Here are questions I didnât ask but should have: what does the basement look like?
What measures are taken to secure the building ?
Are the walls thin?
Brief info of who lives in the building. Are they college kids? People that work through the day? Elderly? Is it a mix?
Where does the garbage go?
Can I pay rent bi-weekly?
What kind of fuses does the apartment use? (My fuse box is in the basement. If I blow a fuse I have to replace it myself. They screw until the box. All of which I didnât know until it happened and I was sitting in the dark suddenly.)
Who do I call for repairs? (If itâs a private rental)
Am I allowed to paint the walls?
Is there any additional storage?
Do you do regular pest control?
count the outlets, ask about recycling policies, ask if thereâs a noise restriction (nothing loud after midnight, everything goes on the weekend, etc)
LAUNDRY FACILITIES
Definitely ask about security
Whether subletting is allowed (esp if youâre in college and might want to sublet for the summer)
If you have a car, whether thereâs parking/how much it costs
What kind of heating/AC there is
Procedure/response time for any maintenance
How mail/packages are received/protected from theft (seriously people stealing your packages can be a huge problem)
What kind of verification of your salary will they want, and in what circumstances will they accept a guarantor instead?
Whether the apartment is furnished
Assuming you are in the middle of looking at/choosing between places:
When does the lease start? Are you going to give preference to people based on when they can move in?
Whether groups of a certain number of people get preference
Really anything about who they prioritize for applications, it can save you a lot of trouble in trying to apply to places youâll never get into
not something for asking the realtors, necessarily, but important rights you should be aware of as a tenant:
when and for what reasons are your landlords allowed to enter your home? how much of a notice should they give you before entering?
can the landlord make modifications to your home or apartment without your approval? to what extent?
what are the options and conditions for breaking your lease early if thereâs an emergency? (this is ESPECIALLY important for anyone moving to a new state/considerable distance where you are not able to visit the apartment/home before you rent â students get taken advantage of ALL THE TIME with this shit)
if your first or last month at the property is a partial stay (i.e. you move in on july 15th, and rent is typically due on the first) make sure you donât pay the full first monthâs rent before you know the area laws! in many states, you are only legally required to pay for the time you are occupying the property
is renterâs insurance necessary? many apartments want at least 30k coverage, which can run a couple hundred dollars extra per year
are the landlords/property management liable for crimes on the property? for example, if your car was broken into. if not GET RENTERâS INSURANCE
Can I get a checklist of things that need to be done/fixed to get my deposit back at the end? (They should provide this for you - do a walkthrough when youâre looking and have them point out what they want done. Youâll want that money back!!)
Check the outlets, bring your phone charger and plug it in to test!
If there isnât laundry in the apartment, can they install a washer and dryer for a fee? (Happened to a friend for 50 bucks more, she couldâve have a washer dryer put in. What the hell itâs worth it, trust me.)
Is it a smoking complex? Some in AZ are non-smoking.
Has anyone died in the apartment? (Maybe this is dumb but I just read about someone who found out the previous tenant committed suicide in her place. Not good.)
Many of these questions can be answered by acquiring a âmodel leaseâ! This is just a copy of the landlordâs standard lease.
Most landlords will provide one on request. Some may even have one on their website.
Read any lease very carefully before signing.
Get someone else to read it over too if possible so they can catch any fuckery you mightâve missed. A lease is a legal contract youâre entering into, make sure you know what youâre agreeing to!
(Also, I personally check under each sink for mildew and I also sniff curtains, carpet, and/or paper blinds for a cigarette smell that may be stronger when the landlord hasnât just had the windows open etc to hide it)
Being a camgirl comes with its fair share of ups and downs, but you never expected one of the downs to be one of your unboxings from a fan going horribly wrong during a live streamâthe proof of it still buzzing between your thighs beyond your finger's reach.Â
A rush of embarrassment comes with knocking on your roommateâs bedroom door and asking him for help because youâre nearing the brink of overstimulation and canât think straight enough to get the words out. Itâs worse when he stands there and says nothingâall imposing with two tattooed arms crossed over his chestâwhile you try to get through a sentence without moaning.Â
Simon looks at you with a cocked brow and something akin to amusement as he watches you squirm in his doorway.Â
Then he finally says, âGet on the bed,â in a steady and low voice, opening his bedroom door wider.
You fidget under his scrutinizing gaze as you settle back against his pillows, biting back whimpers with a too-hot face and sweat dripping down your back.Â
Him settling a knee on the bed makes you jump, âLetâs take a look, love.âÂ
Simon crawls up the bed, forcing your knees open, and youâre suddenly very aware of how broad and big he looks, towering over youâevery part of you laid bare for him to see. A large hand presses right below your belly button, jostling the toy inside you, and this time, you canât hold back the squeal that rips from your chest.Â
âSorry,â he murmurs, voice imperceptibly deeper, his lips twitching like heâs trying to hold back a smile. âOkay, youâre going to feel a slight stretch.â
You bite your lip. âA-alrightââ
Slight doesnât even come close to the fingers sliding into you, spearing your sensitive walls open and pressing into a spot where youâve never been able to reach with startling precision. You remind yourself that he has to do this, that heâs just beingâŠfriendly, or whatever makes the lines less blurred.Â
None of this stops the fact your lower stomach burns with the promise of another orgasm when his fingers brush against the egg vibrator before accidentally pressing it deeper inside.
âAh, there it is.â
At the sight of your scrunched nose, he asks if it hurts. You shake your head; eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to hold back the stinging pleasure racing up your spine. âN-no,â you whimper.
âRelax, okay?â
Simon doesnât comment on how youâre implying that it feels good. So good, you think, his thumb just barely touching your clit as he twists his hand to try a different angle. Then he pushes down on your belly again, and his long fingers finally grip the vibrator.
âOh!â you moan at the feel of it dragging down your front wall, your fingers gripping the sheets.Â
He has to tell you to relax again, his voice cracking, but you hardly hear it over your heart beating loudly in your ears. His fingers drag the toy out slowly, almost too slow that you can feel it bumping against every slippery ridge inside you.
âAh, sorry,â he says when you twitchâunapologeticâusing his thumb to rub soothing circles into your stomach. âYouâre so wet. I need to make sure I donât lose it again.â
You nod, cunt clenching down at his words.
And then Simonâs fingers curl up: your thighs start quivering, breath caught in your throat, and your jaw locks up until your orgasm ripples through you. Itâs unending, the strongest one yet, and just when you think itâs over, you feel the press of his palm against your clit.
âW-wait! Simon,â you moan, pushing at his hand. âNo more, Iâm sensitive!â
He gets you to fall over the edge one more time before finally slipping the vibrator out of you, letting it hum softly on the bed, and your exhausted body sinks into the mattress once again. Simon gathers you into his lap, rocking you back and forth.
You swallow lungfuls of air against his chest, head still spinning and walls spasming from the aftershocks.Â
He murmurs in your ear about how good you are, kisses your temple, and rubs your sides, and itâs⊠enlightening. Moments pass before you finally return to yourself, and when he pulls back, his brows furrow at your pout.
âAll good?â
You shake your head and go with honesty. âI didnât think youâd cuddle me afterward.â
He smiles, thumb flicking your bottom lip. âYou wanted me to fuck you?âÂ
Your mouth falls open. âN-noââ
Then he leans down, lips brushing against your ear: âDonât worry, love. Good girls get fucked hard.â
I need Simon Riley who realizes just how much he loves you when he has a night terror.
He shoots out of bed with a shout, quickly looking to your side just to see it empty. His heart quickens even faster, images of your dead body, blood pouring out of your mouth and ears, eyes frantic before they still and glaze over. Remembering the scream he lets out as he shakes you, begging you.
"Please, please don't fuckin leave, love. God, not you. Please, you promised!"
He's having a panic attack and before he even processes it, he's running to the bathroom. Throwing him head into the toilet bowl, puking everything up as if his entire body is rejecting the very possibility of you no longer being there. He can't stop the tears ripping out of him and his fast, suffocating breaths stinging his throat as if the vomit isn't even there.
He doesn't even register your hand on his back, your panicked calling out to him.
"Baby? Baby what's wrong? Please talk to me" You beg, brushing his hair back, trying to hold onto him.
His wide, tear filled eyes meet yours and he throws himself into your arms, holding onto you like a lifeline. His crying doesn't stop, the intense emotions still overwhelming his senses.
"God please never leave me. I swear to god I'll be the best for you. I'll keep you safe, nothin's gonna happen to you" He swear as if he'd be your own guardian angel.
"Baby what happened? Did you have a nightmare?" You pet his hair, beginning to realize what's happening.
"I can't lose you, I can't. Not you. Please, I can't." He cries into your shirt, trying to calm down but he feels genuine fear that he doesn't feel outside the battlefield. You hold him as his breathing slows down, exhaustion overtaking him. You settle against the wall, fingers combing through his hair as you both fall asleep. Safe to say he doesn't have anymore nightmares that night.
(Friendly reminder that traumatized men aren't always fully numb and military men can have feelings !!)
anyways, as i was saying about older bf!simon and his willingness to please learn
pt 2 to this
âyou ever heard of a nut video with sound on?â
obviously, he hasnât- far as heâs concerned, if you havenât told him about it then it doesnât exist to him.
no skin off your nose, youâd spend the rest of your life teaching him about the âlatest trendsâ if it meant he kept sending those filthy fucking videos to your phone.
(your favourites on tiktok were purely filled with ideas)
heâs holed up in a remote location, killing time till he can be home and actually do something to you rather than send you a bloody video about it.
your instructions come through clear and concise, just how he likes:
âitâs whatâs written on the can, si- you can pick the setup but i just want to see you cum and, most importantly, i want to hear itâ
youâre lucky simon is such a practical guy and maybe you could thank price one day for making him so good at following orders.
when heâs got his alone time heâs setting his phone up to record on the edge of the window sill, moonlight fighting through the curtain to illuminate him.
heâs lost the bulkiest of his gear, down to his tactical trousers and a compression t-shirt. the images in his tattoo sleeve almost move when the light catches them right.
balaclava on (the one that just shows his eyes above the painted image of a skull) and heâs standing up to undo his belt (that you think looks like an airplane seatbelt).
you can hear his boots against the floorboard as he steps back to give you the full view of him undoing his trousers, taking his sweet time because he knows it drives you fucking batty.
heâs so big that the phone is working overtime to get all of him in the frame but you see exactly what you need to- thick thighs at your eye line and massive hands drawing down his fly.
on (you assume) the other side of the globe, youâre at home in your shared bed and youâre propped up right in the middle with the smell of simon engulfing you as you watch the video play out before you.
(if youâd thought about it you shouldâve cast it to the bedroom tv, hoping the neighbours didnât mind)
simon sits back down with his legs spread wide, one hand gripping his thigh as the other rubs himself over his boxers. his eye contact with the camera was fucking intense, like youâd hoped, just like when heâs on top of you.
heâs dressed in all black and the moonlight is obscured but you can still see him firming up in his pants. his eyes flutter, an infinitesimal amount but youâve been tuned into his every move since you met him.
your thumb leans hard on the volume up button and you can hear the diegetic sound of the building expanding and that usual technical hum that comes with a video. but at this pitch, you could hear him.
his breathing was chopped, chest expanding visibly as he pulled his cock out into clear view. jeeeeesus christ, it was never something you just got used to.
long, reasonably straight, fucking thick. even his hand struggled to make it look smaller as he wrapped around it, giving one dry tug.
as he closed his palm over the tip, you saw him make a swipe before he brought his hand back down considerably smoother than before. youâd had your hands down his pants enough times, man leaked like a fucking faucet.
simonâs head tipped back as he started to pull himself off, balaclava raising just enough to expose some of his throat. if you were there you would be perched in his lap, letting him do the work but running your tongue under the lip of the fabric.
one of the best things about the videos simon sent was, he didnât really understand how sexy he was. he didnât think any of the videos particularly watchable so heâd just send them on first take. if you liked them, you liked them- yours was the only opinion that mattered.
what that meant was, you never got b-roll. everything he sent you was unbridled perfection. captured exactly as it happens with no faffing about.
always whatever youâve asked for, whenever you ask.
(simonâs nothing if not inexplicably obedient)
he brings his hand under his chin to spit into the wide span of his palm, wrapping back around his cock and tugging. his foreskin moved over the head, rolling back down and thick veins bulging under his grasp.
youâd almost forgotten the conditions of your request, totally fucking enamoured by the sight in front of you when it caught you off guard.
a guttural moan ripped out of simonâs chest as he twisted his wrist.
his free hand moved to cup his balls, big and heavy, he rolled them in his palm as another groan sounded out of him. what you wouldnât give to be knelt between his thighs with the whole lot in your mouth.
you knew how much of an ask this was, you really had to work him up to making noise when it was just you two in bed. these days? you couldnât shut the man up when he was balls deep and his face was buried in the crook of your neck.
but this was another step, this was him on his own with his crew just through the walls. heâd be a plain liar if he said there wasnât that rumbling trepidation in his chest. heâd put it to bed though.
all he had to think of was you, one hand gripping your phone and the other between your thighs as you watched him through with a hazy smile- that kept him going.
with the thought still heavy on his mind, you didnât have to strain to hear your name drift off his lips. his hips bucked into his hand as he did, speeding up the motion of his strokes.
you were going to black out, his tattoos flexing and his chest expanding with every stuttered breath. simon looked like a god among men and he fucking sounded like one too.
âfuck, sweetheart- youâre so fucking filthy giving me orders like thisâ
your cheeks were burning, he wasnât wrong but you werenât expecting him to call you out quite like this.
âwhat does that make me? always so fucking eager to do what you say? make a dirty old man, yeah?â
wheeeeeew thatâll do it, your thighs snapped together around your hand as your eyes nearly rolled back in your head. whenever you thought you couldnât take any more, he was always there to do you one better.
âonly for you, pet- you can always get whatever you fucking want from meâ
and you knew he was serious, thatâs what made it all the more debilitating. simon was unshakeable, youâd seen him go out of his way to defy orders if he didnât think the person worth his time.
when it came to you? you could tell him to kill and he would.
(he probably had)
simonâs hips were twitching, back arching in a way heâd rather die than have anyone else know about. his mouth was hanging open beneath the balaclava, your name and a string of expletives falling off his tongue.
so quick you nearly missed it, the hand that was cradling his balls moved to grip the fabric of his shirt and push it up his toned front. you couldnât call his abs cut and defined, there was aged layer to them, but they were undeniably there.
youâd rested your head on them, pressed your palms against them, even ridden them enough times to know they were there. regardless, he looked fucking perfect under the moon glow as he stroked himself hard and long.
eyes locked onto the camera, broken moans on his lips, you saw his hips lift one last time as thick spurts of cum began to paint his stomach and chest.
scars illuminated under the night sky, mirrored by shiny patches of hot cum splattered across the same stretch of skin. the hairs on his chest were matted with sweat and were now being splashed with how far he was shooting.
you could only watch with your mouth hung open as he tugged himself through his orgasm. soon it was only the sound of his laboured breathing, chest rising and falling as he tucked his soft cock back into his pants.
just when you thought that was it, you found one of his hands lifting up the edge of his balaclava till his lips were exposed. two fingers of his other hand swiped up some of his spend before he lay them on his tongue.
knuckles in your mouth, biting down to suppress a scream, simon readjusted his clothes as he stood and took a heavy step towards the camera.
one hand braced on the window sill, the other gently gripping himself through his trousers- his voice was so fucking gravely it couldâve reverberated round your room.
âwhatâs next sweetâart? you name it, itâs yoursâ
after one of your leave, you came back to work with a ring around your finger.
you didn't mention it to anyone, and people simply noticed it when talking to you or handing you things. they congratulated you, talking about the ring. you nervously brushed it off, trying to explain it.
ghost didn't know about it either, and when he overheard someone talking about it, he dropped his mug of tea on the floor, the pieces scattering around the place.
this was such a shock to someone who had planned to propose to you.
well, propose might be a bit too far, considering you two are not even dating. he wanted to say it, but things were a little too hectic and he didn't have the guts to ask you out and moreover you're not sure if you'd like him... even if you two have been friends in the taskforce for years.
then again, in his mind, you two are practically an old married couple.
he was clearly upset by this, ignoring you and trying to push you away. he was undoubtedly hurt. did you elope with someone? why didn't you tell him? invite him to the party? did your "friendship" with him mean nothing at all?
ghost was snappy, in a terrible mood overall. he snaps at johnny, yells at gaz, and even glares at price. he was constantly on edge and it's starting to piss you off. so you confront him.
"what the hell's up with you?"
he didn't feel like humoring you, sitting down all irritated over his meal instead.
"you've been avoiding me all week, snapping at people... did i do something wrong?"
so he went off at you.
"wanna know what's wrong? you. coming back to base with a bloody ring. let me guess, you eloped with someone? is that it?" he hissed, "and here i thought i'd propose, that's out of the fuckin' window now."
you sat there, taking his words in. "... it's a fidget ring?"
you showed your hand to him, using your fingers to spin the little parts of your ring. he didn't realize how you've been fidgeting with it, or how you explained to people over and over that you're not married or engaged.
all of the sudden ghost felt like his blood ran cold, not only because he just acted so stupid jealous over a trinket, he basically admitted that he wanted to marry you.
wait wait because imagine being a normal OF creator or a cam girl, just a small name nobody who does it for the sole purpose of getting through college. you keep your face out of everything, nothing in the background of any video of yours is personal, like once you get your degree this entire account is getting deleted and it'll be a thing of the past. (not that you're ashamed or anything. we respect sex workers of all kinds here)
and you plan on doing a different kind of video: one of you fucking yourself with a new, much bigger toy. usually you keep to the rabbits and bullets but following your friends advice, you fucking yourself on a dildo wouldn't be terrible.
plus you need it, sweetheart. when was the last time you even had a date?
bitch. (affectionately)
and as soon as you walk into your usual sex store, you double take. there is no, NO, way that is pornstar!ghost's dick you've just spotted as a dildo.
he's been your favorite pornstar long before you even started this side hustle. who in their right mind can resist that beast of a man with the mask and the tattoos and the heaving thing that's between his legs--
you take it home immediately.
it's almost sad how stupid you fuck yourself on it, cunt split open and dripping onto the floorboard for the internet to see but in that moment, you don't give a fuck.
you don't remember how many times you come that night nor how many viewers you had watching your puffy lips swallow "ghost's" cock whole, but come morning, you notice your bank account and it is padded.
PADDED.
one particular tipper was incredibly generous and they even left a message.
i'd love to see you do that on the real thing.
yeah, me too.
(whoever that is becomes a loyal follower who tips regularly.)
*screaming at the thought of simon getting himself off at your video. hasn't come that hard in months and that says a lot since he's yknow, a pornstar.*
Thinking about Ghost who hasnât had a woman inâŠa while. (Longer than heâd like to admit)
He doesnât fuck when heâs on duty, and heâs on duty more than heâs off, these days.
When he finally slips between your thighs, heâs forgotten how soft another person can be, forgotten how wet a pussy can get, tight enough to nearly snap his cock off. And then itâs him vs his own body as he fights not to cum straight away and embarrass himself.
I want him fists clenched, head ducked and eyes squeezed shut (because if he sees that look in your eyesâthat almost-afraid, mostly-awed look as your body manages to swallow his monster cock whole with nothing more than a burning stretchâhe knows heâll spill inside you before heâs even managed a single thrust). I want his teeth gritted, mind on anything except the wet heat that surrounds him, muscles tensed as he fights tooth and nail for his control.
And I want to see him lose it straight away when you whisper in his ear that itâs okay, you can let go
simon riley would be running around the house and playing airplane with his daughter perched on his shoulders and then get distracted, probably by your pretty voice coming from another room asking for his help. he comes to your aid, as always, but ends up so fixated on finding you that he forgets to duck through the doorway and your kiddo wounds up with a wall to the face, doorframe bonking her in the brow hard, the little thud echoing through the room.
you gasp, dropping everything youâve got in your hands to join simon in cradling her with endless sympathy and âsorryâs, smoothing over the little red mark appearing quickly on her skin.
and, oh, he feels guilty. like, painfully so. this is worse than any war crimes heâs committed, by far.
heâll break the geneva conventions a thousand times over before even daring to put a single scratch on his precious family.
but your little girl doesnât cry, at all. not even for a second.
all giggles and smiles as she rubs her forehead and exclaims faux disappointment in her daddy, and simon takes so much pride in that. claiming he only raises tough girls, you included as heâs ruffling your hair. you kiss both their cheeks and hum in agreement, opting not to suggest that maybe sheâs like this because the exact same thing has happened more times than you can count, to a t.
prompt: construction worker ghost and his elementary school teacher neighbour who made the poor decision to start feeding him (nsfw, 2k)
[based on this old ask] [on ao3 here]
-
They say not to feed wild animals.Â
It makes them grow soft, lazy. Alters their behaviour. Takes an animal previously capable of finding its own food dependent on humans for sustenance. Makes them lose their natural fear of humans and nearly always results in an increase in human-wildlife conflicts as they start to seek out people. Itâs a known fact. You canât go to a park without seeing it plastered on posters in the bathroom and on the sides of the vending machines under the gazebos where you purchase your post-hike iced tea and veggie roll to eat on a nearby bench.Â
You know this. So you really donât know what possessed you to leave a cooler full of sandwiches on your neighbourâs doormat before turning in for the night.Â
He wakes up preternaturally early and leaves every morning around four-thirty or five oâclock on the dot. Sometimes in the fog of sleep, you wake to hear the door to the apartment beside yours crack open and slam shut, and then the sound of lumbering footsteps down the hall towards the staircase before that door opens and slams shut too.Â
He never comes home before four oâclock at the earliest. Thatâs around when you come home from work as well, meaning that you sometimes catch him at the door, him covered in grime and reeking of old sweat while you come flouncing down the hall in whatever colourful dress youâd donned that morning, inevitably paint-splattered by the end of the day. Always something appropriate to wear at an elementary school but colourful enough to keep the kidsâ eyes and attention on you.Â
Youâve caught his name in half-whispered conversations with the property manager, but aside from that, all you know about Simon Riley is that he works in construction. He certainly looks the part: big, calloused hands with blunt, dirt-caked nails and cut up fingers, knuckles always swollen and thick. Body all strength and brawn. Hard hat tucked under his armpit and decorated with countless stickers from old job sites, the same way his forearm is covered in tattoos.Â
Youâve even passed by his current job site once or twiceâsome new condo complex going up by the canal thatâs forced you and hundreds of other commuters to leave an extra thirty minutes early to account for the road closures. You pointedly donât bring that up in conversation though. That would just be rude.Â
At least it would be something to talk about though.
Itâs not like the two of you talk. Youâre not close by any means. Though you moved in a few months ago, you havenât had much luck mustering up the confidence to squeak out more than a hi to him in passing. When he grunts back something approximating a hello, itâs all you can do not to break your key in the lock when you hurry into your apartment and slam the door shut behind you, heart beating frantically in your chest.Â
Itâs humiliating. Youâre a grown woman and youâve talked to plenty of men before. Youâve dated plenty of men before. Just because this one speaks in monosyllables and stares at you with an intensity that makes your stomach churn and your palms grow sweaty doesnât change anything. Just because this one is built like a redwood with wrists thick enough that youâd need both hands to wrap around doesnât make him any different than any other person.
And yet, when Simon asks you for your name on a rainy June afternoon after youâve come in after him for a change only to find him sifting through letters at the mailbox, you garble out something that sounds nothing like your name before scurrying up the stairs to your flat.
Itâs humiliating. Itâs humid outside and your dress is sticking to all the wrong places (namely, your nipples and the inside of your thighs when the skirt swishes between your legs with each stride) and now youâve made an ass of yourself in front of the only hot guy in your building. There are serial arsonists with more charm than you.Â
So maybe the sandwiches are an apology letter or an olive branch. Or maybe it just makes your heart race to think of Simon opening up the cooler and finding four wax paper-wrapped sandwiches tucked neatly over ice packs.Â
All you know is that when you step out of your apartment the next morning, the cooler is empty on your doormat, the lid propped open. He must have taken them with him.Â
You smile. A job well done. Apology served fresh, with cucumber slices in the middle.Â
The problem starts when you donât leave him another cooler full of sandwiches on his doormat the next day.Â
You didnât consider that he might think youâd make it a habit. Perhaps thatâs partially on you for not leaving a note on the cooler the first time to explain that it was just a one-off; just a way to apologize for being less than chipper around him. But instead of shrugging it off, you come home after a long day to find him standing right outside your apartment, arms crossed over his chest, thick biceps straining against his sweat-stained shirt.Â
âOpen the door,â Simon commands, nostrils flaring as he glares down at you. He jerks his head towards your door when you just frown, not following. âBeen starving here waiting for you to show up.â
You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Youâre at a loss for words, never mind that your whole job involves talking. He leaves you speechless though.Â
Simon doesnât move when you step close enough to unlock the door. You try to keep your body angled away so as not to brush up against him, but itâs inevitable. He doesnât move when the door opens either, forcing you to squeeze by him.Â
He goes straight to the kitchen and drags a chair out, letting it scrape across the floor like men always do before taking a seat. You follow after him nervously, apprehensive at having a man in your space. Not just a man, but Simon Riley. It feels sacrilegeânot like he has no right being in your space, but you canât imagine him here, sitting at your tiny dining room table like he comes over for dinner every Sunday.Â
When he catches you standing under the archway to the kitchen just staring at him, he barks, âWell?â
That has you scurrying over to the fridge to pull out the cold cuts and pickled red onions. Thereâs a loaf of bread already on the counter, the bag twisted and tucked underneath because you had to leave in a rush this morning. You donât know half of what you pile on the sandwiches, but whatever you serve him must satisfy him because Simon digs in with gusto, finishing the plate off in only a few bites while you wash the cutlery in the sink. You watch him out of the corner of your eye the whole while.
He leaves not too long after that, only a light warning for you to not miss tomorrowâs lunch before heading back over to his own apartment. You donât even get a word in edgewise.Â
It becomes something of a routine after that and not one you have any control over. Every night before bed, you leave him a cooler full of sandwiches and other things like cut up fruit or slices of cheese on his doormat, and every afternoon you rock up to him waiting on your doorstep, demanding to be let in.Â
He takes to giving you a wet kiss before he leaves, all tongue and his fingers curled around the nape of your neck, holding you in place. When you try to cover his mouth with your hand, he nips at your fingers until you move them and let him slip you some tongue.Â
The day you make him a casserole for supper, he bends you over the back of your couch and eats you out. Simon eats like a man starving, glutting himself on the wetness between your legs, licking even over the furl of your asshole and chuckling under his breath when you squeal and flail, your toes just brushing against the floor.Â
In the aftermath, you sit panting in his lap while he eats. He gets up only briefly to get the bowl of strawberries and cream you left chilling in the fridge before lifting you up and putting you right back in his lap. You stare bleary-eyed when he holds a finger covered in cream up to your lips.
âClean me up, pet,â he says, then watches you with half-lidded eyes while you lick his finger clean.Â
He makes you suck his fingers too, to keep things even. He does it when youâre angled half off the bed, thick digits stuffed down your throat until your eyes leak big, fat tears that he licks away, hungry for those too. The man is always hungry, always keen to fill his belly.Â
The arrangement continues on long enough to become normal, even routine. Simon shows up at your door every day after work waiting to be fed, and then makes you come a couple times before he leaves, a little thank you to repay you for the food. He never really says all that much when he comes around, not a conversationalist of a man. His preference is to eat, fuck, and leave, which youâre happy to accommodate, still too tongue-tied yourself to broach a real conversation.Â
Thatâs all before he starts helping himself to your bed for a quick nap after a big supper. Then for naps that turn into a full nightâs sleep, snoring like a chainsaw under the covers with you tucked under his arm, naked breasts pressed against his side, keeping you awake most of the night until you pass out somewhere around one A.M.Â
Just as you suspected, Simon gets up at around four or five to be at the jobsite on time, but at your place, he gets up a bit earlier to help himself to breakfast. He doesn't even bother waking you up, just turns you over onto your tummy and spreads your legs before sinking his dick into where you're still stretched out from the night before. If you wake up or squirm, he just leans down and murmurs, âS'alright, petâŠjust need a pick me up before work. Go back to sleep, youâre okay,â and ruts between your thighs until he comes inside you and leaves you all wet in bed with one last messy kiss to your temple.Â
The door slams shut on his way out.Â
Because you feed him, he keeps coming back. The workday passes in a blur: attendance, a spelling test, recess, maths in the afternoon, and then youâre driving home in the same daze that has you slamming on the brakes before rear ending an old woman who stopped two cars behind the truck at the redlight ahead.Â
Youâre home earlier than him for a change, so you unlock the door quickly while thereâs still a chance to avoid him. No such luck. When Simon turns up, he pounds on the door until you let him in. And you do.Â
Itâs a wonder you havenât come apart at the seams, horny and pent up after this morning. You were too sleepy to come after all, rode hard and put away wet. Still, you flit nervously around the apartment, looking everywhere but at him.Â
He always smells rich after working all day in the sun, like sweat and dirt. It's not a particularly nice smell, but it still kind of gets you going. He goes for a shower and then collapses on the couch after, beckoning you over to you crawl into his lap and grind yourself on his thigh because he knows of course. Simon can probably smell it on you, the ache. He shushes you when you whine about it, big hands fitting around your hips and pressing you down until your clit rubs deliciously against the muscle of his thigh and your head goes cloudy, cheek mushed against the pillow of his chest.Â
When you come, Simon tips your chin up with his knuckle and murmurs, âKnickers off, love. Havenât got my fill.â
He feeds you your own slick from his fingers when he kneels on the floor in front of the couch, your legs draped over his shoulders. Your fingers scratch helplessly over shorn blond hair, buzzed almost to the scalp. Itâs prickly under your fingertips.Â
Simonâs a messy eater. Your slick dribbles down his lips and glistens on his chin. It makes the blood roar under your skin, feverishly hot.Â
âPlease, Simon,â you whine, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. âIt hurts.â
You feel his lips quirk up against the folds of your pussy, the flat of his tongue running up the seam and flicking over your clit. He chuckles when your hips jerk. âGreedy arenât you, pet? Didnât even say thank you for getting on my knees.â
âYou didnât make me come!â
His voice borders on mocking when he coos, âPoor little thing. Itâs gonna be a lot longer âtil she gets to come if you donât say thank you.â
Your brain goes staticy, fingers twitching on his scalp. His words echo back in your head. Itâs rubbish, is what it is. All this time and heâs never said thank you once for the countless meals youâve fed him. Indignation bubbles up in you, rising to the surface like fat on the cream, and you raise a hand to rub the tears from your eyes, a harsh rebuke on the tip of your tongue.
The protest dies on your lips when he meets your gaze. Itâs hungrier than anything youâve ever seen. Whatever animal lives under his skin stares back at you with black eyes, drool leaking from its jowls. Itâs mindless, intent only on slaking its hunger. Filling its empty belly. And it is not afraid of you anymore. It knows youâll feed it until itâs full. It knows you wonât let it go hungry anymore.Â
So, always leery of the bigger animal in the room, you mumble out a chest-thick, âThank you,â and shiver when he grins.Â
Thereâs a reason they tell you not to feed strays. They often come back for more.
situationship!simon who stares at the door after you leave, his fists clenched at his sides
puts a hole in his wall once he's sure you're really gone
getting messages from johnny begging you to talk to simon. 'he's being fucking insufferable. our new recruits won't live to see action at this rate.'
finding little gifts outside your apartment when you come home from work. a flower placed on your welcome mat, a gift card to your favorite nail salon shoved into the crack of your door
his most recent offering comes in the form of a handwritten note slid under the door. âyou are everything to me.â
keeping it in your nightstand to look at every day
the 'you up?' messages turning into passing thoughts, jokes and pleadings for any kind of word from you
'saw that flower you like when i was out in the field. it smells just as pretty as you said. reminds me of your perfume.'
'i made my tea the way you like it. not sure if i can go back now.'
'please talk to me. i need you.'
simon calling you once a day like clockwork. doesnât want to harass you, just wants you to know that heâs still around (and patient)
said patience flying out the window when he hears you have dinner plans with a male coworker, the same one he caught looking at your ass when he picked you up from work one day
simon who shows up at your apartment just as you're about to leave for your date, because giving you space is one thing. but giving you up is a different story.
a/n: part 1.5 of my situationship!simon i swear pt 2 is a WIP but it's so hard without a computer
situationship!simon always managing to show up to your apartment minutes before your prospective dates do. scares them away from the front door with a smirk and a flick of his cigarette
scratching his back and leaving the word âmineâ written out in raised red lines
makes it clear heâs not your boyfriend but scowls every time he hears it coming from you
ignoring his 2am âi know youâre awakeâ messages only to jump out of your skin an hour later when you hear an all too familiar knock at the door
ânow what were you doing that was more important that talking to me?â
giving each other the cold shoulder all day after a fight, only to end up having intense angry sex that night
simon cutting off any existing flings he has the moment you two get involved but insisting what you have isnât committed
pays for you to get your nails done (only if he gets to pick the color)
gets mad at johnny when he jokes about taking you out for dinner. âyou said yourself sânot serious LT. whatâs the problem?â proceeds to knock the shit eating grin right off his friendâs face
shuts down when you demand to put a label on things. stares at you when your lip starts to quiver, tears welling up in your eyes. doesnât come after you when you snap a âfuck you, rileyâ before storming out of his apartment
a/n: there WILL be a part two please donât hurt me
The older I get the more I admire people who are earnestly, genuinely into whatever their thing is. I know it sounds like an annoying cliche but unless you're being cruel or hurtful there is really no need to be normal about things. The dude with the bad fake accent at the renaissance faire is having the time of his life. The people having photoshoots with their fashion dolls are loving it. The old lady with a yard unreasonably full of tacky ass lawn ornaments is having a blast, HOA be damned.
Don't waste your time being too cool to have fun, y'know?
Speaking as a 33yo anime fan, please take this and sit with it and put it into your heart, because it is true:
That shouldn't be scary. It should be comforting. The thought that you'll always have a hobby, you'll always find joy in the stories you love and find new ones to love and new friends to love them with you is a blessing.
I'm serious. Let go of your worries. Fandom has always been a place for adults. It's only in recent years that younger people have decided it belongs to them, that they've got an entitlement to the institutions and customs and events that were built upon decades of fannish community, with no thought to how they got there or who came before or who is still here, now, making it happen.
You're 21. You've got many, many years of life ahead of you and the idea that you've got some kind of expiration date after which you're no longer allowed to be a human with interests is common and people will say it to you over and over, but it's bogus and you don't have to listen to them.
simon is an extremely light sleeper, making it near impossible to sneak away from him while youâre laid in bed together. the slightest shift upwards and heâs groaning, reaching an arm out to grab for you.
he goes to sleep late and wakes up early naturally, some days beating the sunrise. he claims he hasnât needed a full night of sleep in years, but at least once a day youâll find him lightly snoring in his chair or leaned back on the couch, his arms crossed.
cat lady in disguise. he doesnât mean to, but somehow cats are just drawn to him. itâs quite troublesome actually, because fending off a small gray kitten and a girlfriend whoâs begging him to keep it is not exactly how he wanted to spend tonight.
date night has now been relocated to the pet store (not the first time)
chronic ass grabber. the man has a problem
regularly has johnny over to watch football matches and have a bourbon
regularly has to remind drunk johnny that no, he cannot move in with you guys
likes cooking competition shows, especially entertained by gordon ramsay
has never touched moisturizer in his life
good with kids. toddler magnet. the balaclava can be a bit off putting to most kids, but somehow at every family event youâve dragged him to heâs turned into a jungle gym for the youngest ones (this is beyond his control)
STARING PROBLEM. be prepared to be going about your day and just make direct eye contact with the most bored expression youâve seen in your life from across the room. it takes a while to understand that it does not in fact mean he want to crush your bones, more so that he wants to jump them
as a matter of fact, heâs the worst person to get into a staring contest with. johnny does it at least once a week and has stopped keeping track of how long his losing streak is (heâs been saying he will get simon any day now for over 6 months)
went fishing with price a few times. all that waiting for the fish to bite nearly drove him mad
sucker for head scratches. quiet literally melts when he feels your nails lightly scratching at his scalp, your fingers running through his short hair. bonus points if heâs laying between your legs with his head on your stomach, simon.exe will stop working
calls johnny when he needs help, calls kyle when he needs romantic advice, calls john when he needs personal guidance
hates clowns. they're just soâŠoff putting to him
follows very close behind when you're out shopping. hovers behind you as you pick out your items, to passerby it looks a bit concerning but simonâs just really interested in what you're interested in
has at least 5 different beanies (skull cap? knit hat? truly not sure what to call them lol) and insists they all feel different
will get annoyed if he grabs the wrong one by accident
â sânot the slouchy one.â âsimon, theyâre literally all the same.â âso you think.â
a/n: this is my first post hello!!!!! thank you so much for the love so far MWAHH
thinking about simon whoâs watching you get another drink from the bar, counting the minutes until you return to the booth your team is currently occupying. he swirls the ice in his glass, glancing over every other second just to make sure youâre still within eyesight while he half listens to johnny talk about the most recent Manchester match. itâs already been 3 minutes. what is taking so bloody long?
âIâm pretty sure youâre burning a hole in the back of her head with that stare mate,â kyle says, lightly nudging simonâs shoulder. simon turns to face him, eyebrows knitting together. âmâjust making sure sheâs alright.â
the corner of kyleâs mouth twitches. âsheâs a big girl, isnât she? seems to be handling herself just fine.â
prick. simon takes a sip of his drink, glaring at him over the glass. heâs fully aware you can handle yourself, heâs seen you drop full grown men to their knees in the field without breaking a sweat. so why does it feel more dangerous to leave you alone in a stupid bar? another quick glance back to the bar reveals you laughing with the bartender, complimenting her hair and enjoying some small talk.
âand simon wants to handle her.â johnnyâs words came out slow and a bit slurred, proof that heâd probably had one too many. if heâd been a little less intoxicated simon wouldâve shoved him out of the booth. âlooks like someone else does too,â kyle mumbled, lifting his glass and looking back in the direction of the bar. simon swears he feels his neck crack at the speed he turns to look.
who the fuck is that?
there's a tall blonde man standing close â too close â to you at the bar. toothpaste commercial smile, wavy hairâŠand hands that are way too antsy for simonâs taste. the way they move back and forth in the space between the two of you, resting on the bar next to your arm. thereâs no need for him to get so close. simon ignores the bubbling pit of annoyance growing in his stomach â and johnnyâs childish âooohâ as he turns back to the table. âgood for him.â
kyle lets out a bark of laughter, shaking his head as he looks down at the empty glass in his hands. âyou're one stubborn git, Iâll tell ya.â placing the glass back down on the table, he looks back up at his masked friend. âyou know, if I felt the way you do about her, she wouldâve been mine a long time ago.â
simonâs eyes narrow into a glare. âwhat is that supposed to mean?â
âmeans exactly what I said.â he shrugs. âyou want her so fucking bad, go get her. I wouldnât let anything stop me if I was you.â
simon scoffs. if only it was that simple. there was no room for error with you. letting you in was a gamble in itself, and nowâŠlosing you was simply not an option. heâd managed to convince himself that it wouldnât be possible to get attached, that being friendly was for the teamâs sake. it definitely wasnât because he was tired of only seeing you in flashes during dreams. and it absolutely was not because he found himself leaving every interaction with you feeling lighter. happier, almost.
âthings are best as they are.â his answer was low, but kyle didnât miss the tinge of sadness to his words.
âdoes she feel that way? did you ever bother to ask her? because I think if you did, she mi-â
âoh, shit.â johnnyâs tone has considerably sobered as he looks past his friends at the bar where you stand. âshe does not look happy.â
understatement of the century, simon thought as he turned back to you. hands on your hips, a scowl gracing your features. he swears heâs never seen someone look so angry and so beautiful at the same time. youâre glaring up at the prick with the pepsodent smile, spitting what looks to be venom at him while he looks down his nose at you condescendingly. if simon wasnât overcome with irritation for whatever heâd done to piss you off, he wouldâve enjoyed the sight. his little spitfire.
his. he needs to stop using that word when it comes to you. too dangerous to get used to.
she can handle it repeats in his head like a prayer. every muscle aches to run over and toss the man on the floor, not even stopping to find out what he had done to piss you off first, but he squeezes his glass to placate himself. sheâs a big girl, like kyle said. a task force solider. if she needs help, she â
simonâs on his feet within seconds of your panicked gaze meeting his. there's something in your eyes, a look heâs ever seen before and is already planning on never seeing again. he barrels his way across the room as people part like the red sea, leading a path right to where you stand. the man has stepped closer to you, a slimy look on his face as he leers down at you. he may be tall, but simon towers over him as he steps up behind him, fists clenched. âoi.â
the man, who simon has decided is called dickhead, turns lazily to face him. his eyes widen slightly as he takes in the mountain of a man hovering behind him but he quickly masks it, trying his best to look bored.
âthe fuck are you doing bothering my girl?â
dickhead has the balls to roll his eyes. simon imagines all the ways he could cut them out.
âi told you I have a boyfriend,â you snap. simon is pleasantly surprised by this, although what else does he expect? you obviously wanted this man to leave you alone, and that should have given him reason enough to do so. should have. he opens his mouth to speak but you cut him off.
ânot so tough now that heâs not sitting all the way over there now, huh?â
simon nearly falls over. you told this guy that he was your boyfriend? he blinks once at you before he realizes that itâs not the time to digest this information. dickhead is still here and vertical, and thatâs a problem. perhaps itâs the rounds of whiskey johnny kept talking him into, but something primal switches on when simon falls into the persona youâve just created for him. the idea of you being his, needing him flooded his thoughts. dickhead mustâve seen the murderous expression slip onto his face just like one of his masks because the color drains from his face. simonâs voice lowers to a dangerous level.
âspeak to her again and see how long you live. now walk away.â
a smart choice, simon hums to himself as dickhead scurries away looking slightly green. he has no idea how smart. simon snaps out of his musings as a hand softly rests on his forearm. wide, grateful eyes stare back up at him as he allows himself to take in current situation. âthank you so much simon, he was such a fucking creep. started asking me shit about my underwear and wouldnât let me past him.â
âheâs lucky I didnât know that before I let him go.â heâll be less lucky later on. simon has a new errand to run, but that can wait until after youâre finished holding his arm and staring up at him like he hung the moon.
âso. when were you gonna tell me we were an item?â the joke tumbles out before he has time to think about it. by the look on your face, you're not about to take off running, so he continues. âyâshould probably keep me in the loop about things like that, hm?â he braces himself for the what he thinks is the inevitable â I was only joking, simonâŠyeah, as ifâŠI know, could you ever imagine that?
instead, the giggle that he receives in response makes his heart swell. laughter shouldnât sound so musical and delicate. and it definitely shouldnât come from a girl as beautiful as you when you're laughing. somehow, the fact that its him you're laughing at makes it sound even better. in that moment, simonâs hit with the bone chilling realization that he is fucked. so fucked itâs not even funny. the hours spent building his walls up just for you to tear them down again with a simple good morning, simon had been for nothing, because there was no running from this. and this is why he allows himself to wrap an arm around your waist as you formulate your reply.
if his show of affection takes you by surprise it doesnât show. instead, you take a step closer to him, your hand coming to rest on his side as he pulls you to him. âseems like you were in the loop just fine, riley. after all, I'm âyour girlâ, right?â he wishes he could kiss you, press you back against the bar because yes, you are his girl, and to hear it in that teasing tone of voice is driving him to madness. heâs almost sure you know what you're doing, blinking up at him with those pretty eyes. itâs not fair to look at him like that, not if you donât mean it. and simon isnât 100% sure, but â
âIâm gonna put that on my resume. âsimon rileyâs girlâ,â you chirp as you drag him back to your booth. simon smiles. he can settle for 99.9%.
a/n: this has been bouncing around in my head all day enjoy <33
hate sex (is what you call it almost like you're trying to convince yourself) would go crazy with ex bf simon.
when he texts you at work that he's landing in 2 hours, you realize you forgot to block him after the breakup. that'd been almost a year ago. the last message you don't even bother reading. simply delete and block.
i'll see you at home.
when you finally go home after working a grueling corporate job that always leaves you with frayed nerves and your teeth on edge, you stand by the door, instantly realizing something's wrong different.
mud-caked boots sit by the door. the lights inside are on and when you walk in, you find out why.
simon's sprawled on your couch, asleep, his large frame making it seem like a child's bed instead of living room furniture. his snoring scrapes over your already tender nerves, thinning the already wisp-like thread of patience you're barely dangling from.
you grab a cushion and toss it at his head. (you do not miss the way he snores. it's like a hibernating bear in a cave. resounding. grating.)
"get up and get out."
to your astounding surprise, he doesn't. instead, he groggily asks what's for dinner. when you bark out, "nothing. i'm exhausted and going to sleep", he gets up with an agility no man his size should possess and blocks your path.
you've always loved hated the way he makes you feel small.
"either we eat takeout or i eat you out." that solves that. you've got boundaries to keep. maybe he'll eat his fill and piss off.
he doesn't. he eats you out anyway, legs perched on the kitchen counter as he slurps up your slick like a starved man at a bountiful feast. doesn't care that you're pelting his broad back with your small fists, slurring how much you hate him.
"course you do, pet."
he thinks your ire is endearing, like a spirited kitten that needs to expend their energy before settling down for the night. he makes you ride him on the couch, the burn of him stretching you feeling as intense as very first time he took you.
"tight cunt's forgotten me. it's alrigh', i'll carve out a space in 'ere jus' f'me." (again.)
when you sit flush on his thighs, balls pressed against your arse, he bucks up, feeling his cock in your throat, the oxygen stolen from your lungs.
"show me how much ya hate me."
(somewhere down the line, when your hair is damp with sweat and your neck's marked purple, he tells you that even if you don't like him, your cunt loves him. so much so it's gripping him like it never wants him to leave. so he doesn't. stays over for a night. then two. a week. a month. until it's time to go to work again.)
simonâs head rolls slowly, skull hitting the back of the couch as he exhales a soft whimper. his adamâs apple bobs in his throat with the way you work your kisses down his neck, tongue sliding over the skin before you suck his flesh between your plushed lips.
âoh fuck,â is all simon can even fathom at the moment. n thereâs a fog that settles over his brain, something that mushes his thoughts, his conscious into a melting mess.
his skin runs electric with the sweet purr of your giggle, fingers running down his chest till the tips land along the line of his belt. that gets simon going, not to mention the way your hips roll n press down onto him subconsciously.
âb-baby,â he huffs in a desperate attempt to catch your attention. he needs you to stop, n not cuz heâs not liking it or sum, nah heâs boutta fuckinâ bust.
âmmm?â you draw out, tongue dragging up the space of his arched neck. the hairs rise, standing tall on simonâs arms as you suck a bruise into that sweet spot just below simonâs ear.
simon riley loves letting you play with him. he adores when you push him around, and while he doesnât think he could ever allow himself to fully lose his guard, he merely goes dumb when you have him.
when you hold his face in both of your gentle hands, soft against his scars and stubble as you look at him with nothing but benevolence.
pinching his cheeks between your fingers to get him to open his mouth, jaw falling slack to welcome your other ring and middle fingers against his tongue, knuckles nestled between his pink lips.
he keeps his eyes on yours, somewhere far in the back of his mind wondering what exactly made him like thisâhow the big, bad ghost had wound up on his knees for a pretty girl such as yourself, half his stature and with not an ounce of meanness in your bonesâbefore his brows are pinching and heâs groaning lowly around your digits as you apply more pressure down onto his rough tongue.
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