tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, murder of animals eventually, eventual smut, religious guilt, infidelity, darker than most concepts I write
ch. 1 | masterlist | ao3
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You hate him.
Right down to the way he drinks his coffee, too many sugars, and likes his eggs, scrambled, in the morning. Even the way he does his hair, black combover like he’s some gentleman. Pretending to be a man of integrity.
Though you suppose that’s what happens when the man takes his anger out on you. Expects you to treat him like a king when he treats you as much less. Maybe the look fooled you at first. Pristine suits and smooth skin, charming smile and glimmering white teeth. An image that portrayed something he wasn’t.
You stay, there’s no other option. Not when the word divorce makes your mother turn her back to you. Not when she endured far worse and stayed longer.
You should be grateful, atleast that’s what he tells you, and some awful twisted part of you believes him. That this is all you deserve. That this is karma for kissing your girl best friend on the playground in primary school. Or for losing your virginity out of wed lock when you graduated.
You’re lucky— he tells you. Lucky that he married someone so tainted. You’ve heard it so many times that you don’t know what’s true anymore, the edges of your beliefs smeared and faded somewhere.
You don’t believe in a God. Never did. Even when your mother pushed it on you, forced her fears into your mind, and made you second guess all your actions. Maybe your lack of faith caused this. Maybe your marriage is punishment for the doubt in a higher power.
Maybe you should’ve believed.
Perhaps this would all make sense if you did.
Though, the doubt isn’t from lack of trying. You’ve prayed on your knees, seeking questions that have gone unanswered. Even wear the cross on your neck, a silver thing that you play with when his words become too harsh and voice too loud.
You think you loved him at one point. It’s all blurry now. You hope you did. Maybe then you’d have a valid excuse for staying other than a religion you don’t believe in.
It’s all you know at this point, all you’ve ever known watching your parents. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be, how this God intended. Tight lip smiles, ducking heads, and shaking fingers out of fear.
You’ve stopped crying long ago, dried up all sorrow and buried it somewhere else completely. You’ve learned to deal with it— you think, if wrapping up all the emotions that threaten to spill from your throat tightly wound with a pretty bow on top to mask your true thoughts counts as ‘dealing with it.’
You’re used to it, despite how draining it is.
You won’t divorce. That’s not an option. Not like this. You weren’t raised that way.
You don’t know how to leave, can’t leave, so you find escape in the small things. The way the sun shines through your kitchen window, casting beams from the sun catcher your husband hasn’t torn down yet. He will, in a stupor rage, and you’ll have to save up for a new one again. Or the bunny that’s found sanctuary in your backyard, a white innocent thing, covered in dirt. Even visiting the small flower shop on the way to the butcher, the same one you get your sun catchers from, is better than any of this.
The bunny’s there now, creeping out of the bush its made its home, branches dented where it crawls. Slowly, hesitantly, it approaches the lettuce you had tucked away for it, nose twitching as it inspects the contents. It draws a smile, the first in a while thats not forced at your new little friend’s bravery.
The smile falls fast, torn from your lips when the front door slams shut loudly. It makes you jump, makes the bunny run from the noise, lettuce falling from its grasp and back on to the ground. You swallow thick at the sight, the man finds a way to ruin everything that happens to bring you joy. You wish you could join the bunny, hide away in the bush until the big bad man leaves for work the next morning and you both can enjoy the sun again.
The clock on the stove reads 4:30. An hour early.
The tension in the rooms already shifted before he’s even entered, wooden house creaking under him. You feel it in your spine, an anxiety that only he manages to claw out of you, curled around your back firmly.
“What’s for dinner?”
It’s the first words he speaks. Not even a hello. Grunting them out like it was a chore.
You turn to face him, drying your hands with a rag, tight lipped smile on your face, feigning a warm welcome. “Chicken Gnocchi.”
His ties out of place, white shirt you pressed this morning wrinkled, hair disheveled. You ignore it. Pretend you don’t notice any of it.
He scoffs. “Don’t want it.”
Your smile falters, brows meeting in the middle. “Sweetheart, I’ve already made it. You told me you wanted it before you left this morning.”
“Don’t care. I want rib-eye steak.” He cuts you off, dismissing your words with a wave of your hand.
“We dont—there’s no steak in the freezer.”
He looks at you like you’re dumb. “Then go to the butcher?”
You pause, inhaling deep, fingers tight around the rag. You’ve learned not to fight it. Your response is weak, meager, putting on the same forced smile.
“Okay.”
You take a final look through the window. You wish you could join the bunny, hide away in the bush until the big bad man leaves for work the next morning and you both can enjoy the sun again.
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It’s dark by the time you arrive, cheeks and fingers numb from the winter air. Sighing under your breath when you see the long line.
You’ve never been this late, your husband expects dinner to be made before he gets home, so you don’t recognize the person behind the glass.
He’s big. Awfully big.
There’s blood smeared on his apron, red splattered up his blue gloves. It’s a sight you don’t normally see with the morning shift. A bit sickening, filthy, but you watch him anyways.
Eye’s trained on his brows, squished together with stress, or maybe it’s annoyance. Wrinkles deep on his forehead, scars gashed along his lip and down his arms like he was cutting practice for apprentices.
His shoulders are broad, pulling the white t-shirt he wears under his apron taut. Head shaved, crooked teeth. The tattoos curled along his arm flex with every shift, veins prominent each time he slices a new slab of meat.
He’s brooding, intimidating. In a far different way than your husband.
You can’t look away from his hands. Swallowing thick as you watch him slice slab after slab. A weird part of you, somewhere deep, warms your skin. Licking your lips instinctively because you can tell how thick his fingers are even under the gloves.
It’s like a moth to a flame, the way your eyes zero in on his movements. Inhaling between your teeth, breathing deep like some animal, unlocking something you didn’t realize you had.
The tag on his apron reads ‘Simon.’
It takes you two seconds to realize it’s the owner of the shop when he stares at you expectantly.
you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.
you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.
there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.
at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.
midnight schedule it was.
it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.
the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.
and then there was him.
tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.
the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.
(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)
he moved through his workout with terrifying
efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.
you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.
“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.
you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”
“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”
you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”
he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"
“i do not know his entire workout routine.”
your friend raised a brow.
you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”
his brow lifted higher.
“…and arms on thursdays.”
silence.
“right.”
“shut up.”
you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.
the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.
and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.
What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.
so, you stayed quiet..
until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.
in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.
“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”
“i use it,” you protested.
“you walk through it.”
okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.
you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.
you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.
the bar didn’t budge.
you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.
okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—
"y’need a spotter?"
you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.
you swallow. "uh."
his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"
"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."
he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.
your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.
"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.
you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!
he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.
"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"
you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"
"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.
you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."
you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.
he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.
a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.
but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.
"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"
he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."
you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?
he hesitates. "depends."
"on?"
"the day."
you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."
"sure it is."
you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.
it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)
you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.
"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."
and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”
he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”
you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.
"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."
you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.
“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”
“drop it.”
“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”
“drop it.”
some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.
it’s unbearable.
like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”
you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.
you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.
the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."
you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”
he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."
you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”
his eye twitches. “just drink it.”
and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.
one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.
you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.
simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.
"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.
you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”
he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.
"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.
you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—
his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.
"fix that grip, sweetheart."
you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.
"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."
your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.
his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."
you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.
you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.
and then— "good girl."
barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.
your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.
you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.
and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.
"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."
simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"
your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."
his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"
"yes."
he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."
you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.
"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."
your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.
"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."
low, warm, approving—
"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."
simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.
"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”
“please.”
the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.
simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.
his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.
his hips roll up.
you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.
he does it again.
your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.
"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."
his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.
his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.
you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.
"fuck-"
he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.
"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."
your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.
"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"
you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.
his patience snaps.
one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.
simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.
he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.
the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.
simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”
he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—
he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.
"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"
"yes- yes, please-"
"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."
he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.
the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.
"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"
you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.
his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.
“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”
your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.
simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”
you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”
he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.
your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.
his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”
then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.
you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.
simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”
he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.
his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”
you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.
his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.
“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”
he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.
then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.
his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”
the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.
simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.
he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—
he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.
"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."
your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"
"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"
you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"
"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."
you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."
he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."
then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.
you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.
"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"
you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.
"s’not fair," you mumble.
"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.
"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."
you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.
"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"
you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.
when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.
then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—
you take him.
the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.
"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."
you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.
breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"
"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."
but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."
his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."
"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"
he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."
then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.
"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.
simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."
the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.
"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"
he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.
it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.
but you’re already gone.
your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.
"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"
you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.
he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.
"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."
"s-simon-"
"what, love? too far gone already?"
his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.
you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"
"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."
he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.
"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.
"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."
he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.
"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"
"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.
"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."
my only non-requested observation to the comments of “the grammys were better and really good this year” is that art tends to be better in times of turmoil as its an outlet and a representation of the realities of people and that, as times get worse, more color will bleed through and we’re on the cusp of a new era where with non-reliable news outlets our history will be remembered more accurately through the eyes of artists even if this is a performance, a song or a tiktok
Summary: Where Ghost goes a little too rough on you in training then makes up for it.
6k+ ish words │ Ghost (Simon Riley) x Y/N
Warning: Mature filth, probably depression
A/N: You know the drill, no proofread found here. (This is literally an experiment to fight head-on my perfectionism lol)
Part 1
Part 2
Johnny must have said something, you realized the next morning. There was no way the strict management would provide him a personal room without providing some sort of information of a necessity.
And the team was… nicer. You couldn’t explain nor figure out if Johnny had told all the details. Or at least some because no one looked at you with pity.
Training was the same, no sparring today, just some laps and some cardio-inducing sweat. You hadn’t seen Ghost anywhere yet, but something told you he wouldn’t go near you anytime soon. Despite this team being one of the most secretive amongst the military branches, it wouldn’t be excluded from a bureaucratic process if you were to accuse him of something.
Of what, you weren’t sure. You were angry, but you weren’t there yet.
Everything was… as if you weren’t just another ‘lad’ in the team. Soap greeted you with his usual jolly good morning, kept an ongoing conversation like usual, but he filled up your tray and carried it to your table. This was the first time someone had done that. Gaz offered to carry your gym bag back to your room. Price rescheduled a briefing on the intel, allowing you to have fun and explore the city, or whatever that meant without any sort of security to follow you around.
Odd, and confusing. You weren’t sure you were complaining at the sudden reprieve from military treatment, but you weren’t sure if you were comfortable with being treated like a child. As something fragile.
Whatever, your complaining could wait a few days. You wanted to get your hair done and get some coffee that didn’t taste like water and bitter mornings.
So you did, you went shopping for clothes that you weren’t sure about when and where you would wear. At the same time, you eyed the open-back blouses wistfully, a little part of you wishing that your life wasn’t so filled with bruises and scars.
But that was the job. You had to get by.
The taxi left you at the entrance, the driver not having the credentials to enter the base, but that was not a problem.
You couldn’t find your badge, the guard’s expectation making the rummaging of your purse more aggressive. And again, that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that, when the guard opened the gates, making you think that he had recognized you and would allow you in, Ghost was standing right smack at the middle as they parted, expecting you. He was as casual as yesterday, a long sleeve tee and the expected balaclava.
You returned his inquisitive stare for a few seconds, the handles of the shopping bags digging into your bruised-enough arms. The hot shower last night had helped tame down the swelling, but not enough to not to feel it.
Keeping that in mind, you walked forward with all intention to ignore him. As you neared-
‘Ma’am-“
“She’s with me,” Ghost said, not allowing any doubt in his tone. The guard, given Ghost’s no-nonsense attitude, didn’t argue. The guard had recognized you but was jut being difficult, surely.
“May I?” He asked as he matched your pace, the whirring of the gates closing behind you occupying the silence.
You faltered and cursed internally. So much for not being affected by him.
Without hesitation nor expecting an answer, he took your bags, and you couldn’t help but notice he avoided skin contact.
The walk to your room was tense. His footsteps were not as quiet as usual, which made you think he made noise on purpose, enough for you to be aware of how far behind he stayed.
Somehow that put you somewhat at ease, but not enough. Ghost being nice? Something was happening, you just didn’t know what, but at the same time you were done assuming things about him and what his actions meant.
“I’m in a different room.” You explained as you neared the corner of the hallway that used to be your bunk bed.
“I know,” he answered just as briefly.
From your peripheral, you eyed him. You returned your gaze forward immediately when you met his, as he was already looking at you. His eyes seemed to have more depth under the fluorescent lights, no horror nor worry to be found this time.
But they weren’t blank and unexpressive as usual.
Eyes centered forward, you finally neared your room, eying warily the small cooler right by the door. When you opened your new room, you turned to ask for your bags.
You should’ve known this was a trick as he shouldered himself into what was supposed to be your safe space.
Tiny and cautious steps led you in as he placed the bags on the simple desk. You left the door open.
Then, he had the gall to point at the bed. “Sit.”
He turned back, and returned as he closed the door, now cooler in hand.
You stood frozen in the middle of the room. The frown that marred your face was enough for him to falter. You looked at the bed slowly, then back to him.
This room, away from the others, was all him. The room was far away from the people that knew there was tension between you two, and now he was demanding that you sat on the bed. There was no question as to what this might lead to.
You were no barrack bunny.
Your heart wanted to crawl up your throat.
“Please…” He showed his hands as a peace offering, placating. You were too in your head to notice the ice packs. He made another gesture towards the bed. “Cold helps swelling go down.”
You wanted to think that he genuinely wanted to help, but that tiny monstrous voice in the back of your mind told you he must want the bruises gone because they were proof enough of his brutality.
Intrusively, the dark thought developed. He must want a blank canvas to ruin again.
“You can barely see them now,” you said, knowing that your strong reprieve would loosen if you felt his hands on your skin.
He took a deep breath in, seeking patience at your resistance. “Right.”
Droplets hit the floor as the ice packs melted. When you realized he wouldn’t move, you sighed and took them from him. “Fine, I’ll do it myself.”
You sat on the corner of the bed and begrudgingly placed an ice pack beneath your shirt, the size of it barely covering the span of your shoulder. Thankfully, you were strong enough to hold in the hiss at the contact. “There, happy?”
“No,” he reached for more inside the cooler. “I know it’s not only your shoulder.”
He waited for you to act, but not patiently, that much you could tell, but he was smart enough to not push you. Instinctively, you held in an eyeroll and laid down on the bed, belly down. If this is what you had to do to get him out of here faster, then so be it.
Tentatively, he grasped the bottom of your shirt, avoiding skin. He managed to lift your shirt halfway, before it became troublesome for him to reach all the marks.
There was hesitation in his actions. The sure soldier now timid, uncertain, not knowing what was required. There was no way your clothes wouldn’t soak as the ice packs melted, and there was no way he could reach the bruises on your upper back without seeing.
He paused and you knew what he was asking of you, silently and unwearyingly. At least, he was smart enough not to make demands when you laid in this vulnerable position.
But, when you sat up and shed off your shirt and bra, he took a trembling breath as if he was the one being splayed open. Ghost looked away respectfully but caught the deep shades of blue and purple in the corner of his eye.
After shedding the only layer that covered your back, you laid belly down, pretending that you weren’t as nervous as him.
You expected clinical detachment from the man that had shown you only that, but as he sucked in a breath at the sight of your spine, you knew this was anything but.
Your arms pillowed your head as you faced the wall, concentrating on counting from one to ten as cold burned along the length of your spine.
Instinctively, you hissed when the cold packs reached a really sore mark that had been beneath the clasp of your bra all day.
“Easy,” he mumbled, deep voice doing nothing to help the rising goosebumps along your skin. “Going up now.”
He warned before you felt the branding of his fingertip, tenderly brushing away the hair from the nape of your neck. The shiver that racked through your body had nothing to do with the cold.
“Tickles,” you grumbled, burying your face further into the sheets.
“Yeah?” He mused gently, doing nothing to hide the fond undertone.
The voice inside your subconscious kept screaming that this meant nothing. That this was a soldier taking care of another. A weak link in the team meant repercussions.
The time passed in silence, and going against your instinct, you did nothing to fill it.
What could you say? That you mark easily? That it wasn’t his fault?
You said nothing, just like him. Thankfully, in the shadows of the sunset that bled into the room, you found yourself asleep before you had to face another awkward goodbye from the man that, surprisingly, felt something other than disdain for you.
--
This had been the offset routine for the last two days. And, for the first time in a while, you wished one of the terrorists reappeared for a whole other reason. This break had to end, or you would lose your mind.
“Easy,” he coached as he always did when he iced your back, as he’s been doing every night. Only the phantom-like of his fingertips brushed against you as you hissed. “There we go.”
His hushed worry didn’t help.
The tension and the edging had you holding in the urge to squirm. The gnawing lust you felt for the man must be unnatural, and in the midst of your grudge, you thought he was doing this on purpose.
But, to your disbelief (and delight), he’s done nothing but be a gentleman inside and outside the bedroom.
During drills, he checked in often. Inconspicuous to your teammates, he let you off on not running the last lap. He also refused to let you spar with anyone “until you’ve recovered” he said once. The first day at training was fine, the second day you remembered why you were mad in the first place.
Despite doing the most in your mock fights, he didn’t believe you were strong for this job overall. The Lieutenant didn’t believe you were his equal.
But the third night you thought it over because, when the night was at its darkest, he visited your door, awaiting for entrance and a silent forgiveness for what he’d done.
When you removed your shirt, he looked away. He asked, checked and coddled you as he placed each icepack, never allowing his flesh to touch yours. Also, you weren’t going to pretend that he didn’t caress your hair away, being the opposite of methodical.
So you found yourself on the third night, laying belly down on the bed. The bruises were almost already gone, most yellow and transparent.
Part of you knew this was the last night he would do this, and part of you wondered if he would find another excuse to interact with you? Should you leave it up to chance and wait for him to act? Did he even want to? Or was this a one-time thing, a reprieve for the brutality he had put you through? That would mean that, when all wounds were healed, there was nothing else tying you two.
Maybe this was the last time you had the opportunity to speak with a semblance of privacy, outside of the norms of a soldier. This gave you enough bravery to do something different.
This time, as he was placing the last icepack on your upper back, you turned your head, now facing him.
If you weren’t so in tune with his movements, you wouldn’t have caught the slight falter as he pressed gently, right by your shoulder. Unintentionally, this was a sign that the dynamics had changed.
He didn’t have as much power as he thought, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. There was a conversation to be had, and he couldn’t bully nor punch himself through it.
Two days ago, you would’ve been furious at yourself for reading him so easily.
With no other space left to blanket your back, he leaned backwards, sighing heavily into his chair. At your ongoing stare, you dared to believe he looked defeated.
“The team is leaving in two days, 0800,” he started.
You merely blinked and his fingers twitched, fighting the urge to fidget.
He blinked back, the balaclava doing nothing to hide the tightening of his jaw. “Price has scheduled a briefing for tomorrow.”
“I heard.”
There was some information he wanted from you, but you weren’t sure what. The details mentioned were already rumors around the whole base, they were no secret.
After a pause, he looked around the barren barrack. “I haven’t heard of a request for transfer.”
“The Captain would be the only one privy to that information, would he not?”
He grunted in agreement. A long pause, then Ghost played again with the skin of his knuckles. What an odd time to notice that he hadn’t been wearing gloves this whole time.
“Just tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Don’t be difficult,” he snarked, baiting you for an answer in your usual anger, but you thought a lot about how you wanted this night to go. You laid placidly, feeling the ice melting against your back.
“More demands then,” you sighed, merely disappointed, cheek pillowed against your arm.
“Demands? You threaten to leave, and then I ask if you’ve requested a transfer-“
“That would imply that you, indeed, asked a question,” you said, gently as you kept staring at him, unexpressive. “The only question you’ve asked me since we’ve met is ‘are you dumb?’ three weeks ago while training.”
He went still and you waited for a refusal, an excuse that the military was no place for questions or politeness. He had been trained to take, follow orders and for others to do the same.
“You don’t ask.”
“I don’t… I only want to know if you’re leaving. After…”
-After he had to ice your back for several days straight after he didn’t know how to measure the severity of his strength. You were stealing one of his tactics, one that worked well with you. Allow the other to make the assumptions, fill the silence and reap the benefits.
“Then ask.” You said, as if it was the most obvious thing. “What do you want to know, Lieutenant?”
In the dimmed lighting of your temporary reprieve, the silhouette of the man that had driven you near insanity moved and leaned in, elbows resting on his knees.
“Are you leaving?” he asked, lowly, as if it were a secret between you two.
You played along and tilted your head downwards minutely. His eyes followed the movement along as if he was starved for it. “Would you like me to?”
Just as gradually, he shook his head. The slow denial whilst holding your stare did something to you, enough to forgive that he hadn’t rebutted your leave with words. But, given the deep breaths he was taking, which might have been unnoticed for anyone else, you knew he was meticulously observing you, gauging you for your wants and needs.
You knew that look, the sudden shift. He was a soldier in a battlefield, a soldier with a mission. Ghost wanted you to stay and, right now, he was quietly asking what would get him exactly that.
“Anything else you wanted to ask me?” You asked, acting oblivious to his intensity.
You could play games too.
After a beat, still and unmoving, he shook your entire belief that he was cruel and uncaring. “Do you forgive me?”
Your breath stuttered, cool girl act failing, hardly hiding how those words affected you. Wide eyed, you stared and muttered dumbly a ‘what?’
While this night passed in the secret of your bedroom, you thought it would all be forgotten. Somehow, in your expertise as to what was Ghost, he was a man of action, not words. As you laid there, ice reddening the skin of your back, you believed that as soon as the bruises disappeared, nothing else would be mentioned. No words necessary. Transgressions would have never been declared again, and Ghost would’ve gone back to the cooly and indifferent Lieutenant you’ve come to known.
Asking for forgiveness and admitting fault felt like a whole other monster entirely.
At your silence, he leaned forward, allowing one knee to fall, then the other with a thud. The chair creaked at the movement as the man left the seat.
By your bedside, Ghost carefully knelt with hands splayed on his thighs. The bed wasn’t tall enough, so even kneeling, he had to hunch himself to keep eye contact with you. His eyes roved over your face, with thirst for any reaction that wasn’t hatred.
“Do you forgive me?” he asked again carefully, trying to get through your petrified form.
You merely blinked without words coming to mind, avoiding the burn behind your eyes. Along with a faltered breath, a shiver racked along the length of your spine, drawing his eyes to the goosebumps rising on your skin.
The ice had already melted, wetting the towel pinned beneath you. He had thought of everything.
Ghost returned his stared back to yours, finally catching the minuscule nod as an answer to his question.
He returned your nod with one of his own.
It seemed that the confirmation sprung him into action, like that was all he needed to hear. He stood and you did nothing else but lay there, immobile with your back exposed as he returned the melted ice packs to the cooler. Other nights, you had fallen asleep before he left, even with the cold covering your back.
You had often woken up with a towel-dried skin and the covers drawn up to your neck.
This time, you weren’t sure what to expect. Was this it? Now that you said yes, would it all go back to normal? Would he avoid you in the hallways and bark instructions in the battlefield?
The click of the cooler closing seemed to echo in the room and a sense of finality settled in.
You sat up, clutching the towel to your chest, doing the impossible to cover the shivers running through your body.
Despite his rapid movements to clean and organize every item he brought up, you knew he was running from the mere second he was vulnerable. There was no way this man had gotten on his knees before, not for anyone.
Given his braveness, you dared to ask the question that had plagued you since he stood up. “Is this it?”
No begging in your tone, no expectations. If he said he was done, you wouldn’t bring it up, wouldn’t claim nor believe he owed you anything, you decided. You weren’t also blind to the fact that he was always the one that set the tone for whatever sort of relationship you two had.
The man was always covered, always on guard, always a higher ranking, always more methodical.
And you already said what he needed to hear. There was no solid reason for him to come back.
“Are we… normal now?”
Ghost turned slowly, and you weren’t sure what he saw when he looked at you, but his intent gaze definitely brought you flashbacks. It wouldn’t be the first time he had looked at you like that after having access to your body, and then turn away and out of your life as if it meant nothing.
You had expected him to do the same as that night, the night where you found reprieve in each other’s bodies, then never spoke about it again.
Expectation kept you still, bracing for whatever nonchalant rejection came your way.
“You look at me as if you expect the worst from me,” he said as he turned towards the entrance, no hurry in his pace. His hand reached for the handle; cooler left behind at the desk. The lock clicked shut. “I aim to change that.”
You didn’t know what was more important, to breathe, to speak or to run.
He didn’t leave space for that as he headed towards you, expectation building at his leisurely pace. As if he had all the time in the world, he knelt again before you, eyes leveled with yours. This time, he was closer, enough for you to feel the heat through his clothing.
Hands that had known nothing but violence reached for your face, slowly but steady.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, something akin to worry in his tone. Thumbs caressed your cheeks as he held your face, searching for any reaction that might be against this.
“I’m cold,” you replied in barely a hush, shoulders caving at your vulnerable state.
Decidedly, you wanted to do the same. He saw the intention behind your actions as you gave him enough time to stop you.
Carefully, you reached forward, allowing the towel that covered your chest to drop, and rolled up the balaclava that had you spiraling over the last few missions.
Simon didn’t look down but searched for your eyes as you took in the face of the man that had plagued your dreams and nightmares.
You chuckled and he tensed.
“ ‘s not fair.”
His blonde eyebrows furrowed, distorting slightly the scar above his right eye.
“You can’t be buff and pretty,” you jested, eyes crinkling at the corners when you tried to hide your grin.
Uncharacteristically, he rolled his eyes and huffed at your joke. This made your smile widen, thinking about how expressive he really is as he was used to hiding behind a mask.
And you wanted to live in this moment, where you could appreciate every detail of his face, something that you’ve had the sole honor to see, but your anxiety was driving you wild.
You hated yourself for a moment, as he held your face fondly, for not being able to accept the present and wonder if this was a one time thing. After this night was done and he had proven he was more than pain and passion, would this tender moment live in your mind and your wishes for more.
It was sad but not unusual to expect crumbs.
As if sensing the shift in your mood, his head tilted, observing. Hands that radiated warmth drifted down to your neck, your shoulders then your hair as he caressed the wisps down your back.
“What is it?” he asked, low and worried.
The fact that he asked was monumental, but not enough to get you out of your spiraling.
“I’m not… I don’t expect anything,” you started, or tried to as the wide circles massaged into the tense muscles of your lower back served as a distraction. “But do I have to…”
His pinning and inquisitive stare had you stuttering and quivering.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“I know but…” You dared to finally look back at him and asked meekly. “Do I have to pretend this never happened? Like last time.”
No answer from him, merely a sigh and you bit your tongue. You sat up straight with a mournful smile as he retreated his arms from your body and you crossed your arms across your chest.
He stood up and this time you expected him to leave, truly.
Instead, you got a, “turn around and take off your pants.”
He certainly could be blunt when he wanted to. At your confusion and furrowed eyebrows, he took the liberty to manhandle you into what he asked of you. With his hands on your hips, you stood with no space between you two. As you stared, he methodically undid your belt with a clink and unclasped your pants, then knelt, bringing your pants down with him. One hand behind your knee had you lifting your foot, then the other, leaving you in your underwear.
You kept looking down at him, asking silently what the hell got into him that had you standing in your underwear. The expression on his face dared you to say something.
Did he look like that every time you had been stubborn?
Without regrets, he turned you then pushed down on you, until you laid flat, belly down, similar to what you had been 10 minutes ago.
“You might be bipolar, has someone told you that?” You huffed, annoyed, about to use your arms to rest your head. That was until your wrists were taken, arms placed by your sides.
Then, the bed dipped with the weight of a full-grown man as he sat behind you, inches away from your thighs. Unlike the other nights, you expected an icepack to be placed carefully on your skin. Instead, you felt something liquid and cold after something clicked open.
You hadn’t even noticed he had caressed your hair away, leaving the span of your back exposed.
Then hands burrowed into your skin, massaging away the shocking cold from the lotion that sat innocently on your nightstand. Simon was now digging his thumbs into the knots of your back and the nape of your neck, ignoring the hisses you let at the pressure.
If this was the way he would act whenever you bombarded him with a vulnerable question, you might do it more often.
“No,” he said after a few minutes, your mind already drifting to a calmer place.
“No, no one’s told you you’re bipolar?”
“No,” he answered gruffly. “You’re not allowed to pretend this didn’t happen.”
You kept your eyes closed despite your surprise as the pressure of his hands drifted downwards, avoiding your underwear, heading directly to knead your legs, your calves. The proximity of his thumbs between the apex of your thighs had you squirming.
“If you do, I’ll have to find ways to make you remember.”
You barely held the groan when his thumbs dug away into the sole of your feet. If he noticed, he didn’t mention it.
“You be stubborn. I’ll keep finding ways to make you feel good.”
Despite your newly found relaxed state, you couldn’t fight the sensation pooling in your lower stomach. You might’ve drifted to sleep in this tender moment, but your mind kept wondering what else those hands could do. How much pressure could those thumbs do?
As he drifted upwards, he caught on your squirming, teasing gently as he kept massaging your thighs. Just as carefully, his fingertips brushed against the edge of your underwear.
“Need something, sweet girl?” He taunted but did nothing to hide the grave tone of his own lust. Not long after, his thumbs ‘accidently’ brushed against the cleft between your legs.
You bit your tongue, aiming to be stubborn and curious as to what he would do without guidance.
After he had enough, your underwear was tentatively pulled down to your feet. Then the hands that had been so through on relaxing you were now silently positioning you upwards to your parted knees, back arched as your torso laid placidly.
When he got you like he wanted, his fingers dug into your upper thighs for leverage, expecting you to run away. And that you did as a soft breath brushed against you before the slickness of a tongue delved into you.
You flinched instinctively at the sensation with a whimper, but he held you to him. He was no shy adventurer.
Simon had been teasing all night, and it seemed he was done playing games. His tongue, along with his lips, left nothing unexplored. His hands roamed along your flesh, issuing pressure to your lower back when needed to keep you arched enough for him. There were no tentative licks nor touches as he hummed into your folds, slick running down his chin.
Thumbs splayed you open, and your whimpers rose into moans as he lapped at your clit with enough tension to make you gasp for breaths. Instinctively, you reached back, fingers latching into a full head of hair.
When you pulled, he moaned just as loud as you. That seemed to unravel him, his careful lapping now an intense suckling as he inserted one finger, then two. The hollow beneath your lower stomach now partially full. You were wet enough to accept whatever he had to give you.
When he dug down, aiming for your upper walls, you keened. He rubbed and rubbed, fingers so thick he had no problem hammering away into your g-spot repeatedly.
Now your moans were let out brazenly, gasping into the pillow as he did his best to burrow himself into your skin.
The shaking started on your calves, the tension rising upwards to your lower back. The sensation seemed to spur him on into a continuous pattern where he kept his mouth latched on you as your nerves coiled into and impending life-changing orgasm.
With a shock, your body spasmed with a silent scream, the soldier holding you tight through your tremors. Violent shock after shock racked through you until you managed to get some air in a keening moan. After seconds, Simon petting you lightly with his tongue and feeling every spasm, you laid back down placidly, all energy sucked out of you.
At the first flinch of overstimulation, he languidly let you go, barely letting his hands off your skin as he laid you flat on the bed.
He was out of breath too, but something told you it had more to do with the tent in his pants than lack of oxygen.
Owlishly, you looked back at him through the haze. As soon as he started petting your hair, you knew you lost whatever battle had been going on between you two.
Simon had done the impossible; proven he was going nowhere and that he was just as obsessed with you as you were with him.
And, as if nothing short of extraordinary had happened, his hands drifted lower to keep the ongoing massage as the remnants of your pleasured haze pulled you to sleep.
Is there any chance you might have like a list of people you could update, when you come out with part two of crushing?
💜💜💜💜
Hi! I'm currently not doing any taglists but i'm open to anyone that wants to start one. I just know I won't be consistent with it [and I lowkey don't understand tumblr :') ]
But anyway, Part 2 is scheduled to publish tonight 🤭
Summary: Where Ghost goes a little too rough on you in training then makes up for it.
5k+ ish words │ Ghost (Simon Riley) x Y/N
A/N: Angst with a smutty happy ending. Times are weird now, so I'm back to writing again. You know the drill, no proofread found here
-----
Part 1
It was merely a crush, you realized. It must be. Otherwise, you would have to not have sex again with Simon.
Because there was no way in hell a man like that would let himself be roped in into a relationship, and a relationship with you at that. You were sure he hated you, going by his nonchalant treatment when he wasn’t in your bed.
There, another example. You haven’t even been to his room, which going by his arrogant attitude must be annoyingly spotless.
You hated him, or at least you wished that saying it would make it better for your sanity. Because this was Simon.
The first time you slept together happened in France, and it was not gentle. Well, you didn’t really expect any special treatment as a lover, but it wasn’t exactly a tender moment, more of a “blowing some steam” sort of thing. A ‘high-school make out session’ sort of a thing, or so you repeated in your head whenever his name came up in conversation.
It’s not to say that it wasn’t enjoyable, but only a representation of the tone of your weird situationship. And you were fully sure that this was Johnny’s fault somehow.
“But he likes you, lass. That’s why he’s a pain.” He said, as if there was no doubt about it.
You scoffed at that. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one who thought so.
Your aching shoulder, after sparring got out hand, made you believe otherwise.
Now, Johnny said something about hanging out for drinks with some locals. The mission in Serbia took a pause on the wait for new intel, so as consequence your unit had a free week out of uniform. This meant more time with your team outside of work, and that meant that you and Ghost were at each other’s throats. Mostly you since his sunken eyes behind the sockets of his skullmask barely moved when you made jabs at him.
Then he stared and stared, a blank look threatening you into a near sycosis. Why couldn’t he just be normal and answer without underestimating you?
And one night there was a local event, promising alcohol and a good time. It was dark already, but the people there were lively, enjoying food and from far away, you could hear music and dancing. You couldn’t wait to try and merge with the crowd, maybe flirt a little with a cute local. And you thought you looked lovely, really good going by the way some of the soldiers ogled you. It must be due to you being one of the only females in the base, but it wasn’t harming your ego.
Johnny whistled when you met at the entrance, drawing attention to you in civilian clothes. You think they hadn’t seen you off your gear yet, and it must be shocking to see you in a normal long maxi skirt mapping the curves of your hips, a dark top and a fashionable coat, just as dark of course. You looked like a killer with your dark makeup and hair down for the first time in a while, sparkling earrings catching in moonlight.
“Little lady, are ya lost?” He whistled again, making you hurry your pace to shut him up. There was a diminutive pause with hesitation at seeing Ghost in the driver seat after Johnny moved away from the window.
He looked at you, eyes trailing leisurely from your toes to your eyes. You wiggled your white-painted toes in your wedges at the pinning stare. It was a pain smuggling nail polish in missions, but his ongoing stare made it worth it. They might not be up to code, but you didn’t really care. He blinked slowly as his fingers lightly rapped against the steering wheel in what you thought to be annoyance.
“Are ya coming?” The brute asked, still bitter by your word ping-pong match in Price’s office. You certainly had won because you believed yourself capable of acting as a secret spy inside a mob dead set on selling plutonium as a business. Yeah, they were a little out of their heads, but really talented at hiding, so here you were, stuck in Serbia. Ghost clearly thought you weren’t good enough of a liar to gather intelligence, or so he implied, but you knew it was because he didn’t believe you weren’t good enough overall.
Your past scuffles where Ghost was the opponent, pinning you down on the mat, were proof enough. This was the military, you weren’t allowed to make it personal, but when he bested you and made sure to show you your faults with overtraining you… His strict treatment with you hadn’t gone unnoticed by others and, well, let’s say that you weren’t feeling rational about it.
To your annoyance he got out of the car, and for a second you expected him to fight you again, maybe prevent you from getting into the backseat with brute force. Would he say that you weren’t allowed to drink or have fun? Would your mistakes make him order you back to the gym instead of a night of fun?
None of the scenarios circulating in your head happened. Instead, he leaned sideways and opened the door. You stood still as he waited at your gaping. Then, obviating your embarrassment, you closed your mouth and got in at the rise of an eyebrow behind his mask. None of you mentioned anything at his action, one that you found odd. Maybe he did it as a power move? Or maybe he did it only for the shock factor to keep you on your toes?
Sitting at the back, immersing yourself in your distrust, you kept making eye contact with Ghost through the rearview mirror. Not on purpose, but he did nothing to turn his eyes away, only to drive, and sometimes you swore he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.
But you kept fighting with facts versus what you wanted. Did you want him to seek you, look at you and only you? Your last argument kept circulating in your thoughts. Whenever he looked at you, pain followed.
So, he steered the rented car in silence, Johnny making conversation with himself. Ghost found parking nearby inside the city, near the pubs, and yet the car was left hidden in another block. Yeah right… it was the car that would draw attention, not the hulk-of-a-man wearing a balaclava in public.
And it was sort of inevitable the way your gaze would keep drawing back to the blonde near-white lashes free of dark paint or the sharpness of his jawline as he rumbled out another one of his jokes to Johnny. The lack of skull mask allowed you to obsess, no, notice the details. Yes, notice.
And he still had a balaclava. You felt like you were going insane in your ruminating and in your shame for sleeping with someone that didn’t find you worthy enough to show their face.
The guys flocked around you as you headed into the first club with music you could understand.
After a while, you realized you shouldn’t have dared to defy a Scotsman in a drinking game. Johnny was fully sober and you were giggly at your third drink. You were drawn to the dance floor and the bar behind it, or at least a moment for yourself. A fourth drink didn’t sound so bad, you mused as you planned how to get out of the booth. You were fidgeting in the middle, Johnny on one side, Ghost on the other. Gaz was supposedly on his way, something about needing more time to get dressed. As if. He probably knew this night would be boring and would never arrive.
“Excuse me, scoot” you said, nodding at Johnny to move so you could get out. He huffed and practically ignored you with a teasing grin as he kept ‘scoping the perimeter’ or whatever that meant. “Johnny, let me out. I have to pee.”
“So? If you leave, who’ll be my wingwoman?”
“Certainly not me. Ghost?”
“Not moving.”
You looked at the two, noticing that Johnny was leaning forward on the table, and Ghost wasn’t. Hoping that the shock factor would stave away the complaints, you swung your leg over Ghost’s hips, landing on your knee at his side. The skirt rode up to your knees as you stared him down, stumbling at your sloshed state. You expected to climb away quickly, but before you could escape into the booming music, solid hands tightened themselves over your hips. You swayed as you lost your momentum, hitting your lower back on the edge of the table, empty glasses clinking.
You hissed at the pain, the bruises on your back tender from yesterday’s training stung as your hands grasped his shoulders for stability. One of his palms quickly spread on your lower back, preventing more accidents. Your lips clamped at the pain. His head was almost at your height, despite you being over him, a few inches up on your knees, spread over his thighs.
Dark eyes stared at you through his mask, but you could clearly make out a risen eyebrow in amusement. That little shit always found a way to get a rise out of you.
“Easy, doll. You should’ve just asked,” he rumbled lowly, barely heard through the music.
“Woah,” Soap added to your embarrassment.
“None of you would move, now let me off,” you didn’t wait for his permission and swung your other leg away, paving your way to freedom away from those steady hands. There was no way you could feel his warmth through all your layers beneath the skirt, but the shape of his fingertips still ghosted over your hips. Fighting the urge to look back, you walked away with flaming cheeks, and hurriedly headed directly to the bar. Well, more like swayed to the bar as embarrassment sunk in slowly in your drunken state.
It was almost as if he was completely unbothered by your presence whilst the mere thought of that skull mask made your logic haywire, aggression being an immediate outlet. You certainly needed that drink, or anything as a distraction, but the bar was unreachable. The hoard of people flaying their limbs to the deep base reverberating through your form didn’t allow you a direct way, so you tried to push yourself through the sides of the crowd. Even being half-way there, you saw that getting that drink would be a pain, the barstools fully occupied, a line of people trying to get the overworked bartender’s attention.
You sighed, knowing that you would have to wait for that reprieve for more than an hour, going by how slow the line was moving. After someone bumped into your sore shoulder, an answer to your question came in the form of the red sign of Exit behind you. Maybe you wouldn’t get a drink, but fresh air might help stave away the recurring memory of the shape of Ghost’s palms on you. The fact that you kept thinking about it made you want to punch something… Fresh air it is. Without looking back, you went outside into a back alley, the cold air helping you sober up enough to not stumble through the horde of smokers blocking the entrance.
What was this bar selling that was so full? You cursed lowly, knowing that your much needed moment of peace would have to wait some more. The thought of calling for a Taxi back to base crossed your mind, your annoyance slowly rising. Unfortunately, you left your purse behind with the other two, your bra carrying the only cash you had in the currency, enough for that one drink you kept dreaming about.
With arms crossed around you, you set your pride aside and found a dark corner to sit in, the lights and the music far away. A little misplaced wooden crate allowed you to take the weight off your feet, far enough to hide you from the locals chatting away over cigarettes. You weren’t as vigilant as your usual self, knowing that with your combat training, you were the most dangerous person amongst them.
With that in mind and at the relief of momentary silence, you closed your eyes, fingertips massaging your temples. Maybe it had been a blessing in disguise that you couldn’t get that drink. You had been bunking with another soldier in the common barracks, the cafeteria was always busy, your itinerary was filled with missions, training, discussing intel, fighting with Ghost and being subjected to horrible jokes and prompts from your peers. This had been the only moment you’ve been alone, you realized.
Peace was broken as you opened your eyes, military boots standing inches away from you. You scolded yourself for recognizing them immediately, not an ounce of you distinguishing him as enemy. Was it normal to even find annoying how silent he was when walking? You should’ve seen him coming.
“Didn’t take you for a smoker,” Ghost said, already knowing that you weren’t. You knew that to your core. He was too observant and too vigilant for his own good, or for your sanity.
“I’m not. Where’s Johnny?” You looked up, craning your neck upwards. The mass of him blended with the darkness of the sky behind him. You could only make out his eyes out of the balaclava.
“Inside,” He looked down on you and you debated if your pride was enough to make you stand up. Even if it was impossible, you wanted to be enough to stand at his height, for him to recognize you at something as your equal. He better walk away before you start spewing truths that would only confess your drunken self.
“And what are you doing here?”
“Checking up on you.”
You held in the scoff, rolling your eyes with closed lids. You waved him away, going back to massaging your temples. “You can tell Johnny I’m fine. Just getting some fresh air.”
He looked sideways momentarily, eyeing the smokers nearby, then returned to pin you down with the heaviness of his gaze.
“You’re hiding,” he said with no question in his statement, head tilting sideways with curiosity.
“No-“
“Away from me,” he rumbled deeply, almost to himself. “It seems we are at an impasse.”
“I’m not doing this right now. Whatever you want to talk about, will be at base with a superior present,” you glared upwards as he eyed the hands now in tight fists on your lap. He knew you were clearly referring to Price, who abided to the bureaucratic process despite his favoritism for his favorite killer. That killer wasn’t you obviously.
You were considered too sentimental, as if that was another flaw.
After a beat, he opened his mouth solely to aggravate you, you were sure. “Said superior suggested we resolve our issues outside of work.”
The comment felt like a mockery. “And this is out of work, right? Get a few drinks in the girl, lower her defenses… and just talk.”
He hummed, a sound you felt in the hollow of your chest. It was almost as if you couldn’t help but react to his every word as an insult. The resentment you held for him always made you wonder that maybe, if you hadn’t felt like proving something to him, you would’ve stayed as a mediocre soldier. That his tough lessons and obvious disdain were meant due to something greater. You wanted to be grateful, to see the good outcome of the estranged liaison you have with one of your superiors, but it was draining enough to know that all effort would go to waste.
“I’ll let them know you were not reciprocating, up to resolve our issues,” he answered with finality, knowing that his flat tone would make you take the bait. He didn’t even blink at your scoff, your eyebrows furrowing at your irritation, him knowing too easily how to get a reaction out of you.
“Issues?” You stood up shakily, leaning your weight on the wall behind you. “Why don’t you tell me what our issues are, Lieutenant?”
In a moment of bravery, you stood on the crate. Even with the added height, the top of your head didn’t even reach his clavicle.
“You’re angry.” He crossed his arms uncharacteristically, biceps bulging at the tension. His eyes roved up and down, as if searching for a clue as to what had you so mad. And in something similar to a question, he added, “At me.”
Furious, but you didn’t correct him. You crossed your arms to imitate his pose, incredulous at the obvious statement. This time you used his tactic and stayed silent as an answer, opting for him to fill in the conversation.
“Tell me why,” he demanded gruffly.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” He couldn’t just interrupt your me-time and start demanding answers out of you, you convinced yourself. You knew you were being difficult, but at this moment, this was merely deflecting. There was no way you would confess your insecurities upon his demands, as if the outcome were to be an improvement.
It was his turn to tilt his eyes up to the sky, seeking answers as he sighed in exasperation. In a second after contemplating, he let his guard down so plainly, you stood shocked and deadly still at his stance. What was this? His shoulders relaxed, arms resting down by his side, eyes beseeching to answer. A clear posture open to you. “I can’t fix something if I don’t know what’s wrong, sweetheart.”
The endearment and the sincerity in his eyes caught you off guard. You blinked, eyes wide open, ignoring the surprise of the coiling heat stirring near your thighs.
Then he went on to call your call sign, spurring you to blurt out the first thing that came to mind.
“You’re mean to me,” You lowered your arms to your sides like him.
You felt like a child, whining, and impossibly allocating a responsibility that didn’t belong to him.
He lowered his chin in disbelief. “You’re… mad at me because I’m mean.”
His complete disregard made you do the exact thing you wanted to avoid. Spill.
“Just mean? No,” Your fury got the best of you, “You know exactly what I’m talking about!”
His eyes widened for the first time, your outburst uncharacteristic, even for your short temper.
“If this is about that night-“
“You don’t treat me like the others. Even before that night.” You interrupted him, emphasizing what he implied, but felt hysterical at his clear misunderstanding. “You punish me for things that are not my fault. After we spar, I hide bruises because my superior can’t get over himself, but because its my job, I have to pretend its normal, like its professional. And then I’m the weak one? When others don’t have to take your beatings because…because… I don’t know why!”
“Sparring can be violent,” he justified, but to you, he didn’t sound so sure of himself.
“Violent?” You said, nearly shouting. “Violent?!” Ignoring the stiffness of your shoulders and the cold of the Serbian night, you shook of your coat. It was the first time he’d seen more of your skin, your uniform tended to provide full coverage. Even that night was fast and rough, but not unclothed.
He said nothing, his eyes wide at the purple imprints of his fists beneath the thin straps. You knew he could see, even in the dimmed light, how the bruises trailed down your shoulders. He must’ve known they would paint your arms as well, but you hadn’t shed your coat completely. You dared to believe he looked at you in horror, but your feelings bled over the dark alleyway against your better judgment.
“You set impossible expectations in our missions, in drills, and then you act like I’m some sort of failure when I can’t… I’m good at what I do. I do what I’m supposed to do, which is follow orders, swallow my pride, be a good soldier. And then you looked for me to get in my bed, and then nothing from you. So, I did what was expected, I stayed quiet. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
He stared and stared, reclamations going over his head as his eyes trailed the rest of your body with furrowed eyebrows. Alarmed. It was the most expressive you’ve seen him. No balaclava could hide the tension that held him upright.
“And then you ask Price to keep me off the next mission, after I keep proving that I’m capable. What else do you want from me?”
For the first time in a long time, he had no sass, no jokes, no answer for what he’d done.
“Y/N… I-“ He choked.
“I’m asking Price to change units. This will be my las mission with 141,” This time, he looked like he wanted to say something, but you were done with his excuses. “I’m done with your disrespect and your justified violence.”
You threw the word back at his face, Ghost tense and quiet.
“Y/N?” Someone asked from the exit. As your head snapped towards the voice, you hastily put your coat on, covering your shoulders immediately.
Johnny clutched your purse, eyes roving over your face and red rimmed eyes. The hesitance to look at your body let you know he had seen enough. Blue eyes kept jumping from Ghost to you, back and forth connecting the dots. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, just tired. Heading back to base,” You stepped down the crate, Ghost taking a sudden step back, as if you’d burned him. He officially wanted nothing to do with you.
“I will take you,” Johnny offered, gently and uncharacteristic, raising an arm to put over your shoulders in comfort, but let it fall as if he thought it over. In a second, he turned with an expectant palm towards Ghost. “Keys.”
He didn’t ask, he demanded. And Ghost, the good soldier he was, followed orders.
“The Lieutenant will take a cab.”
The Lieutenant didn’t argue.
--
The ride was tense, Johnny flickering glances at your silent state. As you stared blankly at the windshield, he hid his anger under his worry.
“Do you… should you talk to someone?” Johnny asked tentatively, indicating that maybe someone of a higher ranking should get involved.
“No,” you answered, finality in your tone.
You opened the door hastily when you arrived, avoiding any opportunity for him to ask more questions.
You had done enough talking for the night.
--
Thankfully, the common barracks were empty. But as you sat on the lower bunk bed, you felt a note crumble beneath your weight.
You stared at nothing in the dark, exhausted, taking deep breaths for a few minutes before you had to read, dreading another mission or another memo at your impertinence.
After gaining courage, the light post by the window allowed you to read that the note was a relocation to another bed.
--
The private room was yours, just like the private bathroom and the queen-sized bed. It was a slight gratification after everything that transpired a few hours ago.
And it was in another hall from your unit, further away from Ghost’s own private bedroom.
You didn’t want to think about him anymore this night, you thought as the nearly boiling water cascaded down your back.
As you scrubbed yourself clean, you reminded yourself that you needed to thank Johnny, he must’ve had to pull some impossible strings to find you a private bedroom amongst the fully occupied base.
In secret, inside of your new bedroom, you finally allowed yourself to cry.
I've always disliked mr beast just based on his content mill vaguely exploitative vibes so it's been kind of wild learning he also does legitimate crimes and workplace violations. it's like disliking an acquaintance because they're kinda annoying and then finding out they kill people too like damn dude you didn't have to do all that i already hated your ass.
The amount of detail and mysteriousness you wrote The Howling with has me gripping the edge of my seat, I just discovered your work by scrolling through the tags and it's definitely one of the best written pieces I've read, you're an amazing writer wow
Are you planning on doing more parts? It left me speechless 🤍
Thank you!! This was the best compliment ever 🫶🏻🫶🏻
I’ve had some writers block for a few months but I’m finally working on the 2nd part
