Summary: you thought meeting your soulmate wasn't in the stars for you. Until you meet four men at the military base you are working at as a nurse. The other pieces to your soul, your soulmates.
Word count: 3.7k
Warnings: wounds(reader is a nurse), polyamorous relationship, soulmate au, manhandling, fluff, angst
Masterlist ->
Note: first Cod fanfic! I don't know much about Cod so please don't shoot me if this isn't accurate lol.
Finding your soulmate was a rare thing, Even though the world has been romanticizing it for centuries at every turn you make. Some people could have two Soulmates at once, their deep bond being unbreakable between them. You thought you'd never even get close to finding your soulmate, so you buried that hope deep down in your chest a long time ago to avoid getting your heart broken. Especially now that you worked as a nurse on a military base you feel like there was truly no hope left.
Which is why you are wide eyed staring at the two men who stand in the doorway of the nurses office, the both of them staring back at you in just as much shock as you are. Electricity tingling down your spine as the pieces in your soul seem to click together and feel whole for the first time. Its incredible and unlike anything you've ever experienced before, its familiar and bright.
One of the men stands at least a foot taller then the other, a skull mask covering his face. His eyes are wide behind the mask and His fists are balled up like they might shatter. The other man beside him adores a mowhawk with shaved sides, his eyes also wide but theres a small smile slowly starting to apear on his face as he continues to stare at you.
The frozen moment is broken when the man with the skull mask turns around and storms out of the doorway, making his way down the hallway with heavy but quick footsteps. "Ghost!" The man with the mowhawk calls after him, his shoulders slouch when he realizes he isn't coming back. You're silent as you watch, feeling like this isnt real, like that isn't your soulmate standing in front of you right now. After all this time of denying yourself the ability to hope and dream of a future with your soulmate, you now are in the same room as the person who is a part of your soul. And the other piece just ran away from you like the thought of just being in the same room as you burned him.
The man clears his throat to break the silence as he leans on the doorframe to keep his balance "Hes great once you get to know him..." he offers you a bright smile. Finally snapping out of your shocked trance, You realize hes not putting weight on his left leg, the reason he came here in the first place "what happened to your leg?" You walk closer to him, feeling your heartbeat quicken as you approach him, the electricity between you two is undeniable. "Went and banged up my knee pretty badly"
he hisses as puts his weight onto his left leg "reckon you could take a look for me?" Sighing as you grab his arm to put it over your shoulder, trying to ignore how your legs weaken as you touch him, you navigate him to the hospital bed against the wall. Letting him take a seat on the bed, you are now directly in front of him, He looks up at you, his eyes intense, they stay on your face as you purposely avoid eye contact while he takes you in. Eyes trailing over you like hot fire, almost like you could feel the sparks under your skin where his eyes lingered.
"Lift your pant leg up so I can see your knee properly" he smiles cheakly at the effort you're putting into staying professional and rolls his sweatpants leg up past his knee so you can have a better look. Touching his knee gently, he tenses his thigh as he tries not to have a reaction to the pressure. The skin is starting bruise "how did you injure your knee?" You question him, making him scratch the back of his neck as a slight flush on pink covers his cheeks "aye well- I was running on the treadmill and-" he let's out a chuckle before continuing "I tripped over my own foot and went down on the movin treadmill" a smile breaks out onto your face before you could stop it, biting your lip so you don't let out a laugh at the imaginary. "Yeah yeah laugh it up" he rolls his eyes but the smirk on his face made it obvious hes not actually annoyed.
"Im not laughing! Im sure it hurt" then proceed to let out a small laugh before going back to pressing on his knee. "Johnny" he says, you look at him in question "my name. Its Johnny" you hold out your hand for a handshake and tell him your name. He glances down at your out stretched hand with a smirk and a raised eyebrow before encasing both his hands around yours, engulfing it in his warmth
"its a pleasure to finally meet you sweetheart"
~âĄ~
Johnny came back for another visit later that week, his knee healing nicely as the purple color starts to fade back to normal and he can now put his weight back on his leg. He sits still on the hospital bed once again, you're trying to ignore how you've been thinking about the two men non stop since their last visit as you press your thumb against his knee. He sits with his legs parted as he rests back on his hands, looking casual and calm as you stand between his legs. Feeling your cheeks heat up at his intense stare and position, His eyes once again trailing over you, but this time it felt more heavy, like he was hesitant to say something.
"id like to apologize on behalf ghost" you look up at him to see him sigh, his eyebrows frown as he continues "hes a stubborn bastard when it comes to his emotions. Hell it took months for him to stop glarin at me" he chuckles at the memory "he will come around eventually. Especially for a birdy like you. Hes just..." he trails off, looking up to the door ghost stormed out of the week prior "guarded" he finishes. A birdy like you? All you felt was rejection from your soulmate named ghost. He looked at you once and decided he wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole, and it hurt.
Sensing the dip in your mood, he changes the topic. "Ya know we have two more soulmates? Besides ghost" that sparks your intrest immediately. Two more soulmates? What? Do they also work on base? You can't believe you found one soulmate let alone FOUR. Johnny chuckles and nods, now seeing the twinkle of curiosity in your eyes as you take a step closer to his sitting form on the bed "their names are captain price and gaz"
Your eyes go wide at his statement "captain?" His smile only widens at the question before rising to his feet "i gotta get goin. Ya know Duty calls" he pats your shoulder gently "ill see ya around birdy" he says teasingly and winks, but you weren't aware he was cheekily referencing ghost's petnames. He laughs to himself before he walks out the door of the cold office. Eyes lingering where he had left, all you could wonder was:
who was gaz and captain price?
~âĄ~
The sound of footsteps getting louder makes you look up to the doorway, a nurse emerges from the hall with his bag tucked under his arm "hey! You're free to go" he smiles as he prepares to take your place while you go on lunch break. Thanking him, you walk out to the hallway and begin making your way towards the kitchen on base. While walking, you think back to what Johnny said.
"Ya know we have two more soulmates? Besides ghost"
You wonder if they work on base too? Would they also turn you away like how ghost did? Maybe he already told them about how vile of a soulmate you were and now they are avoiding you. Its all so overwhelming to think about, especially at work of all places.Â
Lost in your thoughts, you failed to notice the person emerging around the corner from the other hall, his pace naturally quick as his legs take wide strides around the corner. You are ripped out of your trance when you crash into a hard chest, getting thrown to the floor in the process. "Oh shit! Im so sorry!" A smooth voice rings out above you as he reaches out to help you up, before his movement flatter. Looking up to see who you bumped into, a man stands above you with his lips parted in awe as he stares down at your form on the floor, his hand still out stretched as its frozen in Place, eyes darting across your face.
You are confused until you feel the familiar tingle of electricity shoot up your spine in quick flashes, your heart beating rapidly as you look into this mans eyes. "U-uh..." he stutters, not knowing how to get his words out, before shaking his head and clearing his throat before properly offering his hand to you "here let me help you..." his hand grabs yours, lifting you with ease.
You can feel how warm his palm is, how it fits perfectly around yours. Your chest feels warm and fuzzy at the sight of him. He let's go of your hand once your on your feet, the loss of contact makes the both of you yearn for more. "I should've been looking where I was going. that's my bad" he scratches his neck while he avoids eye contact. His nervousness taking you off guard. Johnny was a ray of sunshine, immediately wanting to be in your bubble and talking to you. While ghost retreated into himself and ran for the hills. But your third soulmate was...bashful almost. His kind smile was calm and refreshing, like a cool breeze on a summer day.
He let's out a small chuckle "soap has been talking so much about you. And now that i finally met you im not sure what to say" your eyebrows frown at the unfamiliar name "soap?" You question. He looks confused before realising his mistake "johnny" you make a quick "oh" then pressed your lips into a line, hes amused at your realization on who soap is. You should've guessed, So they all go by their code names?
you smile as you hold out your hand for a handshake, mimicking the one you gave Johnny when you first met "im y/n" he takes your hand, smiling as he now holds eye contact "kyle. But you can call me gaz" So this is gaz, hes cute. You slightly tighten your grip around his hand "Nice to finally match the name to a face" he smirks "likewise"
the beeping of a phone breaks the tension between you two, making gaz drop your hand to dig his phone out of his pocket. He slightly winces at the contact name, you can briefly see the name "simon" on the caller ID. "I have to go" he says hesitantly, like he doesn't want to end this interaction "but it was nice meeting you darling" he smiles warmly like he truly ment it, before politely nodding at you and continuing his way down the hallway as he answers his phone, now with a prep in his step, hearing his voice talking to the person on the phone as he walks further away.
You let out a breath, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you continue walking to the kitchen. You've now met 3 out of the 4. The 4th one being a captain. Nervousness builds in your chest, oh god.
~âĄ~
You're not able to get yesterday out of your mind as you worked, thoughts of how bizarre it is to be meeting all your soulmates out of no where swirl around in your head, and you have yet to meet one of them. "i think im going to take my lunch break" you say to the other nurse sharing the work shift with you. She nods and goes back to reading her magazine.
While making your way to the kitchen once again, you are anxious about bumping into one of them again. The feelings from simply holding eye contact is breathtaking. Now successfully making it to the kitchen without a soulmate in sight, you let out of breath of relief. Now you can have your tea in peace. Opening the cabinet above you, you pull out a flavored tea bag from one of the boxes the military base provides, holding it in your hand as you open another cabinet next to it.
Reaching up for one of the last mug sitting on the top self, you struggle to touch it. Standing up on your tippy toes, you still are not able to reach it, it taunts you as it sits high up on the self. Huffing out a irritated sigh as you stare up at the cups with annoyance. A strong spark going down your spine takes you off guard, before a gloved hand comes into your vision, plucking a mug right off the shelf with ease. Turning your head to see who crept up behind you, a skull mask is hovering over you as he stares down at you. His glare is icey as it pierces through you, his body extremely close to yours as he lingers behind you, pretty much caging you in between the counter and him.
He holds eye contact as he sets the cup down on the counter in front of you, like hes trying to intimidate you. He let's out a quiet rumble that sounded almost like a small growl, before slowly backing away from you. His tall figure stalking out the kitchen like his purpose of being there in the first place was to intimidate you then leave. Keeping your gaze on the entrance, your stunned at the interaction, he hadn't said a single word to you.
Looking down at the mug, you notice its a baby pink color with cute bunny faces on it. Your lips slightly quirk up without you realizing it. Using pink bunny mugs and silent glares as a intimation tactic isn't very scary.
~âĄ~
Loud voices echo throughout the halls of the base as they grow closer to the nurses office, booming through the doorway, making you immediately stand up in alert. Four men rush through the door, three of which you recognize, and one who you haven't seen before. both Johnny and gaz are on either side of ghost as they hold up his heavy frame, trying to keep him on his feet as hes unconscious from blood loss. The other man beside them holds authority as he motions the two men carrying ghost towards the hospital bed against the wall with a firm voice. They lift ghost up onto the bed gently, being mindful of his injury. The man you don't recognize finally turns to you
"he has a gunshot wound-" he goes to speak but abruptly stops once he catches your eyes, making his throat go dry from the sparks raging in his body as he looks at you. He quickly clears his throat and continues "gunshot wound in his shoulder. He passed out due to blood loss in the helicopter on the ride back" he manages to stay professional even though his eyes seem darker then a few moments ago, unable to leave your form. Shaking your head, trying to brush off the fireworks in your chest and way his gaze is following your every move makes your cheeks heat up. You hurriedly rush over to ghost who is laying soundlessly on the bed, dragging along a metal rolling table of tools behind you.
Switching into professional mode, you unlatch his tactical vest and with the help of Johnny, he slightly lifts ghost up so you could slide the fabric out from underneath him. Before taking a pare of scissors from the metal tray and cutting open his shirt to reveal the wound. While looking over the bloodied wound as you put on a pare of gloves, you feel worry clouding your mind as you stare at your soulmate laying unconscious on the bed.
"Did the bullet exit?" You ask, making who you assume is captain price speak up "im not sure. The bullet still could be in the wound" he sounded closer than you thought, turning around to face him confirms that theory. Hes hovering over your shoulder watching you work on ghost, unable to stop himself from keeping a close eye on him. He looks down at you, realising how close he is to you before taking a few steps back "sorry..." he clears his throat again. Gaz glasps a hand on his shoulder with a soft smile on his face "he will be alright cap"
~âĄ~
After awhile of patching up the wound, it was finally bandaged and done. Ghost was still unconscious on the hospital bed, his chest rising with each breath slowly. As you put away the rolling table of tools and sanitized everything, Johnny rests his palm on ghosts masked face, stroking his thumb over the fabric where his cheek is. Hes only wearing his balaclava without the skull mask on top, letting you see part of his face more properly for the first time. Trying to not stare at the men, you busy yourself with putting away the tools instead. Until you feel a large hand touch your shoulder. Turning around, you're met with captain price. You get the familiar feeling of sparks and nervousness blooming inside of you.
"Good work. You did good" hes trying to remain professional as a captain but hes obviously failing at he takes you in properly for the first time, unable to stop his head from slightly tilting in amusement at the way you avoid eye contact, you're now feeling sudden butterflies in your stomach at the praise "Oh! thank you" He smiles fondly at the nervousness you're displaying, already smitten by you, he could just eat you up. being soulmates with a captain is so nerve wracking. you feel the prying eyes of the other two men as they watch the interaction, smirking as they exchanged a look.
"Names John price" he extends his hand out professionally, engulfing yours as you meet his with your own hand. You tell him your name with a small smile, making him nod his head "nice to meet you sweetheart" letting your hand linger in his before letting go. "Captain we gotta get back" gaz breaks the moment between you two, making price nod at him. His eyes moves to ghost for a few moments, then let's himself find you again.
"until next time" he smiles at you then turns around to walk towards the door. Johnny winks at you and bids his goodbye "ill be back later baby" his out right flirting makes your cheeks burn as he walks out through the door. Gaz chuckles "bye honey" and with that they were all gone. Leaving you flustered at their petnames. They obviously knew what it did to you.
Biting your lip to conceal a smile, you can't believe you have now met all of them, they all give you a roller-coaster of emotions, Always leaving your skin hot and your heart pounding with excitement. The sound of a low groan breaks you from your internal dialog, Making you turn around to see ghost slowly shifting around as he groans from pain.
Rushing over you quickly put a hand on his bicep "don't move to much-" you are cut off by him quickly grabbing your arm roughly and pulling you towards him, making you fall onto the bed, hitting your knee on the cold metal frame in the process "ouch!" You're now hovering over him as you catch yourself from nose diving into his face.
His eyes open in alert as he blinks, finally realizing its you who touched him. He looks around the room before he comes back to you, his gaze falling to his tight grip around your arm. His hand immediately falls away from your arm as if it burned him. Letting you get up off of him, hissing in pain as you put your weight on the knee that hit the metal. He tries to sit up as he looks at you with something that close to regret and dread. But groans as pain shoots through his shoulder "Fuck" he curses. At the pain and at himself for hurting you.
"Stop moving" you say as he tries to get up again. He finally let's himself fall back into the mattress with a irritated sigh. You step closer Hesitantly, afraid of triggering him again. He notices and pauses. "come 'ere" his voice rumbles lowly as he watches you closely. You approach him slowly. Glancing at the bandaged wound before meeting his eyes. They hold a sense of regret within them, mixed with something much deeper. Now standing at the edge of his bed, his eyes roam your face for any discomfort.
When he sees none, he reaches out his hand to gently touch your knee, letting his palm cover it as he rubs his thumb across it, then he peers to your arm, he frowns "im...sorry" the apology is foreign in his mouth, letting it sit in the air as he looks away, retracting his hand in the process. The two words are heavy, like hes apologizing for more then just grabbing you. You offer him a soft smile "i know"
Those were all the words exchanged while you rebandaged his wound. Him staying quiet as you worked. But his heavy stare never left you, making your body feel like it was boiling hot. He never broke eye contact if you looked up, you being the one to turn away first. Its like hes pinning you in place with just a look. Finishing up rewrapping his bandage, you finally meet his piercing stare, he holds it. Much like how he did in the kitchen a few days prior, but this time much softer. "Thank you" he says quietly, his deep voice sending electricity up your back.
The way hes not pushing you away and letting you stay close to him gives you hope, that just maybe he's warming up to you just like Johnny said he would.
Authors note: would yall be interested in a part 2? It would be very kind of you to let me know if you liked this! <3 id love to do more with this plot.
Obsessed with Vampire!Price x Vampire Hunter!Reader.
For starters, Price is not the brooding, woe is me vampire. Heâs very old, so heâs not impulsive and reckless like many freshly turned vampires are. He is pragmatic and maddeningly calm even when he has a stake or silver blade at his throat.
You were raised in a guild of vampire hunters, and you had been trained to believe vampires were nothing but mindless, soulless killing machines. They ran on instinct alone and feel nothing.
You hunt Price for years, which is difficult because he knows how to kill without leaving much evidence behind. It begins with a few young people disappearing from one village, and then a few more in the neighboring village. You follow the trail and realize you have a very smart and very deadly vampire on your hands.
Over the years you encounter one another multiple times, but always from a distance, never giving you a chance to kill him. He always makes eye contact with you from up on the roof of a cottage or half a mile away, at the top of a valley. He never makes a move for you, leaving you alive to come find him again.
Until one time, you track him to a dense city, stalking him into an alleyway. In a flash, he has you pinned to the wall, snarling and growling, saliva dripping from his fangs. His eyes are no longer blue, but a deep dark maroon as his instincts scream for blood.
And thatâs when he shows restraint. He lets you go, and you fall to your knees, heart pounding. Youâre reaching into your satchel for a stake, eyes searching for him in the darkness, but heâs already gone.
You donât see him for almost a year after that, but when you do, the encounter goes unacknowledged. Things go back to the way they have always been.
Shame fills you. Youâre burdened with the knowledge that youâre only alive because he showed mercy.
You hope that killing him makes it go away.
He, on the other hand, looks forward to every one of your encounters. It had been over a century since he has found a true challenge. Youâre possibly the first vampire hunter that he has truly viewed as an equal. Where other hunters have only been pesky nuisances, youâre a challenge with your wit, banter, and undeniable skill. It also helps that youâre easy on the eyes. Truly a source of entertainment in his unnaturally long life.
He enjoys provoking you. Where youâre sharp and righteous, heâs sly, calm and unflappable. It makes every encounter feel like a game of chess, which is infuriating to you who just wants to kill him and be done with it.
When your blades clash, once again, he presses in close enough that you can smell the blood on his breath as he murmurs, âYou shouldnât play with knives, love. You could cut yourself.â
He knows just how to get under your skin, teasing you about the way your hands shake, or how your heart skips a beat when his fangs flash in the moonlight. âAre you afraid, darling?â He muses. âYou know adrenaline only makes blood taste sweeter.â
You tell yourself itâs disgust that you feel for him, but he already knows better.
Sometimes he doesnât fight back at all, letting you get the upper hand just so he can study your face when youâre so close to killing him. Heâll grin wickedly through a bloody lip and say, âGo on then. Do it,â but then he immediately flips you, pinning you beneath him, before you can deliver the killing blow.
One fateful night, youâre wounded from hunting a rogue werewolf. Youâve posted up against a tree, certain that you were going to die moments after slaying your opponent. But Price shows up, watching from the shadows until you notice him.
Youâre certain he is going to descend upon you, drink you dry, and leave your body there under the tree.
You see the dark red seeping into his irises as he approaches you slowly. But instead of finishing you off, he presses something into your hand. A rag and bottle of disinfectant.
âPatch yourself up before you bleed out, little hunter.â
After that, he begins to show up more often, lurking in the shadows. Sometimes you notice him, sometimes you donât. His gaze becomes less predatory and more curious, maybe even protective.
John finds himself fascinated with your tenacity. âYou shouldâve been dead five times over by now, but youâre still standing,â he muttered to himself as he watched you battle with a bruja. âStubborn little thing.â
He calls you âhunter,â or by your surname, but when heâs serious, your first name slips out in that gravelly voice, low enough to send shivers down your spine.
The first time he touches you, without trying to restrain or disarm, itâs to gently brush a drop of blood off your cheek. He lingers, his skin cold and calloused, before pulling back and pushing his thumb past your lips, forcing it into your mouth. The coppery taste of your own blood makes your stomach roll.
The longer this goes on, the more you realize you donât actually want to win. If you win, Price is dead. And that doesnât sit right with you anymore. No. You want to know him. You fight off the urge for as long as you can untilâŠ
You corner him one night, finally managing to restrain him with silver chains. He doesnât fight, but watches you with unnerving calm and something akin to admiration. But both of you know he let you catch him.
He smirks and says, âYouâve finally got me where you want me, hunter. Whatâll you do now, hmm?â
Your hesitation gives you away and he laughs, a quiet rumble, before breaking the chains with alarming ease. He surges forward and grabs ahold of the back of your neck, jerking you forward and kissing you roughly. His lips taste of iron and theyâre suspiciously warm for a dead man.
You dream of that kiss for weeks, trying to summon anger or rage in hopes that they can smother the unacceptable warmth that grows low in your belly at the memory.
Until he saves your life for a second time. This time by feeding you his blood after a mortal wound. It keeps you alive⊠but now youâre bound to him in a way that leaves you shunned from your guild. Youâre furious with him.
âWhy didnât you just let me die?â You snap. âIt would have been more honorable than being bound to a vampire like some sort of slave.â
John stares down at you, amusement evident in his eyes. âA pet would be a more accurate analogy.â
You scowl sharply and step forward, ready to argue some more, but he cuts you off, by stepping up to meet you.
As you crane your neck up to meet his gaze, the amusement leaves his features.
âI didnât kill you because it would have been a waste,â he says lowly.
He didnât elaborate on what he meant by that.
He didnât tell you that he chose not to kill you the first time because he saw a fire in you that he hadnât seen in centuries.
Something he wanted to protect, even from his own instincts.
He knew heâd have to turn you before bringing you back to his nest. You smelled far too tantalizing to bring around the others. Especially his newest fledgling who hadnât quite mastered self-control yet.
Johnny would tear you apart in minutes.
Yes, it was better to turn you first. He knew you wouldnât like it, but that didnât matter. Heâd grown far too attached to let anything happen to you.
(poly werewolves 141 x female human reader || part one)
The forest had a rhythm to it.
Not one of ticking clocks or hours counted on a calendar, but a living rhythm- crows taking wing at dawn, the hush of deer at the river come twilight, the cicadas sawing the silence into ribbons each dusk.
You had lived long enough in your solitude to learn that rhythm as if it were your own pulse; it told you when the seasons turned, when the rains would come, when the bears would lumber down from the higher ridges.
And now, it told you this: you were no longer alone.
Not alone in the way of creatures and their breath in the dark. That, you had already grown used to. It had been weeks since the night of blood and storm, since four shadows had collapsed on your porch and vanished again like wraiths. Weeks since your quiet life had been rewritten with the subtle signs of guardianship- the gifts left on your steps, the predator tracks cut short by heavier, sharper prints circling yours, the strange hush that fell upon the clearing as though the forest itself bowed to some unspoken command you werenât privy to learn just yet.
This was different.
It began with smoke: not yours, but a thin, rising thread of it curling from the tree line across the lake. The abandoned cottage there had stood for years, sagging into the earth, its roof bowed, its hearth gone cold. You had passed it once in your first spring here, peered into its hollow frame and decided it was a place ghosts might linger and one youâd not waste time on.
But one crisp morning, you looked up from your own chopping block and saw smoke rising from that chimney, steady and sure. Not ghosts, then. Neighbors.
You almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. Neighbors. Out here, where the road gave way to little more than deer tracks, where storms cut power for days and the forest demanded a kind of loyalty from those who dared live in it. Few came this far. Fewer stayed, and the closest civilization was the village more than a few miles away.
And yet, the very next week, you saw them.
Four men, crossing the river path with lumber on their shoulders, voices a low rumble of camaraderie. They moved like soldiers: even in their quiet, you recognized the familiar cadence of it. Broad-shouldered, scarred in places they did not bother to hide, eyes sharper than any civilianâs had right to be. You stood at the edge of your garden with your cane, watching from beneath the brim of your hat as they passed.
They raised hands in greeting. Not intrusive, not prying. Just a neighborâs courtesy.
âMorning,â the one wearing a cap said, polite and friendly.
You returned the nod, though your throat felt thick. Morning.
And then they were gone, melting into the forest trail with their burden of timber.
It should have ended there; A curiosity, an oddity you would eventually grow used to, the way one grows used to a ravenâs nest high in the eaves. But it didnât end, because you noticed the rhythm shift again.
One night, when the coyotes returned, you woke to find your porch lamp already lit, its flame burning steady in the storm winds. You had not lit it. And in the woods beyond, instead of growls, you thought you heard the heavy tread of boots driving the animals off.
Another morning, your cane slipped from your hand as you struggled with a basket by the river. Before you could stoop to fetch it, one of the new men appeared on the path, his russet-colored sweater catching the light, eyes gleaming. He bent and handed the cane back with a grin quick as a flame, gaze bright and unreadable. âCareful there, Miss. Slippery ground.â His voice was warm and careful as honey, and he vanished again before you could properly thank him.
And yet another time, as dusk bled into the forest, you froze on your porch when a bear lumbered near the treeline. You were reaching for your gun when you saw movement from the corner of your eye.
A pale shape- no, a man this time- standing just beyond your gardenâs edge. He didnât shout, didnât wave his arms. He only stood, utterly still, eyes fixed on the animal. And somehow, impossibly, the bear huffed, turned, and wandered off, as though cowed by something larger than it could name.
When you blinked, the man was gone before you could thank him.
They eventually introduced themselves to you proper, of course. John Price, Kyle Garrick, Simon (just Simon), and Johnny MacTavish. Normal names. Names no one in the village had, so they couldnât be related to anyone there. They gave them easily, with the kind of ease soldiers had when lying about where theyâd been stationed or what unit theyâd served in- it wasnât so much dishonesty as a well-worn habit of keeping the truth folded deep.
You offered your own name, a little stiffly, though your voice warmed when Johnny tilted his head, smile bright enough to catch in the lamplight.
âBonnie name for a bonnie lass.â Heâd said, syllables lilting. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and you found yourself looking away too quickly, unsettled by how closely he looked when he said it.
John had only given you a slow nod, his pipe stem caught between his teeth, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. Simon- towering, quiet, eyes like bruised steel- didnât say much at all, only let his gaze sweep across your porch as if assessing its defenses. Kyle had been the first to offer a hand, warm and calloused, his grin kind, his touch gentle and firm.
It should have ended there, polite words shared over a fence-line, the sort of introduction that fades back into distance.
But it didnât: you began to notice them even in the smallest corners of your life, even after those previous few instances.
Once, when you walked to the cottage after a trip to the village with a pack too heavy for your frame, you found yourself flagging by the first step of your porch. The weight dragged your bad leg nearly to buckling.
Before you could curse the ache in your thigh, the strap lightened- lifted clean from your shoulder. Kyle had taken it without asking, carrying the burden as if it weighed nothing at all.
âYou shouldâve called for one of us,â he said, his tone almost scolding, though softened by his smile. âCouldâve saved you the trouble.â
âI didnât know I was supposed to.â You replied, half defensive, half annoyed by the pack, the fall, and the ache in your leg.
His answering smile was gentle and so pretty you wanted to look away, boyish in a way that contrasted with the scars along his jaw. âSupposed to? Maybe not. But next time, eh? Youâve got four big men around, weâd carry anything you asked for.â
He didnât give the pack back until you were safely at your door, and even then he dropped it on your table and only then left.
Another evening, you lingered in the garden, tending to the last stubborn shoots of late summer. Your hands were deep in the soil when you realized you werenât alone: Simon stood just beyond the fence, arms folded, shadow long across the tilled earth, a balaclava on his face.
You startled, dropping the trowel. âHoly shit, I didnât hear you.â
âYou werenât meant to,â he answered simply, voice deep enough that it seemed to stir the very air. Then he climbed over the fence, and knelt beside you. âLet me help.â
You frowned, brushing dirt from your palms. ââŠ. Why are you here?â
His eyes moved- slow, deliberate- across the treeline, then back to you. âBecause youâre out here.â
He didnât explain further and didnât step closer. But something in the words lingered in your chest, heavy and oddly steadying. He remained until you finally rose, cane in hand, and went inside.
Only then did his shadow slip away into the dusk.
John was more deliberate in his approach, but quieter too, woven into habits you didnât notice until later: your woodpile, once dwindling faster than you liked, seemed replenished each week with neat stacks of logs you didnât recall chopping. Your fence rail, loose and wobbling, had been reinforced with fresh nails one morning before you woke.
You caught him once, pipe smoke curling through the mist as he set down an axe (deliciously bare-chested, though you didnât let yourself focus on that for now).
âJohn, you donât need to-â you began, bristling at the thought of being pitied like this.
He cut you off with a steady look, his voice calm but edged. âA stormâs coming, and I hate having nothing to do, doll. Let me do this for you.â
There was no mockery in his tone. Just fact and just care wrapped in command.
And when he walked past you to the gate, boots crunching against frost, he paused just long enough to murmur, âYou shouldnât be doing it alone, anyhow.â
Johnny was the opposite of Johnâs steady gravity. He was the fire you kept roaring in your fireplace during winter- restless, bright, and impossible to ignore. He turned up most often in the in-between hours, whistling as he carried back game from the woods, or lounging on your porch rail as if it were his own.
âDinnae like the way that trap was sittinâ,â he remarked once, nodding toward the line of your snares along the brush. âLet me change âem for ye, lass. Or add more.â
âIâve been setting those for years.â You replied, defensive and unimpressed.
âAye, and maybe Iâve got sharper eyes.â He winked, grin flashing quick. âHumor me, hen. No harm in letting me take a look.â
And somehow, by the end of it, youâd let him place new snares, his broad hands surprisingly delicate with the wire. You told yourself it was easier than arguing, but the warmth in your chest when he looked up, face flushed with exertion, said otherwise.
There were subtler things too. Things you couldnât explain: when you once left food cooling on the windowsill overnight, you woke to find no scavengers had touched it, though the forest was full of them.
When you walked the river trail, you sometimes caught the smell of woodsmoke and earth that wasnât your own, and felt the hair on your arms rise as though someone padded just beyond sight.
And in the coldest nights, when your pain kept you awake and the silence pressed too close, you sometimes swore you heard it: the long, low timbre of a howl rolling down from the ridges. Not threatening and not mournful, but something as deep as the forest itself. Claiming.
It should have frightened you.
You fell asleep without clutching your gun.
Bit by bit, you softened toward them: At first, it was in the way you didnât chase them off when you found them mending something around your homestead. Later, it was in the way you let Kyle carry heavy things without argument, or let Johnny sit on your porch and chatter until the stars came out, or let Simon stand in the dark corners of your garden without demanding he explain himself.
And with John, it was in the way you eventually set two mugs on the table instead of one when you brewed tea on colder mornings- never asking if heâd stay, but always finding the second cup drained when you returned from the stove and found new chopped wood.
They were men, yes. But they were something else too, something you hadnât yet named. Their movements were too fluid, too sure-footed, their eyes too sharp when they caught the light. They carried the forest with them, as if it bowed to their passage.
And sometimes, when you looked too closely, you thought you saw it: a shadow of fangs when Johnny grinned too wide; a glimmer like molten gold in Simonâs eyes when the moon was high; the twitch of Johnâs shoulders, as though his body itched to shake free of its human shackles; the way Kyle sniffed the air, subtle, like scent was as telling as sight, and accirately told you whethere itâd rain or not.
Subtle signs and little truths you kept tucking away, telling yourself they were tricks of light and fancy- but you knew the rhythm of the forest better than anyone.
And the forest whispered back to you, clear as bone and blood:
These men are not just men, and perhaps peace did not shatter.
It was how he said âI love you and Iâll be back homeâ in his own way. You were never allowed to know the specifics, where he went, how long heâd be gone. But you could always count on a long kiss at the front door and those words whispered against your forehead in a final embrace.
You continued on in life, waking up to cold sheets, going to work, drinks with friends, and the never ending upkeep of the house. The silent house that technically you shared, but rarely cohabitated. There were no photos of a smiling couple on the wall, no extra set of shoes by the door and no coat waiting beside yours for the next adventure.
But there was always the light. A table lamp, picked up at a thrift shop one day to fill an empty space in the living room. It had seen better days before you hefted it home, a relic of another time of solid metal and outdated fabric. It filled the space in your living room and its dim light became a hopeful beacon home.
As youâd wander off too bed, whether it be an early night where you just couldnât take the silence anymore or stumbling in after one too many with the girls, you made sure to turn the lamp on. A gentle tug of the cord, casting shadows in the living room and some rays through the closed blinds.
Youâd send a small prayer every night that youâd wake up and the light would be off, signaling Simon had come home. Likely asleep on the couch because he always woke you up when he lumbered in, and Simon hated waking you.
The longest youâd gone was 3 months, 90 nights of turning it on and turning in. Only to wake up to that damn light creeping under your bedroom door, getting clicked off with a sigh. But there has always been an end to the storm, that joyful morning, like a kid on Christmas seeing that Santa came. Youâd roll over, see no light from the other room, and launch out of bed, attacking the poor sleeping soldier with kisses and tears.
But this had been 4 months. And then 5 months. At the 6th month mark, you started turning on more lights. Each light switch, cord pull or button to push became a little prayer. By the 8th month, your front yard looked like the crack of dawn. Every single light was on. All night. Hoping to draw him home, to be that beacon he always requested. Your poor neighbors probably thought you were crazy, and by then, you felt like you were too.
Your heart couldnât let you stop, no matter how ridiculous you felt, haunting the halls like a ghost at dusk. Turning on every light methodically, working your way through the house and glancing back to the driveway one last time before bed. Then continuing the routine in reverse in the morning, switching them all off as tears fell.
Until one night, you woke up to a warm body and a rough whisper.
âWhat the bloody hell is our light bill now?â
.-.-.
Blame it on the fact that Iâm from the south and country music is part of my bloodstream. Inspired by: every light in the house by Trace Atkins
For days now, youâve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort.
Or: the knocked up on vacation au
Part 1
masterlist
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A familiar voice rouses you from a daydream that was just getting good. âAre you going to spend our entire vacation by the pool?â
ââŠIsnât that what weâre supposed to be doing?â
You lift your sunglasses to meet your friendâs eyes, no need to squint against the sun because the way sheâd stood in front of you blocks it from blinding you with your sunglasses off, inadvertently blocking the one thing youâd been hoping to keep your eyes on.Â
Irritation prickles at the base of your spine, but you resist the urge to snap no matter how tempting it is. Youâve been getting away with murder these past couple days and throwing a fit wonât get you anywhere but in more hot water.Â
âYouâre supposed to be spending time with your friends,â she says, emphasizing the last word to communicate that youâve been slipping in your duties.Â
âOh, sorry,â you apologize begrudgingly, leaning up on your elbows. âWere you, umâŠdo we have plans that Iâm forgetting about?â
âWeâre taking the shuttle down to the beach,â she says, gesturing over her shoulder to where the rest of your friends are waiting with their flip flops and tote bags by the archway leading into the resort, the shuttle just through the double doors at the other end of the main building. âAre you coming?â
If you give yourself any time to deliberate, youâre worried that youâll end up saying no, so instead you sigh, pushing yourself up from your elbows onto your hands. âAlright, give me a sec. Iâll catch up in a minute.â
She nods, appeased, heading back to the rest of the group with a thumbs up.Â
Leaning over the side of the chair, you gather up your belongings, stuffing everything into your tote apart from the greasy, half-finished bottle of sunscreen that you keep in your hand, conscious of how it keeps leaking from where the lid broke the other day.Â
It takes you a second to muster up the willpower to stand up and join them, your id screaming at you to turn around and plant yourself back in that pool chair to keep admiring the view. You have to be strong though. No breaking now after you just gave her your word that youâd come.Â
One last surreptitious glance over your shoulder is all you allow yourself, biting your lower lip when you catch him stretching his arms over his head to grab the back of his pool chair, hairy pits on full display and lats stretching with the movement of his arms.Â
Fuck, you nearly whimper, teeth pressing deeper into your lip. He slings one leg over the edge of the chair so his foot is planted on the floor, making his shorts pull tight across the thick bulge of his crotch. Â
Fuck.Â
For days now, youâve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort in various states of undress, your stomach a mess of both butterflies and knots every time you see him on the treadmill when you pass by the fitness centre or getting breakfast at the buffet in the morning.
Typically though, you can find him lounging on one of the poolside canopy beds with his boonie hat pulled down over his eyes, hands folded just under his pecs, clearly using his vacation to actually relax instead of running all over the resort like you and your friends. It affords you ample opportunity to stare unabashedly, eyelids going heavy the longer you stare at his strong chest and legs, thigh muscles making his swim trunks seem almost a size too small.Â
Your friend wasnât wrong to call you out for being less than attentive. Youâve been a lost cause since you first laid eyes on him, your thoughts a thick slurry of pent up horniness, tongue all but swollen in your mouth from how little youâve been using it this trip.Â
(if only you could pull down those shorts of his and use your tongue on him insteadâ)
In your defence, you havenât been making an active effort to pick him up because you know that you're supposed to be enjoying your vacation with your friends. Youâre well aware of how shitty it would be of you to try and hook up with another guest when youâre supposed to be spending time with them.Â
But you also canât help but linger when you realize that the same man (the one that has to be a decade your seniorâthe one that's built like a man, hirsute and tall, always a head above anyone else in the room) is nearby. Itâs like he has some kind of magnetic pull on you.
Youâre not proud of it, but at least part of your attention has gone towards figuring out whether heâs on vacation alone or with someone. No ring on his finger could mean anything. Lots of people commit without the ring; he could have a girlfriend and two kids back in his hotel room and youâd be none the wiser.
Then two days become three and youâre almost positive that he hasnât come with anyone else. He eats alone and poolsides alone and youâve never seen him so much as smile at someone who wasnât wearing a resort uniform. The false hope that thought imbues you with is downright delusional.Â
Your daydreams become increasingly oriented around following him back to his hotel room and slipping inside after him. Youâve never had a vacation fling before, but you think heâd make it good. Something about the way he walks like itâs heavy between his legs makes you think that heâd treat you right.Â
You sit up and wipe the corner of your mouth, catching yourself drooling again.Â
There are plenty of other things to do besides ogling the hot guy trying to enjoy his vacation alone though, so you force yourself to do things with your friends before one of them finally lays into you for zoning out the whole trip. Beach excursions and karaoke after dinner; you spend two hours dancing with two of your friends at the silent disco while your other friend goes upstairs for a shower and nap. Anything to show up and be present with your friends instead of languishingly in daydreamsville.Â
Despite your best efforts though, youâre clearly not as subtle as youâd tricked yourself into believing.Â
Rain is coming down in buckets outside. The four of you play Uno in the hotel room to wait it out when one of your friends asks if youâd be down to go on a snorkeling tour with the rest of them when the weather clears up.Â
You open your mouth, about to respond, when your other friend cuts you off. âNo, sheâll be busy making moon eyes at that guy with the weird hat.â
Your other friends cackle. Your cheeks flood with heat, so caught off guard that you can barely defend yourself, sputtering out something that only confirms her words.Â
One of the others shrugs, putting a +2 down. âI get it. Heâs really hot.â
âHeâs like forty.â
âSo what?â you sputter.
âYou two want to fuck an old man?â
The friend that supported you rolls her eyes. âOh my god, grow up. Fortyâs not that old. Also I only said that heâs hot. No oneâs getting married to him.â
The four of you share a laugh at that. If your laughter happens to come out strained, borderline forced, no one calls you out on it.Â
The ribbing gets under your skin more than youâd like to admit, but instead of throwing a fit, you tap your nails impatiently against the back of your cards and roll your eyes, stacking the +2 with one of your own. âI canât wait to get rid of you bitches and get home to the package that Iâm waiting on.â
âI know what package youâd like to wait on,â someone mumbles.
âShut up!â you shriek, mortified, snatching a pillow from the couch behind you to launch at her head and sending the others into hysterics.Â
The problem is that heâs just always there.Â
Itâs a small resortâof course youâd cross paths with him every now and then, but somehow it feels like no matter where you go, heâs somehow nearby, either already there before you arrived or not long after. Youâve come to almost expect him because of that, meaning that on the rare occasion where an hour goes by without him pulling up a chair across the pool from you, your thoughts start to spiral and your mood goes sour.Â
Glancing around the pool for the umpteenth time elicits no new sign of him though, much to your frustration. Not that youâve made a habit of keeping tabs on his movements or knowing where he might be at any hour of the day (your conscience whispers staaaaalker under her breath and looks pointedly away), but itâs unusual not to see him sleeping in one of the free cabanas or sitting in the pool with both arms braced behind him on the coping.Â
Greedy. Youâve grown so used to him always being around that itâs made you spoiled.Â
âIâm gonna go get a drink,â you announce to the group, already toying off your flip flops and getting ready to slip into the pool. âAnyone wanna come?â
A couple of them let you know that theyâve heard you, but no one offers to join. Makes sense; itâs somewhere between two and three in the afternoon and the sun is at its highest, the air so hot that itâs an effort to not doze off in your chair, the heat making you lethargic. Your skin reminds you when to reapply sunscreen, the last layer sloughing off with the sweat constantly dripping down your body, ever in need of replenishment. You smooth a little more into your legs and arms before throwing the bottle back onto the floor next to your sandals, skin nice and sheeny again.Â
The only swim-up bar is on the other side of the pool, so you float over slowly, wading through deeper and deeper waters until you almost have to cling to the side of the pool. Itâs slow going, giving you ample opportunity to scan the poolside for your mystery manâs telltale red pinstripe swim trunks.
No dice. Just chairs and cabanas filled with people that you swear youâve never seen in your life (not like youâve been paying attention to any of the other guests).Â
At the bar, you order a margarita and sit on the stool welded into the bottom of your pool with your elbows planted on the damp counter, your lower half still submerged. Frustration ebbs only for a dejected mopishness to flow back in. Â
It mightâve been easier to push your disappointment down if any of your friends had bothered to join you for a drink, but you canât blame them for taking advantage of the beautiful weather.Â
The resort is nothing short of heaven. Thick palm fronds dangle over the pool chairs and sway back and forth with the gentle breeze. Light chatter from the people on the other end of the swim-up bar is just barely discernable over the sound of the music playing from the speaker overhead.Â
The clientele at this resort is a mixed bag: some small groups of folks roughly your age and a multitude of families, the buffet practically a warzone with kids chasing each other around tables and through the halls, excited screeches following you all over the resort. Thereâs another pool a short shuttle ride away more geared towards kids though, thankfully, so this pool is relatively quiet apart from the music blaring from speakers placed strategically throughout the property, a mix of acoustic covers and lounge beats in the morning, and upbeat pop in the mid-afternoon to liven things up. Â
Itâs nice. Definitely worth the fifteen hundred dollars and definitely worth coming back next year if your friends donât boot you from the group chat the second you touch down back home.Â
Thatâs what youâre thinking about when you casually glance around the pool again and feel your heart nearly jump out of your chest when you spot him.Â
He appears from around a palm tree like the red sea parting, so sudden that all you can do is stare wide-eyed, discretion the last thing on your mind. Itâs not that you donât care if he sees you staring unabashedly, itâs just that you physically canât look away from him.Â
He must have set down his stuff on one of the pool chairs nearby because he walks over barefoot, slipping into the water almost gracefully for a man his size, biceps bulging when he lowers himself from the edge into the pool. You spend so long staring at the faint pink sunburn on his shoulders and the undulating muscles of his chest that it takes a second for your eyes to meet his, a jolt going through your body when you find him staring right back at you, his gaze even heavier.
You go stock-still when he wades over to the swim-up bar where you're waiting on your drink and takes the seat directly beside you. The seats are arranged close together to fit as many as possible in front of the bar, so itâs not totally his fault that his thigh presses against yours.Â
But you also canât help but notice the three empty stools beside him. All that space, free for the taking, and yet he sits so close to you that anyone swimming by would naturally assume you were here together.
The smell of his skin is like sun and salt; if you inhale too deeply, you know it'll just make you dizzy. This close, you can make out every mind-numbing detail: the dense brush of hair on his forearms, the old school anchor tattoo on his shoulder, the thick band of a watch on his right wrist. The drawstrings of his trunks floating in the water, aglet the most buoyant.Â
Your hands shake in your lap when he turns to the bartender and orders a drink too, the sound of his voice rolling over you, gruff in a way that almost makes you melt.Â
A voice that makes you look up at him all doe-eyed and dumb when he finally looks down and says something to you for the first time.
âHavenât I seen you around?âÂ
The shudder you manage to suppress, but the way your skin goes tight with goosebumps is out of your control. In all of your daydreams, heâd been more of the silent, grunting typeâthe type to huff and puff through every thrust, no appetite for sweet, sugary words. You never thought to imagine a voice to go along with his face.Â
Heâs handsome in the way that some men areâalmost effortlessly. Sea blue eyes and strong nose; thick neck and bristly jaw. He wears his age well.Â
And then his question registers, the gears in your brain slow to start chugging along again, overwhelmed by his proximity and attention, neither of which you ever expected to be on the receiving end.Â
âUmâŠâ you start, tripping over your words and swallowing them back up. âMaybe. Have you?â
His lips stretch into a fond, crooked grin, cheeks dimpling with his smile. âYeah. Pretty sure I have.â
âProbably. I mean, Iâm, umâIâm staying here. At the resort, I mean.â
âHere alone?â he asks.Â
âNo, Iâm with themââ You turn and point over your shoulder towards your group still lounging in the cabana. âMy friends. We got here a few days ago.â
âRight,â he says, not bothering to look over to where youâre pointing, eyes not shifting from your face. âLiking it so far?â
Youâll have to check later for burns because your face feels like it's on fire. The shock of the cold glass in your hand when the bartender passes you your drink helps to ground you at least.Â
âItâs been nice,â you croak, smile feeble when you finally coax your slack lips into working again. ââŠHow about you?â
You wish your conversation would come out less stilted. Hard to play it cool in a hundred degree heat.
âGetting better every day,â he replies, as smooth a line as youâve ever heard.Â
You take a sip of your drink, hoping the alcohol helps settle your nerves. Youâre conscious of the way his eyes follow your tongue as you lick the salt off the rim of your glass. Someone off in the distance shrieks and thereâs a splash from the other side of the pool, but it barely registers as background noise, all of your attention focused on the blue of his eyes.
âThat any good?â he asks, voice gruff.Â
âYou want some?â you ask, instantly mortified when you hear what just came out of your mouth.
âKind of you, love, but I canât take what doesnât belong to me.â
You donât know what he means by that until the bartender puts a beer down in front of him, a lime garnishing the rim. The man thanks him, big hand wrapping around the bottle and fingers easily overlapping. The mental image of that goes straight into your spank bank for later.Â
The lime gets dropped somewhere on the countertop and he takes a long pull from the neck, eyes locked on you the whole time.Â
Youâre not so naive as to not know what this is, butâ
Someone calls your name from the other end of the pool and you turn instinctively at the sound, grasping onto the edge of the countertop and leaning back until you see one of your friends standing at the edge of the pool, waving you towards her.Â
âFriends want you back?â he asks, sounding vaguely disappointed. Youâre not sure if thatâs just in your head or not.Â
âUhâŠIâm not sureââ you answer uncertainly.Â
The same friend calls your name again, louder this time, garnering the attention of some of the other people sitting around the pool, and a surge of annoyance rushes up your chest. Werenât they dozing off just a few minutes ago? Now all three stand at attention, sandals on and tote bags slung over their shoulders, the brims of their hats shading them from the sun as they gesture for you to join them. You nearly groan out loud. Of all times to call you back.Â
You made a promise though, at least to yourself. The possibility of good dick, while tempting, is not enough to get you to switch your allegiances.Â
(just yet, something in you whispers)
(give it enough time)
The smile you give him is rueful, almost apologetic. âIâm sorryâI should get going. They probably planned something at the beach. It was nice to meet you thoughâŠâ Thereâs room at the end of your sentence for him to wedge his name in, a little dangling participle of pleasantry.Â
A chuckle flows out of him like the chuff of a bear. âJohn.â He gives his name like a gift, offers his hand the same.Â
You think itâs an offer anyway, until John just takes your hand, his damp, warm palm practically swallowing yours. Doesnât wait for you to give him what he wantsâjust takes it like heâs owed it. The thought makes your head spin. Coarse, callused fingers wrap around the underside of your hand, long enough to nearly engulf your wrist as well. The hair on his knuckles is as dark as the pelt on his chest, and you wonder what it would feel like for him to drag a knuckle down the line of your jaw.Â
Your throat pulls with a swallow, breath shaky on the way out.Â
âNice to meet you, John,â you say, all raspy-voiced, giving him your name as well like he pulled that from you too.Â
âSince youâre not sticking around,â John says, finally letting go of your hand, âthink I will have a taste.â
A taste. The word makes you clench up but you donât register what he means until he curls his fingers around your margarita and brings it to his mouth, taking a sip from where you last had your lips.Â
Oh god. Youâre smart enough to get it. Youâre smart enough to see that gesture for what it is.Â
You send him one last thin, watery smile before beating a hasty retreat, his invitation still at the swim-up bar with him. Water sloughs off your body as you take the stairs out of the pool instead of swimming back to your friends, swimsuit damp in more ways than one, and you swear you can feel the heat of his gaze on your back as you walk over to where your friends stand.Â
One of your friends peeks over your shoulder while handing you your stuff, eyes going wide when she notices him sitting where you just left. âOh, did you see the hot guy was sitting at the bar too?â
âYeah,â you reply, shaky hands slipping your sunglasses on. âI noticed.â
âyâwanna know what stupid looks like?â he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. âyou, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.â
based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.
ââââ-
itâs honestly not even your fault.
youâll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - heâs the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now youâre blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simonâs arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.
simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because heâs the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.
needless to say, heâs used to this by now. used to the way youâve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesnât say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesnât complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if heâs a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.
heâs tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.
âjesussiâyouâre big.â itâs slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. âlike, industrial grade. military-issued big.â
the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober youâd see the smirk heâs biting back.
âtha right?â
âmmm. like a fuckin tank,â you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. itâs involuntary - just like itâs involuntary when he twitches. âor an armoured vehicle. yâshould come with airbags.â
simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.
maybe heâs not as used to this as he thought - because this isnât just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.
hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.
âyouâre drunk,â he breathes.
you grin. âsoâre you.â
ânot even half as much as you.â
you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. itâs quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like heâs checking to make sure you havenât stripped mid-hallway. itâs just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.
âmânot that drunk,â you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. âi meanâi am, but not likeâŠmemory loss drunk. iâm still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.â
itâs only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.
â..and how insanely big your hands are,â you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. âlikeâbiblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell yâthat?â
and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth youâre beginning to feed.
âdonât.â he says, and itâs torn. ânot now.â
heâs all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesnât break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.
âyâever choke a girl out with them?â you press, unfettered. ânot like, unconscious, but like. in bed?â
he exhales. slow. almost a growl.
âjesus. stop talkinâ.â
âwhy?â you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone whoâs very much not being innocent. âam i makinâ you nervouuus?â
his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.
âno,â he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. âyouâre makinâ me hard.â
he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply wonât let him keep inside.
and you?
you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.
âfuckinâ finally.â you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. âthought iâd have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit thatââ
he doesnât let you finish that thought.
âfuckâs sake, yâlittle minx.â heâs dragging you now, as if heâs realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point heâs half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. âyâneed to stop talkin.â
âyou like it,â you slur between unsteady steps. âyâlike me like this cause youâre a freakkkââ
his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.
âiâd like you more if yâwere unconscious.â he huffs, hard. âor duct-taped.â
that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.
âwas that supposed tâbe a threat?â you ask, lips glistening. âcause if so, itâs workingggg.â
he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. âbloody hell.â
by the time you make it to your door, heâs breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.
and you hardly even realize youâve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.
your thighs tense. he notices.
âfuck, simon.â you canât stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. âiâve been into you for ages, yâknow.â
he pauses. boot in hand.
ââŠwhat?â
he says it low. like a warning - like a donât you fuckin start. but youâre too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while youâre flat on your back beneath him.
your lashes flutter.
âjus sayin- since, like. youâre in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.â you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. âthought yâshould know.â
he looks at you like youâve hit him with a brick.
your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. âused to think about itâyouâwhen i couldnât sleep.â
he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip heâs got on your ankle could shatter bone.
ââŠ.you tellin me yâthink bout me when yâtouch yourself?â he asks.
âgod yes.â you donât even realize youâve said it. âyou. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behaveââ
ââfuck.â it punches out of him like it hurts.
the silence falls heavy. he doesnât blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, itâs like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.
not fully, but enough.
you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. âdâyou think about it?â
he doesnât answer. not at first. thenâ
âonly when i breathe.â
your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. âyou mean that?â
he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.
he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. âi mean, if you donât stop talkin, mâgonna fuckinâ fold.â
the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.
âtell me.â you murmur. âyou think about fucking me? what iâd sound like moaning yourââ
before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places â and he sees it.
âenough.â itâs barely a whisper. âchrist. fuck. youâre gonna make me do somethinâ stupid.â
you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.
âyâwanna know what stupid looks like?â he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. âyou, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.â
his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.
your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. âplease.â
his eyes snap shut.
âyâdont know what youâre askin for, sweetâeart,â he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. âainât gonna wake up with you hatin me.â
even drunk you realize heâs a man of morals.
âyou think iâd regret it?â you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesnât respond. âsimon. i just told you iâve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if itâd hurtââ
his palm tightens over your lips again.
âone more fuckinâ word and iâll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldnât touch you right now.â he spits. âif yâeven remember this tomorrow, yâcome say it to me sober. promise on every grave iâve ever stood over iâll bend yâover on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.â
then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.
âguess iâll see you tomorrow.â
âmhm.â he hums, take a step or two toward the door. âfuckin hope you will.â
a most pleasant marriage (john price x f!reader, minor simon x john x reader)
medieval arranged marriage au, SMUT, reader is a virgin, i did no research i fear, 4k wc
The emerald grass below your window, stories high and nearly minuscule, sways as you wait. And wait. And wait.
He was supposed to come two days ago. Your new husband, a foreigner, promised to you by your father in exchange for help to gain his own lands back. Greed begets greed, and while your maids help you change for your nightgown to a favorite dress of light blue, your stomach churns at the thought of the kind of man who would make such a promise. Your father has refused to educate you in any sort of war strategy, but youâre wily enough to know that promises can easily be broken. That the sagging stone buildings of your kingdom, small and unimportant to bigger ones that stomp on it like a bug, are no prize to be won. Why would your future husband want to help such a land when he could just as easily take it?
And so you wait outside of the arched slits of your stone window, your stitching in your lap as you halfheartedly nod to the chattering gossip of your ladies. After tea later in the day, sugar and butter heavy in your stomach, you nearly doze to their droning in your chair.
The clattering of horses wakes you right up.
A band of knights on horses, dressed in the black and white colors of your husbandâs household, climb the winding hill that leads to your castle. You drop your stitching on a side table and gather your skirts, nearly running down the hall as your ladies follow you gleefully, taking another way about to the entrance hall. Worn stone and fiery sconces pass you in a blur as you skip down curved staircases, apprehension flooding your veins. What if heâs cruel? What if he breaks his promise to your father? What if-
A wall of muscle cuts off your next step, and thought, as you ram right into someone. You can tell itâs a man by the scent of musk and sweat, heady in the center of his torso. Your face hits stretched fabric as pain floods your nose. Strong hands grip your waist, a place no manâs ever touched, and stop your momentum from causing further destruction. Your hands, heavy from the stylish long sleeves that widen at your wrist, grip at stern shoulders as you steady yourself and your rapid breathing.
âI apologize, good sir. It was not my intent to run into you, I merely did not see where I was going. My deepest apologies.â You remove your hands to gingerly touch your nose, effectively blocking your view of him as you try to ensure no permanent damage was done. Remembering yourself, you step back until his hands leave your waist, coldness seeping in after. A terrible position to be caught in, especially with your husbandâs men and potentially your husband himself in this very castle.
âNot to worry. I should hope Iâm able to withstand an act of violence from a princess after my years of warfare.â Satisfied your nose is not broken, you remove your hands from your face slowly. A man stands before you, seemingly unruffled from your run in. Strong legs, horsemanâs legs, build into a wide torso, the kind made for an armored chest plate with shoulders broad enough to bear it. He wears black and white and the insinuation of it sends a shiver down your spine. At last, you take in his face. His eyes are less kind than you thought theyâd be based on his voice, the dark blue of a cruel river stream, fast enough to drown a child. He wears a beard in an unusual shape, one youâve never seen on any man. His hair, brown as an oak tree, is thick enough to run your fingers through.
The thought is traitorous.
âIf you call that an act of violence, you must not give accidents any berth to be what they are. Just accidents, that is.â The words escape without thinking, your hands flying to your mouth to stop the onslaught of thoughts spilling from your mouth like a waterfall. Itâs then that you notice other things about the stranger. The quality of the fabric he wears, noticing that the black is actually a deep indigo, a rare color youâve only heard of from whispers in court. Metal chains of gold encircle his neck, showcasing his wealth through lapis and rubies. Such a man must be rich beyond your wildest dreams, and certainly beyond your father. Your heart drops at the realization.
âYou knew I was a princess.â You murmur before he can acknowledge your earlier sentence. âYes.â He takes a step further, no honorific in his words. Any man whoâd have the gall to not acknowledge your title must have a reason to. Realistically, he might be able to tell your status based on the jewels that adorn you, but something bigger itches at your brain like a hound pawing at a closed door. âHow?â You whisper, eyes trained on his shoes. Something drops on the floor, and only when your trembling fingers touch your skin do you realize your nose is bleeding.
âYour father showed me your portrait before I agreed to the marriage agreement.â His feet, clothed in indigo as well, come into your field of vision as he steps into your space. A callused hand raises your chin up, his thumb swiping at the blood under your nose. He removes his hand almost immediately, his thumb slick with your red blood nearing his mouth. You watch as his pink tongue swipes at the blood, then track as he wipes the rest on the white of his tunic. A claiming, a forbearance of whatâs to come.
âKing John.â You curtsy as another drop of blood falls, staining the fabric of your sky-like gown. Out of the corner of your eye, the king grins.
âA pleasure to meet you, Princess.â
-
You officially meet a few hours later. It seems that King John didnât mention your illicit meeting to your father, and after staunching the bleeding of your nose and changing into another gown, you didnât either. The gown is a deep blue color, and you couldnât help but think of King Johnâs eyes when you picked it. You plead a headache as to why you return early, and your ladies are eager to fill the silence with gossip of the men King John brought with him. One who wore the mask of a human skull, a Scotsman, and another who made so many flirtatious overtures half of the women fainted. All you can think of are warm hands on your waist, gripping you like a God-given right. Though, you suppose it is.
When you make your entrance into the throne room, itâs surprisingly empty. No courtesans, though your kingdom has few already. Instead, King John converses with your father at his throne, towering over the man by pure stature. You curtsy and scurry further when your father calls your name, already confused at the unusual silence of the room.
âKing John, may I present my eldest daughter. I trust she is to your liking?â There is no warmth in his tone, just the promise of retribution sparkling in your fatherâs eyes, the same color as your own. You turn to King John and curtsy again, keeping your eyes lowered as you stand demurely afterwards. âYour Grace,â you murmur. Heâs silent, eyes burning into you as he appraises you. He hums, a low sound that goes straight to your core. You hope he noticed the color of your gown.
âShe is. Her portrait does not compare.â Your cheeks warm as you keep your gaze lowered, years of etiquette classes holding back your reaction. Father grunts, clearly not wanting to spend more time than necessary praising you when they could be discussing how to win your lands back. âYes, Your Grace. As we discussed, the ceremony and exchange of dowry will take place tomorrow.â Your heart thunders, blood rushing in your ears. You knew it was coming, of course, having packed most of your things and done dress fittings as your mother planned the wedding itself. Hearing the confirmation out loud is a different beast. This is your new life.
You hope he will be kind.
They converse about the dowry but do not dismiss you, leaving you to stay frozen in place as they discuss how many gold coins and jewels you are worth. Finally, you are dismissed with a reminder of the welcome feast tonight.
-
If this is the feast before the wedding, you fear for the antics of the one after. King Johnâs men, a horde of knights with almost no holy men to be found, are rambunctious as they drink your wine coffers dry. You sit at the seat of honor tonight, usually only reserved for your brother, the heir. King John sits on the other side of your father, mainly conversing with the man in the skull mask as you pick at your meal. Your father is reddened by drink, a young maid who is not your mother seated in his lap as he raves about his last conquest years ago. Your ladies titter beside you, your other sibling and mother having been sent off to bed an hour ago.
âDaughter!â You jolt as your father slaps the table to get your attention. âYes, Father?â You answer meekly. âPractice serving your husband. His cup should never be empty.â He plucks a flagon of wine out of a passing maidâs hands and shoves it towards you. You rise and take it from him, hands shaking as you uncork it. When you round his chair, his gaze back on the woman on his lap, King Johnâs men stare. And stare. One of them with eyes like lightning nudged the handsome one beside him, whispering something that makes them both laugh. The skull-faced one, sitting closest to King John, is silent, his eyes dark as a demonâs.
You wrench your gaze away from them to land on your future husbandâs. His cheeks are pinked from wine and he sits with his legs spread, wide enough to fit a barrel of ale between them. âGoâon.â You pour, your full focus on the jeweled cup as you feel his full focus on you. When the glass is nearly full, you place down the flagon and stand uncomfortably, waiting to be dismissed.
He does not dismiss you.
Those same hands from this afternoon grab your waist again, pulling you harshly into his lap. You make an unladylike squeal, immediately looking over your shoulder to see if your father noticed. Thankfully, heâs gone, probably off with that poor maid. âYour Grave, I donât think this is appropriate.â You plead, hands gripping the fabric of your skirts so hard they might rip. He shifts you so you sit on one of his thighs, your feet in the space between them while the side of your ass is practically on hisâŠ
âYouâll be my wife in the morninâ. And Iâd slay anyone makinâ fuss.â You gasp at his sternness, turning to see the truth of his words written on his face. One hand cups the front of your thigh, searing like a cowâs brand, while the other steadies your hip, keeping you in place. âYou would, Your Grace?â You ask, eyes wide. He nods, straightening a bit so you fall further into him. Your hand reaches out to brace his chest, your fingers tangling in gold chains, and you keep it there, drunk on the power beneath you. Your father has never made any claims in your name, content to push any duties of propriety onto your mother.
âCall me John,â he implores. He nods his head to the skullfaced man whoâs been watching your exchange, no turning in his chair to give you a sense of privacy. âSir Simon, my right hand. Garrick and MacTavish are off somewhere in the crowd, his seconds.â You nod in your best imitation of a curtsy while affixed to your future husbandâs lap. Beneath your thigh, you feel something harden. You freeze as the warmth in your core. John makes no comment, pressing circles into the velvet of your dress above your hip.
âThey call you the Ghost, Sir Simon.â It seems wine has loosened your tongue as well. Thankfully, he grunts in a way you think might be a chuckle. âThey do, sweetheart. He scare you?â John murmurs, his words losing any royal tone. Nervously, you nod minutely. John chuckles, shaking you awake like a bath gone cold. âHeâs not the one you need to be scared of. Câmere.â He scoops your skirts and legs over his other thigh, closing his own to make an overwhelming lap of strength with tree trunk thighs. John grips your chin, a memory of this afternoon, and turns you this way and that. Sir Simon leans forward, close enough that his legs brush your own. âPretty.â Sir Simon concludes, leaning back out of your face as his chair creaks. âAgreed. And plenty to handle.â He squeezes your thigh for emphasis. You clamp them shut, afraid heâll take you right there on the table if you give him any leeway. Itâs a complicated mix of fear and something you canât quite name, close to the anticipation of a new dress but all encompassing. Below your stomach, butterflies flutter in places reserved for your husband. For John.
âGo to bed, princess. Iâll see you in the mornâ.â
-
The morning disappears like lemon cakes on a spring morning. The formality of the religious ceremony carved itself into your bones, the same way your father carves your name on the decree of your marriage. Then itâs a parade through the town square, sitting in an open carriage and waving to the crowd as John holds your hand. The sun is sweltering, but you donât know if thatâs from the layers of white fabric you wear or Johnâs insistence on being next to you at all times. Then itâs back to the castle, the exchange of the dowry getting packed into the carts Johnâs men brought.
It all leads up to the feast.
This time, you are directly next to John at the place of honor. So many toasts are made you start to lose your voice, placating it with hot broth from the kitchens. Hours later, the crowd drunk on its own congratulations, your father stands with his goblet in his hand. âIt is time.â He announces ominously. You lose Johnâs grip as your father guides you down into the crowd.
Hands, everywhere. Men of all ages lift you above their heads and tear your clothes off at the same time, making their way to your Royal Chamber for the night. All you can do is close your eyes as the smell of fermented wine rolls off their tongues, greedy hands grabbing what they can as they get you up the stairs. Thankfully, itâs harder for them to be coordinated, abandoning the struggle against white fabric as they bring you to the chamber door.
John arrives just after you, a gaggle of women behind him. Heâs not as undressed as you, with only a tear in his tunic. You frown and he senses it, his eyes immediately turning stormy. âOut.â John orders. The women leave, but the stupider men stay. One lord speaks up, a slimy gleam to his face. âI beg your pardon, but we need to watch the consummation, Your Grace.â You almost retch at the thought of them watching you be intimate with a man you barely know. âOut.â John says again, fire in his voice like a dragon. They take the hint and fumble their way down the stairs. You gasp in air, breathing out a sigh of relief.
âWife.â He greets you, appraising your torn state of dress. Your skirts are ruined, turned into strips of fabric. The lengthy sleeves have turned into scraps, exposing the top of your chest, but nothing more. With every breath, you can feel the dress start to rip even more. âHusband,â you reply breathily.
He opens the door for you. The fireplace quietly warms the room, but thereâs no light other than that, making everything past the bed hard to see. You start fidgeting as you walk in front of him, taking a seat on the bed as you fiddle with your hands. âWe need witnesses for the consummation. If Iâm not with child right away, theyâll say itâs my fault or annul it or say youâre-â He stops you with a thumb to your cheek, the rest of his fingers squeezing the side of your neck. âLook in the corner.â You squint, scanning the room for whatever heâs looking for. Suddenly, you hear a masculine grunt from the darkest corner of the room. When you whip your head towards it, you catch graphite eyes and the silhouette of a warrior.
âSir Simon.â He tilts his head in acknowledgment, almost like heâs bored with his role. Your palms sweat and you rub your thighs together to stave off the strange feeling in your stomach. âDonât look at him, wife. Look at me.â You follow Johnâs orders immediately, locking onto his intense gaze. âWhat have you been told of this?â Your cheeks warm, remembering the short lesson from your religious teacher and an even shorter one from your mother.
âI shall lay down and let my husband use my body to complete our marital duties.â John sits down beside you with a grunt. Instead of responding, he runs a finger down the length of your exposed shoulder. You shiver involuntarily. He leans forward, and you stiffen as he kisses your shoulder. The last time you received a kiss was years ago, after a harrowing fever where your mother sat next to your bedside for a fortnight. âIs thisâŠpart of the marital duties?â You ask, voice trembling as he makes his way to the side of your neck he previously held. âYes.â John murmurs into the hollow of your throat. He licks at the skin there and you jump, almost hitting your jaw against his head.
âSteady now.â Simonâs voice is raspy, like a dry paintbrush against blank canvas. You follow his orders immediately, willing yourself to calm down as John comes off the bed and in front of you.
And then, he kneels.
A King kneels before you, his rough hands dragging your tattered skirts up your legs, revealing parts of your skin that have never seen the sun. You freeze as he makes his way to your thighs, the skirt sitting around your waist. Your underskirts are made for using the chamber pot easily, so thereâs no fabric around your cunt. John groans again, close enough that you can feel his breath cool the wetness beneath you. âYâknow what that is, princess?â He murmurs, spreading your thighs with ease. You shake your head, confused at the butterflies in your core. âSlick. Wetness. Arousal for your husband and his second, hm?â It seems rhetorical, so you stay silent as his fingers near your cunt. He kisses your inner thigh and you immediately snap your thighs shut. John looks up at you, violence in his eyes. âStay open.â You try to, forcing your thighs open as he nears again. One large hand steadies your right thigh as his other strokes the slick between your thighs. When his fingers get close, your thighs snap shut again of their own will.
âSimon.â He appears in an instant, stony eyes peering down like heâs reading a text. âHold her other leg open.â A scarred hand clamps down on your left thigh, wrenching you open almost to the point of discomfort. This time, John rubs his fingers at the slick between your folds and all you can do is sit there and take it. His thumb dips into your hole, and the intrusion is frightening, but heâs gone before you can even notice. He moves it up a little and there.
A loud moan escapes your lips, a sound youâve never heard before. You clamp your hands to your mouth in embarrassment, remembering your motherâs lessons about staying quiet. âThere she is.â John murmurs, seemingly uncaring of your break of expectations. He rubs again and again, then changes the angle so the heel of his hand rubs while he teases the entrance of your hole. Your breaths are heaving and Simonâs hand is hot on your thigh, sure to leave marks tomorrow. The top of your dress, already crumbling, breaks under the weight of your panting just as John presses his palm hard. Your nipples scrape against the dress fabric as your tits escape from the confines of your dress while Simon squeezes the soft skin of your thigh. Itâs a funny feeling, a little like peeing, as you release into Johnâs hold, whining as he holds his palm steady.
âWhat just- I donât know- did I do something wrong?â You pant as both men look at you with sparkles in their eyes. âItâs called an orgasm, princess. A release. Necessary for your marital duties. Youâre being perfect.â Your heart calms at his praise, and itâs only when you nod do you realize your tits are bouncing of their own accord. John stands, ripping your bodice before you can even think to process. Simon tugs the fabric out from under you as John pushes you back, scanning you like a hunter after a deer. âHands on your tits, wife.â You follow his instructions, laying your hands confusingly across your chest. John opens your thighs with both hands this time, his mouth wet against your curls. Simon leans over you and you realize this whole time, heâs removed the skull mask with only a black handkerchief covering the bottom half of his face. Those same scarred hands cover your own, showing you how to squeeze your nipples until you understand on your own.
The movements send sparks down your spine, making your hips buck against Johnâs face. He doesnât complain, sucking hard at your cunt as you squirm. Simon's stare is as intense as a full moon on a clear night, making you feel like the center of the room. Even as a princess, you've never gotten such attention without it feeling transactional. There is no pain like how your maids whispered, just sheer pleasure, better than any honey cake or sweet wine stolen from the kitchens. Lightning sparks down your body, and the pressure of John holding you down while Simon knows your body better than your own. Your cunt is sopping, the sheets under you wet from your slick as you convulse when John adds a finger inside you. You gasp at the sensation, one becoming two quickly as he finds no resistance. He crooks them towards himself, like he's telling his pretty wife to come here. You come again just like that, thrashing into Simon's hands until you melt like a spring snow into the bed.
John strips off his clothing harshly, revealing a masculine figure you've only seen in carvings or glimpses from the men practicing at their swords in the yard. Hair all over, bearish in appearance, but you're learned enough now to not close your thighs. "C'mere," he orders, and you scramble forward, losing the warmth of Simon's hands. He guides your soft hands to his cock, letting you explore it with questioning touches. It's heavy in your hands, velvety but hard as stone. He grunts when you do an exploratory tug, and you drop your hands, afraid you did something wrong.
"This may be quick, wife. I'll rectify it in the morn'." You nod, brows furrowed as you were told it was always quick, no matter what. John climbs out of you as Simon steps back, but you can see his own silhouette of his cock through his trousers, backlit from the fireplace. John lays his weight on you, his forearms bracketing your head, and you sigh at the comforting feel of him. There's no fear anymore, your senses pliable from two orgasms. He nudges open your legs and you feel an intrusion of where he was before, but it's smoother than you thought it would be as he slides in. "John." You moan, mouth open as fullness grows inside. "So sweet, princess." He murmurs into your ear, pushing further until the hilt. You whine, squirming until Simon presses a gigantic hand on your stomach, keeping you in place as John finds his bearings.
He thrusts once and your breath hitches, your arms wrapping around his muscular shoulders as you sink your claws into his back. John tucks his face into the crook of your neck, and it feels like so much more than duty as he finds a pace. Simon's hand stays there, and your stomach feels fuller than the biggest feast. John's thumb finds your cunt and you start squealing at the overwhelming feeling. "John, I'm- cannot again I-," and he just chuckles, thrusting over and over. You share the same breath, your eyes finding Simon's at every other moment. If this is marriage, you think, it is nowhere near a prison. It's the rough hair of John scraping against your torso, his sweat gliding against yours. That spark builds again, not as bright as before but still powerful, and you clench again when he hits a specific spot. John, slippery with sweat and panting murmurs, follows after, warmth flooding between your thighs as he slows.
"I apologize, I cannot last as long as I used to." John confesses, still inside you as Simon takes his hand back. Your head is cloudy and sugar sweet with no room for reason. Your hands are still on his shoulders, and on instinct you move one to slide into his thick head of hair. "Nothing to apologize for, husband. It was pleasant." Simon chuckles, and you wonder if you've done something wrong. âPleasant, she says.â John says to Simon, letting you gasp as he slips out of you, his cock leaving a trail of white on your thighs. You tighten your grip against Johnâs scalp as you watch Simon return to his seat, practically unaffected despite his arousal.
âDid I please you, husband?â
âYes, wife. This shall be a pleasant marriage. Now rest.â And you do, John trapping you with his body and Simon trapping you with his eyes.
You tried to move on, but no one quite measures up; not to the way he touched you, not to the way he ruined you. But when he reappears, you can feel him even before you see him. The past has a way of punishing disobedience, and now, itâs here to settle the score.
âïž SEQUEL TO: â RETURN TO SENDER â | [ AO3 ]
18+ AU, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, soft!simon, cuckolding, stalking, dirty talk, implied voyeurism, extreme exhibitionism, praise, rough sex w aftercare!, breeding kink if you squint, smidge of degradation, unprotected sex, cream-pie, oral sex (f!recieving) fingering, squirting
[ 16.6k words ]
Fuck Simon for vanishing, for leaving you with nothing but a ÂŁ21.90-shaped hole in your wallet.
Itâs humiliating, reallyâhow twenty quid can leave such a deep dent in your otherwise empty pockets. But the alternative? A fate you couldn't afford to entertainâsleepless nights, baby-screeching, endless tears, and a lifetime tethered to a man who couldn't even be bothered to stick around longer than 5 minutes after fucking your brains out, taking your favorite pair of oversized sweatpants on his way out, too. So, you swallowed the morning-after pill and kept it moving.
The immediate days after he disappeared blur together in a heavy, sluggish haze. You still show up to work, still plaster on a smile that doesnât quite reach your eyesâthough it never did, even before Simon. Every shift is the same bullshit but somehow worseâcustomers testing your patience, coworkers draining the last bit of energy youâve got, and a boss who somehow manages to be more insufferable than the rest combined, multiplied by ten, then squared.
Your life was shit before, but thatâs all been exacerbated. Nothing feels right anymore. You donât remember who you were before him, how you managed without his touch. Everythingâs off-kilter, like the world shifted just enough to make moving through it a little harder.
You try to shove him out of your mind, slam the door, bolt it shutâfor your sake. But when one door closes, a window inevitably opensâand he is the draft that seeps through, whistling through the gaps, curling around you and filling your lungs, regardless of how hard you try to shut him out.
The rational part of your brain tries, with dire urgency, to tell you that it was just sex; that it wasnât supposed to mean anything. You made an offerâarguably reckless, maybe even stupid, but not regrettableâand he accepted. Weird, but simple. Clean. Done.
But even as you rationalize and deny his effect on your life, your body betrays you. It still remembers whether you want it to or notâthe phantom heat of his massive hands branding your skin, the weight of him pressing you down into your creaky mattress, the primality of being wrecked, ripped apart, and haphazardly stitched back together.
Itâs hard to fight the way your body cravesâthe pang buried deep in your bones, in your cunt, gnawing at you like a plague. It wears you down, sanding away every hard edge you put up against the hunger for him. Eventually, you stop trying. Stop pretending.
After a week, you begin to cling to the news channels like they hold your salvation, listening like their reports are scriptures to damned ears. You sit on the scratchy, cheap carpet in your living room, bathed in the cold, artificial glow of the screen nearly every night, waiting like a dog at the door for an owner who isnât coming home. You watch until your eyes dry, stinging as you blink, your fingers twitching around a carton of pad thai, stomach a tangled knot as you swallow each bite. Every time that breaking news banner slashes across the screen, your pulse spikes, breath snagsâthinking: this is it. This is the moment his name finally breaks through the LEDs.
But it never comes. You envy how they can swallow it all down and forget him.
Heâs gone. Not only from your life, but seemingly from existence itself. No reports. No shitty CCTV footage of him. No murmured speculations from tight-lipped officials. The world moved on within a couple of days as if they were paid to not to speak his name. As if speaking his name would plague them with the shadow of him as well.Â
Days turn into a week, a week turns to two.
A fortnight, two weeks on the day since it all happened, and still, you canât let go. The less you hear, the more you need him. The obsession burrows deeper, twisting its roots around your ribs like weeds, pulling tighter with every breathâsuffocating, consuming.
Then come the dreams.
The first time you see his eyes in your sleep, you wake in disarrayâyour sheets tangled, your hair tousled and your skin sweaty. The imprint of him lingers, burned into the backs of your eyelids, in the goosebumps on your neck.
You can't deal with it anymore.Â
You canât cope with the way he haunts you. Itâs cruel, really, how he lives up to his name. How heâs gone, yet has never truly left.
You download the BBC app and turn on notifications. Each alert is a spark, a fleeting moment where your breath catches in your throat, where your heart stutters against your ribs. You cling to the possibility, to the thought that maybe this time, there will be somethingâsome sliver of information, some sign that he still exists in the world beyond your memories.
Every vibration, every chime sets you on edge. Your fingers twitch, your stomach knots. You find yourself unlocking your phone without thinking, scanning headlines with eagerness that borders on despondency. You tell yourself itâs just curiosity. Playing detective. But deep down, you know better.
You need him.
Itâs pathetic, really, the way your mind latches onto every news clip, every report, dissecting vague mentions of overseas conflicts, covert operations, missing operatives. You read between the lines, searching for somethingâanythingâthat could be him. A shadow of a man. A ghost in the margins.
You probably look like an addict going through withdrawalsâwaiting, itching, restless.Â
In a way, you are. You couldnât get enough.
The second you feel the faint buzz in your pocket, your breath hitches, your pulse kicks up. Your fingers twitch before you even register the movement, scrambling for your back pocket, ripping your phone out like itâll tell you exactly where he is, what heâs doing, when heâs coming back. But it never does.
You keep watching. Waiting. Because something must surface eventually. Because if you stopâif you let the remnants of him settleâit makes him real in the past tense. And you canât stomach that. Not yet.
Notifications pile up as you go to work, then come home, go to work, then come homeârinse and repeat. War, corruption, scandal, catastropheâbut never him. Instead, you choke on the taste of useless knowledge, drowning in politics you couldnât care less for, memorizing names of leaders who mean nothing to you right now.
How could they mean anything when the weight of it all feels so Orwellian? You constantly think back to a time when breathing was easier, when you werenât so voraciousâso infinitely, pathetically hungry. But now, Simon is the Thought Police, and you, like Winston, can feel something comingâstalking, circling, tightening the trap.
You tell yourself you wonât stoop to his levelâthat you wouldnât degrade yourself, touching yourself to scraps like he did to your letter, your messy, faceless scribblings. But the truth is that youâre worse than he, because you donât need a piece of paper. Youâre already pent up, already had a hit of him, and thatâs all you need. Heâs there, beneath your skin, in your blood, indelible in every sense of the word.
You cave, slipping your fingers beneath your panties, knowing how futile it is. You canât touch yourself like he canâcanât make yourself feel the way he does, the way his hands, his mouth, make everything feel alive. Make everything feel worth it. That hollow emptinessâthe dark, insatiable void that is him; it will swallow you whole. But what else is there? What can you hold onto when nothing else has ever come close? Itâs all you have.
Though, when the wind blows, when you're alone in your room, your legs trembling from the soft circles you trace on your clit, it doesnât feel like you're alone at all. Thereâs something there, the faintest sense that someoneâs eyes are on youânot intrusive, but there. Observing, spectating..
Itâs that feelingâthat feeling of being vulnerable, of being prey that gets you going. The final puzzle piece clicking into place, the last push before your back arches and youâre coming undone, gaspingâno, howling his name, until it reverberates off the walls of your room.
You feel it all the time. A prickle down your spine when you lock your door at night, a sudden hitch in your breath when you pass by your bedroom windows after a shower. A pit in your stomach when you walk home from the railway station, some shadows out of place, some that stretch too long beneath the streetlights, like theyâre reaching for something. Or reaching for you.Â
Thereâs something that consistently lurks in the alley across from your flat. A narrow sliver between homes, shrouded in shadowâan odd, latent presence that doesnât quite fit, too still, too tall to be a dumpster. You swear itâs there almost every night, the air thick with it, but whenever you try to get a closer look, from your front door or wherever, itâs always goneâvanished.
It could be a trick of the night, a cruel illusion it could be anything, anyoneâbut would you be this wet if it was? Would your breath falter, thighs pressing tight, when the curtains stir just enough to frame the shadow across the street?
You feel it, a slow creep along your spine. A presence you can never name, but know all the same. It feels like him, each goosebump shouting and hissing his name. Itâs a connection that defies reason, something deeper than instinct, sharper than memory. A pull, a whisper in your blood, like an unspoken language only the two of you understand. Youâve never felt anything like it before, never known a presence so visceral, so consuming. If this is madness, if this is nothing more than a delusion stitched together by longing and desperationâso be it.
Youâd welcome insanity if it meant he was really here.
The shadow lingers. Not moving, not retreating. Just watching. Waiting.
A whisper curls in the back of your mind, sultry and insistentâgo to the window. Let him see.
You leave it open now. Always.
The only thing youâve gained since losing your virginity to Simon is a strange, newfound confidenceâlike a secret only you know, a mark heâs left on you that no one else can see. The longing isnât new anymore; itâs settled in, familiar, woven into the fabric of your days. It doesnât sting like it used to, but it never really leaves either, just hums beneath the surface, constant and quiet.
But the irony isnât lost on you. Because for all that confidence, youâve never felt emptier.
Youâre four hours deep into your shift. Itâs a quarter past four in the afternoon and youâre standing in the detergent aisle, one hand gripping the pricing gun, the other peeling discount stickers off the roll and slapping âClubcard Exclusiveâ onto bottles of Persil like a machine. Mindless. Repetitive. A perfect, numbing distraction.
Four lousy weeks since Simon. Four weeks of gaps where his presence used to be, of clawing at scraps just to feel something real. Now, all youâve got is the fluorescent hum of the overhead lights and the sharp scent of artificial âSpring Freshâ assaulting your nose.
And then comes Keith.
Fucking Keith.
His footsteps are light, but not light enough. Like a predator who thinks heâs stealthy when, really, heâs stomping through the underbrush, scaring off anything with a pulse. You always know when heâs coming, when heâs about to invade your space. It starts as a shift in the atmosphere, an overwhelming surge of something cloying, thick, unwelcome. It seeps into your personal bubble like a scent you canât scrub off, a presence you canât ignore no matter how hard you try.
"Hey, love," he drawls, his northern accent grating the moment it reaches your ears. He sidles up to you with that same cocky ease, the kind that might almost be impressive if it werenât so painfully unwarrantedâlike he truly believes he belongs at your side, like heâs convinced himself you want him there.
You donât look at him. You keep your focus on the detergent, pressing the sticker against the plastic with a little too much force. Maybe if you ignore him, heâll take the hint this time.
Though, he never does.
âDidnât think Iâd find you today,â Keith continues, leaning against the shelf with that stupid, self-satisfied smirk. As if youâve been playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game rather than actively avoiding him. âBeen hidinâ from me or somethinâ?â
You exhale sharply through your nose, and internally count to three.
Heâs not ugly. Not by any means. Heâs tall-ish, broad-shouldered but lanky, with sharp green eyes that never seem to blink, like theyâre waiting for something to happen. His jaw is set, strong, but there's an unsettling tightness to his smileâlike heâs always hiding something just beneath the surface.
His confidence is anything but charming; itâs suffocating. It pours out of him in tides, clinging to you like obnoxious, over-sprayed cheap cologne, like the lingering stench of stale Lynx body spray that seems to follow him, no matter where he goes.
âIâm working, Keith.â Your voice is flat, clipped. Not an invitation.
âOh, I see that.â He gestures to the bottles like heâs just now noticing them. âRiveting stuff. But, yâknow⊠if you ever wanna take a break, I could keep you company. Maybe grab a drink after the shift?â
The same fucking offer, over and over. Like if he keeps throwing it at you, eventually, youâll crack.
You sigh, setting the pricing gun down with a little more force than necessary. âI donât drink.â
Keith chuckles, unconvinced. âEveryone drinks.â
Jesus Christ.
You finally turn to look at himâa mistake. His grin widens, taking your attention as a victory. His eyes rake over you, lingering a little too long in places that make your skin crawl.
âCâmon,â he says, voice dipping into something meant to be sultry but only makes your stomach twist. âIâd be good to you, yâknow.â
There it is. That undertone, that expectationâthe same fucking entitlement youâve seen on him a million times before.
Your fingers twitch, itching to whack him over the head with the pricing gun. Instead, you grab another sticker, slap it onto the next bottle, and pretend he doesnât exist.
But he isnât done.
âYouâve been different lately,â he muses, watching you too closely, eyes raking up your body, to your face, and back down. âReal quiet. Distracted. Whatâs up with that, honey?â
Your jaw tightens. You press another sticker down, smoothing out the edges.
âNothing.â
Keith hums. âThat right?â
You grit your teeth. You hate this. You hate that heâs noticed. Hate that heâs perceptive enough to see the cracks. Hate that some part of you, some stupid, pathetic part, is sort of enjoying the attention âeven if itâs coming from him.
Because itâs something.
Because itâs not radio silence.
But itâs not him. Itâs not him, and you fucking hate that. You hate Simon for leaving you ravaged without so much as a goodbye. He ruined you, twisted everything you thought you knew, and then just vanished like you were nothing. And thatâs what cuts the deepestâthat you were never even worth the closure.
You should've known better, back then. But you sure as hell know now.
Usually, youâd brush Keith off with a simple excuseâa friend you donât have, a date that doesnât exist. A lie. Youâve perfected the art of deflection, wrapping yourself in a comfortable mask that keeps him at arm's length. Heâs persistent, but youâre sharper. Always have been.
But when he presses again, you hesitate.
âCâmon,â Keith says, his voice too casual, âJust one drink, on me. What do you say?â
You feel the old reflex kick in, the instinct to shoot him down. But you hesitate. The words hang there, suspended in the air, ready to be said.
Maybe itâs the loneliness gnawing at you, sinking its claws deeper into your skin with every passing day. Maybe at this point, youâre craving anythingâthe heat of another person, the touch, the distraction. Anything to fill the space Simon carved out and left behind, like a hole in your chest that nothingâs been able to fill.
Or maybe itâs just a fuck-you to Simon. A fuck-you to the way he still haunts you, weaving through your mind like wind through dead branches, whispering questions that will never be answered. To the ache burrowed deep, winding through your ribs like roots splitting through concrete, relentless in its hold.Â
You suck in a breath, the tension fizzling and popping inside you, and before you even realize whatâs happening, you hear yourself say, âAlright. Fine. One drink.âÂ
At least it was on him.Â
Keithâs expression shifts, his eyes widening in shock, like the idea of you saying yes never even actually crossed his mind. The surprise on his face is almost comical. He stumbles over his words, trying to mask his confusion with a quick laugh.
âNo way,â he says, shaking his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. âReally? Iâuh, I thought youâd shut me down again.â
You donât answer, just shrug. The words feel too heavy in your mouth like they donât belong to you. But theyâre out there now, hanging between you like a promise neither of you fully understands yet.
Keithâs smile widens, but thereâs something gross behind it now. Something triumphant.
âWell, if youâre sure,â he says, stepping a little closer, the air thickening with the scent of his cologne and something darker, more insistent. âI know a place nearby. Not too far. We can grab a pint or two, talk... maybe get to know each other better.â
His gaze lingers on you, too long, too shallow. His eyes flicker down to your lips for just a fraction of a second, then back to your eyes, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. Ugh.
It should make you step back, re-think what youâre jumping into.Â
But you donât. You canât. You need Simon out of your head and gone. For good.
âAlright,â you say again, this time with a little more force as if youâre trying to convince yourself just as much as you are him. âOne drink.â
Keith grins like the Cheshire Cat, the satisfaction in his eyes clear as day. âIâll pick you up at 9,â he says, voice low and assured. âPlenty of time to get home and change, right?â He lets out a small chuckle, his confidence oozing from every word like he already knows the night is his to win.
You nod mechanically, a brief pause before you speak again. âYeah⊠Iâll uhâIâll text you my address.â The words come out flat, detached. Itâs no big deal. Totally.
His smile widens, smug in a way that makes your stomach churn. âGood. Iâll see you then.â He turns to head back toward the break room, giddily gliding down the aisle, like he's walking on air.
You just stand there, frozen for a second, watching him go. The store hums around youâdistant chatter, the clinking of metal shopping carts, the soft shuffle of customers weaving through the aisles. It all feels like a blur, the noise distant and muffled, as though you're submerged in water. Your mind is far away, caught in the thick fog of uncertainty.
You donât even know what youâre doing, but maybe this is what you need.
Simon lingers in the back of your mind like a shadow youâre always reaching for without thinkingâan instinct, a reflex you canât unlearn. And the thought of replacing that longing with something so fleeting, so hollowâsomething so⊠Keith, feels like a betrayal. Like carving out a piece of yourself and handing it to someone who will never understand its weight.
A sigh escapes you. You pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the screen as you look at the glowing numbers. Your heart flutters, unease building with each second that passes. But you donât stop yourself.Â
You type out your address slowly, each letter feeling like a weight added to your chest. It shouldnât be a big deal, right? It couldnât be that bad. Youâll just go out and try to make the best of it.
You hit âsend.â
So much for getting to know each other.Â
Keith hardly bothered to ask anything about you; the conversation is dominated by the insufferable droning on about his crypto investments. You arenât really listening.. Your mind keeps drifting, thinking of his absence.
Simonâs absence.Â
God, it bothers you how deeply heâs imprinted on your mind. Was it the fact that he took your virginity? Thereâs no way it could have been that chemically altering. Yes the sex was amazing, but how could he haunt your thoughts so extensively after barely saying a word to you, only ever muttering filthy things while fucking your brain numb?
Stop thinking about him fucking you. This is a problem.Â
You pull yourself back to the present. The dateâs going... fine. Nothing special. Youâd pulled on a simple pair of jeans, a black top. Nothing too flashy, nothing that screamed you were tryingâbecause you werenât. What did it matter? Not like you had anywhere to go, or anyone to impress anymore. Clothes didnât mean much when your world had narrowed down to this: a quick escape.
The pub is crowded for a Thursday night, an odd mix of tired regulars and middle-aged menâDILFs youâd much rather be accompanying. They laugh loudly, their voices thick with the warmth of too much liquor; theyâre the ones you should be with, the ones who seem to care, to be alive in a way that doesnât feel so desperate.
But instead, youâre stuck with Keith. His voice drones on in the background, talking about Bitcoin and intermittent fasting like heâs just discovered the secrets of the universe. His words are empty, meaningless in the moment, but you smile and nod, letting the noise of the pub drown out whatever nonsense heâs spewing. The drinks are goodâstrong, surprisingly soâand it burns its way down your throat, a welcome distraction. The alcohol settles into your chest like an old friend, warm and familiar, a little dangerous, but comforting all the same.
Youâre a pint and a half deep, just enough for a pleasant buzz, for the edges of your thoughts to soften. Keith, on his third, is looser, expressive, leaning into your space a bit too much, his knee brushing against yours beneath the table. The alcohol makes it easier to stay present, to focus more on the moment instead of the static in your head.
He cleans up decently. The dim lights of the pub soften the harsh hazel-green of his eyes, take the tension out of the lines around his mouth. After a pint, heâs not as awful to look at. As you near the end of your second, heâs not too hard to listen to. His presence in the booth next to you isnât suffocating anymore. The uncomfortable tightness has faded, replaced by something more manageableâa comfortable numbness that lets you go through the motions without feeling every single heartbeat. The kind of numbness you can live with for a while if you donât think too hard about it.
You welcome it, more than you welcome the shit storm youâve been for the past month.
You let the minutes pass, letting yourself be carried by the momentum of it all. You finish the pint, your focus drifting to the sensation of his hand brushing against yours, to the faint, gnawing in your heart as it cries for affection. It was all so simple. So much easier than youâd expected, this little dance, this surface-level distraction.
Then, a few minutes later, it happens. Keith leans in, his lips parting, the space between you closing like a slow, inevitable collision. His conviction wraps around him like a cloak, thick and heavy, as if he knows exactly how this will unfold. The warmth of his breath grazes your cheek, his scent faint but persistent, a mix of cologne and something stale, like the nightâs beer. His eyes flicker with implicit expectation before they flit shut, his lips a mere centimeter from yours.
You donât pull away.
You donât have the energy for that anymore. Not for the back-and-forth, the push and pull of deciding whatâs right and whatâs not. Youâve been worn down, layer by pitiful layer until all thatâs left is this: the heat, the need, the emptiness that drives you to reach out and accept whatever is offered. You let it happen, your lips parting to meet his, the kiss tentative at first, but growing more insistent as the seconds pass.
Itâs not good. His lips are too stiff, too small against yours, moving with a clumsy eagerness that reeks of desperationâlike heâs been waiting for this and has no idea what to do now that itâs happening. But itâs something.
Something to dull the ache, to quiet the static in your mind long enough to pretend youâre not suffocating. Something to ground you, to remind you that youâre still flesh and bone, not just longing and regret. Something to forget in the morning.
Because why not?
Maybe if you drown yourself in something elseâsomething that isnât honey-brown eyes and a mask that hides too muchâyou can finally erase the impression Simon left behind. Finally silence the ache, the apparition of his touch that you still feel under your clothes, even within the pub. Even with Keith by your side.Â
Maybe if you let yourself unravel into someone else, scatter the pieces of what Simon broke and stitch together the fragments of what came before him, youâll be able to move on. Maybe if you swallow it all, stretch yourself wide, dislocate your jaw just to fit it all in and swallowâyouâll get by. Youâll manage. Even if it never digests. Even if it all bleeds through the cracks anyway.
So, you push further. Let your fingers ghost over his knee, lean in closeâjust enough that your breath brushes his skin. You whisper, low and saccharine, asking if he wants to get out of hereâhead back to your place. A distraction. A mistake in the making.
Keith practically yanks you from the bar, his grip firmâtoo firmâas he steers you toward his car with single-minded determination. His fingers dig into your wrist like heâs afraid youâll slip away, like he needs to keep you tethered. The street lights flicker overhead, casting fleeting shadows across his face, sharpening the hunger in his eyes.
The drive is a blur of speed and silence, the tension between you both is thick enough to choke on. His knuckles are white around the steering wheel, foot heavy on the gas, cutting the fifteen-minute trip to your flat down to five. He doesnât speak. Neither do you. Thereâs nothing to say. Just expectation hanging in the air, dense and stifling, laced with something desperate, something thoughtless. You let it wrap around you, pull you under.
Then youâre at your door, and heâs on you. His chest flush against your back, hands already gripping your hips, body pressing close, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. His teeth graze your skin, just barely, like heâs tasting his killâlike he already knows heâs won.
God, you feel like a slut.
The world keeps spinning. Traffic hums in the distance, the wind howls through the alleyways, life presses ever forward, indifferent to the choices you make. But here, as your hands tremble against the cold metal of the lockâit all shrinks to this. The frantic thrum of your pulse. The too-firm grip of his hands, insistent and wandering, pressing into places they have no right to be.
Because you donât belong to Keith.
You donât look back at him. You canât. Because if you do, if you meet his lustful, haughty gaze, you might stop.
And you canât afford to stop. Not yet.
When you both make it inside, you shut the door and Keith tries to kiss you, to make this something itâs notâsome messy, desperate collision of lips and teeth, a lustful explosionâbut youâre not down for that. You tilt your head and give him your neck, dodging his lips like itâs second nature. He doesnât notice as you guide him to your room, too lost in the idea of getting his dick wet to realize youâre steering this whole thing.
And wet, he gets it.
He fucks you on your bed, and itâs got to be the most boring experience of your life. Heâs got you prone, on your stomach, and you donât look at him. You canât look at himâbecause that would make it real. That would solidify the fact that youâre here, in your own bed, fucking Keith of all people.
You keep your gaze fixed ahead, on the dim sliver of moonlight seeping through your windowâs curtain, as he ruts into you. The pace is off, mechanical like heâs following some half-baked porn script in his head. You have to fight the urge to ask if itâs even in, if heâs just finger blasting you. With Simon, you didnât have to wonder. The stretch, the burn of him splitting you open, the way he had you trembling, leaking down your thighs before he even properly fucked youâthat was something else entirely.
Keith leans over you occasionally, breath hot and panting against your ear, his attempt at dirty talk making you cringe.
âYou like that, love?â
No, Keith. Youâre jackhammering my cunt with your pencil dick.
You donât answer out loud. You just lay there, belly pressed against the mattress, and try to conjure the feeling of someone elseâsomeone bigger, rougher, someone who knows what to do with you. But even in the dark, even facing away, you canât bring yourself to lie. This isnât Simon. Itâs not even close.
You wait. You endure.
Finally, he shudders and spills into the condom you made him wear, and you silently thank the universe that the miserable ten minutes are over. Simon had you writhing for at least thirty. After eating you out, too.
You continue staring ahead as Keith collapses beside you with a satisfied groan, murmuring something, pressing a kiss to your forehead like this meant anything. You donât react. You barely register his voice.
Because out the window, across the street, thereâs that shadow again.
Still. Watching. Waiting.
And for the first time all night, you feel something genuine.
You definitely couldâve found better than Keith. But God, heâs easyâeasier than a prostitute in the back of a bar, and just as desperate.
Itâs been a month since you first fucked himâtwo since Simonâand heâs like a goddamn pest, lingering, clinging, always there. But you donât push him away, either. Not completely. Because if youâre being honest with yourself, it is nice to have someone in your bed, someone to text, someone to pick you up when you donât feel like taking the train. Heâs convenient. Reliable, even.
But his affections are only tolerable in small doses before they become suffocating. Heâs a lovesick puppy, always trailing after you, those hopeful, stupid green eyes searching for something youâll never give him. And God, you feel horrible for using himâhorrible, but not enough to stop.
Each time heâs between your legs, each time his name pops up on your phone with a good morning, love, each time you toss him a scrap of attentionâa lazy smile, a half-hearted hug, a peck on the cheek if heâs especially luckyâyou see it. That flicker in his eyes, that glimmer of something warm and delusional, like he thinks this is leading somewhere. Like he thinks youâll wake up one day and want him the way he wants you.
And maybe thatâs the worst part. The way he clings to every half-truth, every unspoken maybe, every quiet moment that isnât outright rejection. Heâs a fool for it. And maybe youâre cruel for letting him believe in something that doesnât exist.
But you did warn him. Laid it out in blunt, undeniable termsâthis isnât love, Keith. Just sex. No strings, no expectations.
But you suppose, for someone like him, being something to youâno matter how small, how insignificantâis still better than being nothing at all.
Simon doesnât linger in your mind the way he used to. Not as much. Not as sharp. You shut off notifications for BBC, but couldnât bring yourself to delete the app. Just in case.Â
But every time Keith is on top of youâgrunting, sweating, tryingâyouâre reminded of what you had. What it felt like to be wanted in a way that left bruises, but youâve accepted the fact that Simon is gone. Gone with the wind; traceless, like he was never here to begin with.
Keith stays over some nights, always making sure to slip out in the morning. Per your request.
At first, he obeys. But then the edges start to smudge. Morning lingers too long, bleeding into midday, stretching into afternoon like melted wax. Before you know it, heâs still there. Still there when youâre making coffee, still there when you just want to be alone in your dingy flat.
You wake up one morning to an empty bed and the smell of eggs sizzling, the sound of your cabinets opening and closing. You drag yourself out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and there he is, standing in your kitchen, bare-chested and humming some god-awful tune as he tends to eggs and flips pancakes with a spatula that hasn't been used since you bought it.
âMorning, sweetheart,â he says, flashing you a grin like this is normal, like heâs your boyfriend.
You blink at him, groggy, disoriented. âWhereâd you even get pancake mix?â
âHad some at my place,â he says, as if thatâs a completely reasonable explanation.
You texted him last night for him to come over and fuck you, and he brought foodâfrom his own flatâto cook in the morning. Was this supposed to be romantic? Jesus, fuck. You turn back to your room, ignoring the smell of breakfast permeating your walls, and throw yourself back under the covers.
It only gets worse from there, though.
He starts using your shower, stepping out smelling like your shampoo, like your soap, like your space isnât your own anymore.Â
Even when heâs not here, he finds ways to insert himself into your day. Youâre halfway out the door, ready to catch the train to work, when your phone vibrates in your pocket.
Keith: Hey, on my way to pick you up
Your stomach sinks. You didnât ask him to do that.
You sigh, rubbing your temple as you type out a quick, You really donât have to, I can take the train.
Keith: Nah, babe, Iâm gonna.
And thatâs the problem. It doesnât matter what you say. He just does it anyway.
Youâre on your lunch break one day, tucked away in the breakroom, enjoying a moment of peace with a granola bar you snagged from the petrol station days ago. The store is busy, but back here, itâs quietâjust the faint hum of the coffee machine and the distant chatter of coworkers.
Then, something tugs at a strand of your hair, pulled tight in your ponytail, making your head jerk back just a little.
Your throat tightens before you even turn.
Sure enoughâKeith.
He plops down in the chair next to you, all smug, too close, legs spread wide as he leans back like he owns the place.
âHowâs my lovely girlfriend?â he asks, tone playful.
Your fingers tighten around the granola bar, the wrapper crinkling. âIâm not your girlfriend, Keith,â you say, feigning a small, polite smile. âBut Iâm okay, thanks for asking.â
Keith just chuckles like youâve made some kind of joke. âYeah, totally. Yâknow, weâve been at this for a while, lovey. Think youâll let me meet your parents soon?â
You freeze mid-bite.
Thereâs a slow, nauseating churn in your gut, a deep unease that coils tight around your ribs, squeezing, festering.
âYou canâtââ you pinch your nose bridge, âYouâre not meeting my parents,â you say, firmer this time, staring at him, hopingâprayingâthat maybe this time, heâll get it.
Keith just shakes his head, still grinning. âAwh, thatâs alright. Youâre just scared, dolly. I can wait for you.â
Your mouth goes dry. You donât even bother dignifying that with a response. You just shove the last of your granola bar into your mouth, chew like youâre forcing down something bitter, and push back from the table.
âGotta get back,â you mumble, standing, already heading for the door.
Keith doesnât follow, but you can feel his eyes on you as you leave.
The more he smothers you, the more you wish you never started this shit in the first place. What were you thinking? You shouldâve just put on your big girl panties, pushed the memory of Simon as far down as you could, and moved on. But each time you think of Simon, itâs like a knife twisting in your gut, because God, just the thought of being able to moan his name makes you want him all over again. You crave the way he fit, the way he understood you without all the effort. You want him to give you what you needâwhat you crave, even though you know deep down that itâs a foolâs wish.
With Keith, the cracks are starting to show. In bed, he starts trying too hard, like heâs desperately trying to prove something to you. Heâs fishing for praise, waiting for some kind of validation. Heâll ask, âThat was better than last time, right?â as though the answer matters to you. As if youâve been keeping score.
You arenât. You never were.
Your room smells like him nowâlike cheap cologne and sweat. He just gave you the most disappointing dicking yet, and heâs already passed out. The light is off and youâre lying there, forced into a state of calm thatâs not really calm at all. You can feel him beside you, his breath steady as he sleeps, completely oblivious to the storm inside you. You turn away from him, laying on your side, staring blankly at the wall in front of you, your heart hammering in your chest.
Fuck, what the fuck are you doing? Why the are you doing this to yourself? It feels like punishment. Like you've shattered some unspoken rule, a silent code, and now you're paying the price. You just wanted an escape, a moment to breathe. Not to be someoneâs charity case. The questions spin around you, but there are no answers. No clarity. Just endless doubt.
You let out a soft sigh and toss back onto your back, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest as your head rests on the pillows. Your eyes catch the sight of Keith's hoodie, thrown carelessly over the desk chair.
As you stare at the hoodie, lying there where you first saw Simon, you truly feel itâheâs really gone. No longer in the fragments of your room, no longer in your bed, slouched in your desk chair, lingering on your dresser.
The room is suffocating, thick with heat that presses down on your chest, suffocating you with every breath. Itâs heavier than it should be, the air stale and still, clinging to your skin like a second layer. Keith insists on keeping the windows shut. He hates the drafts. You hate him for it.
You sit up, your skin sticking to the sheets. The weight of the night lingers like a fog, clouding your thoughts. You sigh, lethargic, your body sluggish as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the coolness of the floor greeting your bare feet. Your panties are discarded somewhere in the mess. You find them and pull them on absently, the fabric sliding over your skin
You round the bed quietly, your footsteps muffled against the worn carpet as you approach the bedside table next to his sleeping form. Keithâs pack of cigarettes sits there, unassuming, but it calls to you. You tug one out, the familiar crinkle of the cardboard grounding you for a moment. You take his lighter next, the flick of the flame a cruel reminder of how the nasty, expensive habit has settled into your bones. You never meant to start smoking. You swore you wouldnât. But now, itâs just another part of the routine, a pointless comfort youâve grown too used to, another reason you shouldâve never gotten with Keith.
You walk to the shut window and lift it open with one hand. The cool night air rushes in immediately, cooling your skin. You lift the cigarette to your lips, sparking it, and watch as the tip ignites. The glow is soft against the dark, the only light in the room for a brief moment before the flame dies and the smoke curls up, wrapping around you like a secret. You take a drag, inhaling deep, the burn of the nicotine settling in your chest, grounding you, if only for a second.
You lean against the window frame, half-sitting on the bottom portion as you lean to let the smoke escape outside. The night is unnervingly quiet. You guess itâs just about midnight, but you donât bother checking your phone. You take in the sight of the street, the houses on your block, There's nothing across the way tonight, just the empty stretch of alley, and you find your gaze drawn to it, unable to look away. The stillness wraps around you, and the faint echoes of your own thoughts seem too loud in the silence.
Something coils sharp and tenacious in your chest as you stare into the emptiness. You let Keith in, let him slither into the cracks of your life, and now itâs rotting you from the inside out. Youâve been shoving anything you can into the hollow space he leftâdistractions, vices, fleeting touchesâbut it only stretches wider, gaping and endless..
A part of you aches for that shadow to appear, if only once, just to feel something. Because another part of you knows what it isâwho it is. Knows that heâs gone.
And that, more than anything, stings.
The cigarette is nearly burned down to the filter, the last embers glowing weakly in the dark, a pale orange against the quiet night. A gust of cold wind bites at your skin, snapping you back to reality with a sharp chill. You turn to look over your shoulder, and Keith is sprawled across the bed, mouth hanging open in that obnoxious, ungodly way he sleeps. A snore rattles through the silence and your eyes instinctively roll.
You take a final drag, the smoke bitter on your tongue, and then snuff it out against the window sill and toss it, watching it smolder into the dirt below. You stand up, stretching your stiff limbs, and close the window, leaving just a small crack for the night air to filter in.Â
Fuck Keith and whatever it is he wants. This is your house. Youâre not his mom, his girlfriend, or whatever the hell else he thinks you are. If you want the window open, then so be itÂ
You turn back to the bed, your body aching for the solitude of your own sheets. You crawl under the covers, pulling them tight around your shoulders. The warmth is a small comfort, but itâs enough. Sleep tugs at your eyelids, beckoning you into the quiet. Your hands cover your ears, trying to block out the guttural snoring coming from Keithâs side of the bed. Itâs like a fucking chainsaw cutting through the peace you crave. But you hold on to the stillness, the promise of escapeâif only for a few hours.
Youâre dead asleep when the sound cuts through the thick haze of unconsciousnessâa soft, broken whimper. Barely a sound at all, more like a breath hitching in a throat, swallowed before it can fully form. It weaves itself into your dreams, threading through whatever meaningless fragments your mind had pieced together, distorting them into something unsettling.
Your body is heavy, limbs weighed down by exhaustion, but the noise needles at you, persistent in its quiet agony. You groan, eyes still shut, rolling onto your side as you mumble something incoherentâsomething about Keith shutting the fuck up, that you have work in the morning. Whatever it is heâs doing, you donât want to hear it.
For a moment, silence settles over the room like a thin sheet, barely there but present enough to lull you back into the pull of sleep. Then the bed shifts. A slow, deliberate movement, like someone rising carefully, trying not to wake you. A footstep follows, then another, the faint creak of floorboards. You breathe a little easier, thinking maybe heâs leavingâmaybe heâs finally getting the hint.
But then it comes again. This time, distant, muffled. A cry, higher-pitched, threaded with something frantic. It makes your skin prickle, not with concern, but with irritation.
You frown, eyes still shut, brain too fogged with sleep to process much beyond vague annoyance. Heâs either having a nightmare or, worse, a wank in the corner. Neither interests you. You donât even want him here, in your bed, taking up your space.
You sigh, pressing your face deeper into the pillow, trying to will yourself back into unconsciousness. Whatever it is, itâs not your problem.
Seconds later, you hear it again, more desperate this time, like a wounded animal with its throat ripped out, struggling to breathe. It grates against your nerves, pulling you further from sleep, until frustration bubbles up in your chest.
With a groggy grumble, you push yourself up, your movements sluggish and heavy with exhaustion. Your right arm props behind you for support as you rub at your face, knuckles pressing into your tired, shut eyes.
âKeith, will you shut the fuââ
Your voice cuts off mid-sentence, throat tightening as you finally blink the sleep from your vision. The dim light from the streetlamp outside casts long shadows across the room, bathing everything in sickly, pale yellow streaks.
Keith isnât in bed with you.
Heâs in the chairâyour desk chairâagainst the wall and facing your bed, bound with ropes that are wrapped so tight they cut into his arms, legs, wrists, chest. A rag from your kitchen, dark with spit, is stuffed into his mouth, held in place by a strip of fabric wrapped around the back of his head. His chest heaves, his nostrils flaring with panicked breath as he stares at you with wide, frantic eyes, veins bulging against his skin.
Your body locks up, breath snagging in your throat.
âWhat the fââ
You barely get the words out before Keith starts thrashing against his restraints, his muffled cries breaking through the stagnant air of your bedroom. His whole body shakes with the force of it, the chair rocking slightly under his weight, but it doesnât budge. The ropes hold firm.
You start to move, heart hammering, the slow creep of realization curling up your spine like a cold finger tracing each vertebra.
Then you feel it.
A large, cold, calloused hand slowly traces the curve of your upper back, dragging upward, a ghost of a touch against your spine. It lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the back of your scalp, tightening just enough to make your breath hitch.
Every muscle in your body locks up, your breath shuddering out in uneven bursts. The room shrinks, walls closing in around you. The grip on your hair tightensânot a yank, not yet, just a firm hold that makes your scalp prickle.
Then, a shift. A press of something solid and warm against the crown of your head. The unmistakable drag of breath as whoever inhales deeply, like heâs committing you to memory. A low, gravelly hum rumbles from his chest, thick with something unreadable. Satisfaction. Possession. Maybe both.
He's right beside you. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him, that his presence warps the air around you, suffocating, intoxicating.
You donât dare move.
Because you know exactly who it is.
The scent of him just like you rememberâgunpowder, sweat, something faintly woodyâclashes with the lingering staleness of your room. It seeps into your lungs, an old ghost resurrected, clawing its way back to the surface.
Then, finally, a voiceârough, undeniably Mancunian, curling at the edges with something almost amused.
âBeen busy, huh, pet?â
The words slither into your ear, smooth and deliberate, sinking their hooks into you like they never left.
You swallow hard, the heat pooling low in your stomach at the deep, deliberate pull of his voice. It scrapes against something raw inside you, something that never healed right. Your heartbeat stutters, then picks up, but not from fear.Â
Still, you donât move. You donât look.
If this is a dream, you donât want to wake upâwake up and risk him being gone again.
Your eyes stay locked onto Keithâs, wide and frantic in the dark, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. He looks at you like youâre supposed to do something, like youâre supposed to save him.
But before you can, Simon makes the choice for you.
The grip in your hair tightensâno longer just a hold, but a command. He tugs, slow and controlled, and your head tilts back whether you want it to or not. Your breath hitches, your fingers twitch at your sides, but you let him. Youâll always let him.
And there he is.
Maskless.
Your breath snags in your throat, brain stalling, tripping over itself. You need a secondâone long, aching secondâto make sense of it, to stitch together the face you only ever caught in fragments. A shadowed jaw, a flicker of his mouth, the barest glimpse of his nose when he was buried between your thighs all those weeks ago.
But his eyes, his eyes donât lie.
Theyâre the same eyes that have haunted you for weeksâdark, relentless, burning into you even in sleep. The same ones that linger behind your eyelids, that youâve conjured in the dead of night, that youâve chased with trembling hands and gasping breaths, desperate for something that feels like him.
And right now, theyâre burning into you, unreadable as ever.
Heâs here, in the flesh.
His bone structure is cut from marbleâsharp cheekbones, a strong brow, a subtly clefted chin that adds to the undeniable masculinity of his face. Soft blond stubble shadows his jaw, catching the dim light as he tilts his head, studying you with those dangerous, all-consuming brown eyes.
Scars carve their history into his skin, some thin and white, others pink and freshly healed. One splits through his eyebrow, another drags across his cheek, and two more pull faintly at his lips. They settle among the freckles dusting his nose, a contradiction of softness and violence, of things that should never coexist but somehow do.
Heâs devastating.
His other hand has found your throat, palm rough and massive against your skin. He could snap your neck with half a thought, with an eighth of his strength, and yet, all he does is trace along your jugular, feeling the rapid thrum of your pulse beneath his fingertips. Itâs possessive. Calculated.
His grip shifts, sliding up to cradle your jaw, just before his thumb drags across your bottom lip. He presses forward, slow, deliberate, until his thumb slips past your teeth, resting heavy on your flat pad of your tongue.
You donât think. You just react.
Your lips wrap around the digit without a secondâs hesitation, without him even needing to ask.
And the look in his eyes?
Like he never expected anything else.
With his thumb hooked in your mouth, saliva pools at the corners of your lips, threatening to spill. You canât swallow, canât do anything but sit there, pliant and open for him, while he holds you in place like some helpless, caught fish.
His grip in your hair loosens, but only so he can guide your head forward, tilting your chin with the hand still in your mouth until your gaze lands back on Keith.
Heâs wide-eyed, panic threading through every inch of him. His breaths are ragged, desperate, as he tries to piece it all togetherâhis wrists bound tight, the ropes cutting into his skin, the oppressive weight of the man looming behind you, and the sight of you. Sitting there, silent, pliant, unresisting.
Keithâs mind races, but thereâs nothing he can do. No words, no pleas that will untangle this mess. You can see it in his eyesâthe confusion, the fear, the realization that heâs powerless. Heâs looking at you like he doesnât even recognize you anymore.
Simon hums, low and contemplative, a deep rumble that vibrates through your very bones.
âThis yâplaything, baby? What youâve been fillinâ yâtime with?â
You try to move your head, to make some kind of response, but his thumb presses down, firm, stopping you before you even begin.
His tongue clicks, a disappointed tut that rolls through your ears like a warning. Like he already knows the answer and doesnât like it.
âKnow I left you... Wasnât very nice of me, now, was it?â
His voice is thick, rich with something unreadable, but his grip tells you enough, a warning and a promise all at once. He tilts your chin back up, forcing you to meet his eyes again.
You want to tell him no, it wasnât nice, that he ripped something out of you when he left. That youâve spent every goddamn second since trying to fill the void he carved. But all that escapes is a strangled, pitiful âmm-mm,â your lips parting helplessly as spit slicks your chin.
His smirk deepens, eyes darkening as they flick down to your mouth, to the mess youâre making of yourself.
âWasnât very nice of you, though, was it? Goinâ âround openinâ your legs for the first man yâsee, hmm? First one willinâ to put his cock in what ainât hisâŠâ
The words strike something deep, hot, and ugly inside you. His? If you were his, then why the hell did he leave? Why did he disappear like smoke, slipping through your fingers, leaving you clawing at the air, grasping at nothing? What is he doing here now, after all this timeâafter breaking into your home, tearing through your life like a storm and vanishing just as quickly, leaving you to sift through the wreckage alone?
Anger surges, reckless and unthinking, and you bite down on his thumbâhard.
He doesnât pull away. Doesnât even flinch. Just smirks at the pain like youâre some unruly little puppy testing its limits. His eyes gleam, a slow, predatory amusement playing across his features as he finally, finally pulls his thumb from your mouth.
You wipe the drool from your chin with the back of your hand, straightening as much as you can under his hold. âIâm not yours,â you say, low and firm, but your voice lacks the conviction you wish it had. âIf I was yours, you wouldnât have left so suddenly, you dick.â
His expression shiftsâless amused now, more exasperated, like youâre missing something so glaringly obvious it physically pains him. He pops the same thumb into his mouth, licking the taste of you off like itâs second nature, like heâs reclaiming something.
"âCourse I left, love. Was on the run.â
You blink.
Oh.
He watches the realization flood your face, that sudden shift in your gaze thatâs almost embarrassing to witness. You can feel the heat of his stare, the sharpness of it, cutting through the tension in the room. Simon leans down toward you, dropping to one knee to be at your eye level, his movements slow, deliberate, like heâs savoring every second of your discomfort. His hands rest casually on his thighs, but thereâs nothing casual about the weight in his voice.
âBut,â he says, a playful edge in his tone, but the undertone is sharp, cutting through the soft hum of the room like a knife. âI guess if yânot mine, then I guess I should go, huh?â
The words hang between you like a challenge, testing your resolve, pushing at the walls youâve built so carefully. You feel your heart pound in your chest, your throat tightening. You open your mouth, but the words catch before they can form. You shake your head, but itâs not enough to make him stop.
He stands up then, straightening to his full height, and itâs almost like the air shifts around him, âFine then,â he says, his voice low, almost amused. âNo problem. Iâll leave. Yâcan stay here with Keith, yeah? Let âem keep yâ company.â
The words hit like a gut punch, a shock to your system as you realize youâve completely forgotten about Keith. Heâs still there, bound and helpless, and a grimace pulls at your face as you glance over at him. Sure, he was annoying, but this? This isnât what he deserved.
How Simon knows his name is a mystery, but somehow, it doesnât surprise you. It never does with him. Keithâs name slipping from Simonâs lips is an ugly reminder of something youâd rather keep buried. Something you regret.
Simon starts to turn, heading toward the door, and the world tilts on its axis.
You canât let him go, canât let him walk out like thatâagainâlike itâs nothing, like you can just let him leave and keep pretending that none of this matters.
Your legs feel weak, like they might give out from underneath you, but you manage to stand. Slowly at first, then with more urgency, your hands reaching out toward him without thinking. They land on his forearmsâmassive, firm, like steel wrapped in skinâand you grip him hard, pulling him back just a little, just enough to make him stop.
Simonâs body tenses under your touch, but he doesnât say anything right away. He simply turns back to face you, his expression unreadable. The quiet between you two stretches.
He lets you stop him. He knew you would, he wanted you to.Â
You glance at Keith, whoâs dumbfounded as he struggles to comprehend whatâs unfolding. Then you look up at Simon, where that insufferable, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
âDonât,â you say, voice tight.
He cocks his head, brows furrowing slightly, though amusement lingers in his dark eyes. âDonât what?â
You swallow, feel the words stick in your throat before forcing them out. âDonât go.â
Something in his expression flickers, shifts just slightly before settling into something heavier. He doesnât waste time. He steps toward Keith, bending at the waist until heâs face-to-face with him, a lion looming over an antelope with its throat already torn open, arterial spray painting the dirt, limbs twitching in useless protest as the last dregs of life seep out.
âHear that, lad?â Simon drawls, voice thick with condescension. âShe doesnât want me to go. Wants me tâstay right hereâstuff her full oâ my cock, yeah? Bet she doesnât want that from you.â
Your mouth falls open, lips parting in shock. Not because heâs wrongâJesus, heâs not wrongâbut because he says it like itâs the simplest fact in the world, like heâs reading it straight from the book of universal truths.
Keith is trembling now, his whole body shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. He looks so small, so pathetic compared to Simonâs hulking figure.
Simon doesnât look away. He watches him, studies him, his gaze slow and calculating before he hums, almost thoughtful. His voice is deceptively quiet, laced with something deceptively soft. âThink that pencil dick does âer wonders, eh?â
Keith whimpers, eyes wide, body rigid, already feeling the metaphorical teeth at his throat. Simon just reveles in it, feeding off the fear like itâs sustenance. And youâre dumbfounded.Â
And aroused.
You shouldnât react to this the way you are. You shouldnât feel your cunt growing wetter than it's been in months. shouldnât feel your breath hitch at the way heâs openly claiming you without hesitation, without shame. But you do.
Because even if Simon doesnât have the right to stake his claim on you, doesnât have the right to act as if you still belong to himâdoesnât he?
You signed your name at the bottom of that letter all those weeks ago.
And to Simon, that was the dotted line. The confirmation.
You swallow, the sound too loud in the thick silence, your body frozen as you watch Simonâs one-man pissing contest unfold. It gets his attention, though. His head turns sharply, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pins you in place, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife.
Despite the draft floating through, the air is thick in the room; it presses against your chest as you stand frozen, caught between two menâone holding you hostage with his eyes, the other trembling with frustration and fear. Simonâs smirk doesnât falter as he straightens up, glancing over his shoulder at you with that same cold gleam in his eyes. Heâs toying with you. You know that. He has been. But there's something different now. Something sharp and jagged in the way heâs looking at you, like heâs definitively claiming the space between your hearts, drawing lines you canât ignore.
Keithâs eyes flicker between you and Simon, darting like heâs searching for an escape. You imagine he thinks Simon is some crazy ex, some jealous, unhinged thing from your past. But that couldnât be farther from the truth. He whines through the make-shift gag like he wants to say something, to demand an explanation, to plead. But heâs frozen, paralyzed, locked in place as it all crumbles right in front of him, powerless to do a damn thing about it.
Simon, however, is unfazed. Barely even interested. His eyes flick back to Keith, sharp and dismissive, like heâs looking at a stale loaf of bread.
âYou, lad⊠are just a stopgap. Temporary. Got that?â
Simonâs voice is steady, calmâlike heâs explaining something simple, something Keith shouldâve already known. Then, without warning, he grips Keithâs hair, yanking his head up from the scalp and forcing him to look into those cold, unrelenting eyes.
Keith lets out a sharp, choked noise as he makes Keithâs head bob in a mockery of a nod.
âYeah,â Simon murmurs, voice laced with amusement. âThatâs right. Now youâre gettinâ it.â
Simon releases Keithâs head with a sharp flick of his wrist, sending it snapping backward. Keith groans, but Simon doesnât spare him another glance.
Instead, he turns back to you. Fully. His gaze is heavy, piercingâdigging beneath your skin like heâs peeling back layers, searching for the fight in you, daring you to contradict him.
But you donât. You canât.
And he knows it.
You want to scream at him, to remind him that youâre not a prize to be fought over or a possession to be claimed. But the words die in your throat, stifled by the raw, undeniable tension curling in the pit of your stomach. Because heâs right.
He stalks toward you, closer and closer until youâre forced to crane your neck to meet his gaze. The room feels smaller, quieter, as if the world around you has paused in reverence of him. You canât escape his eyes, those brown depths that see right through you. They peel back the layers of your mind.
His lips curl into a dangerous, knowing smirk that sends a shiver down your spine. âThought yâcould just disobey, sweet thing?â he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with venom. âThought yâcould just fuck off and be so⊠disrespectful?â
His words slice through the air, every syllable hitting you like a lash against your skin, the sting burrowing under your flesh. His eyes darken, becoming something primal, like heâs waiting for the moment you finally realize just how much he controls you. âThought I wouldnât know?â His voice drops lower, almost a growl. âThought I wouldnât do somethinâ about it?â
You try to hold your ground, to summon the will to look away, but the weight of his gaze pins you in place. His eyes bore into yours, unblinking, unrelenting. Thereâs a coldness there that you never thought youâd see from him.
Itâs unmistakable now. The contempt he feels for youâdisrespecting him, breaking his trustâitâs palpable in the furrow of his brown and the frown lines on his lips.
Your throat tightens, a mix of shame and anger swirling inside you. You want to argue, but how could you? After everything? Heâs right, isnât he? You did disrespect him. You did go to someone else, let another man touch you.
You didnât think heâd come back, but deep, deep down you knew he would. You knew he was still there, always watching, you just didnât want to accept it. And now, as you stand in front of him, feeling the weight of his gaze, you realize the kind of power he has over you. Not just physical, but mental. Emotional. And that power isnât something you can run from, no matter how much you want to.
His hand reaches up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, the touch soft, almost affectionate, but you can feel the danger lurking just beneath the surface.Â
His breath skates along your ear, scorching in its proximity, his lips barely touching but still branding you like a slow drag of a candle stick on paper. His other hand settles on your throatânot choking, just securing, owning. Like heâs collaring you, like heâs locking you back in place where you shouldâve been all along.
His voice is low, every syllable laced with quiet fury. âGotta show yâlittle plaything who yâreally belong to, huh?â
Your breath stutters, your pulse hammering beneath his fingertips, but you nod, eyes wide, body betraying you in how quickly you submit. His heat rolls off him in waves, seeping through your flimsy shirt, wrapping around you like a smothering embrace. Itâs too much and not enough all at once.
âWords,â he murmurs, his grip flexingâjust a tease of pressure, just enough to make your stomach drop.
âYes,â you rasp, the word trembling as it falls from your lips.
And then youâre movingâyou donât know how, donât know if he shoved, pulled, or if you just folded for him, but suddenly youâre laid back on the bed, looking up at him.
He towers over you, broad shoulders blotting out everything else, his presence suffocating in the way that makes your lungs tighten and your blood rush south. You stare up at him, and he stares right back, gaze heavy and dark, like heâs been waiting for this.
Like heâs already decided what heâs going to do with you.
Simonâs voice, a low, guttural growl, fills the room. âLook at him,â he commands, his fingers snapping the buckle of his belt. The metallic click echoes, a sharp, ominous sound.
You turn your head to the side, gaze locking onto Keith's. His eyes, wide and terrified, dart between you and Simon's hulking frame. His hands twitch against the restraints, his legs kicking feebly, a desperate, futile struggle.
The leather of Simon's belt snakes through the loops and he tosses it aside, metal clanking on the floor. Then, a sharp tug on your ankles yanks your hips towards the edge of the bed. You gasp, your head whipping back towards Simon, shock and fear battling for dominance in your expression.
But his hand clamps down on your chin, his grip like iron, forcing your gaze back to Keith. He leans over, his lips brushing your ear. âLook at him,â he repeats, his grip tightening. âIf yâso much as blink, if yâlook away, this stops. And we're done.â
The threat hangs in the air. A whimper escapes your lips, a small, broken sound of surrender. ââkay,â you whisper, your voice trembling, your eyes glued to Keith's terrified face. â... OkayâŠâ
The fabric of your panties rasps as he yanks them down, a swift, decisive motion that leaves your pussy bared to his hungry eyes. A gasp escapes your lips, a mix of surprise and a sudden, unwelcome heat blooming between your legs. Without warning, heâs on his knees and his mouth is on you, hot and wet, his tongue a relentless, insistent invasion. He licks and sucks, his ministrations both brutal and exquisitely precise.Â
Instinctively, your eyes flick downwards, seeking his own. His gaze, dark and intense, is already locked on yours, a silent, predatory command. He pauses, his tongue hovering just above your swollen clit, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air.
You wrench your gaze back to Keith, your body trembling with a mixture of fear, embarrassment, and arousal. You fight the involuntary arch of your back, the way your face wants to contort in pleasure, the sounds that threaten to spill from your lipsâsounds Keith has never heard, expressions he's never earned. The shame burns, a hot, corrosive acid, mixing with the raw, undeniable pleasure that pulses through you, a traitorous betrayal of your own body.
Simon senses your restraint, the tension that coils within you, the silent battle raging in your soul. It only fuels his desire, a cruel, possessive hunger. He slips his fingers inside you, two, then three, crooking them in a teasing rhythm, stretching you wider and wider.His lips tighten, nearly swallowing your clit, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity through your core. A loud, involuntary whine spills from your lips, a desperate, animalistic sound you can't suppress. Your back arches and you canât help but look at him, your hips lifting off the bed, as he holds your thighs hostage against his shoulders, his mouth and fingers working in tandem, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
Keithâs panting, his chest heaving, still fighting against the restraints. But somethingâs shifted. His struggles are less frantic, less desperate. His eyes are half-lidded, glazed with a sheen of arousal. A flush creeps up his neck, his breath coming in short, rapid bursts. The sight of him, both terrified and aroused, is a brutal contradiction, a twisted reflection of the conflicting emotions tearing you apart.
Simonâs fingers move inside you, stroking your g-spot while his tongue continues its work on your clit, slurping and sucking so lewdly. âMissed this fuckinâ pussy, God,â he murmurs, his voice heady with lust. âNeedy girl, yâtaste so good,â he groans as he makes out with your folds. He thrusts his fingers deeper, his tongue swirling and teasing.Â
âLook at himâ he commands, releasing your clit with a pop, his voice a low growl. âLook at how hard yâmakinâ him, girl. He wants you, donât he? He wants tâbe the one doinâ this tâyou.â
You feel your peak building, the pressure mounting, a wave of sensation threatening to overwhelm you.Â
Your hand instinctively clutches at Simon's cropped hair, your fingers digging into his scalp as the pleasure intensifies. You drag your gaze back to Keith, his body a twisted tableau of arousal and restraint. His hips buck against the chair, a frantic, rhythmic movement, and he gnaws at the rag gagging him, a desperate, muffled sound. His eyes, glazed and dilated, are locked on yours.
You canât handle itâyou tear your gaze away, the weight of his shame, his helplessness, too much to bear. Itâs unbearable, looking at him when the only man youâve ever truly wanted is the one between your legs.
You hate that Keith is watching. Hate the way his eyes track every movement, every shift of your body. But fuckâif it doesnât send a pulse of heat through you, knowing someone is.
You try to look away, to break the connection, but Simon's eyes hold you captive. They're dark, intense, burning. This time, he doesn't force your gaze away. Instead, his eyes silently beckon you, Come, they say, Come in my mouth, baby.
Your orgasm coils low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, heat licking up your spine like a flame searching for air. It swirls, thick and consuming, a molten ache that makes you want to cry. You arch your back, your body convulsing as you call out his name, a desperate, raw plea that fills the room. A wave of pure pleasure washes over you, and you unravel, gushing into his mouth.
Simon groans, a low, guttural sound of satisfaction, as he savors the taste of your release. Unbeknownst to you, he'd been rhythmically grinding his hips against the edge of the bed throughout your orgasm, his own arousal building each time you clenched around his fingers. He takes his time, meticulously licking you clean, his tongue lingering on your swollen flesh.Â
Eventually, he pulls away from your pussy, but not before slapping your sensitive clit, the sound echoing in the room. The force of the impact sends a jolt of overstimulation through you, a lingering tremor that makes you twitch and gasp. He chuckles at the reaction. Asshole.Â
You instinctively clutch at your shirt, pulling it off, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from your core. Your senses are reeling, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of your orgasm.
He moves to straddle your hips, his large, powerful thighs rooted on either side of your hips, anchoring you beneath him. He leans over you, planting his forearms on either side of your head, effectively caging you. His eyes bore into yours.
The space between you is barely a breath, just the warmth of his exhale mingling with yours. His lips are still slick, shining with the remnants of you, his cheeks streaked with evidence of just how deep he wentâmessy eater. You watch as his gaze flickers down, lingering on your mouth like heâs thinking about it, like he wants it, but he doesnât move.
You mirror him, flicking your gaze from his lips back to his eyes, searching for somethingâan answer, an intention, a reason why heâs hesitating. Your brows pull together, your voice soft, uncertain. âSimon?â
A grunt. Thatâs all he gives you. A quiet, low vibration in his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable.
Your fingers creep up, threading into the short, soft hair at the base of his skull, anchoring him in place. He doesnât pull away, doesnât stop you, just breathes. His eyes keep flicking down, but he still doesnât close the distance. Itâs unlike him. Unbecoming of him. A man who takes what he wants without hesitationâwhy now, when you're right here, does he stall?
âWon't you kiss me?â The words are barely above a whisper, but they break something in him.
He nods slowly, like itâs unpracticed. Like heâs never done something so intimate before.
He nudges his nose against yours first, like heâs testing the waters, feeling out the moment before he lets himself sink. And thenâhis lips press to yours.
Soft. Gentle. Everything you didnât expect from a man who just slapped your overstimulated cunt.
Your eyes flutter shut as the kiss deepens, slow and unsure. His lips are dewy from where heâs been, the taste of you lingering, and for once, you have to guide himâslowly, patiently molding your lips to his, showing how to do something other than take.
And he lets you.
The kisses start slow, tentative, like heâs learning you. But it doesnât last. Hesitation melts into something more primal, more insatiable, and you canât help but reciprocate. His lips part against yours, and when your tongue brushes against his, he groans low in his throatâdeep, guttural, vibrating against your lips.
It sets something off between you, a chain reaction of need. His hands start to wander, dragging over the curves of your bare skin, rough palms mapping the places heâs missed. His fingers press into your waist, then skate down to your hips, your thighs, then back up again, as if he canât decide where he wants to touch you most.
You arch into him, your body betraying you, craving the heat, the weight of him. His touch grows firmer, his grip tightening like he needs to feel you under his hands to prove that youâre real, that this isnât just a fever dream.
Somewhere between gasps and swallowed moans, he pulls back just enough to yank his shirt over his head, revealing broad shoulders and a torso carved from marble. Heâs still in just his boxers now, and itâs almost unfairâthe contrast between his near-nakedness and your own, how heâs still clothed while you have nothing left to hide.
But then his eyes rake over you, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips, gaze dark and full of intent. He reaches out, slow, reverent, fingers tracing the dip between your collarbones before sliding lower, down the valley of your ribs, spreading warmth everywhere he touches.
âFuckinâ beautiful,â he murmurs, voice rough, eyes locked onto yours like youâre the only thing in the world worth looking at.
You smile bashfully before your eyes flick to the corner, catching movementâor rather, the absence of it. Keith.
Youâd once again forgotten he was still here.
Heâs unnaturally silent, his breath shallow, his body frozen. But even in the dim glow of the room, you see itâthe damp patch spreading across the front of his sleep shorts, dark and unmistakable.
He came in his pants.
Something cold prickles down your spine, a mix of disgust and something else, something twisted. The shame on his face is unbearable, carved into every trembling breath, every flicker of his glassy eyes. His face is utterly wrecked, drained of any fight, any defiance. Like he already knows heâs lost. Like he knew it the second tied him up.Â
Simon follows your gaze as he gets off of you and leans back against the headboard, legs spread, arms resting lazily at his sides. His gaze flicks between you and Keith, amusement curling at the edges of his lips. He scoffs, shaking his head as he watches the pathetic, trembling mess still tied up in the corner.
âJizzed his pants? Christ.â His voice is dripping with disgust, but thereâs something else there tooâsomething utterly pleased. Like Keithâs shame only serves to highlight his own triumph.
Your breath is still uneven as you turn back to Simon, watching the way his fingers stroke absentmindedly over his own stomach, dangerously close to the waistband of his boxers. He exhales slowly through his nose, then lifts his hand, trailing fingers up into your hair, brushing over your cheek in one slow, deliberate stroke.
The touch is gentle. And maybe itâs that contrast, the tenderness hidden beneath all that violence, that makes you instinctively lean into his palm, nuzzling against it like you belong there.
Something flickers in his expressionâsomething unreadable, something deep. But itâs gone just as quick as it came, masked behind an air of satisfaction. He stretches, cracks his neck, and then settles back against the pillows, arms behind his head, looking up at you with expectation.
âGo on then,â he murmurs, patting his upper thigh. âGive the bloke a reason tâcry.â
You glance at Keith again, slumped against the chair in the corner, his face burning with ignominy, his breaths uneven. His teary eyes are flicking between you and Simon, his hands twitching in his restraints like he doesn't know whether to cover himself or reach out for something that will never belong to him.
Simon watches you, tracking every flicker of emotion across your face. He tilts your chin toward him. His grip is firm, but not forcefulâjust enough to remind you of what he expects.
âCâmon, pet,â he drawls, his thumb tracing slow circles at the hinge of your jaw. âLet âem see what he was never gonna have.â
 You don't hesitate, your body moving eagerly. Simon reclines, his fingers already toying with the elastic waistband of his briefs, a silent invitation. You crawl over him, straddling his hips, the rough fabric of his briefs a stark contrast to the slick heat between your legs. You settle your bare, slick cunt onto his clothed cock, a kaleidoscope of butterflies shooting through your core as you feel the girth of him beneath you.
Now, your back is to Keith. You can't see his face, but you can imagine the look that must be twisting his features. Simonâs enjoying the spectacle, reveling in the power he holds as he cucks him.
And, you admit to yourself, a dark, shameful part of you enjoys it too. The knowledge that Keith is forced to watch, to witness it all, fuels a perverse excitement, a thrill that makes you slicker than Simonâs touch alone does. The realization is sickening, but exhilarating.
Simonâs hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, urging you to grind against the clothed length of his erection. The fabric of his boxers, rough against your swollen clit, sends a jolt of pleasure through you, eliciting a soft mewl from your throat. His cock twitches beneath you, a hard, insistent pulse, and he hisses at the rhythm of your grinding, a low, guttural sound of barely contained desire.
You meet his gaze, your eyes wide and seemingly innocent, your hands resting lightly on his chest. âCan I fuck you now? P⊠please?â you ask, your voice soft, almost pleading.
âFuck, sweets,â he growls, his voice thick with lust. âTake itâit's yours.â He pushes his boxers down to his knees, and with your eager assistance, reveals the full, throbbing length of him. He cups his cock in his hands, pumping it lazily, his eyes fixed on the way it reaches just below your belly button. A low groan rumbles in his chest. âFuckinâ hell,â he breathes, his voice ragged.
He reaches for your hips, helping you lift them, guiding you as you position yourself above him. The anticipation is a tangible thing, a thick, heavy tension that fills the room as you slowly lower yourself onto him.
You hesitate, hovering above him, the anticipation a sharp, almost painful thrum in your core. Then you lower yourself onto him. The initial stretch is intense, a sharp, almost burning sensation that elicits a low moan from your throat. You bite your lip, bracing yourself, as you take him inch by agonizing inch, savoring the feeling of his thick length filling you, stretching you wide. A whimper escapes your lips, a sound that's both a cry of discomfort and a raw expression of pleasure.
He feels impossibly large, impossibly full, as if he's somehow grown even bigger since the last time. It's an overwhelming sensation, a raw, visceral fullness that borders on pain, yet is laced with an undeniable, addictive pleasure. It's the ultimate release, the scratching of an itch you didn't know you had.
When you finally take him all, a guttural groan erupts from Simonâs throat. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your ass, kneading and urging you on. His eyes, dark and possessive, are fixed on you, watching every movement, every subtle shift of your body. âLook at that,â he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. âLook how you take me. So fucking tight.â His gaze lingers on the way his cock distends your abdomen, stretching your skin to its limit, a visible testament to his size.
Too lost in the pleasure, you barely register Simon's occasional, smug glances towards Keith, the subtle shifts in his expression as he watches.Â
You begin to ride him, slowly at first, savoring the feeling of him filling you, stretching you, the friction building with each rise and fall of your hips. The rhythm quickens, escalating as your body adjusts to his impressive girth, the pace becoming more frantic, more desperate.
The room fills with a cacophony of sounds: the slick slap of skin against skin, the wet, gasping moans that escape your lips, Simonâs rough whispers, a torrent of the dirtiest words imaginable, painting the air with sex. And beneath it all, Keith's muffled whines, the rhythmic bucking of his hips against the restraints, a constant, jarring counterpoint to your pleasure, a stark reminder of how heâs watching.Â
The muscles in your thighs begin to tremble, a burning ache that spreads with each thrust. The sensory overload, a chaotic mix of the lingering aftershocks of your previous orgasm, the constant, invasive feel of Keithâs eyes on you, Simonâs roaming hands, and the insistent, stretching pressure of his cock, begins to push you past your limits. His pubes, coarse and rough, scrapes against your swollen clit, sending jolts of raw, almost painful pleasure through you. It's too much, a tidal wave threatening to drown you.
Simon senses it all, the subtle shift in your rhythm, the way your breath hitches and catches the way the sodden walls of your cunt clench around him. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, and he stills your movements, halting your grinding just as you teeter on the edge. He holds you suspended, your bodies locked together, the tension building to an almost unbearable degree.
Simon pulls you close, your foreheads touching, your breaths mingling in the humid air. Both of you are slick with sweat, your bodies still thrumming with the aftershocks of your shared climax. He murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle, âDo you trust me?â
You nod, the affirmation barely a twitch of your head, your trust in him a strange, almost instinctive thing.
With a sudden, almost effortless movement, he lifts you off his cock, setting you aside on the bed as if you weigh nothing. He rises to his knees, his eyes dark and intense, and grabs you again, manhandling you onto your stomach. Your chest presses flat against the mattress, your ass raised high in the air, and yourâre directly in sight of Keith
You clutch at the bed sheets beneath you, your knuckles white, as you brace yourself. You feel Simon's hand smooth over your ass, the touch both possessive and caring. Then, two sharp, stinging slaps land on either ass cheek, making you jolt. A gasp escapes your lips, but beneath the sting, a traitorous heat blooms between your legs, your cunt leaking.
He leans over you, his cock pressing flush against your ass, hard chest against your back, the heat radiating from him. He rasps in your ear, âHeâs gonna watch, sweetheart. Heâs gonna watch as I fuck yâtill yâbrains leak out yâears, ainât that right?â He continues. You whimper, a small, broken sound of acceptance, your body trembling.
Keith looks utterly defeated, his face a mask of exhaustion and a strange, twisted arousal. The dark stain on his shorts has grown exponentially. A flicker of guilt pierces through the haze of your cock-drunk stupor. A pang of remorse, a whisper of conscience, tries to surface, but itâs quickly swallowed by the need that simmers within you. The shame is there, but itâs overshadowed by the throbbing between your legs.
You're repulsed by the situation, by the violation of Keith, by the way Simon is using him to make a pointâas a pawn in this twisted game. Yet a shameful part of you revels in the power, in the dominance that Simon exudes.Â
Simon leans back, his eyes dark and predatory, and grabs his cock, circling your entrance with the slick, glistening tip. He teases you, the anticipation stretching the moment into an unbearable eternity. âWhat do we say, hmm?â he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous purr. âWhen we want something?â
Your face is half-smushed against the bed, the rough fabric digging into your cheek, and a muffled plea escapes your lips. âPlease,â you whisper, the word barely audible.
He continues to torment you, the tip of his cock dipping in and out of your swollen entrance, each teasing touch sending a jolt of desperate need through your body. A string of pleas spills from your lips, âPlease, Siââ you beg, your voice thick with desire. âPleaseâI need itâ I need youââ
Simonâs eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he watches your desperation. âAwh, baby,â he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery. âDon't ask me. Iâm not the one yâneed to convince.â He hums.
He reaches out, his hand weaving through your scalp wrapping around your hair, and he yanks it back sharply, forcing your head into an unnatural, painful angle. Your neck strains, and your eyes are forced upwards, locking directly with Keithâs.
âAsk him,â Simon commands, his voice a low, menacing growl.
Your eyes meet Keith's, and you whisper, your voice thick with shame and desperation, a string of broken pleas.
Simon's grip tightens on your hair. âSay it proper, pet,â he instructs, his voice hard. âSay, âPlease let Simon fuck me, Keith.ââ
You instantly repeat the words, verbatim, the phrase a humiliating echo of his command. Unshed tears prick at your eyes, threatening to spill if Simon so much as grazes your clit again.
Keith looks between you both, his gaze shifting between your prettily arched body and Simon's monstrous, towering figure behind you. A flicker of something that might be resignation crosses his face. He nods lazily, a slow, almost imperceptible movement.
Simon smirks, a triumphant, possessive expression twisting his lips. He releases your hair, the sudden freedom making your head loll forward. âSee what happens when you ask nicely?â he murmurs, his voice laced with a dark satisfaction.
And then, without further delay, he inches in, the head of his cock pressing against your swollen entrance.
He slides into you, the angle intensifying the stretch, filling you even deeper than before. The sheer size of him steals your breath, the slow, deliberate intrusion forcing the air from your lungs. You claw at the sheets beneath you, your knuckles white, tears wetting the fabric.
He grunts as he sheaths himself fully, then pulls back before plunging in again. He watches as your cunt clenches and drools around him, sucking him in with a desperate, hungry grip. âGreedy pussy,â he growls, his voice thick with lust. âSheâs so fuckinâ greedy.â
You whine, a broken, helpless sound, your body trapped beneath him, forced to endure his thrusts. There's no escape, no reprieve, only the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, stretching you, dominating you.
Gradually, he picks up the pace, the rhythm becoming faster, more brutal. You howl, your drool soaking the sheets beneath your face. Heâs hitting spots you didn't know existed, stretching you to the brim, the feeling bordering on unbearable. You can barely focus, your vision blurred by tears, the world reduced to the relentless pounding of his cock, the wet squelches from your pussy, and the raw, visceral sensations that rip through your body.
Each thrust forces a wheeze of air from your lungs, a sound that more closely resembles a death rattle than a moan. Your whole body is ablaze, and heâs the one who struck the matchâwatching as you burn, as the flames lick higher, consuming everything in their path.
Simon suddenly hauls you upward, his hand looping around your upper chest, pulling you flush against his sweat-slicked chest. His hips donât falter as they continue to snap into you, your body arching involuntarily with each powerful stroke. His other hand grips your waist, anchoring you, while he leans into the crook of your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin there.
Your entire body, a raw, exposed spectacle, is laid bare before Keith. Your mouth hangs slack-jawed, your tits bouncing with each rapid, violent thrust that jolts through your frame. Even though heâs seen you naked before, heâs never witnessed you like this: so utterly debased, so completely at someoneâs mercy.
Heâs never seen anyone like this.
Simon licks a slow, deliberate stripe from your neck to your ear, his tongue tracing a path of fire across your skin, all while continuing to fuck you, his rhythm unwavering. Youâre limp in his arms, your head lolling back, your eyes rolling towards the back of your head. The pleasure is so overwhelming, so intense, that you can barely even manage a sound, your vocal cords paralyzed by the raw sensation.
He harshly whispers in your ear, his voice a low, guttural growl, âYâgonna cum,? Can feel yâclenchinâ âround meâfuck, yâso tight, babyââ
You manage a garbled, broken attempt at a âyes,â your voice thick with unspeakable pleasure.
âGood,â he murmurs. ââM close too and yâgonna take it allâ Gonna fill this cunnyâfuck,â He pauses, his voice hardening, âAnd yâbetter not take a fuckingâ Plan B this time.â
The words, a brutal reminder of your vulnerability, snap the last vestiges of your control. A wave of raw, unadulterated pleasure crashes over you, unlike anything you've ever experienced. You gush, your orgasm violent as you squirt, your release spraying across his cock and the sheets.
He continues to fuck you, his thrusts relentless as he chases his own high, his hands squeezing your tits, urging you on. âAtta girl,â he grunts, his voice thick with lust.
You go limp, your body leaning against him, your mind a blank canvas of pure sensation. Then, with a final, shuddering groan, he empties himself inside you, filling you to the brim, his cum a hot, pulsing tide that leaves you feeling utterly spent.
He stills, holding you close, his arms supporting you. Heâs truly fucked you senseless, leaving you a shell of your former self.
Slowly, gently, he pulls out of you, the withdrawal leaving a strange, hollow ache. He lays you on your side, his touch surprisingly tender, and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. You let him, your body and mind too exhausted to offer any resistance.
He rises, his movements fluid and predatory, and stalks towards Keith. From your position on the bed, you can see the hard planes of his naked form, a stark, imposing figure standing before the bound man. He speaks, his voice low and menacing, the words barely audible. Keith looks up at him, his eyes wide with fear.
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, Simon retrieves a knife heâd apparently left on your desk, the blade glinting in the dim light. He swiftly cuts through the ropes binding Keith, freeing him from his restraints.
Within seconds, Keith scrambles to his feet, his movements frantic and desperate. He doesn't look back, doesn't offer a word of explanation or apology. He simply runs, fleeing the house as if pursued by demons.
You lie there, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of Simon's brutal possession, your mind struggling to process the scene. You don't know what Simon said to Keith, but the fear in the other man's eyes, the sheer urgency of his escape, speaks volumes. It couldn't have been anything good.
The front door slams shut, the echo reverberating through the quiet house. The sound of hurried, stumbling footsteps fades into the night. Keith is gone.
Simon exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, before setting the knife down exactly where he had left it earlier. The metal clinks against the wood, sharp and final.
You havenât moved.
Your body still hums, every nerve alight, the aftershocks of everything thatâs just happened still pulsing through you. Your heart slams against your ribs, beating an erratic rhythm you canât quite slow down.
Then, warmthâsolid, steady, unshakable.
Simon sidles in behind you, his presence swallowing yours whole. One thick arm loops around your waist, the other sliding up to your sternum, pulling you back into his chest, into his heat. You donât resist. You donât even think to.
He presses his chin to your shoulder, his breath warm as it fans across your skin. His grip is firm, possessive, like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he lets go.
âStill with me, love?â he murmurs, voice rough, threaded with something unreadable.
You swallow hard, blinking yourself back into the present. Your fingers twitch at your sides, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.
You choose the latter. Your hands settle over his arms, feeling the solid muscle beneath your palms, the way he holds you like you belong to him.
You hum in response, soft and instinctive, nuzzling just slightly deeper into the warmth of his chest. Itâs comforting in a way you donât fully understandâhow you can feel so at ease wrapped up in the arms of a man who is anything but safe.
Your fingers trace idle patterns along the skin of his forearm, feeling the scars, the ridges, the history carved into him. You tilt your head slightly, voice still a little breathless as you ask, âWhat did you say to him?â
Simon chuckles. âTold âem if he so much as breathed a word about this, Iâd track him down, carve his tongue out, and mail it tâhis mother. After I made him swallow his teeth, oâ course.â
Your eyes widen. âJesus Christ.â
âAt least I didnât go with my original plan.â
You hesitate, blinking, your heart skipping. âWhat plan?â
Simon leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, completely unbothered, âKillinâ him. Tossinâ his sorry corpse into the Thames.â
A beat of silence.
ââŠOh.â
Simon laughsâan actual laugh, deep and rumbling, like you just told the funniest joke in the world.
And itâs only now, sitting here, still bare against his heat, his arms caging you in, his scent thick in your lungs, that you remember heâs still a criminal.
Simon holds you close, his chin resting against the top of your head, arms locked around you like he has no intention of letting go. His body is warm, steadyâlike he belongs here, like you belong here.
Then, quietly, he murmurs, âYâmine now.â
You let out a small chuckle. âYeah, I got that part.â
His chest vibrates with a quiet laugh, one of his hands slowly dragging up and down your arm, fingertips tracing your skin like heâs memorizing you. Itâs gentleâtoo much so for a man like him.
You shift just enough to glance at the analog clock on your nightstand. The dim glow of the numbers makes your stomach sink.
âShit.â
Simon hums in question.
âSunâs coming up,â you sigh, rubbing your face, âand I have work in three hours.â
He doesnât even pause. âNah, yâdonât.â
You let out a tired laugh. âThat so?â
âMhm.â He pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and sure. âTold you. Yâmine. That means yâdonât have tâwork.â
You blink up at him, frowning. âSimon, I have a life here. A job, a flat. I canât just give it up.â
He shrugs, lips twitching. âIâll get your lease terminated.â
 You turn to face him in his embrace. âWithout penalties?â
His smirk is slow, lazy. âDonât worry about it.â
You stare at him, not even bothering to ask what that means. You already know. You also know youâre too damn tired to fight about it.
With a long exhale, your fingers trace the pink scar just below his collarbone. âWhere would we even go?â
It was a joke. A letter to a criminalâUK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because itâs not like heâd ever get out, right?
â 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .á | [ AO3 ]
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 ]
â SEQUEL : ' IN CONTEMPT '
Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?
 Itâs almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. Itâs a massive store, but youâve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customersâ overwhelming stupidity.Â
You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. Itâd be laughable if it wasnât so damn frustrating. You canât even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but itâs there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isnât any prettier, but itâs a kind of mindless ritual thatâs grown familiar over timeâ20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But youâre too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things youâve had to swallow throughout the day.
The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but itâs long enough for your legs to remind you that youâve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.Â
After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. Itâs tucked just outside Bromley, and itâs small, not much at all, but itâs enough. Itâs the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place.Â
This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought youâd left behind when you took the leap and moved out.
After college, you made it a point to leave your parentsâ house. You couldnât stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didnât need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didnât get it.Â
Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape youâd craved, the independence you had always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.
In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. Youâd write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, youâd get a letter back. The responses were always the sameâsurprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.
But now, when youâre standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it.Â
Youâre having a⊠Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you canât pronounce. Theyâre thriving, but youâre stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like itâs paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.
You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like theyâre beyond you in all shapes and forms.
Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesnât mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.
Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but youâd rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You donât need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug âI told you soâ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep youâre sinking, youâll claw your way up alone. Itâs not pride, itâs survival. Youâve always done it yourself, itâs just easier that way.Â
And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? Youâre a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasnât humiliating enough, youâre also trailing behind in the one thing thatâs supposed to have happened already.
Youâve had chancesâplenty of chancesâbut every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.
Not that youâre a prude. Youâve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guyâs screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point youâd imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and âalmosts,â it was something. Proof you werenât completely out of your depth.
Not that it really mattered.
You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm thatâs come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.
You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at youâan automated bill reminder, a news alert youâll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. Thatâs it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.
With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No oneâs waiting for you to reply anyway. Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it wonât add much to your day, but itâll at least fill the space with noise.
The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you donât have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.
A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchorâs voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.
Itâs the kind of name youâd expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.
And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TVâtowering, masked,âhits you in a way you hadnât anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you canât fight the way he unsettles you.
Heâs been arrested. The news anchorâs voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghostâa ghost no longerâis now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast Londonâs most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.
You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. Thereâs a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if heâs in the very room youâre sitting in. The news anchorâs voice drones on, but youâre already lost in thought.
You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other peopleâpetty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didnât have to be war heroes.Â
As long as they didnât kill anyoneâor anything.Â
So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.
You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness.Â
You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screenâbroad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention. The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure
His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman qualityâlike a wraith lurking in the dark.Â
Heâs swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sightâan omen in the periphery, waiting.
Itâs strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would.Â
His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. Youâre not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you canât look away. Something about himâhis sheer presence, even through a screenâsnags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God youâre so lonely.
Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.
Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed thatâs what made him a terrorist-level threat.
Then you stumble upon another factâand you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isnât even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.
That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disruptedâa ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isnât just last nightâs leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.
For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letterâ
âNo. What the fuck? Thatâs insane. Heâs killed people, and you want to send him a letter?Â
âŠ
You decide to send him a letter.Â
Itâs not like youâre his number one fanâor a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, heâs probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.
Itâs just a letter. Youâre not looking for anything in return. Youâll write to him, then move on, because why not? Itâs not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, itâs just... kindness.Â
Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you donât care to nameâexcitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.
Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.
You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackleâthin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.
You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement.Â
For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?Â
You reason with yourself that if heâs unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesnât matter. You donât expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun youâve had in years.
You press the pen to the paper.Â
âDear Big Bad Ghost,âÂ
A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know youâre doing something absolutely stupid. But really, whatâs the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.
Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. Andâbecause thereâs no point in pretending otherwiseâyou admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, becauseâletâs be honestâyou wouldnât be doing something this rash if he wasnât (you make sure to write that, too).
You just keep going. You tell him youâre 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. Youâre sure youâve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he wonât care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.
You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, theyâd have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast heâd get whiplashâbut lucky for him, heâs dealing with the UKâs legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.
Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a âgood timeâ. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though youâre quick to add that, realistically, youâre sure heâll be locked up for life.
Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe heâll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.
You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. Itâs ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.
But stillâŠ
 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.
Next thing you know, youâre sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.
You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.
And then you let it go. Itâs chilling how easy it is.Â
The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. Youâve long since moved on from the letter. Youâve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesnât give you much room to dwell on dumb things like thatânot when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.
Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like youâd been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.
Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within armâs reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.
By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. Thereâs no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, itâs not the same takeout from two weeks ago.Â
You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporterâs voice cuts in, crisp and professional.
At first, youâre barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But thenâ
BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH â GHOST AT LARGE
The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.
The news anchor doesnât miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:
âAuthorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmatesâincluding âGhostâ, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.â
Your stomach tightens.
Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.
For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you havenât been stabbed or kidnapped yet.Â
After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds youâre sure heâs gotten. Youâre not special. Youâre not even remotely relevant in this situation.
Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogameâthick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.
Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter toâthat more closely resembled a dating profileâ has vanished into thin air.
You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, youâre sure your life couldnât get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.
The studio audience laughs on cue.
You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine.Â
It doesnât.Â
When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot.Â
By the time youâve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself itâs fine. Youâre fine. Itâs just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.
You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.
You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.
After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadnât even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.
Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.
You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it.Â
Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.
You donât bother wrapping the towel around yourself. Thereâs no point. Itâs just you hereâalways, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasnât the case, thereâs no reason to pretend otherwise.
Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.
You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all.Â
Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its jobâbut the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.
The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.
You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.
You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.
But as you straighten, the air feels different.
Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating.Â
Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.
Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.
And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so youâre forced to swallow.
Youâre still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the showerâs heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.
But youâre not looking at yourself anymore.
Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.
Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you, arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.
Youâre frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you.Â
Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. Thatâs what you felt earlierâthe sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didnât feel it moments ago is beyond you.
Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.
You canât help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like itâs time for Sunday dinner. But itâs impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.
Your eyes flick back to him.
He hasnât moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with hisâan accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.
You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterfliesâyouâre sureâbut they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.
He doesnât blink. Doesnât even breathe.
Just silenâ
âShouldnâtâve given a dog a bone, Girl.â
Oh.
Oh.
Shit.
You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like itâs too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just thatâitâs as though itâs been wrung dry like youâve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.
Could be fight, could be flightâor could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You donât know where it comes from, only that itâs there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirrorâs reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline.Â
You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.
He fills the roomâdominates itâfar more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.
Heâs dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.
It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.
A sick part of you wishes he didnât.
Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark inkâtwisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava youâve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.
His eyesâdark brown, nearly blackâburn as they lock onto you. Thereâs an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. Heâs memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.
Which, right now, is essentially all of it.
Itâs suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like youâre drowning, and heâs the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.
And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before heâs not sitting anymore.
Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesnât rush. No, thereâs no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.
All that âcourageâ drained. You never thought youâd be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didnât hear him come in.
Youâre backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you canât look away. You donât even know if you want to. Thereâs a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.Â
Itâs addicting.
Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain thatâs turned on by this.
âQuiet little thing.â His voice is low, gravelly like itâs been rubbed raw, but thereâs a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. âGlad youâre not a screamer.â
He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesnât miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though itâs hard to tell.
âIâm not gonna bite, Girl,â he tuts, âunless yâwant me to.â
The way he says itâso carnivorouslyâsends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees.Â
âYâsent me a letter,â he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like heâs checking out a new appliance.
 âTellinâ me all about your boring little life,â He steps even closer, âAnd that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me tâmake it mine.â
You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like heâs enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.
âYâwant me tâmake it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a âBig Badâ man your address?â
You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but itâs futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonelyâthat desperate?
âCan yâimagine how hard I came,â he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, âHow I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?â
Yeah. You were that desperate.Â
You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. âIâ I didnât think youâdââ
He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words âWhat? Didnât think Iâd show?â he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if heâs savoring the mockery in them. âYou invited me here. Itâd be rude to reject such a generous offer.â
You bite back a scoff. As if heâs so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while youâre naked. Talk about audacity.
âGo fuck yourself.âÂ
âI have,â he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. âWonât be as good as her.â
Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a momentâs notice.
You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug.Â
He smells like soap and something musky and everything youâd expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didnât know you were addicted to. You canât help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.
âYâfeel that, sweetheart?â he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. âEver felt a cock that big before?â
âPlease,â you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. âJust... don't.â
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. âDon't what, sweetheart?â he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. âDon't touch you? Don't remind you of what yâare?â
He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. âIâŠâ you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.Â
âVirgin,â he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, âYâterrified. It's written all over your face, babyâ He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, âCurious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.â
You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. âNo,â you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.
He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like youâre testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as theyâll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat.Â
âDonât fuckinâ lie to me, sweetheart,â You donât know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until youâre leaning against the mirror, until thereâs nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
âI can smell your cunt.â He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, âSheâs droolinâ fâme, ainât she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?â
Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you canât help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but youâve never been this wet before. âI... I don't know,â you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.
âDon't know? Please,â he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. âAwh. Look at that,â he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. âShe's leakinâ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.Â
He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.
Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.
âWhininâ already?â he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. âLike a bitch in heat.â Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, pleaseâs from you.Â
âBeg for it,â he commands, âBeg to come on mâtongue, baby.âÂ
âYes,â you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. âPlease,â you beg, your voice thick with need. âPlease, Iâ âmââ
He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. âTell me,â he hisses. âTell me yâwant to come for me.â
âI... I want to,â you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. âI wanna come for you, Ghostâ Pleaseâ.â
âGood fuckinâ whore,â he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. âCome, let me taste this slutty fuckinâ pussy.â
A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans. Â
He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. âFuck,â he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. âLove you virgins. Come so easily.â
Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeksâa traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didnât think it would affect you like this, didnât think youâd feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.
Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. âStop staring,â you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weakâlike a plea rather than a command.
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. âStop what? Admiring my handiwork?â He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. âDon't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Couldâve ruined this pretty fuckinâ mouth instead.â
You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what youâve been wanting, what youâve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. âJust... fuck me, PleaseâŠ?â you hum, unsure..
He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. âEager, are we?â He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. âDon't worry. Got more in store for you.â
He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.
He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you canât even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him.Â
Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.Â
"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. Itâs rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.
No underwear. A Right dog, he is.Â
Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick heâd be willing to let you swallow.
âWhatâd yâwant?â
You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.
How could he even fit inside of you?
You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.
He tuts, âNoddinâ ainât enough, sweets,â he growled. âYouâre a big girl, ainât you?
âIâŠâ you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. âI wantâŠâ
âSay it,â he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. âSay yâwant this cock.â
âI... I want your cock,â you whisper, the words barely audible. Youâre too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.
âLouder,â he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. âCan't hear you.â
âI want your cock,â you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.
âLouder, yâfuckinâ slagââ
âI want your fucking cock!â you shout, the words echoing through the room.
He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. âGeez, all yâhad to do was ask.âÂ
You could slap him.Â
He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.
âSo fuckinâ sensitive,â he groans, âSo wet fâme, too, Christ.â
He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.
âGonna split this cunny in half, girl,â he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and youâre reeling, choking on your own gasps, âgonna feel me in yâfuckinâ throat.â
He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.
âJesus baby, so tight,â he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. âSo fucking tight.â
You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. âFuck me,â you rasp, âPlease, Ghost, fuck me.â Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.Â
He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. âCock-drunk already, are we?â he taunts, âFuckinâ whore,â He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldnât even reach with your own fingers.
He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.
âFuck me harder, I need youâ pleaseââ You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.
 âGhost,â you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you couldâve possibly missed out on this for so long.Â
He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. âStop fuckinâ callinâ me that,â he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. Youâre too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.
âCall me Simon when I fuck you,â he rasps against your lips,
âSay it.â
âSâSimâon,â you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. âSâsimon, pâpleâaseâŠâ
âPlease what?â he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, âPlease fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?â
âYes, yes, yes,â you wail, your body writhing beneath him. âPlease, Simonâ Fuck!â
âAtta fuckinâ girl,â he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder, caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.
âSqueezinâ me so tight,â he rasps, âSo fucking tight.â he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. âFeel me? Feel how deep I am inside oâ you?â
You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, âYes,â you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. âToo much... it's so much, Siââ
Youâre on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all heâs worth. His hips stutter and he knows heâs done for. âFuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,â
At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isnât much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.Â
Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you.Â
The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to âCream this fuckinâ cock,â as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own.Â
A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.
 âOh-,â he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. âFuck! Fuckâ Shit, just like that, girl.â His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.
Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment.Â
âBroken little bird arenât you?â he drawls..Â
You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you donât think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.Â
Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.Â
He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. âDon't look so glum, sweetheart,â he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. âYou did well,â
âfor a first-timer.â
A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. âShut up,â you mutter, your voice hoarse.
He lets out a low, husky chuckle. âOh, usinâ fightinâ words now, are we?â His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. âFunny, didnât see you puttinâ up much of a fight five minutes agââ
You donât let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.
âOh, weâre throwinâ shit now?â He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. âLittle minxââ
The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.
His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. âYou expectinâ anyone?â
You shake your head. âNo.â
His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. Heâs a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.
âIâll get it,â you hum, already moving.
He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but thereâs no time to fix it.
You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.
Two cops.
Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. âEvening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but weâre making the rounds,â one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. âYou seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?â
Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.
âNo, nothing,â you say, keeping your voice light, casual. âWhy?â
The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. â Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.â His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. âFigured weâd check in, see if anyoneâs seen him.â
You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. âHavenât seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.â
They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.
âAll right. Just be careful, maâam. Lock your doors.â
âWill do,â you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.
You shut the door.
Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.
âSimonââ you call, nudging the door open.
The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of himâsex, sweat, something else thatâs so distinctly him.
warnings: +18 (mdni), omegaverse, a/b/o, mild sexual themes, heavy misogyny, low self-esteem, forced exchange of personal items (underwear).
part 1: the gift exchange
youâve heard that theyâre picky.
somehow that doesnât surprise you. thereâs not many people who are allowed in their pack. even less people step on their territory and not without good reason.
it makes sense why theyâd choose this specific prison establishment.
itâs a whole process. every omegaâs package was sent to a pack for The Selection. from there, they would choose which omegas should be placed in a room to come and meet them for the first time. after that, only one (or a few) get to go home with them.
you sent in your package weeks ago. you were required to send a few things in that box. someone cut a few pieces of your hair to place in ziplock bags. scent packets too (these were very important); you had to rub square pieces of wet cotton on your scent glands and put those in ziplock bags too. a few items of clothing, both washed and unwashed, each also placed in itâs own ziplock bag so the smells donât mix. usually, itâs a shirt, a hoodie, something with your sweat. and finally, one vial of your blood for genetic testing and to see if thereâs any conditions they need to be aware of.
itâs all very clinical. hardly any feeling put into it. you just go through the motions of following instructions given to you like the good little omega you are.
however, this pack, 141, a week after you sent in your package, put in a request for one pair of your underwear.
then. you were... surprised, to say the least. when you sent your initial package in, you thought that wouldâve been the end of it. packs and lone alphas usually overlooked you and didnât pay you no mind. you assumed it would be the same again this time.
âno.â said Laswell.
you halted in your tracks when you attempted to get a pair of panties from your hamper. Kate Laswell is a cold individual. she stands tall with a stern face and speaks with a temperament that douses you in ice cold water.
her tone, though not unkind, makes you think she doesn't like you very much. more like sheâs running an errand thatâs wasting her time. sheâs not too low on patience, but itâs not enough for her to be overly nice to you.
Kate is no omega, that much youâre sure of but itâs hard to discern if sheâs beta or alpha. she gives no sign that she might be beta as she gives off no scent that speaks to her designation. and while she seems non-aggressive to the naked eye, you can tell that she could easily put down an arrogant alpha if she needs to.
icy blue eyes drop to just below your stomach. âthe one youâre wearing right now.â
what. the. fuck.
the mere notion of it is so crude. your cheeks burn hotly as you stare at her with wide eyes. she bears no emotion on her face. like what sheâd just asked you was completely normal. like it was just standard procedure.
it wasnât. this was new. unprecedented, even. for you, anyway.
âoâoh. umâŠâ you nervously glance at the two guards behind her. âisâ is that allowed?â
the one who came with her, Alex, a beta with nods. like Kate, pale, blond haired and blue eyed. except, unlike her, he has a friendly face.
âit is.â he softly confirms. âweâre sorry that itâs such a sudden request. the pack just wants to be sure.â
itâs not the suddenness of the request thatâs so jarring. itâs how wildly inappropriate odd it is.
and they want to be sure? of what exactly?
you donât know what your panties have that the rest of your package doesnât. itâs all scent, all biology. clinical. right down to the bone. you canât think of a single good reason why the package you had sent wasnât enough for them.
you stood there, mouth agape as you try to think of something to say. to resist. to counter. but you know nothing you say has no weight. you donât have a choice in this. it hardly matters how degrading the request is. you must follow through with it, even if you expect no follow up on how the alphas have responded.
either you give them what they want or suffer the consequences.
the other guard, the one hired by the establishment, growls when you take too long to decide. his brow twitches, face twisted into a scowl as he snaps his teeth at you. âcome on, Ms. Laswell doesnât have all day. do as youâre told, omegaââ
you flinch at his raised voice. his burning scent invades your nose faster than you can try to prepare yourself for it.
Jason has always been like that. an alpha who cracks his whip at any disobedience. he especially seems to have it out for you. you have no idea why and youâve done your best to stay out of his way.
Kate, however, doesnât tolerate his anger. because she immediately shot backâ
âquiet.â a veiled threat. sheâs not even as loud as he was. she turns to face him, blocking you from his view. âdo not talk to her like that.â
alpha, your mind screams.
her annoyance freezes the air over. itâs the only sort of emotion youâve seen from her up until this point. and itâs the only thing that gives her away.
sheâs an alpha.
itâs all she needs to make Jasonâs spine straighten in a split second. every ounce of bravado vapourized into thin air faster than you can blink. he hangs his head in shame and looks away. âyâyes, maâam. my apologies.â
youâre stand very still, watching the exchange in awe. you think this might be the first time anyone has ever truly put him in his place. nonetheless, you obeyed when she turns back to you, if only you donât end up on the receiving end of her ire.
when Laswell looks at you once more, youâre quick to avoid her eyes as you reach under your skirt and took off your underwear, a simple piece of soft cotton, cheeks burning with heat because youâre all too aware of the wet spot on it. you wonder how many more omegas were also made to hand over their panties like that.
she holds out an open ziplock bag and lets you put them inside then seals it shut. Alex then steps forward. he holds out a box. itâs the standard semi-clear package. your eyes widen when you get a glimpse of whatâs inside.
ziplock bags. you count four big bags. thereâs more in there but you canât see how many from where youâre standing.
âtake these.â he gives you the box. your arms sag a bit at the unexpected weight of it. itâs heavier than you thought. âthey wanted you to have them before The Selection.â
âthank you.â you squeak, unable to think of anything else to say.
Kate leaves without another word and Alex bids you goodbye with a warm smile before he follows.
Jason glares at you. all of that sheepishness is sadly short-lived and once theyâre well out of earshot, he points a finger in your face. âdonât think youâre special just because youâre whoring yourself out.â
you flinch. he scoffs at the hurt look on your face.
must he remind you? that you shouldnât get your hopes up? that you know this ritual wonât go anywhere? itâll end the same as all the others that came before.
âand donât get your hopes up. theyâre not gonna pick you.â he hooks a thumb in his belt, leaning on the door frame.
realistically, you shouldnât let his words get to you. heâs mean to everyone who isnât his group of friends. heâs mean to every unmated omega he crosses paths with.
âyouâre tooâŠâ he looks you up and down, eyes damn near glowing with disapproval at what he sees. âordinary.â
the word strikes true. tears sting your eyes.
âthey probably asked ten other omegas to give them their panties to sniff.â he backs away from your door and chuckles. âdonât be too disappointed when youâre not called to The Selection.â
he slams the door and locks it behind him. leaving you standing in a sea of sorrow. you take in the silence of your small enclosure and take a deep breath, your head tipping back to look at the ceiling as you try to will back the tears.
an arrogant ass he may be but at least heâs truthful. thatâs your only consolation. your only reminder that not every omega gets to leave this place. not everyone gets a happy ending.
when you sit down on your small bed and place the box right next to you, you sigh before opening the clasps. immediately, a potent mix of scents permeates all around you.
your body reacts to it faster than your mind can process.
itâs a gut-punch. pure molten heat poured straight down your throat and flowed all the way further down to your cunt. you hadnât expected the intensity of it, the sheer want to be filled to the brim.
the sudden pulse coming to life between your legs had you whimpering and panting as if youâd just ran a mile. clenching your thighs didnât do much to help ease the ache. not with your panties clinging to the slick suddenly dripping from your pussy.
you had to put the box away and retreat into your bathroom to calm down. gripping the cold sink and breathing uncontaminated air more so to stop yourself from reaching under your skirt than anything else, but eventually, you had to return to your room.
the box was half opened when you returned. you pull up the lid and peered inside. like you thought, the four massive ziplock bags. each with a hoodie and a shirt inside. all of them were labeled with names.
Johnny was scribbled messily on the front of the one you picked first. his heady scent was faintly earthy with a touch of what you assume is motor oil and gasoline. not bad. he must like cars then. his hands must be rough from all the work he puts in them.
GHOST was written in big block letters and with a small skull face at the bottom right. his clothes were huge. he must be a really big guy. bigger than Johnny even. he smells like gunpowder and sweat, and strangely enough, that doesnât make your nose wrinkle as it does with every other alpha youâve come across.
then thereâs John. neatly written, but you could tell he doesnât really care too much about how his letters are formed on paper. you recognize the scent of cigars anywhere with how often the alphas in your facility take part in smoking them every week in their lounge room. your lips purse in contemplation but ultimately decide itâs not that bad. with time, if they decide to take you with them, you might get used to it. Â
lastly, Kyleâs name was written in cursive and circled in one big heart. that alone makes forces a giddy smile on your face. you can already tell that he showers more often than the other three. thereâs hints of shower gel and cologne alongside the smell of Johnâs colognes. you like him already.
you liked all of them. you donât even know which one to start with.
thatâs not all, though. thereâs snacks too. chocolate bars, bags of chips and three bottles of different flavoured sweet tea. but every muscle in your body stopped when you saw something else. neatly packaged in between all those gifts was a bundle of beautiful red roses.
theyâre... this isâŠ
thereâs a note between the petals, which youâre scared to even touch. your shaky hands pluck it out and open it to see what was written inside.
Itâs a little early but Happy Valentineâs Day
to our favourite omega.
Looking forward to seeing you at
The Selection <3
no. it canât be. surely not. theyâre not doing what you think theyâre doing.
you look back to the roses. the gifts. the food. a box filled with clothes from four alphas who express an interest in taking you into their pack. this.
itâs clear, cut and dry what this is.
itâs a courting gift.
panic rises up your throat. it feels more like bile and you think it best to stay in the bathroom, preferably near the toilet in case your stomach decides it doesnât want to hold its content anymore. you end up standing there, staring at the toilet bowl for approximately four and a half minutes and spend another two taking deep breaths while pacing around the bathroom because your omega is too charged to let you think clearly.
and your clear, rational thoughts tell you to be serious for a second.
usually, one or two omegas are chosen for one individual or one pack. pick too many and you run the risk of creating conflicts because you didnât allow everybody to get used to each other first before letting the pack settle into a sense of normalcy.
since there are four alphas, itâs likely that each one might want to have their own.
which leads you to believe that there are three more omegas who probably got sent the same package and with the same note. thereâs four alphas. surely, theyâre not going to be satisfied with just one of you.
one omega wonât be enough to contend with four ruts on differing occasions or worse, four ruts at once if one decides to trigger the other. itâs just not possible if they truly are serious about you.
besides, there has to be some mistake. it canât be you they want.
it just canât.
courting gifts usually arenât exchanged until after the selection process is complete and the pack is certain that theyâre keeping you.
this is definitely not something that should be happening right now.
Jason might be right about one thing. they probably did ask a bunch of other omegas for the same thing too. alphas are perverts like that. youâre not special. they probably want to add to their collection of sorts.
and yet, regardless of that fact...
your eyes drift to the hoodie you left on the edge of your bed. its scent calls to you. fervent and sweet, youâre drawn to it. the cold air in your room makes it difficult not to crave any sort of warmth thatâs been given so freely.
regardless, of all this logic telling you that you shouldnât have high hopes for anything, for even daring to think that youâll ever leave this place.
regardless, you bury your nose in the hoodie and sharply inhale Kyleâs lovely scent and roll around your bed, purring and sighing deeply. he smells like kindness. like the first ray of light after a brutal winter. he smells like everything youâve ever dreamed of in an alpha who would be willing to take care of you.
whatever the case may be with these gifts, you hope they meant what they said in the note. you yearn to be their favourite, you want them to look forward to finding you.
(and you hope they arenât disappointed once they do).
four alphas expressing an interest in you is far more than you couldâve hoped for. it will break you when the unfortunate outcome finally rears its head and you donât get to follow them to their home.
you hope that youâll still get to keep one of their hoodies once The Selection passes.
in my defense, i was ovulating when this n00dled in my head.
simon is a chronic starer. thank god this freak doesnât have blue eyes.
kyle invited you to a pub.
hadnât seen that man in a near decade, family friend who was lost to circumstance and a lack of serendipity. you were excited to hear what heâd been up to, what he swamped while knee deep on deployments.
last minute he asks if his friend can join you.
wasnât a problem. any friend of kyleâs is a friend of yours, he has an impeccable sense of character. but you sorely regret your lenience when you sit down and the stranger stares.
youâre tapping your nail against your glass, kyleâs soliloquy foggy as you vehemently avoid eye contact with the bloke who has yet to move his eyes from you.
sweat forms, mouth dries, breath stales. its like heâs glued you to the seat. fly in a trap. his eyes are darker than honey though. molasses, dirt thatâs seemed to dig your grave while your still breathing and-
your name grounds you. you blink.
kyleâs eyes narrow. âyou alright?â
âuh,â you steal a glance at the stranger. heâs still staring.
kyle follows your eyes and snorts through he nose. pats the manâs shoulder and your shocked he doesnât bite.
âoh, donât worry about simon,â he winks at you.
(Poly 141 x neighbour!reader: the way to a manâs heart is through his stomach! (Or in your case, the way to four menâs heart is through their stomach))
It started with cookies.
Youâd been in the middle of baking a double batch- oatmeal chocolate chip, your personal favorite- and realized halfway through scooping them onto the tray that youâd made far too many for one person. It wasnât unusual. Baking was how you coped with stress, and ever since youâd moved into this apartment building, stress had been in no short supply.
The guy in 4A had blared music all night. Your hot water barely lasted five minutes. And your smoke detector had developed a habit of chirping at odd hours.
But there was one bright spot- your neighbors in 4C.
Youâd seen them coming and going. Tall, broad, and always carrying duffel bags that looked far too heavy to be legal. They kept odd hours, too, but never caused trouble. One of them- Johnny, youâd learned later- had even held the door open for you when your arms were full of groceries.
Which was why youâd stood outside their door that evening, balancing a plate of cookies and feeling like an idiot as you knocked.
Not-Johnny had answered first, blinking down at you in surprise, though his smile was warm and he was beautiful. You couldnât blame him; you had barely spoken to them more than a few short words.
âUh⊠hi?â
âHi.â You forced a smile. âIâm your neighbor from 4B. I, uh⊠made too many cookies?â
His eyes dropped to the plate immediately, and you swore you saw something primal flicker behind them. Still, you worried.
âI mean, if you donât want-â
âNo! No, we want. Come in- Johnny! Get over here!â
And that was how it started.
The second time had been lasagna.
Youâd just finished assembling it when you realized- again- that youâd made too much. So, after psyching yourself up for ten minutes, youâd knocked on their door for the second time in as many weeks.
Price, who had introduced himself along wuth Simon the day you dropped off the cookies, had answered that time, his expression guarded until he saw the foil-covered pan in your hands.
âYouâre joking,â heâd said, but when you started to retreat, heâd stopped you with a firm, but gentle hand on your back. He had such a nice, big hand. âDonât be ridiculous, lovie. Get in here.â
That night, youâd sat at their table, sharing stories and laughter while they cleaned the dish down to the last crumb.
After that, it became routine.
You started âtesting recipes,â and they became your eager guinea pigs.
And they never seemed to mind.
And nowâŠ
The smell hit first- roasted garlic, browned butter, and something rich simmering low and slow. It snuck out from the slightly cracked kitchen window and spilled into the shared hallway of the apartment building. For men used to MREs and takeout, it was practically siren song.
Gaz was the first to notice, lingering just outside the door labeled 4B- your door- with an almost predatory focus. He wasnât proud of it, but his stomach growled so loud that Soap- rounding the corner with a gym bag slung over his shoulder- laughed outright.
âYou stalking the neighbor again?â
âShut up. You smell that?â
Soap inhaled deeply. His eyes fluttered shut for a beat before snapping open.
âJesus wept- what is that?!â
âI donât know, but Iâm this close to knocking.â Kyle held up his fingers, barely an inch apart.
âShe already fed us last week, mate. Dinna push it.â
âBut what if sheâs testing another recipe?â
Gaz wasnât wrong. You had a habit of showing up at their door with dishes too good to refuse.
They hadnât stood a chance.
After the cookies and the lasagna, it wasnât long before other dishes followed: casseroles, soups, pies, and even homemade bread. And the worst part? You bow always prefaced it by saying you needed an opinion- like they were doing you the favor.
It wasnât until Price called you a âbloody saintâ over a pan of enchiladas that Ghost finally put it together.
âYouâre using us as taste testers,â heâd said flatly.
Youâd grinned- too cute and too smug for your own good. âIs that a problem?â
Not a single one of them had said no, just as stated before.
Which led them here, hovering outside your door and pretending they werenât waiting for another offering.
â⊠Fine.â Soap muttered, raising his hand to knock.
But the door swung open before he could, and there you were- apron on, hair pulled back, and flour dusted across your cheek.
âHi!â You chirped, eyes bright. âPerfect timing!â
Gazâs grin was pure relief. âTell me you need opinions. Please, love.â
You laughed, stepping aside to let them in. âI always need opinions. Come in!â
Inside, the kitchen was chaos. Cutting boards and mixing bowls were scattered across the counters. A Dutch oven bubbled on the stove, releasing clouds of savory steam. Plates of food- half-assembled sandwiches, stuffed peppers, and what looked like chocolate tarts- sat waiting.
âI⊠mightâve gone overboard.â You admitted, and if you hadnât spent all day in the kitchen, your cheeks wouldâve gone warmer.
Soap whistled low, eyes raking over every dish. âNot complaininâ.â
Price arrived just then, texted by Kyle, trailed closely by Simon, who took one look at the spread and froze. His eyes swept from the roasted chicken resting under a blanket of fresh herbs to the still-warm biscuits stacked beside a bowl of honey butter.
âWhatâs the occasion?â John asked, smile amused, but you just waved him off.
âPracticing.â
Gaz was already halfway to the table, trying to decide what to start with, but Simon lingered, watching you carefully. He had his balaclava on, though you havenât yet dared to ask why he wears it.
âPracticing for what, exactly?â
You hesitated, fiddling with the edge of your apron. âThereâs this⊠thing next week. A community bake-off. And I thought it might be fun to enter.â
Soap arched a brow. âYouâre entering this in a bake-off?â
âWell, not all of it. Iâm still deciding which dishes to use.â
âYouâre winning.â Kyle said immediately, filling his plate.
âDefinitely.â Johnny added, already reaching for a sandwich.
Simon, still lingering, crossed his arms and stared down at you. His height will never, ever not make your breath hitch. âYouâre testing all of this on us?â
You looked up at him through your lashes, pouting just a little. âYou donât mind, do you, Simon?â
His gaze darkened- not in anger, but something softer, heavier. It made your stomach flip.
âNo,â he said simply. âWe donât mind.â
You swallowed and turned quickly to the oven to hide the heat rushing to your cheeks.
The next hour passed in a blur of taste testing, arguments over which dish was best, and repeated assurances that you were going to âblow the competition out of the water.â But beneath the laughter and teasing, you failed to catch the way they looked at you- how Price lingered by the stove just to steal extra bites, or how Johnny kept offering to help, hovering close enough that you brushed elbows more than once.
And Simon? He was the worst of all. He didnât say much, but his eyes tracked your every move, following the way your hands worked the dough or wiped flour off the counter. He was the last to leave, hanging back as the others helped clear plates.
âYouâre serious about this bake-off?â he asked quietly.
You nodded. âThought it might be fun.â
âYou donât need it.â
â⊠What?â
He gestured at the now-empty plates. âTo prove anything, I mean. Youâre alreadyâŠâ He trailed off for a few seconds, and though you were left blinking at him, you didnât rush him. âGood enough.â he murmured at last.
The compliment hit harder than you expected, and for once, you didnât have a clever response.
âThank you, Simon. That⊠means a lot to me.â you said softly.
And just like that, the others reappeared, breaking the moment. Johnny patted Simonâs shoulder with a knowing smirk, and Kyle slung an arm around your shoulders, while Price merely watched. Your kitchen was now spotless, cleaned by them.
âWhenâs the next test run?â Gaz asked.
âI donât know yet.â
âWell, let us know. Weâre free anytime.â
âYeah,â Soap added. âAnytime.â
You laughed but this time, you didnât miss the way Price was looking at you- thoughtful, like heâd already made up his mind about something.
The door clicked shut behind them after that, leaving your apartment quieter but no less warm. The scent of roasted garlic and herbs still lingered, and you found yourself smiling as you surveyed the spotless kitchen. Theyâd made quick work of the mess, trading jokes and lighthearted jabs as they wiped down counters and stacked dishes in quite the uniform style.
You didnât know what youâd done to deserve neighbors like them, but you werenât about to question it.
You caught yourself humming as you tucked away the last plate, the sound of their laughter still echoing faintly in your ears. It was easy with them- comfortable in a way that felt rare and almost too good to be true.
And maybe it was.
Because what you didnât know- what you would probably never know, such a sweet and trusting thing- was that your apartment had been wired within days of your first visit to their door.
To them, it had started with a conversation.
âSheâs alone,â Price had said after the second time youâd brought them food, leaning back in his chair with a contemplative frown. âNo sign of anyone else coming or going.â
âSecurityâs shite.â Gaz had added, gesturing vaguely toward the shared hallway where your lock barely functioned half the time.
Soap had shrugged, easygoing as ever, but his eyes had been sharp. âBetter us keep an eye on her than let some arsehole get the chance.â
And that was that.
Price had ordered the equipment, Ghost had handled the installation, and none of them had lost sleep over it. Not when it meant keeping you safe.
It wasnât just the cameras, either.
Simon had reinforced your locks under the guise of âfixingâ them after you mentioned a struggle with your key. Johnny had talked you into letting him check your windows âjust to be sure they latched properly.â Gaz had set up an app on your phone to âmonitor deliveries,â though it also let them track your location if needed.
And Price? He always lingered at the door just long enough to ask if you needed anything else- subtle, but enough to make sure you knew they were there.
You never questioned it. Never noticed the way they moved like a unit around you, anticipating problems before they could arise. Never caught the glances they exchanged when you mentioned a repairman or the way Simon hovered near the window any time a car idled too long outside.
You just kept feeding them, trusting them in ways that only made their resolve deepen.
Price was the worst.
Heâd leaned against the counter tonight, watching you laugh at Johnnyâs jokes and swat at Kyle when he tried to sneak extra bites, and the thought had hit him harder than he expected, while Simon watched on in amusement and was the only to successfully swipe a few more bites.
They couldâve had this already.
If life had gone differently- if timing had been better- you couldâve been his. Theirs. Someone to come home to instead of just someone they visited between deployments.
He hadnât said anything, of course. None of them had.
But as they left, heâd lingered in the doorway, letting his hand rest lightly against the frame.
âDonât let âem eat it all before the bake-off,â heâd teased, lips curling into a smile. âTheyâll start begging if you do.â
Youâd laughed, and God, it was dangerous how much he liked the sound.
âIâll make sure to keep them in line.â
His smile softened. âGood girl.â
You didnât notice the way Simon shot him a sharp look at that- or the way Johnny and Kyle exchanged knowing grins.
And later, when Price sat down in front of the monitors to check the feeds, he didnât let himself feel guilty.
Because you were safe.
And as far as they were concerned, that was all that mattered.
