”
you sigh, shifting on your feet. “you really don’t have plans?”
“if you count drinking beer alone, then yeah, i have plenty.
so he starts picking you up.
at first, it’s straightforward. you text him when you need a ride, and he shows up, no questions asked. no complaints, either— just grunts a greeting, waits for you to get in, and drives. sometimes he has the radio on. other times, it’s just quiet, the steady hum of the engine and the occasional flick of a turn signal.
simon doesn’t mind detours. when you run late and beg him to swing by a drive-thru, he just sighs and pulls into the next available one. doesn’t even say anything when you apologize through a mouthful of food, just takes a sip of his own coffee and keeps driving.
but, one morning, when you rush out of your apartment, tripping over your own feet, already bracing for the inevitable “can we stop by-”
simon just reaches into the passenger seat, grabs a bag, and tosses it into your lap.
you blink down at it. warm, heavy. smells good.
“…what’s this?”
he puts the truck into drive. “breakfast.”
“thanks,” you mumble, glancing at riley whose got his head wedged between the two of you, tongue lolling out, eyes bright as he watches you unwrap your sandwich.
“does he want some?”
simon doesn’t even look. “he always wants some.”
you tear off a piece anyway, holding it out. riley inhales it like it personally offended him
simon snorts. “you’re gonna spoil him.”
“he’s cute. he deserves it.”
“he’s a liability.”
“you’re just jealous ‘cause i don’t feed you by hand.”
you look up, realizing what you just said.
simon’s looking back at you. slow blink. unreadable.
heat licks at your neck. “i- i didn’t mean-”
riley whines, nosing at your hand for more food, and you’ve never been more grateful for a dog’s terrible sense of timing.
he hums, turning back to the road. “thought so.”
…
this keeps going for months. a pattern. a rhythm. the two of you slot into each other’s lives like you’ve always been there.
you stop thanking him when he brings you food. he stops questioning it when you drag him to your workshop to tinker with his arm.
and then, one day. he picks you up, just like always.
but this time—
you slide into the passenger seat and don’t say anything.
no greeting. no complaints. no requests for coffee. just sit back, staring straight ahead, like you’re still processing something.
simon frowns. “…what?”
“…my project is on prosthetic arms.”
his head snaps toward you. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask if it’s because of him. because that— that feels too dangerous.
your hands grip your sleeves. “can i design you a new prosthetic arm?”
he doesn’t answer right away. doesn’t move. his fingers flex against the wheel.
you don’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at you, and it’s the first time in a long time he really feels like he’s made of metal and wire and things that aren’t his own.
you exhale. glance at him out of the corner of your eye.
he looks down. his palm, cold and impersonal. not really his, not entirely.
and— “…yeah,” he mutters, tapping his fingers against his thigh.
a beat.
“…all right.”
…
simon steps inside your apartment, and the first thing he notices is that it smells like you. not perfume, not some scent in a bottle— just you. a mix of coffee, paper, and something warm and lived-in. his boots make the floor creak slightly as he shifts, taking it all in.
riley, in comparison,immediately takes off, nose to the ground, sniffing every single thing he can get to. he pushes his head into the couch cushions, sticks his snout into your laundry pile, and stands on his hind legs to peek at the half-eaten bag of chips on the coffee table.
simon watches you rush to pull snacks away before riley gets his paws on them, muttering something about “you’d think i don’t feed you.” riley wags his tail in betrayal.
the space is cluttered but cozy. the kind of messy that isn’t disorganized, just... busy. like your life is so packed with things to do that it spills over into your home. there are loose papers on the coffee table, your drafting table is buried under textbooks and sketches, and there’s a laundry basket in the corner that’s almost full but not quite.
and the lamps. so many damn lamps. simon counts sixteen before he even makes it past the entrance.
you explain your thesis, and simon listens. really listens. you talk with your hands, explaining concepts in bursts of energy, excitement bright in your eyes. you tell him about rare alloys, cutting-edge designs, how the neural link would function with smoother input signals.
his stomach twists a little when you say it—
“i want to make you a new arm with all of that.”
simon doesn’t answer immediately. just exhales through his nose. he know he should say no. tell you it’s unnecessary. that his arm is fine. that he’s fine.
but then you pull out the blueprints, show him the design, and it’s... it’s good.
it’s really fucking good.
and he knows how much this tech costs. he remembers sitting in a sterile office, watching a man in a lab coat list out the prices of different prosthetic models. he remembers running his fingers over a brochure, seeing the way the most advanced models— the ones that felt like real limbs— were laughably out of reach.
“it’s expensive,” he says, voice flat. It’s not a question.
you hesitate. shift your weight. “…the university gave me a budget.”
he watches you. waits. “…and is it enough to cover the costs?”
you don’t answer.
he sighs and pulls out his phone.
you blink. “what are you doing?”
“making a call.”
simon doesn’t ask for favors. he doesn’t like owing people. doesn’t like being in someone’s debt. But this— this isn’t only for him.
it’s for you too.
he doesn’t hesitate when he dials price’s number. the line barely rings twice before it picks up. “this better be good, ghost.”
it's the price standard. no greeting, no pleasantries.
“it is,” he says. “need a favor.”
a pause. not because price is surprised— simon doesn’t ask for favors often, but when he does, it’s never something small. It’s never something for him.
“go on.”
simon glances at you. you’re watching him, curiosity and just a little bit of suspicion. the old leather of his gloves creaking as he crosses his arms. “need a sponsor.”
another pause. then, dry as hell— “what, you starting a football team?”
he rolls his eyes. “no.”
“boxing, then?”
“price.”
the humor fades. a quiet sigh. “who’s it for?”
he hesitates. just for a second. not because he doesn’t know what to say— because he doesn’t know why he’s saying it. “she’s building a prosthetic,” he says finally. “one I need.”
one i want, he doesn't say.
“your arm acting up?”
“yeah.”
“so get it fixed.”
“this is better.”
price doesn’t say anything for a while and simon knows the old man is thinking, turning things over, considering.
then: “she good?”
siimon glances at you again. you’re shifting through your notes now. he exhales. “yeah.”
he hums, considering. “you trust her?”
that’s what it comes down to. trust.
simon has trusted exactly three people in his life:
1. his mother. until she was gone.
2. price. who never asked for it, never demanded it, but earned it anyway.
3. johnny. who trusts him back without question.
and now, there’s you. he wouldn’t be making this call if he didn’t. “…yeah,” he says.
and that’s all price needs to hear.
you protest the second simon shoves the phone into your hands. try to give it back, eyes wide like he just handed you a live grenade.
but he just crosses his arms, leans against the drafting table, and nods at the phone. “explain.”
you hesitate for way too long before reluctantly pressing it to your ear. “alright, kid. sell me on it.”
you freeze.
“oh my god, i hate you,” you whisper at simon before launching into a shaky but passionate explanation of your thesis to whoever the hell is on the other end of this call.
price listens. makes the occasional noise of interest. asks a few questions. and then— “alright. send me the details. i’ll see what i can do.”
you blink. “wait- so-?”
“i’ll sponsor the damn thing. might even endorse it a little.”
you stare at the phone like it's just grown legs.
“just make sure it works, yeah?”
you nod like he can see you, mumbling out a “thank you so much, sir,” before fumbling to hand the phone back to simon.
simon takes it, tucks it back into his pocket, and proceeds to act like this wasn’t a big deal at all.
you gape at him. “who even was that guy?”
“someone you don’t want to owe a favor.”
your eyes narrow. “and you do?”
simon shrugs. “already owed him one.”
and that’s true. priice has done more for simon than he can count. gave him a job when he didn’t deserve one, gave him a reason to live when he thought he’d run out.
if sponsoring you means putting another tally on that tab, then so be it.
…
you learn more about simon throughout the months.
he doesn’t like cucumbers. you find that out when he picks them out of his sandwich with the kind of silent disgust that makes it clear this is a habit, a ritual, a deeply ingrained practice that will not change no matter how many times you tell him he’s being dramatic.
he doesn’t sleep much. that’s another thing. you catch it in the way he moves, the way his eyes flick around a room too quickly, too sharp for someone who’s gotten a full night’s rest. sometimes, when he’s sitting at your table and riley is curled up by his feet, he just stares off like he’s somewhere else, mind miles away. you don’t ask where.
he doesn’t like sitting with his back to the door. ever. it doesn’t matter where you are— your apartment, a coffee shop, some hole-in-the-wall diner— he always angles himself so he can see the entrance. you test it once, sitting at a booth before he gets there, taking the seat facing the door. when he arrives, he stares at you for all of two seconds before just sighing and sliding in next to you instead of across. you don’t do it again.
he fixes things when he’s anxious. your loose cabinet hinge, the flickering kitchen light, the leaky faucet. he doesn’t say anything. just gets up, pulls out a tool, and starts working like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you find out that the calluses on his fingers aren’t just from weapons—he knows how to take things apart and put them back together, knows how to get grease under his nails, how to run his hands over a surface and understand exactly how it works.
he doesn’t like closed doors. doesn’t like feeling boxed in. when he’s at your place, he always leaves the door cracked, just a little. at first, you think it’s just a habit, but one night you’re in the kitchen and you see the way his shoulders ease when he glances up and sees the open space. you don’t say anything. you just stop closing the door all the way when he’s around.
one day, you’re working on fitting the prosthetic to his stump. it’s finally starting to look like an arm.
simon sits across from you, his forearm resting on the table as you carefully adjust the fit. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t do anything except watch as you secure the straps and check the connection points.
“any discomfort?” you ask, frowning as you examine the joints.
he flexes his fingers, rolling his wrist. “no.”
you glance up. “are you sure?”
he snorts, a short breath of amusement. “you want me to make somethin’ up?”
“no, i want you to tell me if it hurts.”
his lips twitch, but he doesn’t argue. just shifts slightly, testing the range of motion. “feels good,” he says finally.
you nod, make a note. “good.”
rain starts somewhere in the background. a soft patter at first, then heavier, filling the quiet of your apartment. you barely notice at first, too focused on your work, but then you glance up and realize how late it’s gotten.
simon leans back slightly, rolling his shoulders. the room is dim now, the warm glow of your lamps casting long shadows across the walls. riley is curled up on the couch, one ear flicking at the sound of the rain.
you hesitate.
simon notices. lifts a brow.
“what?”
you swallow, shifting in your seat. “would you like to stay over?”
there’s a beat of silence.
simon blinks, slow. looks at you, then out the window, where the rain is coming down in thick, steady sheets.
“…you sure?”
you nod, maybe a little too fast. “yeah. it’s late. roads are bad.” you clear your throat. “and- i mean. it’s not like you sleep much anyway, right?”
he huffs out something that could be a laugh. drags a hand down his face. when he looks back at you, his expression is unreadable, something wry and considering.
“alright,” he says finally. “but i’m takin’ the couch.”
you roll your eyes. “obviously.”
he smirks. you get up to grab blankets. riley stretches on the couch, taking up as much space as possible, and simon mutters something about “bloody dog” but doesn’t move him.
the rain keeps falling. the room is warm.
simon stays.
…
months of refining, testing, and sleepless nights have led to this— the almost-final version of the prototype. the culmination of your work, a piece of engineering so advanced it almost breathes beneath your fingertips. simon sits before you, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, his flesh-and-blood hand resting on his knee while the new prosthetic gleams under the workshop lights.
it’s a work of art, even if he’d never call it that. matte black plating, smooth but lined with faint ridges where the internal components shift and adjust to mimic the movement of muscle. beneath the casing, synthetic tendons coil and flex like real ones, powered by the delicate balance of neural signals and finely tuned actuators. when he moves his fingers, the transition is seamless, each digit reacting in perfect sync with his intent, no longer the slight delay of older models.
he watches as you adjust the final connection points, the alignment of the servos. the heat of his gaze is palpable, but he stays silent, letting you work.
then— a flicker in the system.
it's subtle at first, a low hum beneath the surface of the plating. then it builds. a vibration rolls through the arm, an erratic tremor that makes the fingers twitch. simon lifts it slightly, inspecting it with mild curiosity, flexing his hand.
“huh,” he muses, tone is as dry as ever. “well. could be a vibrator.”
your brain short-circuits. “what-” your fingers slip, almost dropping the tool in your hand. heat floods your face. “that’s- no. absolutely not.”
he tilts his head, studying you like he’s just found something interesting. “was this meant-”
“no!” you blurt, too quick, too loud.
simon is skeptical. “be honest.”
your throat tightens. you look at the circuitry, the faint whir of the servos, anywhere but his face. “…i just- i thought it’d be good-”
his brow arches. “good for what?”
“you look like someone who gets a lot of girls, alright?”
there’s a beat of silence.
simon leans back slightly, tapping his fingers against the metal plating. the low buzz of the malfunctioning motor is the only sound in the room. “is that so?”
before you can even think of a way to explain yourself, he moves.
his grip is swift, fingers curling around your wrist. there’s no real force behind it, no intention to hurt. just a casual show of strength, a reminder of just how easy it is for him to manhandle you. you barely have time to react before he pulls, tipping you off balance.
you land on his lap, breath stuttering out of you in a quiet gasp.
he settles you there like you belong, his flesh-and-blood hand pressing into the small of your back. you feel the heat of him beneath you, the solid mass of his thighs, the way his breath stays even while yours quickens.
the prosthetic hums again.
before your brain can catch up, he moves his arm, pressing the vibrating palm against the seam of your jeans, right between your thighs.
your spine straightens, legs twitching against the instinct to squeeze shut, but his knee is right there, keeping you open.
simon makes a considering noise, watching your reaction. his voice drops, low and lazy.
“since you built it,” he muses, letting the vibration roll against you, “might as well test its full range of function, yeah?”
his head tilts, gaze flicking down to your parted lips. you’re already shaking, already aching, slick and soaked through before he’s even put his hands on you properly.
his weight shifts, thighs bracketing yours, hands adjusting. the grip he has on you firms, fingers pressing deep into soft flesh, making sure you don’t slip away.
not that you would. not that you could.
his breath ghosts over your cheek and your head tips back automatically, a slow surrender, baring your throat. simon makes a low sound of approval, and then his fingers tighten, curling into the denim at your hips.
"si-"
"oh, sweetheart.” he slowly tugging your pants down. "you in a rush? thought you liked when i took my time."
simon's hand drags over your thigh, metal knuckles gliding over your skin. the pressure he uses is just enough to make you feel it, to make your breath hitch, thighs twitching as something hot sparks low in your belly.
"shakin’, love. that bad, huh?"
his fingers stroke over your panties, pressing into the slick beneath.
"fuck," simon laughs, dragging his palm over your thigh, fingers spreading, squeezing. "you're dripping. what, just from me takin’ off your jeans? christ, love, that’s pathetic. you really need it that bad?"
your hips jolt, desperate, chasing friction. instinct drives you— no thought, no shame, just the raw ache of needing him.
simon tsks, shaking his head like it’s funny, like he isn’t already rolling his hips against your leg, cock hard and twitching beneath denim. his fingers press against the soaked cotton between your thighs, rubbing slow circles over your clit.
"built this thing for me," he mutters, mostly to himself, watching his own fingers move, the thick, cool metal pressed flush against heat-swollen flesh. "and look at you. already makin’ a fuckin’ mess all over it."
his mouth twitches. not quite a smirk. something meaner, hungrier.
his gaze drags up, pinning you in place. sharp. knowing. "bet you thought about it, though," he says. "at least once. didn’t you?"
heat spikes through you, curling in your gut. shame prickles at the edges, but it doesn’t matter. not when he’s right. you had thought about it. had imagined this. had pictured his prosthetic between your legs, pressing down, making you beg, the hard edges of metal digging into soft, soaked flesh, the slow hum vibrating against your clit until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but come apart on him.
your fingers clutch at his shoulders, grasping for something solid, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t acknowledge how you tremble beneath him. just watches. tracks.
you stare up at him, panting, barely able to focus, and— god, his face.
the sharp lines of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones, the scar that cuts jagged through the scruff along his chin. his stubble is coarse, speckled with hints of gray, a little uneven along his jaw. coarse shadows frame his mouth, dust over his upper lip, the cut of his jaw. his nose has been broken before, maybe more than once, slightly crooked where it was never set right. the thin pink ridge of an old scar cuts through his left eyebrow, splitting it clean in half, a deeper line stretching down the side of his face, the tail end disappearing into the rough stubble at his jaw.
you don’t get long to stare.
his mouth crashes against yours, rough and urgent, teeth knocking against teeth, lips parting just enough to let him shove his tongue deep, curling against yours, licking into your mouth, taking, claiming.
his teeth sink into your bottom lip, sharp, hard enough to sting. you whimper, legs shaking, and he groans like he feels it everywhere, like he wants to eat you alive.
then— a hum. low. steady. vibrating against your cunt.
your whole body jolts, spine arching, hands flying to his arms, fingers twisting into the thick, corded muscle of his biceps.
you gasp into his mouth, try to pull back, try to breathe, but he doesn’t let you.
simon’s arm locks around your waist, dragging you closer, pressing you down against the hard, pulsing vibration between your legs.
"fuckin’ christ," he groans, fingers slipping beneath soaked fabric, spreading you open. his breath stutters, mouth barely moving as he stares down at his own hand, at the thick, slick mess coating his fingers. "you’re soaked."
his cock throbs against your thigh, thick and heavy where it presses into the denim of his jeans, pulsing hot through the fabric.
his fingers stroke through slick, teasing, pressing against your clit, and the vibration amps up.
you cry out, body jolting, hips stuttering, but he catches them in both hands, grips them tight, holds you still.
"jumped like a scared little rabbit.” Simon's breath is warm against your jaw, lips dragging over your pulse.
his hand stills.
his fingers rest against your clit, pressing just enough to make you squirm, to keep you teetering, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t push you over. "should turn it up, yeah?"
your breath hitches, hips jolt, but his grip plants you right where he wants you.
"no runnin’," he breathes against your mouth. "you take what i fuckin’ give you."
pressure builds. tightens. burns through you a f through it all his eyes stay locked on yours.
the vibration shifts— harder, deeper. his fingers push inside, stretching, filling, pressing against every aching, sensitive spot.
your moan rips from your throat, raw and wrecked, nails sinking into the hard planes of his back. your legs twitch, thighs trembling where they clamp around his sides, but he doesn’t let up. doesn’t ease up.
simon grins, sharp and smug, lips curling against your temple. “atta girl,” he breathes, pushing you down, keeping you still.
his fingers press firm against the swollen bud beneath, dragging slow, torturous circles that make you jerk.
"swollen, love," his knuckles brush over your clit just enough to make your whole body twitch. "look at you-" his tongue drags over his bottom lip. "all fucked-out already, and i haven’t even started.”
a whimper spills from your throat. you twist beneath him, trying to get away— but there’s nowhere to go. simon is everywhere all at once.
simon’s head dips, breath warm as it ghosts over slick, swollen flesh. you’re open for him, spread wide, cunt glistening— slick dripping down the crease of your thigh, pooling beneath you.
he noses at you, the rough drag of his stubble scraping over sensitive skin, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh.
"tastes sweet," he mutters, lips barely brushing where you need him. "dripping all over yourself, love. makin’ a fuckin’ mess just for me."
his tongue flicks out— soft, fleeting— not enough.
you cry out, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting, trying to pull him in, trying to keep him there.
he smirks against your skin. "shh." another lick, just to watch you tremble. "poor thing. so sensitive."
you twitch, hips chasing his mouth, aching for more, needing him to stop teasing, needing him to eat you alive. but then—
he pulls away.
your eyes snap open, bleary, wild.
you barely register him moving, barely track the way he rises up, broad and so fucking smug.
you're about to ask where he's going when you you hear it.
the clink of his belt.
your breath hitches.
he drags it out, making you watch as his fingers work the buckle, making you listen to the quiet rasp of the zipper, the rustle of denim as he shoves his jeans down just enough—
his cock is flushed dark at the tip. pre-cum beads at the slit, smearing as he wraps his fingers around the base, giving it a slow, teasing stroke. the sheer girth of it stretches his grip wide, the veins running down the shaft prominent, pulsing, standing out beneath the taut skin. he’s obscenely long, thick enough that your thighs instinctively press together, anticipation twisting tight in your gut.
simon strokes himself again, dragging his fist up the thick length, thumb circling the swollen tip. his cock twitches in his grip, another bead of precum welling at the slit, spilling over, tracing a slick path down the ridges of a pulsing vein.
his fingers flex around the base, squeezing, drawing another lazy stroke up before dragging his thumb along the sensitive underside. a quiet exhale leaves him, sharp through his nose, body tensing at his own touch.
he taps the swollen head against your clit, watches the way you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together even as they stay spread for him.
a whimper breaks from your throat.
simon smiles. "need it that bad, huh?"
you nod frantically, thighs trembling, nails biting into his skin.
he exhales through his nose, head shaking like he can’t believe you.
"fuckin’ insatiable," he mutters, pressing the head against your cunt. "guess i’ll just have to fuck it all out of you."
you sob beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, nails clawing at his shoulders.
"so tight," he grits out. "fuck- look at you, baby. takin’ me so good."
simon sinks an inch, just enough for the head to pop inside and his breath catches, body locking up, heat surging through his spine.
your cunt swallows him whole, warm and wet and too fucking tight, and instinct takes over—
his hips snap forward, bottoming out in one sharp stroke.
a broken noise rips from his throat, something between a groan and a whine, his body shuddering, his hands gripping your hips too tight as his cock jerks inside you, pulsing, spilling hot and thick before he can stop it.
his forehead drops to your shoulder, his whole body trembling, breath coming ragged, desperate.
"fuck-" his voice breaks. "oh, fuck."
your cunt throbs around him, squeezing, milking him even though he hasn’t even moved, and the overstimulation makes his body jolt, makes his jaw lock tight.
"oh my god.” your fingers claw at his back. "simon-!"
he groans into your skin, cock still twitching inside you.
"jesus christ..” he drags in a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to see your face— tear-streaked and glassy-eyed. "m'sorry- fuck, baby, i’m sorry, it’s been-" he chokes on his words, shaking his head, voice breaking. "god, it's been so long-"
he drags in another breath, body screaming, cock still throbbing with the aftershocks of his orgasm, but you’re still crying, still trembling beneath him, still so fucking needy.
and fuck, you deserve better than that.
he shakes his head, tries to will himself to stop, to apologize, to pull out— let you laugh at him if you want.
but your cunt is still squeezing him, soft and warm and perfect, and he can’t.
his hands slide down, gripping your thighs, spreading you open wider.
"fuck- i got you, baby," he pants, hips pulling back before snapping forward again. "fuckin’ hell.” his whole body shakes. "gonna make it up to you, promise. gonna give it to you like you need, yeah? gonna fuck you so good, baby, you’ll feel me for days."
you wail beneath him, thrashing, tears streaking hot down your cheeks, mouth open on a sob as he fucks into you, fast and hard, ignoring the way his cock aches, the way his whole body protests, pushing through it because you need this.
"simon- simon, please- oh my god- fuck!"
"shh, shh," he coos, a little breathless. "i know, baby, i know. takin’ it so good- fuck, squeezin’ me so tight."
you sob harder, clinging to him, and he groans, burying his face in your neck, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, sucking little bruises into your skin.
"fuck- oh fuck," his hips stutter, his own release rising again, too soon, too intense, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a fuck if it hurts.
"c’mon, love," he pants, "give me one more, yeah? cry all you want, baby, i love when you cry."
and when you finally do, when your body locks up around him and your walls squeeze tight, he groans loud and desperate, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it.
"there it is, fuck, there it is-"
he’s so proud, pressing wet, messy kisses to your cheeks, licking away the salt of your tears, whispering, "such a good girl, takin’ me so well, so fuckin’ perfect-"
"gonna cum again," simon tells you, almost pleading, "need to, sweetheart- need to cum deep in this perfect fucking cunt again-"
you wail, nodding, sobbing his name as your own orgasm crashes over you, squeezing down around him so tight it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.
simon groans, pressing his forehead to yours, gasping, desperate, hips snapping forward in rough, short little thrusts.
"good girl," he chokes out, "good fuckin’ girl-"
and then he's spilling into you again, sobbing into your skin, wrecked and shaking and completely fucking gone.
you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.
you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.
there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.
at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.
midnight schedule it was.
it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.
the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.
and then there was him.
tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.
the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.
(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)
he moved through his workout with terrifying
efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.
you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.
“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.
you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”
“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”
you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”
he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"
“i do not know his entire workout routine.”
your friend raised a brow.
you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”
his brow lifted higher.
“…and arms on thursdays.”
silence.
“right.”
“shut up.”
you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.
the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.
and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.
What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.
so, you stayed quiet..
until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.
in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.
“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”
“i use it,” you protested.
“you walk through it.”
okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.
you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.
you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.
the bar didn’t budge.
you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.
okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—
"y’need a spotter?"
you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.
you swallow. "uh."
his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"
"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."
he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.
your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.
"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.
you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!
he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.
"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"
you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"
"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.
you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."
you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.
he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.
a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.
but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.
"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"
he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."
you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?
he hesitates. "depends."
"on?"
"the day."
you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."
"sure it is."
you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.
it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)
you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.
"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."
and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”
he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”
you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.
"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."
you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.
“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”
“drop it.”
“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”
“drop it.”
some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.
it’s unbearable.
like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”
you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.
you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.
the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."
you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”
he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."
you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”
his eye twitches. “just drink it.”
and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.
one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.
you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.
simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.
"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.
you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”
he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.
"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.
you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—
his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.
"fix that grip, sweetheart."
you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.
"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."
your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.
his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."
you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.
you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.
and then— "good girl."
barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.
your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.
you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.
and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.
"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."
simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"
your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."
his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"
"yes."
he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."
you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.
"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."
your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.
"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."
low, warm, approving—
"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."
simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.
"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”
“please.”
the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.
simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.
his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.
his hips roll up.
you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.
he does it again.
your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.
"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."
his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.
his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.
you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.
"fuck-"
he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.
"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."
your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.
"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"
you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.
his patience snaps.
one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.
simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.
he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.
the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.
simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”
he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—
he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.
"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"
"yes- yes, please-"
"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."
he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.
the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.
"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"
you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.
his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.
“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”
your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.
simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”
you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”
he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.
your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.
his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”
then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.
you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.
simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”
he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.
his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”
you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.
his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.
“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”
he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.
then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.
his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”
the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.
simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.
he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—
he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.
"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."
your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"
"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"
you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"
"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."
you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."
he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."
then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.
you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.
"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"
you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.
"s’not fair," you mumble.
"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.
"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."
you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.
"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"
you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.
when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.
then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—
you take him.
the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.
"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."
you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.
breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"
"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."
but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."
his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."
"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"
he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."
then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.
"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.
simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."
the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.
"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"
he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.
it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.
but you’re already gone.
your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.
"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"
you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.
he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.
"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."
"s-simon-"
"what, love? too far gone already?"
his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.
you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"
"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."
he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.
"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.
"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."
he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.
"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"
"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.
"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."
"Tell me about your day, birdie." he said casually, too casually for someone currently sliding two thick fingers inside you, curling them just so. His thumb pressed against your clit, a deliberate tease.
You whined, hips bucking involuntarily. "S-Simon—"
"Day, love." His free hand pinned your wrist above your head, eyes dark and amused under the shadow of his gaze. He knew exactly what he was doing. His fingers found your G-spot like it was marked on his map—pressing, rubbing, relentless. A low throb built instantly, making your toes curl.
"Okay, fine..” you panted, trying to focus. "Work was... ah—busy. Had that stupid presentation with the team. Boss was on my case about the slides." The words tumbled out, but his fingers didn't let up, stroking that spot with precision that bordered on cruel. Pleasure sparked and a moan slipped free mid-sentence.
"What was that?" Simon's voice was mock-innocent, lips twitching into a smirk. He slowed just enough to torment you, thumb circling your clit lazily now. "Didn't catch that bit about the boss. Repeat it for me.”
You whimpered, clenching around him. "He... he said the slides needed more data. Fuck, Simon—"
"Language, dove.” he chimed, but his eyes gleamed with wicked delight. He abused that power then, fingers plunging deeper, hooking right against your G-spot over and over, fast and unyielding. Your walls fluttered, the coil tightening unbearably. "Keep talkin’, love... what else happened? Tell me about lunch."
It was torture, the best kind.
You babbled through it—something about grabbing a sandwich alone, avoiding your chatty coworker—each sentence fracturing with gasps and whines. Every time you faltered, he'd coo, "Didn't hear you, love. Louder." Or, "That moan's not an answer." His pace never wavered, fingers slick and insistent, thumb flicking your clit until you couldn’t think straight.
"Simon, please... I'm—" The orgasm hit like a freight train, your body arching off the bed as you clenched around him, waves of heat crashing through you. He didn't stop, drawing it out until you were trembling, oversensitive and boneless.
Only then did he pull his fingers free, sucking them clean with a satisfied hum. "Good girl..” he whispered, leaning down to kiss your forehead—soft, after all the meanness. "Now, about dinner..."
Your eyes are filled with tears as you look up at him, your chin covered in your own saliva. Your knees ache against the wooden floor, your scalp being pulled at by his big hand that’s in your hair.
You pull away from his cock, gasping for breath. Your bratty attitude is still there, evident in your frown, glare and the insults spewing out of your mouth. “Stop! You bastard–“
He shoves his cock back into your mouth, looking down at you. “Keep talking,” he taunts, a dark glint in his eyes. “I love feeling you try to fight with your mouth full.”
His hips start to pump, fucking your mouth with slow, deep strokes. Each thrust goes deeper, the thick veins of his cock sliding against your tongue. "Take it, you little slut."
You push at his thighs, which earns you a light slap on the face. You whine like a kicked puppy, and the vibration makes him throw his head back. He watches you struggle to take his length, saliva dripping down your chin. Pulling out suddenly, slapping his cock against your face before shoving it back in. He starts to speed up, hitting the back of your throat with each thrust. “Fuck, your mouth feels so good."
You sit there and take it, your eyes rolling back. And, frankly, you loved this. That’s the reason you brat around and provoke him all day— deep down, you love this side of him. The ache in your cunt and your damp panties are evidence to your sick desires.
He looked damn good towering over you, dark eyes watching as his cock violates your mouth. He has his shirt off, his muscular torso glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. The hand in your hair eases up a bit when your eyes meet his. He pulls his cock out, spitting in your mouth. “Filthy little thing. That what you wanted? Such a brat…” he slaps your face lightly with his hand, making you mewl. “Yeah… that’s right…”
His breathing grows ragged as he face-fucks you, his balls slapping against your chin. He shows no signs of slowing down. Your jaw aches from the stretch, tears streaming down your face, but he just groans deeply, enjoying the wet warmth of your mouth.
“Where do you want my cum, huh? Down your throat?” He asks, to which you do your best to nod— almost too eagerly. He laughs at that, shaking his head at your endless antics.
His movements start to change. His hips stutter, losing that perfect rhythm as he gets closer to the edge. He pulls back so only the head is in your mouth, fucking it with short, desperate strokes. The sounds leaving his lips have you pressing your thighs together needly, your eyebrows furrowed upwards.
His cock throbs intensely in your mouth. He grabs your hair tighter, holding your head still as he finally reaches his climax. With a guttural groan, he thrusts deep one last time, his hips locking as hot spurts of cum hit the back of your throat. He holds himself there, forcing you to take every drop as his body trembles with release. His hand stays firm on your head, making sure you swallow. “Good girl... keep swallowing.”
He pets your hair, slowly pulling his cock out, one last spurt of cum landing on your cheek. He loved painting you with his seed, loved seeing you reduced to a mess. You start coughing, cum and drool falling down your chin, throat burning and raw. “Asshole”
your body was under rafe's complete control, his large hands contorting you in whatever position he desired, using you like a toy. his right hand snaked over your neck to pull you flush to his chest, angling himself deeper inside you. his thrusts got harsher as he choked you, breasts shaking from the force. your knees threatened to buckle upon feeling his breath on your face, lips so close to yours. you whined as your eyes fell shut, pleasure already making you shut down; he was so snug inside your tight walls it felt like he belonged there. “open your eyes. i want you to see my face as i fuck you.” he grunted as his pelvis hit your ass, the skin slapping filling the room. “fuck. rafe just like that,” you moan, leaning into his harsh touch. he swallows your moans with his mouth as he kisses you hard, soft, plump lips devouring yours. he forces his tongue in your mouth with ease, licking and fighting with yours. he’s off you as soon as he was on you, yanking your head back by your hair, putting you in the perfect angle to spit in your mouth. “that’s it, swallow it all,” he demands, holding you by the jaw and forcing your mouth shut. you swallow without hesitation, showing him your empty mouth for approval. he smiles weakly before patting your cheek; all the faux sympathy he had left for you was gone, tugging your hair back harder than before, surely giving you whiplash. his strokes didn’t help either; your asscheeks and pussy felt each one equally. your eyes rolled back into your head as you clenched around him, feeling your stomach twist at how deep he was hitting. your scalp stung as he let go of your hair, letting your head hang before arching you into the bed, face getting shoved into the sheets with no remorse. your whines of struggle were music to his ears. though you couldn’t see him, you could feel the smirk on his face. “don’t go weak on me now. you want it right? take that shit until i’m spilling so deep inside you you’ll feel it for days.”
cw. phone sex, masturbation (m), established relationship between rafe and reader, rough sex, unprotected sex, mild degradation, heavy praise, p w/o plot
synopsis. there's a really famous saying about absence making the heart grow fonder. it makes the sex rougher too.
an. unedited and very poorly done.here ya go.
"How much longer till you can come see me?"
You’re on the phone with Rafe while studying in your dorm room one evening. Your phone is propped up against your stack of textbooks while you divide your focus between your work and your boyfriend.
"My answer didn’t change from yesterday, Rafey," You laugh softly, propping one leg up on the chair. You’re not wearing much, since your roommate is out with friends and the room is hot and stuffy as is. You took the opportunity to feel comfortable in your bra and a pair of shorts.
He groans, laying back against his headboard as he watches you. "But I miss you so bad," He sits up a little, taking your lack of focus on him as an opportunity. Normally, he’d ask you to shut your laptop and notebook for a couple minutes so he can enjoy all of you after a whole day of not hearing the sound of your voice, but he’s so pent up and he doesn’t have you to take care of him.
"Tell me about your day, baby," he mumbles, one hand moving off his phone to discreetly slide his hand lower, lower… until it was at the waistband of his pants, slowly pushing them down so the camera doesn’t shake.
He doesn’t feel obligated to mute his microphone as you start talking, either. Maybe because there’s a thrill of you catching him and scolding him. Or better, you catching him and stripping and giving him a show as you touch yourself along with him. The thought sends a shiver down his spine and a twitch to his hardening cock.
Either way, he just wants your attention.
"It was mostly just classes today. Nothing special," You say, and he whines, not wanting you to stop talking. You smile, continuing to write notes and study. "Okay, okay. You’re such a baby, Rafe."
"I am not."
"You are."
"Fine. You never let me disagree with you anyway."
You laugh softly, a pretty twinkling sound that literally gives him butterflies. He grunts softly as his fingers brush against his hardening cock. He's been thinking about you all day, imagining all the things he wants to do to you when he sees you again. He's not sure how much longer he can last like this.
"So tell me more," He coaxes through a grunt, hand wrapped firmly around his cock. Just seeing you in your skimpy little clothes while you chew on the end of your pen while making direct eye contact with him is enough to make him throb. You huff teasingly, eyes rolling playfully as you get started on elaborating on your very boring day, unaware that his pants are off and he's rubbing his thumb back and forth on the drooling slit of his mushroom tip, panting softly into the receiver.
You're still not noticing. He's partially disappointed. It's not hard for you to take notice of it either. The camera's bobbing unnaturally, he's flushed and grunting softly, and his responses are soft 'uh huh's' and 'mm... yeah's'. Regardless, his eyes roam your body, landing on your plush lips through the screen as he imagines you wrapping them around his cock and sucking him off when you see him again during break, your ass up and back arched while he lays down and you give him a nice view while your tongue swirls around his tip, fuck, he moans loudly, squeezing his cock with his fist.
"Rafe?"
He looks up, eyes hooded and hazy. You look confused, and he hopes you're finally starting to catch on. He grins, sweat trickling down the side of his jaw. He hasn't stopped. With neither of you talking, the schlick schlick schlick sound of him milking his cock is quite audible. Just his luck though, you still don't catch on.
"Just asked you a question, baby."
He groans, partially annoyed, extremely turned on. "What's that, gorgeous?" You smile so adorably at the compliment. He wants to ruin you. "I wanted to know what gifts your family would want for when I come over. I think Wheezie mentioned a Squishmallow."
"The hell is that." He grunts, now looking at the way the light reflects off your tits. You laugh, and he frowns, wanting you to see. He lowers his phone just enough for you to see the flushed tip of his cock if you really focus, still stroking himself. His eyes flutter and he bites back a moan, now thinking about you sucking him off again, but this time using your breasts too.
You tilt your head curiously, still not quite catching on to Rafe touching himself. "A kind of stuffed toy? I'll ask her to make sure," you reply distractedly, flipping through a few more pages of your textbook. Rafe growls lowly, your casual demeanor only encouraging him. He wants nothing more than to reach through the screen and grab you, to pull you onto his throbbing cock and make you feel every inch of his pent-up desire.
But for now, he's left to grind his teeth and stroke himself, hoping like hell you'll notice his telltale movements and sounds. Sometimes you could be so blind. "What about me? What do I get?" he murmurs suggestively, almost letting you see his hand gliding up and down his shaft, the camera angle unmistakable now. He squeezes his thick cock from base to tip, lips parted slightly. His cheeks are a pretty pink.
"Me, duh." You smile. "Why? Want me to get you a gift with the money you keep putting in my account? You'd basically be getting a gift for yourself, Rafey."
You lean over to grab your pen, your breasts strain against the thin fabric of your bra. The flimsy material does little to hide your hardened nipples, clearly visible in the dim light of your dorm room. Just then, you hear a loud groan over the phone, startling you. "What's wrong, Rafe?" you ask, brows furrowed with concern.
Rafe grits his teeth, desperately trying to hold back a moan as he realizes you've finally noticed his predicament. "N-nothing, baby. I just… I got a cramp, that's all," he lies unconvincingly, his voice strained.
His hand moves faster, milking his cock intently. The obscene sound of his strokes fills the otherwise quiet room. You notice his labored breathing, the way his chest rises and falls rapidly with each panting breath. A flicker of realization crosses your face as you realize what's really going on. "Rafe, are you...?" you start to ask, a hint of amusement and surprise in your voice.
Of course he'd be touching himself to you. He's always been kinda pervy for you. He tells you all the time which of your pictures make him cum the hardest, but jerking himself off to you in real time is sort of different. Before you can finish your question, Rafe lets out a deep, guttural moan, his hips bucking up off the bed as he starts to come undone. "F-fuck, baby. I can't... I need you so fucking much," he growls, his hand moving in a blur beneath the sheets.
He thrusts into his hand, head tipping back. He fully lowers his phone, letting you watch what he's doing. It adds to the thrill he experiences, and he groans loudly, not bothering to hide anything from you anymore as he brings himself to the edge, hot spurts of cream coating his long fingers.
He rocks himself through his orgasm, mumbling your name under his breath and imagining he came inside you instead, causing him to leak a little more. He squeezes out all he's got, panting and leaning back against his bed as he comes down from his high.
He lowers his head to make eye contact with you, a lazy grin spreading across his handsome face. "Did you see that, baby? Did you see what you do to me?" he asks teasingly.
You blush deeply, suddenly feeling the warmth of your own arousal spreading through your body. "mmm.. mhm," you hum softly, shifting in your seat to relieve some of the pressure building between your thighs.
He leans back against the headboard, his head falling back against the wall with a soft thunk as he groans. "Fuck, I need to be inside you. You better be ready for me, hm? Gonna fuck you like I hate you."
ᥫ᭡.
Rafe likes to watch everything when he wrecks you. He has your legs shoved upwards as his body slots between you, drilling into you in a mating press on his bed.
The second you came to visit him during the holidays, he made light on his promise. He had picked you up, shoved your suitcase by his front door for later, and swung you over his shoulder like a caveman. You had merely squealed and giggled, squirming playfully when he gave your butt a little squeeze. It was cute, he'd thought then, how you had no idea what he was going to do to you. You just thought he was playing with you.
You're a little more conscious now about what he wanted as he thrusts into you hard and sloppy, your face scrunched up in pleasure while needy whines leave your kiss swollen, bitten lips. He rolls his hips rough and firm into you, and you're so soaked that each thrust had filthy gushing sounds resounding through the room as your slick coats Rafe's cock and your thighs.
"Rafe!" You scream, heart slamming against your chest with each thrust. Perhaps the time apart has made him sloppy in bed, or maybe he's so desperate that he can't control himself, because his thrusts are uncoordinated and hard and rough.
He moans, loud and unashamed, spreading you apart further as he shoves his fat cock into you sporadically, his strokes rough and hard enough to jolt your whole body. "Fuck, this fucking pussy," He groans, using every bit of his willpower not to bust his load in you each time you squeeze down on him or dig your nails into his broad shoulders. "Drives me... ugh, fucking insane."
Each time he bottoms out of your creamy hole and drags his cock against your walls up up up until the flushed tip of his cock is nestled against that really soft spot deep inside you that makes your toes curl, he doesn't stop until he hears that telltale squelching sound of his cock filling you to the hilt, with his bulbous mushroom tip hitting the very back of your cunt, kissing all your little sweet spots all at once.
Rafe grunts in satisfaction as he feels you clench around him, your velvet walls gripping his thick cock like a vice. He knows you can feel every ridge and vein as he grinds against your most sensitive spots. Because you're screaming, legs shaking and fat tears of pleasure rolling down your cheeks.
"Fuck, knew you wanted me to fuck you like a whore," he grunts, feelings the pleasant sting of your nails dragging down his back and leaving red welts in their wake. You moan, eyes locked onto his, which are hooded, the pretty ocean blue replaced with a dark, stormy color. He looks rabid. "Mngh yeah… 'm your whore, Rafey," You mewl, reaching up to grab onto his face and push your mouth against his.
He swallows all your little cries, tongue shoving into your mouth and tangling with yours while his leaking cock rams into you. "Fuck yeah, you are. My little slut. Allll mine. Fuck, you're fuckin' made for me, you know that? Listen to how your little pussy takes me in. She doesn't want me to leave," he moans into your mouth, practically slurping on your tongue. "We aren't meant to be apart, pretty girl,"
He nips and sucks on your lower lip, laving his tongue over it, before trailing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat. He latches onto your pulse point, sucking hard enough to leave a vivid mark. "Got so fucking sick of daydreaming about you all the time." He moans against your neck.
"All the time. All I did was think about my perfect little girlfriend. I can't fucking take being without you." You keen, back arching as he gropes at your tits, the pad of his thumb rolling roughly over your swollen nipples as he practically slobbers onto your throat, marking you up. "Missed you too, mmm… f-fuck… more, Rafe," You babble, and he almost, almost cums when you moan his name like that. Gosh, he can't handle you.
He can feel his release building, his heavy balls drawing up tight as the telltale tingling starts at the base of his spine. But he grits his teeth, refusing to let go just yet. He wants to make this last, wants to linger in the exquisite torture of bringing you to the brink again and again before finally allowing you the sweet relief of climax.
He slows his thrusts, rolling his hips upwards to hit that gummy spot in you without fail with each thrust, simultaneously stimulating your clit with each pass. He pinches your nipples one by one, before licking your clavicle. "Yeah? Feels good?" he moans, hips driving forward mercilessly. Each thrust drives his fat fucking cock deeper into your pussy, stretching you around him until you swear you can feel every throbbing inch of him pulsing inside you. "Feels real fucking good for me, princess. Can't get enough of you."
Unable to muster an intelligable response at this point, you cry out his name, voice slurring as your hips buck up to meet his. Your needy sounds in response are all he needs to come down. He leans down to sink his teeth into the meat of your shoulder, biting down as he slams into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his orgasm crashes over him.
His cock pulses and throbs as he shoots thick ropes of hot cum deep into your hungry womb, painting your walls white as he fills you up just like he promised. You both cry out all loud and wanton as you cum with him, your hips jerking as you ride out the intense waves of pleasure coursing through your body.
He collapses against you, weight pressing into the mattress as he leaves sloppy kisses over your tits, sucking on your breasts to help your orgasm crash down long and hard.
Two in the morning. The light of the fridge that had just illuminated your tired features shut off with the sound of the fridge door falling close, the kitchen disappearing into darkness with you standing in the middle.
Sighing loudly, you made your way back to the door, knowing the outlay of the kitchen in your apartment that you shared with your boyfriend by heart. Once back in the hallway, the little night light sensor - Simon had insisted to put them up after you stubbed your toe one too many times - activating the lights illuminating the hallway back to the bedroom.
Once you silently patted back inside on your bare feet, you slid back under the covers, making sure to be as silent as you could with the snoring blonde haired soldier sleeping next to you.
Turning around with a quiet huff, you tried closing your eyes again, hoping desperately that sleep would lure you back in. Not even five minutes later and you were squirming around, not quite getting comfortable and everything starting to annoy you, including Simon’s heavy breathing in the back of your neck.
So your natural reaction was to push your elbow backwards, hitting the six foot something man right below his ribcage, startling him as his eyes flew open and his arm wrapped around your waist immediately, pulling you against him tightly with a groan.
“The fuck was tha’ fo’?” He grumbled, voice even deeper, laced with sleep and rumbling right against your back, making you squirm once more.
“You’re breathing too loud…”
“Well, pardon me fo’ tryin’ to stay alive while sleepin’” He huffed, finding enough energy to roll his eyes slightly.
“What’s the matter anyway? Can’t sleep?” He added, scooting up a little to pull you closer into his chest, his front now fully pressed against your back.
“I’m trying but it’s too warm with the blanket but too cold without one and then the pillow case is itching against my scalp and-“
“Okay, okay, easy.” Simon cut off your rambling, adjusting his arm so his large, calloused hand was resting right against your stomach, a sensation that naturally made goose bumps rise on your skin as you inhaled.
“How ‘bout I put ye back to sleep, hm? How’s tha’ sound?” The feeling of his lips against the sensitive skin of your neck made you sink back into his arms, going lax.
“What do you mean-“
Before you could question his intentions further, you already felt the answer. Nestled right between your butt, pressing insistingly against you, already hardening under the contact.
A hitched breath escaped you, fingers grasping his left wrist while his tatted arm stayed secure around you. His other hand had a mind of its own though, slipping down your belly, teasing the strip of skin where your shirt rode up, slipping his fingertips barely into the waistband of your black sleep shorts.
His head was resting against your shoulder, lips pressing firmly against the shirt , the feeling burning your heating skin even through the fabric. A soft noise left your throat, resulting in a knowing smirk of the man behind you, his fingers slipping lower, into the shorts, past your panties, making immediate contact with the wetness gathering between your legs, groaning lowly as a response.
“Fucken’ hell, already getting so wet for me… sure you’re tired?” He teased, gently moving the pads of his fingers - the ones that were usually trained to kill with knives and handle firearms - against the softness of your folds, sliding up and down to spread the growing wetness nicely.
He dipped his fingers teasingly low, circling your pulsing hole that tried to suck his digits in, resulting in a “tsk” noise from Simon and a wider grin.
“So mean…” You mumbled under your breath, eyes now heavy with something other than sleep as you turned your head towards him over your shoulder, only able to barely make out his silhouette with the moonlight filtering through the blinds.
“Oh, am I know? Let’s change tha’” He mumbled against your ear, slowly pulling his fingers from your dripping cunt - smearing some of your wetness over your mound in the process -just to pull down your shorts and underwear in one rapid yank, making you gasp as air hit your exposed pussy.
In no time, Simon had gotten rid of his own boxers that he was wearing for sleep - nothing else needed - and carefully lifted your leg up a little to drape it over his own, parting your thighs slightly in the process before gripping your hip with one hand and holding his throbbing length - fully hard and leaking - with the other.
Nudging your folds with the tip of his cock, he began rubbing it through them to lube up, a mixture of his low groan and your whimpering moan filling the room.
“Ahh fuck.. Si… mhmm don’t tease…” You whined.
“Fuck, baby, I won’t…” He answered, lips pressed together tightly as he slid the tip of his cock slowly inside your aching cunt, sighing.
“Tha’s it” He almost cooed, the grip on your hip tightening as he angled his own and began thrusting into your welcoming heat.
The sound of skin slapping and the bed frame slightly squeaking filled the blissful bubble the both of them floated in as you began moving against him in a fitting rhythm to meet his thrusts, coaxing out soft moans from your opened lips as you reached back to pull him closer by the back of his neck, eagerly kissing him, gasping against his mouth.
Simon knew that neither of you would last long so he decided to help you out a little, reaching down yet again with his hand to begin drawing tight circles around your swollen clit, the noises you were making a turn on that left his balls pulsing.
“Mhm fuck luvie, gon’ cum so deep inside this sleepy pussy, yer gonna pass out dripping with me”
A louder whine left you, feeling the coil inside your lower belly tightening sharply, legs beginning to tremble slightly.
“Nghh gonna cum, please, please, please!”
Seconds later, the coil snapped and white hot pleasure ran through your veins, mouth hanging open in a long drawn moan, eyes shut close as you arched against him, his grip still firm as he thrusted a few more times before biting your neck, hiding there as his balls drew up, hot seed flooding your sensitive pussy soon after, the warmth of it almost comforting as your breath was ragged, body going limp in his arms as he held you.
You felt his lips pressing against your temple, gently stroking over your thigh before pulling out after a moment, one last gasp leaving the both of you in beautiful post orgasmic haze before he made sure adjust your position so you’d be comfortable.
“Was tha’ good enough?” He mumbled, stroking through your hair once more, inhaling your scent as he felt himself grow drowsy.
His answer never came. Soft, light breathing only, barely audible puffs, your chest now rising and sinking slowly, eyes fluttered closed, body completely relaxed - out cold.
“Thought so..”
Holding back a chuckle, Simon closed his own eyes, soon enough drifting off to an equally nice sleep, both of you not able to even care about the sticky mess between your legs.
It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?
✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | AO3 . MLIST
18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]
Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?
It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity.
You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.
The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.
After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place.
This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.
After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it.
Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.
In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.
But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it.
You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.
You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.
Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.
Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way.
And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.
You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.
Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.
Not that it really mattered.
You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.
You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.
With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway. Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.
The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.
A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.
It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.
And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.
He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.
You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.
You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes.
As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything.
So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.
You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness.
You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention. The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure
His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark.
He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.
It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would.
His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.
Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.
Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.
Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.
That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.
For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—
—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter?
…
You decide to send him a letter.
It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.
It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness.
Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.
Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.
You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.
You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement.
For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?
You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.
You press the pen to the paper.
‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’
A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.
Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).
You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.
You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.
Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.
Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.
You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.
But still…
You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.
Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.
You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.
And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is.
The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.
Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.
Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.
By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago.
You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.
At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—
BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE
The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.
The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:
“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”
Your stomach tightens.
Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.
For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet.
After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.
Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.
Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.
You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.
The studio audience laughs on cue.
You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine.
It doesn’t.
When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot.
By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.
You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.
You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.
After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.
Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.
You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it.
Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.
You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.
Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.
You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all.
Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.
The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.
You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.
You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.
But as you straighten, the air feels different.
Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating.
Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.
Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.
And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.
You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.
But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.
Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.
Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you, arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.
You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you.
Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.
Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.
You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.
Your eyes flick back to him.
He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.
You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.
Just silen—
“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”
Oh.
Oh.
Shit.
You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.
Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline.
You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.
He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.
He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.
It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.
A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.
Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.
His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.
Which, right now, is essentially all of it.
It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.
And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.
Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.
All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.
You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.
It’s addicting.
Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.
“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”
He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.
“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”
The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees.
“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.
“Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”
You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.
“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”
You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?
“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”
Yeah. You were that desperate.
You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”
He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”
You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”
Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.
You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug.
He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.
“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. “Ever felt a cock that big before?”
“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”
He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.
“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”
You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.
He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat.
“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”
Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before. “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.
“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.
He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.
Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.
“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you.
“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.”
“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”
He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”
“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”
“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”
A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.
He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”
Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.
Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”
You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..
He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”
He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.
He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him.
Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.
No underwear. A Right dog, he is.
Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.
“What’d y’want?”
You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.
How could he even fit inside of you?
You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.
He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?
“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”
“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”
“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.
“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”
“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.
“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”
“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.
He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.”
You could slap him.
He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.
“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”
He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.
“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”
He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.
“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”
You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.
He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts, “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.
He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.
“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.
“Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long.
He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.
“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,
“Say it.”
“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”
“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”
“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder, caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.
“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”
You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”
You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”
At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.
Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you.
The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own.
A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.
“Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.
Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment.
“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls..
You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.
Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.
He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”
“for a first-timer.”
A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.
He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”
You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.
“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”
The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.
His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”
You shake your head. “No.”
His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.
“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.
He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.
You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.
Two cops.
Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.
“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”
The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”
You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”
They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.
“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”
“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.
You shut the door.
Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.
“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.
The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.
Simon Riley who is so exceedingly blunt, not out of an effort to be rude or crass, but because he simply cannot bear the thought of wasting time when it comes to you.
Simon who watches you from your shared bed as you return from your brief shower; your hair dripping down your neck and back, your skin dewy and warm. Simon who can't help but put his phone down in favor of taking you all in, catching your attention with a low whistle. And when you quirk a brow, shoot him a smirk, murmuring a brief and sarcastic yeah, Si? just above the sound of your own quiet laugh, he responds simply:
"Come sit on my face."
Simon who watches you while you idle in the kitchen, leaning your forearms on the countertop while you wait for the kettle to heat up. Simon who is instantly drawn to you, making his presence known behind you by putting his hands on your hips and squeezing, pressing himself against your ass and staring down at the position you're in.
"Turn the stove off, love," he tugs your shorts down while you squirm happily, caged between his arms. "Gonna fuck you like this. Now."
Simon who can barely focus on something as simple as grocery shopping, not while you're wearing that pretty dress and swaying your hips like you know you've got his attention. Simon who takes the opportunity to lean in behind you while you're reaching for something stocked on a high shelf; he grabs it for you easily, but keeps you trapped between his body and the rack so that he can mutter in your ear:
"Dress is comin' off in an hour, whether we're home or not."
Simon who can't help but let his mouth run nonstop when he's got you wrapped around his cock, who maintains his blunt tone but with a shakier delivery even when he's right on the edge.
"Gonna fill you up. Gonna—Christ, sweetheart, m'gonna fill you to the fucking brim. 'Nd I'm gonna watch it drip before I fuck it back into that perfect cunt."
please PLEASE Can you write reader ovulating with Simon Riley, his dick would hurt by the end.
what happens to simon riley when you're ovulating
(his dick would fall off if it were me tbh)
your sex life with simon is already active as is, so the moment you start ovulating, he's in trouble. serious trouble. you can barely keep yourself off of him. everything he does sends a throbbing want to your pussy.
manspreading? you're already on top of him, tugging his jeans down just enough to ride his heavy cock. his big hands find purchase on your hips, grunting lowly.
"fuckin' eager, huh?" he's only half hard by the time you're bouncing on him, and you don't get off until either of you can't speak, and you've ruined yet another pair of his jeans from the amount of slick and cum that stains the fabric.
rolling up his sleeves, seeing the way his forearms and veins flex? you're begging him to finger you, and he gladly listens.
"need me t'fuckin' fill ya full, don't ya?" bent over whatever surface of your house, stuffed full of his fingers knuckle deep as your walls clench around him. one orgasm isn't enough, two, three, four, five until you're babbling incoherently and spraying the front of his shirt with your release.
the thing men do when they reverse, placing one hand behind the passenger seat? belt, GONE. you make hasty work of his jeans just so you can suck his dick as he drives—bonus points if he's still reversing. half-way laid across the center console with a face-full of his throbbing cock, already leaking pre. he's a mess, whimpers spilling from his lips as he bites down on the plush flesh. he's pulling your panties to the side, burying three fingers deep in your cunt with ease at the sheer wetness of your pussy.
him, reading with glasses? you bet he isn't taking his eyes off a single page as he ruts into you from behind, book laid across your back slick with sweat. he might be a little mean, make you fuck yourself back on his dick, balls slightly slapping your clit enough to make your eyes roll back into your head. get a drop of cum on his book, and he'll punish you.
getting passionate about his interests? fuck in missionary so he can continue yapping as he toys with your clit and pounds into your throbbing cunt. his words are long lost on you—you don't even notice when his words start getting condescending.
"always gettin' in m'pants..." he grunts, the sound of skin slapping and mindless whimpers and mewls fill the room, "fuckin' slut, you tryin' to get pregnant? want me t'fill you? dirty whore..."
by the end of your ovulation phase, you might've definitely gotten knocked up, and his dick is no longer with us. (he still has his hands and face, ladies...)
Simon had learned over the years to keep his voice down during sex—finding it embarrassing that a hulking man like him would whine like a bitch during sex.
Foolishly, he didn't change his habit when he got with you. Believing the quiet grunts he would allow to be enough for you. Like the other women he'd been with.
God, it was pissing you off.
He didn't account for the fact you'd lost most of your hearing. You never wore your hearing aids during sex because the itch of them wouldn't allow you to concentrate.
Simon was a fantastic lover—gave you exactly what you needed, had you coming until you couldn't fucking think anymore. But he just wouldn't make any sound. You know you should've been used to guys not making sounds by now at your big grown age, though you got your hopes up with Simon.
Simon was holding back his moans as he fucked into your perfect pussy, thrusting at that perfect angle that made you keen—Only allowing quiet masculine sounds to rumble from his chest.
But you finally had enough of seeing his mouth part, while being unable to hear anything.
"Simon," you pant, grabbing his jaw roughly "fucking moan, goddammit. I can't fucking hear you."
Simon stilled, looking down at you with flushed cheeks. "Y'sure? Didn't think women liked I' when a man makes noise."
"Need to hear you." you whispered, grinding your hips upwards impatiently.
Simon finally broke down that wall in his mind, leaning down to your good ear and letting out a loud groan, thrusting frantically. His big meaty paws clawing at you.
"Fuck!" Simon babbled "Feels so good, so tight. So so so tight."
You gasp at how loud he was being—getting what you always wanted from a lover.
"y'don't get it. Wanna be inside you all the time. Just wanna fill you over and over and over." He groaned, his hips becoming erratic and needy as he brings a hand to your clit—desperate to get you off before he came himself.
Your nails clawed down his muscular back, leaving red streaks in their wake. But the unrestrained whimper Simon let out in response?
You were coming with a squeal, locking your legs around his hips as he fucked his come inside you.
"Don't" you pant "You ever hold those sounds back again."
Simon huffed, wrapping his arms around you. "'s embarrassing, love."
"I just came harder than I ever have in my life, you can handle some embarrassment."
You stash the fact Simons softening cock twitched inside you at the thought of being embarrassed for later. Fucking pathetic thing, your boyfriend.
hard of hearing!simon riley who comes home from a long op to you already mid-rant about your day, talking at full volume while you cook. He doesn’t flinch at the noise like he does with everyone else. Instead his shoulders drop, he leans against the doorway, and just watches you with that unreadable stare. You’re the only sound that doesn’t make his head hurt.
hard of hearing!simon riley who leaves little notes on the counter when his hearing is especially shot, but still pulls you into his lap on the couch so he can feel your chest vibrate while you yap. He rests his good ear against you, eyes half-closed, letting your endless chatter and giggles rumble through him like a balm.
hard of hearing!simon riley who fucks you with one hand cupped behind your head, tilting your mouth right against his better ear. He wants every broken whimper, every loud “Simon—fuck—right there—”, every single rambling praise you can’t stop spilling while he pounds into you deep and slow.
hard of hearing!simon riley who flips you onto all fours and presses his chest to your back, mouth right behind your ear. He rails you with one hand gripping your jaw so your loud, desperate moans go straight into his better ear. “Louder,” he grunts every time your voice starts to crack. “Need to hear you fall apart.”
hard of hearing!simon riley who discovers he can make you scream by curling his thick fingers just right while eating you out. He sucks on your clit and pumps two fingers deep, eyes locked on your face as you yap and cry and moan loud enough that the neighbors probably hate you. He doesn’t care. The louder you get, the harder he works you until you’re gushing on his tongue.
hard of hearing!simon riley who fucks you against the wall with your legs wrapped around his waist. He keeps one hand behind your head so your face stays buried against his neck and shoulder. Every time you moan and babble right into his good ear he slams into you harder, chasing that perfect pitch in your voice when you’re about to cum.
hard of hearing!simon riley who, on nights when the tinnitus is brutal, puts in earplugs on purpose just to heighten everything else. He fucks you in complete silence for him — only feeling the slap of skin, the way your body vibrates with every loud moan, your nails raking down his back. When he finally yanks the plugs out and your wrecked, screaming orgasm floods his ear, he cums instantly, burying himself to the hilt with a broken groan.
hard of hearing!simon riley who keeps you plugged full of his cock after he cums, lying on top of you while you’re still yapping sleepily. You’re mumbling about how full you feel, how much you love when he fucks you stupid, how his cum is leaking out already — soft, cockdrunk rambling right against his ear. He stays buried inside you, eyes closed, letting your voice lull the ringing away until he falls asleep.
hard of hearing!simon riley who starts waking you up with his head between your thighs just so the first thing he hears in the morning is your loud, surprised moan turning into endless yapping as he works you open with his tongue and fingers. Best sound in the world.
NOTE: I’ve never written anything this filthy help…
The bass from the pub’s speakers was vibrating straight through the soles of your heels, but honestly, after the semester you’d had, it felt like a lifeline. You and your girls were in your final year of university, drowning in dissertations, exams, and the collective dread of the real world.
Tonight’s objective was simple: get dressed to the nines, look entirely unapproachable yet wildly attractive, and see how many free drinks you could leverage out of the local blokes before you completely lost the ability to stand.
You were currently rocking a fit that made you feel unstoppable, but the sheer volume of the Manchester crowd had done its work. Somewhere between the bar and the jukebox, you and your closest mate had been separated from the rest of the pack.
"Right, where did they go?" your friend giggled, swaying slightly as she held her vodka-cranberry aloft like a torch.
"No clue, but if we—"
Oof.
You bounced off a solid wall of absolute muscle. You stumbled back a half-step, your hand instinctively reaching out to steady yourself, landing flat against a very broad, very warm chest clad in a dark jacket.
"Whoops, steady there, lass," a thick Scottish accent chimed in. You looked up to find a pair of bright, mischievous eyes crinkling at the corners, a short mohawk cutting through the dim pub lighting. Next to him stood another handsome man wearing a baseball cap backward, a smooth, easy grin plastered on his face.
It was Johnny "Soap" MacTavish and Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, though to a civilian like you, they were just two incredibly fit, incredibly good looking men who seemed far too fit to be standard Manchester pub-goers.
"Sorry about that," you laughed, smoothing down your outfit. "A bit hazardous out here."
"Oh, it’s no trouble at all," Gaz interjected, leaning against a pillar with a smooth smile. "In fact, I think it’s a stroke of luck. I’m Kyle, this is my pal Johnny. What are two lovely ladies like yourselves doing wandering the wilds on a Friday night?"
Within five minutes, the flirting was in full swing. Johnny was laying it on thick, his Scottish charm working like an absolute charm on your friend. He had her laughing up a storm, her hand already resting against his arm. Gaz turned his attention to you, and bless him, he was incredibly sweet and objectively gorgeous—but he just wasn't your type. You preferred a bit more edge, a bit more mystery.
"We’re actually heading over to the pool tables," Soap announced, flashing a brilliant grin. "We’ve got a table cornered. You two should join us. Teams of two?"
Your friend looked at you with pleading, intoxicated eyes. Looking back, you probably should have said no and gone to find the rest of your uni squad. Instead, you shrugged. "Sure. Lead the way."
By the time you reached the back of the pub, the dynamic had shifted. Another one of your girls had miraculously reappeared from the crowd, and Gaz, picking up on your polite but platonic vibes, seamlessly pivoted his attention to her. They hit it off instantly, leaving Johnny and your friend practically joined at the hip.
There was just one problem.
"Ah, bloody hell," Johnny muttered, counting heads. "We’re short one for proper doubles. Hold on." He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted over the din of the pub. "Oi! L.T.! Get over here!"
From the shadows near the back exit, a figure shifted.
Your breath caught in your throat. Jesus Christ.
He was a giant. A big, hulking mountain of a man clad entirely in dark clothing, a heavy hood pulled up. But the kicker? A black skull-patterned balaclava covered his face from the nose down, leaving only a pair of dark, intense, heavily lashed eyes visible. He looked dangerous, entirely out of place in a crowded pub, and absolutely, unequivocally exactly your type.
He walked over with heavy strides, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. Why was it so hot that he didn't look pleased?
"What, MacTavish?"
The voice made all the inner parts of you quiver. Deep. Gravelly. A low, raspy baritone that vibrated straight down your spine and sent an instant, undeniable jolt of heat straight between your thighs. You actually had to cross your legs slightly, your eyes widening as you stared at him.
"We need a fourth for pool, Simon," Soap said, completely unfazed by the terrifying aura the man was radiating. "Don't be a misery guts. Play a round."
While Soap conversed with the giant—who you now knew was named Simon—your friend leaned into your shoulder, her breath hot and smelling of alcohol as she excitedly whispered in your ear.
"Oh my god, I’m definitely into the Scottish one," she hissed happily, watching Soap laugh. She nudged your ribs with her elbow. "What about you? The quiet one looks like he could snap a man in half."
You swallowed hard, your eyes locked onto the broad expanse of Simon's shoulders under his jacket, watching the way his dark eyes flicked over to you, assessing you from behind his hood.
"Yeah," you whispered back, your voice a little breathier than you intended. "I am definitely into his taller friend."
—
The pool cue felt heavy in your hands, but that was mostly because your brain was short-circuiting. The green felt of the table blurred into the background as Simon stepped up directly behind you.
"You're holding it like a damn club, love," he rumbled. That deep, gravelly voice was right at your ear, his warm breath ghosting over the column of your neck and sending a violent shiver down your spine.
"I'm doing my best," you teased, casting a smoky look over your shoulder. "Maybe I just need a proper teacher."
Simon didn't say a word. He just stepped closer, completely enveloping you in his shadow. He smelled of rain, leather, and a faint undertone of bourbon. Then, his hands covered yours. They were massive, and calloused drowning your smaller hands as he adjusted your grip on the wood. He leaned down, his broad chest pressing flat against your back, aligning his body perfectly with yours to show you the angle of the shot.
The contact was electric. With the pub's bass thumping through the floorboards, you couldn't help yourself. You shifted your weight, deliberately grinding your hips back against him just a fraction of an inch.
Above you, Simon froze. A low, dark grunt vibrated from deep within his chest.
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, feeling incredibly cheeky. Maybe it was the four vodka crans sloshing around in your system, or maybe it was just the intoxicating thrill of making a literal mountain of a man react to you. You glanced over at the other side of the table; Soap and your friend were entirely in their own world, trading sloppy kisses and whispering things that had them both giggling. They hadn't noticed a thing.
But Simon had. His grip on your hands tightened just a fraction, a silent command to stay still before he guided your arm forward. Clack. The cue ball struck true, sending the solid seven-ball straight into the corner pocket.
From there, the game was a blur of Simon’s clear pool skills. You contributed absolutely nothing but distraction, but thanks entirely to him, you won.
By the time the final ball dropped, the midnight hour had long passed. The rest of Simon and Johnny’s group was visibly, hilariously wrecked. Gaz was slumped in a booth trying to teach your other friend a tactical military handshake, and their ‘captain’ Price was at the bar aggressively debating football with the bartender. They were all clearly ready to crash hard at an unlucky blokes townhouse. (Simon)
Well, all except for one. Simon stood perfectly upright, he looked sober, his dark eyes tracking the room.
"Right, I’m taking this one home," Soap slurred, his arm slung heavily over your friend’s shoulders as she giggled, both of them already shuffling toward the exit into a waiting taxi. Just like that, your ride and your squad were gone, leaving you standing under the dim pub lights with the giant in the skull mask.
"Looks like it's just you and me, big guy," you murmured, stepping into his space. The alcohol lent you a massive wave of confidence. You reached out, your fingers daringly tracing the edge of his dark hoodie. "Your friends are all sloshed. Who's going to look after you?"
Simon stared down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily. "I don't need looking after, love."
"No?" You tilted your head up, leaning in just enough that he’d have to bend down to hear you over the ringing in your ears. "My flat is only a ten-minute walk from here. It's warm. Quiet. And I have a really, really comfortable bed." You let your eyes drop to his covered lips before looking back up into his intense gaze. "Are you going to let me walk home all by myself in the dark?"
A tense, heavy silence stretched between you. For a second, you thought he was going to refuse, to turn on his heel and drag what was left his drunken mates to wherever.
But then, Simon let out a rough, defeated sigh. He reached up, pulling his hood a little lower, but his large hand settled firmly on the small of your back, the heat of his palm burning through your clothes.
"Lead the way," he growled low in his throat. "Before I change my mind."
—
The ten-minute walk through the crisp night air felt like a blur of friction and heat. Every time your bare shoulder brushed against his heavy jacket, a jolt went straight to your core.
By the time you stumbled onto the porch of your flat, the tension snapped.
You fished blindly in your bag for your keys, your hands shaking slightly from a mix of the cold and pure adrenaline. You felt him step up behind you, blocking out the streetlights, trapping you between his massive frame and the heavy wooden door.
"Need some help with that, love?" he rumbled, his voice dangerously low against your ear.
"I’ve got it," you breathed, finally wrapping your fingers around the key ring. But as you turned around to face him, keys in hand, the look in his dark eyes made you completely forget how to use your hands.
You didn't wait. You reached up, your fingers catching the hem of his black balaclava and pulling it up. Simon didn't stop you. He helped, bunching the fabric up over his nose, exposing a strong, rugged jawline, a dusting of stubble, and full lips that were parted in a sharp intake of breath.
When your lips finally met, it was like an explosion.
It wasn't a gentle kiss, fuck—it was feverish, hungry, and so desperate. Simon let out a low, ragged groan into your mouth, his massive hands coming alive. One of his palms cupped the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling in your hair to angle your head perfectly, while his other hand gripped your hip, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the rigid, hard lines of his body pressing into yours, and a soft whimper escaped your throat.
"Inside," he muttered against your lips, his kiss tracking down to your jawline, biting lightly at the sensitive skin there and making your knees go weak. "Get the bloody door open."
"I'm trying," you gasped, your hands blindly fumbling behind your back. You were pinned against the wood, your hips grinding instinctively against his as his large hand slid down to the back of your thigh, lifting you slightly to bring you even closer.
The metal of the key scraped loudly against the lock, your fingers clumsy as Simon’s mouth returned to yours, devouring you, his tongue sliding past your lips in a deep, possessive stroke. You managed to guide the key into the slot, turning it until you heard the heavy thunk of the deadbolt sliding back.
The hand on your neck migrate towards the handle of the door, twisting it open. Your body, still pressed between the wood and his, hit the door with your back, tumbling inside into the dark warmth of your hallway—and dragging the giant right in after you.
You moan into the kiss, hands roaming desperately over his shoulders, feeling the hard ridges of muscle beneath his shirt as his palms slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. The size difference hits you instantly, his body engulfs yours completely. You arch your back as he presses forward, the thick, unmistakable bulge of his cock grinding against your belly through his jeans. It throbs with heat, promising an overwhelming stretch, and you feel your pussy clench in response, wetness already soaking your panties.
Simon doesn't ease up, one massive hand cupping the back of your head while the other roams lower, squeezing your ass to pull you tighter against that rigid length. Your breaths mingle in ragged gasps, the kiss turning sloppy and wet as his teeth nip at your lower lip, sending sparks straight to your core.
He tugs at your clothing, exposing more skin to the cool air, and the heat radiating from him envelops you completely. Simon sets you down just inside the door but keeps you pinned against the wall with his body, his hands already working at the hem of your top. He peels it upward in one smooth motion, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze before tossing the fabric aside, then hooks his fingers into your waistband and drags your skirt and panties down in a single, impatient tug that leaves you naked and trembling against him.
You reach for his shirt in turn, fingers fumbling with the shirt as your hands struggle against the broad expanse of his chest, but the fabric resists your frantic tugs and you end up clutching uselessly at his belt instead.
Simon chuckles low in his throat, the sound rich and teasing as his accent curls around the words. “Easy now, love—look at you, all eager. Let me handle it, hm?” He steps back just enough to strip his own shirt over his head, revealing the hard slabs of muscle, scars, and tattoos beneath, then unbuckles his belt and shoves his jeans and boxers down in one fluid movement. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, the substantial length curving upward and already glistening at the tip.
He crowds back against you immediately, the heat of his bare skin searing yours while one large palm cups your breast and the other slides between your thighs to find you slick and ready.
“There now, darling,” he murmurs against your ear, nipping at the lobe as his fingers part your folds and circle your clit with deliberate pressure.
“All wet aren’t we? Just the way I like. Gonna fill you proper soon.” His substantial endowment presses hot and insistent against your stomach again as he lifts you once more, your legs wrapping around him on instinct, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance while his attentive eyes search yours for every flicker of pleasure and surrender.
He carries you deeper into the apartment, his long strides eating up the distance to the bedroom while your legs tighten around his waist.
You’re wondering how he managed to find your bedroom so quick, but your thoughts are completely overtaken by the throbbing of your clit each time he grinds himself forward.
He puts you onto the bed with surprising care despite his size, he’s hovering over you as his lips close around one nipple, sucking hard enough to make your back arch.
He then lowers his head down to your stomach, and then between your legs, his tongue dragging hot and broad over your slick folds, lapping at the mixture of your arousal that leaks from your entrance.
Simons broad shoulders force your legs further apart, his tongue delving deep before circling your clit with relentless strokes that send jolts of pleasure racing through your core. Your hands fist in his short hair as he sucks gently on the swollen bud, one thick finger sliding inside you to curl against that sensitive spot while his free hand pins your hip down.
You arch off the bed, the orgasm building fast and sharp under his attentive mouth, your thighs trembling around his head as he hums in approval, the vibration pushing you over the edge. Your pussy clenches and floods his tongue with fresh wetness, the release easing the lingering ache of desire while he drinks you down greedily, eyes flicking up to watch every shudder that ripples across your.
He doesn't stop there, easing you through the aftershocks with softer licks until your breathing steadies, then rises to kiss you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips as his substantial cock—already hard and red—presses insistently against your belly.
He reckons you're ready now. your slick folds glistening, and your hips canting up in silent plea.
Simon lines up the blunt head of his cock with your cunny, pressing just enough to part your lips before inching inside with agonizing slowness. Inch by thick inch he sinks deeper, the stretch burning sweet and deep as your walls flutter around him, that delicious bulge in your belly rising under your skin with every deliberate push until he's fully seated, heavy balls pressed to your ass.
The sensation nearly undoes him; a low groan rips from his chest, his cock twitching hard inside you as if fighting the urge to flood you right then, but he relents with a shuddering breath, muscles straining as he holds still and lets the edge pass.
Yet the invasion sends you reeling, stars bursting behind your eyes as the pressure overwhelms every nerve, your body arching and clenching as pleasure crashes through you in white-hot waves. He begins to move then, slow and powerful thrusts that make the bulge shift and press outward with each stroke, his hands pinning your wrists to the mattress while he watches every gasp and tremor, savoring how completely you yield to the relentless fullness.
“Shh, just sit back and relax alright, love.” Even his voice was making you reel.
The slow pace is long gone as Simon starts to thrust faster and faster, the thick head of his cock slamming into that spongy spot deep inside, each powerful stroke making your eyes water and your vision blur as pleasure borders on overwhelming.
“S-Simon… s-slow d-”
Your body jolts beneath him, the belly bulge shifting visibly with every drive of his hips, and the wet sounds of your slick pussy gripping him fill the room alongside your broken cries. He watches your face, his balaclava gone and discarded somewhere on the floor, his muscles flexing as he builds the rhythm higher, pushing you toward another shattering peak while his substantial girth stretches you to your limits again and again.
Without warning he pulls out, the sudden emptiness drawing a needy whimper from your throat, then flips you onto your hands and knees with effortless strength. He thrusts back in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one fluid motion that forces another visible bulge to rise in your belly, his left hand clamping onto your waist with a grip sure to leave bruises as he holds you steady. His right hand tangles in your hair, yanking your face upward toward his as he leans over your back, claiming your mouth in a bruising kiss that tasted like sweat and shared hunger, his tongue thrusting in time with the punishing snaps of his hips.
You moan into the kiss, body trembling from the intensity His attentive murmurs vibrate against your lips, praising how well you take him, how perfectly your pussy milks his cock, and the emotional tether of his touch keeps you grounded even as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes through your smaller frame.
Round after round blurs into one another as he claims you again and again, flipping you, lifting you, filling you until cum leaks in thick rivulets down your thighs and the ache in your core becomes a constant throb of bliss.
—
Every muscle in your body was aching in a way that felt both agonizing and utterly spectacular.
You slowly blinked your eyes open, squinting against the aggressive morning light piercing through your blinds. Your head was pounding a steady, rhythmic rhythm, the undeniable receipt of too many vodka-cranberries, and your throat felt like sandpaper. You looked like absolute hell, your hair a chaotic bird's nest and your makeup undoubtedly smeared across your face like a tragic watercolor painting.
But as you shifted (tried) under the duvet, a wicked, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of your lips. Jesus. No one had ever rocked your world like that. Multiple rounds that had left your headboard dented and your sheets tangled around your ankles. The man was built like a tank and moved with too much stamina.
You reached out a hand to the space beside you. The sheets were empty. The fabric was slightly cold to the touch, but not completely, meaning he hadn't been gone long. A sudden, familiar pang of morning-after anxiety flickered in your chest.
Did he slip out? Did a man like that even do morning-afters?
The answer came in the sudden, sharp click of your bathroom door opening.
You sat up, immediately regretting it as the soreness permeated throughout your body.
There he was. In all his absolute glory.
He didn't have a towel around his waist. In fact, he didn't have a single stitch of clothing on. The only towel in sight was the small white one gripped in his hands, which he was currently using to vigorously rub his damp, short blonde hair dry.
Your eyes wide, you drank in the sight of him. In the harsh daylight, he was an absolute masterpiece. His pale skin was a roadmap of stories, jagged silver scars cutting across the thick armor of his chest, heavy tattoos weaving down his massive arms, and powerful thighs that you vividly remembered gripping your waist just hours prior. And his face, completely bare, completely exposed, was ruggedly handsome.
Simon stopped rubbing his hair, dropping the towel around his shoulders. He looked down at you, completely unbothered by his own total nudity, a faint, rare smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he noticed your starstruck expression.
"Morning, love," he rumbled. Without the mask, his deep, gravelly voice sounded softer, intimate, and heavier in the quiet of your bedroom. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
You let out a raspy, sleep-deprived laugh, burying the lower half of your face in your blanket to hide your blush. "I think you legally count as a weapon, Simon. I can barely move."
Simon let out a low chuckle. He walked over to the side of the bed, the sheer size of him casting a shadow over you, and leaned down. He placed one massive, scarred hand on your thighs, stroking them up and down.
"Good," he murmured. "That means I did my job right."
You scoffed and lightly smacked his solid chest, the impact making your hand sting more than it bothered him. "Don't you dare," you groaned, pulling the duvet up to your chin like a shield. "My body literally cannot handle another round. If you touch me, I might dissolve into the mattress."
Simon let out another chuckle, completely unfazed by your swat. He stood up straight, his gaze raking over you with a look of satisfaction.
"What are you going to do now anyway?" you asked, leaning your head back against the pillows. You blinked up at him, your hangover finally catching up to you as a dull throb started behind your eyes. "Are you just going to vanish into thin air, or...?"
"First, I'm going to find where you keep the painkillers, get a glass of water, and make you some breakfast," Simon replied casually, as if standing stark naked in a uni student's bedroom was a completely standard Saturday morning routine. "Then, I suppose I have to go round up my mates."
You raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at your lips despite your headache. "Your mates? Right. The ones with you at the pub.”
Simon walked over to the pile of his discarded clothes on the floor, hooking his foot under his trousers to lift them up. He shook them out and started stepping into them.
"Aye, those idiots," he rumbled, fastening his belt. He looked back at you, a distinctly amused glint in his eyes. "They were meant to crash at my place. But I don’t really fancy spending my first night off in a month playing nursemaid to a bunch of loud, puking bastards."
He grabbed his black t-shirt, pulling it over his head and obscuring those magnificent chest scars from view. When his head popped through the collar, his eyes locked back onto yours.
"And then, suddenly," Simon murmured, his voice dropping into that deep register that made your stomach flip, "a lovely lady asked me to walk her home. So, naturally, I had to take her up on the offer. Far better company."
You couldn't help the massive smile that broke across your face, burying your burning cheeks into the blanket. "Oh, so you're saying I’m lovely?”
"Something like that, love," Simon said, finally pulling his iconic black mask out of his pocket—though he didn't put it on, just tossed it onto the bedside table. He walked toward the bedroom door, pausing at the threshold to look back at you one last time. "Don't move. I'll be back with the pills."
Before his footsteps could even fade down he suddenly reappeared in the doorframe. You blinked, startled by how quickly and silently he’d turned back around.
Without a word, Simon flipped his wrist. A heavy, black, smartphone sailed through the air and landed with a soft thud right on the duvet by your knee.
It was a brand you’ve never seen before. It had lots of bells and whistles on the outside too.
You stared at the phone, then looked up at him, utterly bewildered. "What's this?"
"Password is zero-four-one-zero," Simon rumbled, his eyes locked onto yours, completely deadpan. "Open it and put your number in. Don't give me a fake one, either."
You let out a stunned, breathy laugh, the sudden burst of adrenaline making you forget about your headache for a split second. "Are you ordering me?"
"Just making sure I don't have to hunt you down across Manchester when I want a repeat of last night," he countered smoothly. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Get to it, love."
Before you could even form a comeback, he vanished back into the hallway as he finally made his way toward your kitchen.
You sat there for a second, looking at the black brick of a phone, a massive, giddy smile breaking across your face. Sliding your hands out from under the covers, you picked it up, punched in 0410, and opened the contacts.
You quickly typed in your details, humming happily to yourself as the faint, heavenly scent of sizzling bacon began to waft into your bedroom.
when your stupid ex boyfriend kicks you out of the flat, he forgets to give you your cat back. you find the meanest looking guy in the bar to help you get her back.
type: one-shot (3.4k), ao3
cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+
There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.
You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.
You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.
You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.
A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.
The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.
It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.
There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.
That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.
You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.
"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"
He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.
"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."
His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."
"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."
The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.
"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"
"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"
He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.
"Suppose."
"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"
He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.
"Wot's tha' include?"
"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."
"Tha's my specialty, love."
"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."
"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."
"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."
A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.
"'m Simon."
The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.
You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.
"Olright, love. Lead the way."
Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.
"This wot he stole?"
You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.
"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."
The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.
You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.
"What the fuck is this?"
You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.
"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."
"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."
"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."
Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.
"Who the bloody hell is that?"
You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.
"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"
Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.
"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"
Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.
"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."
Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—
Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.
He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.
"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."
"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"
"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"
"Please…"
"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.
"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"
"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.
"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."
He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.
"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.
The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.
"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.
"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—
Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.
"Ahh—fuck."
You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.
You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.
"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"
It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.
"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"
"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."
You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.
"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.
"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.
"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"
"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."
"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"
Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.
The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.
Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.
Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.
Nothing at all.
He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.
"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.
"Never better."
Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.
Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.
It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.
She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.
"Yeah," Simon takes another sip of his tea. "This'll do."
simon loves everything you do during sex. when you clench your cunt around his cock and make him see stars, the pretty noises you make as he stretches you open on two thick fingers, the way you taste when you gush all over his tongue- everything.
but his favourite thing? when you scratch down his back while he's pounding you into the mattress. the way you desperately claw at his shoulders as he shoves his cock deep inside you. he's reaching places you didn't know could be reached and you need to grab onto something- anything to cope with the overwhelming pleasure he's bringing you.
the first time you did it he was caught off guard, his hips stuttering in their rhythm as your nails raked along his back, leaving a streak of red irritated flesh in their wake. you noticed the way he hesitated, noticed the groan that left him, and the way he adjusted his pace of his hips against yours.
you force your hands off him, opting to tangle them into the sheets instead. simon scowled- actually looked visibly upset, and a moment later he was grabbing you by the wrist, placing your hand onto his back again. you were confused now- you thought he didn't like it.
you couldn't have been more wrong.
he leans down so his mouth is pressed right next to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "keep doin' that," he groans, tilting your hips so the tip of his cock grinds against the squishy spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back in your head. "keep doin' it and don't you ever fuckin' stop- y'hear me? want you to mark me up, yeah? want everyone to know i fuck you so good you start clawin' at me."
please leave a comment/reblog if u liked this!!! it means the world & keeps me motivated!!! <3
bff rafe thats has a past of being a notorious fuckboy is shocked when his lifelong bff (reader) mentions that shes a virgin bc shes undeniably HOT. and hes experienced... shes not... so they do something about it..!
pov. while playing truth or dare, he discovers his long time bestfriend (who’s so hot and cute) has never had sex before.
notes. i love this plot, it’s so similar to my nerd x frat boy rafe fanfic! thank you for recommending this anonymous
content warnings. ⸝⸝ fem reader, gentle sex, vanilla sex, praising, cussing, titty sucking, no proof read, rafe teaching kissing, oral sex
rafe grew up swearing he’d never be attracted to you, swore he’d never let himself be perverted toward you. but ever since you hit college, it’s been a different story.
he’s been with so many girls. every age, every type, but none of them ever hit like you do. your tits sit so perfectly in your bra that he gets nervous whenever you stand there casually talking about life while getting dressed.
he’s seen you almost naked plenty of times, just in a bra and panties, but never fully bare. he acted cool in the moment, eyes not lowering down to the obvious outline of your pussy. but he’d be lying if he said he’d never fantasized about you being fully bare and finally seeing the outlines.
the soft curves of your body make him hard in seconds. even the lightest brush of his fingers against you while he was taking a photo for your mom’s facebook left him aching.
it’s honestly laughable how many times rafe has told himself you’re completely off limits. all those almost-kisses, the times he’s accidentally walked in on you changing, and the sharp jealousy he felt whenever his friends started showing interest in you, none of it helped.
but right now, the two of you are playing truth or dare with a generous side of alcohol that wasn’t exactly part of the rules. it’s been light and playful so far; crushes, stripping off a hoodie or socks, handstands against the wall, holding your breath for thirty seconds. then you both decided to make it more interesting.
“someone you’d fuck for access to their partner?” you asked, reading from a website full of spicy questions. rafe laughed. “any lesbian couple,” he teased. you rolled your eyes. “cheater!” you yell. he grinned before asking his own. “do you prefer virgins or experienced guys?” he questioned. the question came too smooth, like he’d been waiting to ask it for a while. “i don’t know… i’m a virgin,” you said, then laughed. “i haven’t gotten that far yet.” you add.
rafe didn’t laugh with you. he stared at you like you’d just said something insane. “what?” he asked quietly. “sorry, i was joking,” you clarified, still smiling. “i meant i basically am a virgin.” you continue.
his expression didn’t change. his eyes dragged slowly down your body, taking you in. “no… i heard you,” he said, voice low. you blinked, suddenly aware of how intently he was looking at you. “oh.” a small smile tugged at your lips.
“how are you still a virgin?” he asked before he could stop himself. his gaze wandered shamelessly over your curves, no longer pretending it was casual. you felt heat rise in your cheeks, but the alcohol made you bold. “wanna come do something about it?” you teased, locking eyes with him.
rafe’s smirk was slow and hungry. “you giving me a go?” he asked and you paused, tilting your head as you held his stare. then you nodded.
rafe didn’t waste another second. still sitting on the floor across from you, he leaned forward, one hand bracing on the carpet as he closed the distance.
his other hand gently cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek. you could smell the faint mix of his cologne and the alcohol on his breath right before his lips met yours.
the kiss was soft at first, warm and careful, like he was testing the waters. but when you stayed frozen, unsure, he pulled back just enough to look at you. “i… i don’t know how to kiss,” you whispered, a little embarrassed.
rafe’s eyes softened, but his smirk stayed. “that’s okay, baby. i’ll teach you.” he said. he tilted your chin up slightly with his fingers. “just relax your lips… don’t tense up.” his voice was low and patient. “follow what i do.” he adds.
he leaned in again, slower this time, pressing his mouth to yours with a little more pressure. his lips moved gently, guiding yours to part just enough. when you started to mirror him, he hummed approvingly against your mouth.
“good girl… like that,” he murmured between kisses. “use a little tongue if you want.”
he demonstrated, licking softly at your bottom lip until you opened for him. the moment your tongues touched, a small sound escaped you, and rafe deepened the kiss, taking control but staying gentle enough for you to keep up.
his hand slid into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he kissed you like he’d been waiting years to do it. he pulled back for air, forehead resting against yours, breathing a little heavier. “see? you’re a natural,” he whispered, voice rough. “again?” he whispered, voice low and rough.
you nodded, cheeks flushed. “yes.”
he pulled back just enough to look at you, a wicked little smirk tugging at his mouth. “beg me for it then.” he teased. you bit your lip, heart racing, but the heat between you made you brave. “please, rafe… kiss me. i want you to teach me.” you begged. his eyes darkened with satisfaction. “good girl.”
he leaned in and captured your mouth again, slow but deliberate to make you ache. “relax your lips,” he murmured against you. “open for me a little… yeah, just like that.” he kissed you deeper, guiding your mouth with his, teaching you how to move, how to respond, all to him. his tongue slipped in lazily, stroking yours until you started kissing him back properly, all soft and eager.
while his mouth worked against yours, your hands moved on their own. you tugged at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up slowly and over your head. he quickly kissed you once again, as you dropped it beside you, now sitting there in just your bra, chest rising and falling quickly.
rafe broke the kiss to look down at you. his gaze locked on your tits, big and perky, straining against the thin fabric of your bra. they were so full and plump, perfectly rounded with a soft, sexy bounce as you breathed. he smiled, slow and hungry. “so fucking pretty,” he breathed.
he couldn’t hold back anymore. rafe leaned down, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along the swell of your breasts. his hands cupped them, squeezing gently, feeling their weight and softness. “fuck… look at these tits,” he groaned, clearly obsessed with how big and plush they were.
he pulled one cup down, exposing a nipple, and immediately dragged his tongue over it before sucking it into his mouth. he moaned against your skin, sucking harder, switching between licking broad strokes and deep, greedy pulls. his other hand kneaded your other tit, thumb brushing the nipple through the fabric.
he was completely lost in them, burying his face between your soft, plump curves, kissing and sucking like he couldn’t get enough.
you got shy all of a sudden, face burning as the heat between your legs became too much. biting your lip, you reached down, grabbed his hand, and slowly guided it to the waistband of your shorts, pressing his fingers there.
rafe pulled back from your chest, eyes filled with desire and hungry as he understood exactly what you wanted. “yeah?” he murmured, voice rough. without another word he hooked his fingers into your shorts and panties, tugging them down your legs in one smooth motion and tossing them aside.
you were completely bare now. rafe’s gaze dropped between your thighs, and he let out a low groan. his fingers found your clit instantly, rubbing slow, firm circles over the sensitive little bundle. your hips jerked hard at the first touch, twitching and bucking uncontrollably as he played with your soaked, horny clit.
“fuck, look at you,” he breathed, eyes locked on the way your body reacted, twitching and jerking every time he stroked you. “so sensitive already.” he comments.
you moaned loudly, the sound spilling out as pleasure shot through you. your back arched and you leaned back until you were lying flat on the floor, chest heaving.
rafe didn’t stop. he moved down between your legs, spreading them wider. before you could catch your breath, he pinned your hips down firmly to the floor with both hands, holding you in place so you couldn’t squirm away.
then his mouth was on you. his tongue dragged hot and wet over your clit, licking and sucking with filthy hunger.
he kept you pinned down tight, strong hands gripping your thighs as he ate you out like he’d been starving for it, tongue flicking and circling, lips sucking gently then harder. every time you tried to buck or twist, his grip only tightened, keeping you right there for him.
rafe kept his mouth on you, licking and sucking your clit until your moans turned into desperate little cries. you couldn’t take it anymore.
“rafe… please,” you whimpered, voice shaky. “please fuck me. i want you inside me. please.” you plead.
he pulled back from between your thighs, lips shiny, eyes full with lust. “yeah? you want my cock, baby?” he asked, already moving up your body. he shoved his shorts down just enough, freeing himself, and settled between your spread legs. you nodded quickly, breathing fast. “please… i need it.” you continued on.
rafe leaned down, kissing you softly as he lined himself up. he rubbed the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, then started pushing in, very slow and careful.
just the tip stretched you open, and you gasped, body tensing hard. it was a lot. your hands flew to his shoulders, gripping tight as you struggled to adjust.
“shh, easy baby,” rafe murmured, voice low and sweet against your ear. he stayed perfectly still, only the head inside you. “you’re doing so good already. just breathe for me. we’ve got all the time you need, okay? i’m not gonna hurt you.” he says sweetly.
you whimpered, nodding, trying to relax around his thick tip. “that’s my good girl,” he praised, kissing your neck and jaw. “you can take it. just let me in nice and slow… there you go.” he continued.
he pushed forward another inch, then stopped again, letting you feel every bit of him. his hand stroked your hair, thumb brushing your cheek as he whispered encouragement. “look at you… so tight and pretty for me. you’re doing perfect, baby. whenever you’re ready, i’ll give you more. no rush.”
after a few deep breaths, the stretch started turning into something hotter. you nodded again, and rafe began moving, continuing the slow, shallow thrusts, easing more of his cock into you with every gentle rock of his hips. he kept talking you through it, voice warm and steady.
“feel that? that’s all for you. just relax and let me fuck you nice and slow… good girl. you’re taking me so well already.” he kept that gentle rhythm, letting you feel every inch as he worked himself deeper, patient and sweet while your body slowly opened up for him.
rafe kept his pace slow and deep, rocking into you with steady thrusts that gradually grew stronger. your legs were spread wide open for him, knees bent and falling further apart with every push of his hips. they bounced and shook each time he sank back in, the soft flesh of your thighs jiggling from the impact.
you were holding onto him for dear life. arms wrapped tightly around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as your body rocked beneath him. every thrust pulled a shaky moan from your throat, your chest pressed flush against his while he fucked you.
“fuck… you feel so good,” he groaned against your neck, one hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread nice and wide for him. “look at these legs… all open for me.” he said.
your grip on him tightened as he thrust a little deeper, your walls fluttering around his cock. you buried your face in his shoulder, breathing hard, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded while he filled you over and over again.
the wet sounds of him sliding in and out mixed with your soft, desperate moans, your body bouncing gently on the floor with each roll of his hips. rafe kissed the side of your head, still talking you through it in that low, sweet voice. “that’s it, baby… just hold onto me. you’re taking my cock so fucking well.” he said.
rafe kept fucking you with his deep, and steady thrusts. your legs spread wide and bouncing softly with every roll of his hips. you were still clinging to him tightly when you reached up and tugged desperately at the bottom of his shirt.
“take it off,” you breathed.
he didn’t hesitate. rafe slowed his thrusts just enough to yank his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, since he has done it so many times, tossing it aside. the second his bare chest pressed against yours, you pulled him down harder, craving his mouth.
he leaned all the way down, covering your body with his as he kissed you. at first your kissing was eager but messy, a little too much tongue too fast, lips slipping awkwardly as you tried to keep up.
rafe smiled against your mouth. “slow down, baby,” he murmured, voice husky. “watch…”
he took control, tilting his head slightly and kissing you deeper, slower. his tongue slid sensually along yours, teasing and stroking in long, wet strokes that made your stomach flutter. you tried to match him but slipped again, pushing your tongue too eagerly. he gently sucked on your bottom lip, correcting you.
“easy… let me lead,” he whispered. “open your mouth a little more… yeah, you got it baby.” he coos.
then he really kissed you, hot, filthy, and unhurried. his tongue licked into your mouth deeply, curling around yours in slow, sexy strokes.
wet sounds filled the space between you as he fucked you and kissed you at the same time, tongues sliding and tangling sensually. every time you messed up the rhythm he fixed it with a soft groan, guiding you until you were kissing him back perfectly, sloppy, passionate, tongue heavy making out that left you both breathless.
you moaned into his mouth, legs trembling around his waist as he kept thrusting into you, never breaking the intense kiss. his tongue explored yours like he owned it, slow and dirty, sucking lightly on your tongue before sliding back in deep again.
“good girl” he praised against your lips once more, then dove right back in for another kiss. rafe groaned against your mouth as you kept kissing him, your tongues sliding hot and wet together. he could feel how desperate you were getting, the way your pussy clenched around him tighter with every thrust.
“you want it harder, baby?” he rasped, breaking the kiss just enough to look at you. you nodded, biting your lip. his hips snapped forward suddenly, driving his cock deeper and faster. your legs bounced harder, spread wide and shaking as he started fucking you with more force.
you cried out, nails digging into his back as he picked up the pace. the wet slap of skin on skin got louder, his thrusts turning rougher, pounding into you steadily. every hard stroke hit that perfect spot inside you, making your whole body jolt.
“rafe—fuck—” you moaned, holding onto him tighter, legs trembling uncontrollably around his waist. “that’s it,” he encouraged, fucking you harder, deeper, one hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread open for him. “cum on my cock, baby. i can feel how close you are.” he continues.
rafe kept pounding into you harder, hips snapping with deep, relentless thrusts that made your whole body bounce beneath him. your legs stayed spread wide, trembling violently as your orgasm crashed over you.
“rafe—!” you cried out, back arching hard off the floor as you came hard on his cock. your pussy clenched and pulsed around him in tight, wet spasms, gushing slick, creamy liquid all over his thick shaft. the warm wetness painted his dick with every thrust, coating him shiny and messy, dripping down his balls as he fucked you through it.
he looked down between your bodies, groaning loudly at the sight. “fuck, baby… look at that. you’re soaking my dick so good,” he rasped, voice strained with lust. he didn’t slow down, sliding in and out of your spasming, drenched pussy, the wet sounds even filthier now as your cum coated every inch of him.
your body kept twitching and jerking, soft whimpers falling from your lips while he kept thrusting through your orgasm, his cock glistening with your release.
