20K words, Simon’s hair has grown out, reader wears glasses, Simon doesn’t know how to dance, smut, the fluffiest fluff, angst, size kink, Simon is huge, pee mentioned, Simon is filthy but we all knew that. Tell me if I missed any tags.
He was four years old when he stole your crayons.
Not all of them. Just the good ones. The red one. The yellow one. The bright, sunflower-gold one that you'd been saving to colour the sun in the corner of your drawing, the way all four-year-olds drew the sun — a circle in the corner, rays shooting out like a child's idea of joy.
You looked at him across the low art table in that bright little preschool room that smelled of poster paint and digestive biscuits.
He was stocky even then.
Chubby-cheeked and heavy-set. A thick, sturdy little boy who sat with his legs wide and his fat fists curled around your crayons like he'd earned them.
He wasn't even looking at you.
He was colouring something — a car, maybe, or a blob that might have been a dog — and the yellow crayon moved in big, purposeful strokes across his paper.
You did not cry.
You considered it.
Then you leaned across the table and took them back.
He looked up.
Brown eyes. Even at four, they were startling — dark and serious and far too watchful for a boy his age.
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Then he slid the gold crayon back across the table to you, said nothing, and went back to his drawing.
His name was Simon.
You would not learn that until the register was called the following morning. But you remembered his eyes before you remembered his name.
— ✦ —
He broke your glasses in Year Two.
Not on purpose — or so you believed, for most of your life, until you were old enough to accept that
Simon Riley did very few things without purpose.
He knocked into you in the corridor outside the dining hall, your plastic NHS frames hitting the linoleum floor, one arm snapping clean off at the hinge.
You stood there, the world going soft and blurry at the edges the way it always did without them, and you felt the particular, humiliating sting of being unable to see properly — the vulnerability of it, the indignity.
Simon picked up the frames. Looked at them. Looked at you.
He didn't say sorry straight away. He examined the break with the seriousness of a boy who was already, at seven, very careful about what he said and when he said it. Then, "I'll carry your bag till they're fixed."
"You broke my glasses," you told him like he didn’t know.
"I know." He nodded.
"That's not the same as fixing them."
"No," he agreed. "But it's what I've got."
He carried your bag for three days. And when your mum brought the repaired frames in on the fourth morning, he handed the bag back without ceremony, turned, and went to join his mates by the football cage. No further apology. No acknowledgement that anything had occurred between you at all.
That afternoon, you kicked over his sandcastle in the playground.
He watched you do it. Didn't say a word.
You felt better.
And somehow, after that, you were friends.
— ✦ —
He couldn't read very well. You figured this out in Year Three, during the round-robin reading in class — when the teacher went along the rows and each child read a sentence aloud.
You noticed the way Simon's jaw set and his hands went flat on the desk the closer it got to his turn. The way his eyes moved across the page, laboured and slow, tracking words like they were things to be wrestled rather than known.
He got through his sentence. Barely. His face was blank when he sat back, the particular blankness he'd already learned to wear — that carefully constructed nothing that meant everything was fine when everything was not fine at all.
You didn't say anything about it. Not then. You were eight years old, not stupid.
What you did was start reading with him at break time. You presented it as something you needed — you told him you were practising for a reading competition and needed an audience.
Simon was not fooled. He was never fooled, not really.
But he sat down with you on the bench by the library door and listened while you read, and then slowly, carefully, you handed the book to him and asked what he thought happened next, and he had to read ahead to find out.
It took most of the school year. But by the summer he was reading chapter books. He never thanked you. He did start saving you a seat on the library bench every break time, and that was the same thing.
— ✦ —
He played football and rugby.
You read on the grass bank above the field.
It became a kind of institution — the ritual of your shared proximity without shared activity. Simon on the pitch, broad and determined and already bigger than the other boys by Year Five, already moving with that particular physicality that seemed less like playing and more like declaration.
And you on the bank above, your book open, your reading glasses (a better pair now, tortoiseshell) perched on your nose, half-reading and half watching without ever quite admitting to the watching.
He always knew you were there. He didn't do anything about it. But sometimes, when he scored, he'd look up at the bank first before he looked anywhere else.
You told yourself you were only there because the grass was nice and the light was good.
You were not a good liar, even then.
— ✦ —
The boy's name was Daniel Holt and he pushed you over in the playground in Year Five because you'd refused to give him the answers to the maths homework.
You'd said no three times and the third time he pushed you and you went down hard on your palms and your knees, the concrete was unforgiving.
You were crying before you'd fully registered what had happened. Not dramatically — small, shocked, indignant tears, the kind that arrive before the pain does.
Simon was there before a teacher was. You didn't even see where he came from. One moment the playground was its ordinary mid-morning noise, and the next Daniel Holt had a split lip and Simon Riley was standing over him with blood on his knuckles and a look on his face that was completely, utterly calm.
The calm was the frightening part. Even at ten.
He got three days at home for it. He spent the first afternoon sitting on your front step, eating crisps, because he knew you'd be furious with him and wanted to face it head-on.
You were furious. You told him he was an idiot. He told you Daniel Holt had it coming. You told him violence wasn't the answer. He told you Daniel Holt wasn't going to touch you again.
He was right. Daniel Holt never came near you again.
You didn't thank him either. You went inside and made him a sandwich, and that was the same thing.
— ✦ —
Secondary school arrived like a change in weather — everything slightly larger, slightly louder, the corridors longer and noisier, the stakes somehow higher and more ambiguous all at once. You arrived with a bag so heavy your shoulder ached within the first hour: your textbooks, yes, but also the extracurricular books you carried everywhere, the extra notepad you used for non-school thoughts, the six different highlighters you colour-coded by subject.
Simon took the bag from you on the third day without asking.
"I can carry it," you told him.
"I know," he said.
He slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing, which for him it probably didn't. He'd grown over the summer — not just taller, though he was that, but broader, thicker through the shoulders in a way that made him look like a man playing a boy, trying the shape of it on. He wore it well, even at eleven. He wore everything like he'd already decided what he was and was simply waiting for the world to catch up.
He carried your bag when it was heavy, and it was frequently heavy. He did it without comment and without making you feel small for needing it. That was the thing about Simon — he never made you feel small. He made other people feel small, sometimes, when they deserved it. But not you. Never you.
— ✦ —
The bruises were never from rugby.
You knew by the second year of secondary.
You were not naive — you had read enough, observed enough, understood enough about the world to recognise the shape of what was happening in Simon Riley's house even though he never said a word about it.
The bruises were in the wrong places for rugby. They appeared in the wrong season. They were around his ribs and his arms and once, memorably, along his jaw, and he came to school the Monday after the jaw bruise with that face — that blank, carefully constructed nothing face — and you sat next to him at lunch and said nothing at all.
You said nothing because there was nothing you could do. You were twelve. You were a girl with a book bag and highlighter pens and absolutely no power over the man who was hurting your best friend, and knowing that — the impotence of it, the helpless, hollow ache of caring about someone you could not protect — was the first truly adult pain you ever felt.
What you could do was this: you could make sure he had somewhere to go.
Your mother, who was perceptive in the quiet way that some mothers are, never asked questions when Simon turned up at the back door on a Sunday evening or a Wednesday after school.
She just set another plate.
Your house became a refuge without anyone naming it as such. Simon did his homework at your kitchen table, ate your mother's cooking, watched telly with your family, and slept on your sofa sometimes when the option was presented naturally enough that it didn't feel like charity.
— ✦ —
You got your period for the first time on a Tuesday in November, in Year Nine. In the school toilets, third period, when you were thirteen years old and the day had been entirely ordinary right up until it wasn't.
The particular cocktail of shock and pain and embarrassment and the specific existential bewilderment of being a person whose body was doing something enormous without prior adequate notice left you sitting on the closed toilet lid crying in a way you hadn't cried in years.
You got out your Nokia. That familiar brick of a phone, the keypad worn smooth at the number five. You typed Simon's number and pressed call before you'd properly decided to.
He picked up on the second ring. "Yeah."
"Simon." Your voice came out wrong. Too thin.
A beat. When he spoke again his voice had changed — quieter, more careful. "Where are you?"
"Girls' toilets. Near the science block."
"Right," he said. "Stay there."
He appeared outside the girls' toilets seven minutes later — you could hear him through the door, his voice low and flat, telling a Year Eight girl to go use the other ones — and then he was there, right there on the other side of the door, talking to you through it in that steady, even way he had when he wanted to be calm on your behalf.
"You're alright," he said. “Do you need me to go to the office?"
"No," you managed. "I need — I don't know what I need."
"I'll get you something from the vending machine," he said, that Manchester accent of his low and unhurried. "And I'll text your mum."
When you came out of the toilets twenty minutes later, looking wrung-out and clutching what the school nurse had provided, Simon was leaning against the wall. He looked at you for a moment — took you in, the way he always did, that comprehensive, assessing look — and then he stepped forward and kissed your cheek. Quick. Certain. His mouth warm and deliberate against your cheekbone.
"You're alright," he said again. He said it like a fact. Like he was making it true by saying it.
You cried a bit more, for different reasons, and he pretended not to notice.
— ✦ —
He was captain of the rugby team by Year Ten. It suited him — the leadership, the sense of purpose, the structure of it.
You went to his matches sometimes, wrapped in a scarf on the touchline, and watched him move across the pitch with that same quality you'd noticed on the primary school field: less like playing, more like declaration.
He was ferocious and focused and occasionally frightening, and the other boys deferred to him not just because he was bigger than them but because he had the kind of authority that doesn't need to be announced.
Afterwards he'd find you on the touchline, still carrying that quality — coiled, alert — and it would take him a few minutes to come back to himself. To come back to you.
"Good game," you'd say.
"Yeah," he'd say.
And then slowly, the set of his shoulders would ease, and he'd become Simon again. Your Simon. The one who stole your crayons and carried your bag and ate your mother's shepherd's pie like it was sacred.
— ✦ —
He could make you laugh. This was not a small thing.
Simon Riley was not, by general consensus, a funny person. He was serious and quiet and his face in repose looked like a man carrying a private weather system. But he had a dry, deadpan wit that he deployed rarely and precisely, and it landed, every time, like a key in a lock made specifically for it.
He knew how to make you laugh because he'd spent years learning you. The specific frequency of your humour. The things that made you dissolve into giggles rather than just smile. He deployed his wit with the same precision he deployed everything else, and the result was that when Simon Riley made you laugh — really laugh, the helpless, breathless kind — it felt like being given something he didn't give to anyone else.
Which, you would eventually understand, was accurate.
— ✦ —
His name was Ryan Marsh and he was your first kiss, in the park on a Friday evening in Year Ten, and it was fine. It was nice, even. Ryan was sweet and nervous and smelled of his older brother's aftershave and the kiss lasted approximately forty seconds.
Ryan Marsh had a broken nose the following Monday.
Simon maintained, with total conviction, that Ryan had walked into a door. Ryan, to his credit, corroborated this story completely.
You did not push the matter, partly because you had no concrete evidence and partly because some part of you — the part that read on the grass bank and watched the pitch and noticed when Simon looked up at the bank before he looked anywhere else — felt something that was not entirely uncomplicated about it.
You and Ryan Marsh did not have a second kiss. You told yourself it was because the chemistry hadn't been right.
You were getting a bit better at lying to yourself, by fourteen. But only a bit.
— ✦ —
GCSEs arrived the way all important things arrived — with more weight than you'd expected and less warning than you'd have liked.
Year Ten and Eleven were the years you restructured Simon's entire approach to studying, methodically and patiently, the same way you'd helped him learn to read, finding the approach that worked for how his mind moved.
Simon was not unintelligent.
He was, in fact, formidably sharp in ways that didn't translate easily to an exam paper: quick to read people, quick to understand systems, possessed of a spatial and strategic intelligence that you recognised and admired even as you taught him how to write it down in ways that the mark scheme would accept.
He sat with you at your kitchen table night after night — your mother quietly replenishing the tea,— and you explained things in the language that made sense to his brain rather than the language of the textbook.
He sat with you at lunch during school hours and glared at anyone who called you a nerd. The glaring was extremely effective. Simon Riley's face, by fifteen, was a significant deterrent.
His GCSE results, when they arrived, were good. Better than anyone who knew his circumstances might have expected from a boy who'd had so much working against him.
He rang you on the house phone when he opened the results envelope. He didn't say much. His voice, when he spoke, was different — something in it unguarded, the Manchester in it softer somehow, without the armour it usually carried.
"Couldn't have done it without you," he said.
"You did it," you told him firmly. "I just held the torch."
"Still needed the torch."
You smiled so hard your face ached. "Go celebrate, Simon."
"Yeah," he said. And then, quieter, "Thanks, sunshine."
— ✦ —
He was an apprentice at the butcher's on Renshaw Street after school — learning the trade with the same focused, physical competence he brought to everything else, solid and unhurried, his big hands learning new kinds of precision. You had a job at the bookshop two streets over.
On his lunch breaks you would walk over with a sandwich and a packet of crisps, and you'd sit on the low wall around the side of the shop while he ate and you talked about nothing in particular and everything in general.
He had sawdust on his boots and you'd have ink on your fingers from pricing stickers, and you'd sit in the thin afternoon light talking about books and people and where things might go from here, and it was the most ordinary, irreplaceable thing in the world.
You didn't know, then, that you were storing it up. You didn't know you were in the middle of something finite.
You were seventeen and you thought you had time.
— ✦ —
It was the eleventh of September, 2001.
You were at work when it happened — the bookshop had a small television in the back room, and you watched the footage with your hand pressed over your mouth and the world rearranging itself into a new shape around you.
Simon came to you that evening. He didn't knock — he had a spare key, had done for years — and you heard him come in and go into the kitchen and fill the kettle, the sound of him so familiar and domestic and real that something in your chest loosened a fraction.
He brought you tea. He sat on the sofa beside you and you watched the news together in silence, and at some point your head found his shoulder without either of you deciding it had.
"I'm going to join up," he said. Not asking. Telling.
You lifted your head from his shoulder. Frowned at him. "Join up what?"
"The military."
The word landed in the room and stayed there. You looked at his face — that flat, certain expression he wore when he'd already decided something — and you felt the ground shift slightly under you.
"Simon. You're seventeen."
"You can join at sixteen with parental consent," he said. Straightforward, as though he'd already looked into it. Which of course he had. "Seventeen without."
"That's—" You stopped. Started again. "You've thought about this before today."
"Yeah."
Of course he had. You could see it now, the shape of it — this was not a reaction to the footage on the television, not a hot, impulsive thing. This was something Simon had been building toward without telling you. The structure of it. The purpose. The particular kind of belonging that came from being part of something larger than yourself. You'd always known he'd go toward something like this. You'd just hoped, without ever quite admitting to the hoping, that it might be further away.
"You're not going to try to talk me out of it." Not a question.
"Would it work?"
He held your gaze. "No."
"Then no," you said. Your voice was very steady. You were proud of it. "I'm not."
He was quiet for a long moment. The television continued its awful repetition. Then his arm came around your shoulders, heavy and warm, and he pulled you in closer against his side.
You stayed like that until the tea went cold.
— ✦ —
The train station was grey and noisy with other leavings, other arrivals, other people in the middle of things.
Simon stood in front of you on the platform with his kit bag and his big, careful hands and the face he'd spent seventeen years learning to keep blank, and it occurred to you, not for the first time and not for the last, that you loved him.
That you had loved him in different quantities and different registers for most of your life. That you did not know how to say it and were not sure it would do either of you any good if you did.
So you didn't say it.
You went up on your toes and you hugged him — truly hugged him, arms around his neck, your face pressed against his jaw — and he held you back with both arms, the kit bag dropping to the platform, and he was so solid and warm and real that you memorised it.
"Don't be an idiot," you told him, muffled.
He made a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost. "Best I can do is try." The Manchester in his voice, low and warm and his.
"Simon."
"I know," he said quietly, against your temple. "I know, sunshine."
You stepped back. You held it together. He picked up his bag and he walked toward the platform and at the door of the train he turned, and looked at you standing there with your glasses and your coat and your hands pressed together in front of you, and for a second you saw something in his face that wasn't blank at all.
Then he was gone.
You cried on the way home. Proper, ugly crying, in the front seat of your mother's car, while she drove and said nothing and passed you a tissue.
You cried because you thought you might never see him again. Because the world had cracked open on a Tuesday in September and people were going toward the fracture and Simon Riley was one of them.
You cried because you never told him.
— ✦ —
He sent a birthday card every year.
They arrived with no return address and postmarks from places you'd never heard of, and sometimes they were late and sometimes they were so early you suspected he'd sent them weeks in advance in case he couldn't later.
They were always plain — Simon Riley was not a man who browsed the sentimental section — white or cream envelopes, the kind of card that was almost generic, and inside: his handwriting, which had improved vastly from the boy who'd struggled across the page in Year Three, and always the same thing. Your name at the top. Happy Birthday, sunshine. And then: S.
Just S.
Like he was still close enough that you'd know exactly who that meant. Like the initial was sufficient.
It was.
You sent his birthday gifts to a P.O. box he'd given you, wrapped carefully, the tag always: From your best friend. You didn't know if he received them all. You sent them anyway. It felt important to keep sending them — to maintain the thread, even when you couldn't see both ends of it.
— ✦ —
Thirty-four years old now.
You have no husband. You had come close, once — a man named Patrick who had been perfectly acceptable in every measurable way and who had wanted to marry you and had probably deserved someone who could give him more of herself than you could manage.
You had not been fair to Patrick. You knew that. You had been in love with someone else for most of your adult life, and even with the someone else absent and silent and possibly dead, there wasn't room for anyone else.
You have no children, though you wanted them. The timeline on that was becoming its own quiet ache, the kind you didn't prod too often.
You have a job that pays the bills and not much else — admin in an office building that smells of carpet cleaner and recycled air, the kind of work that requires enough of your brain to stop it from wandering but not enough to satisfy it.
You have an apartment that is functional and yours and that you have tried to make cozy, with books on every surface and plants that are mostly surviving and a kitchen you actually cook in.
It is not the house. It is not the house you told Simon about when you were sixteen and lying in his back garden on a summer evening, staring up at the sky.
No birthday card for five years now.
Five years of the particular, specific silence that was different from all the silences before, because the silences before had been interrupted. Annually, reliably, he had broken them.
Five years of nothing had the texture of conclusion. Of a chapter closing. And you had reached the point — slowly, painfully, with the kind of acceptance that doesn't feel like acceptance but feels like exhaustion — where you were fairly certain Simon Riley was dead.
Your heart ached for your best friend in the low, constant way of grief that has become so familiar it's almost structural.
You carried it the way you carried other things, quietly, with your spine straight.
Which is why you are sitting across from a man named — it didn't matter, it really didn't matter what his name was — on what your colleague Debbie had described as 'a perfectly nice date with a perfectly nice man' and trying to remember what it felt like to be interested in your own life.
The man sitting across from you was the complete opposite of Simon Riley.
He was trim and well-dressed and had the kind of face that was handsome in a way that required no effort to appreciate and inspired no particular feeling from you.
He had been talking for, by your reckoning, forty-seven minutes. In that time he had covered: his career (impressive, in his telling), his car (expensive, in his telling), his last holiday (exotic, in his telling), and his general philosophy on modern dating (nuanced, in his telling).
He had not asked about your job. He had not asked about your books or the one peeking out of your handbag; the one he'd glanced at and not commented on. He had not asked if your pasta was nice, which it was, actually, genuinely nice, and you'd have told him so if he'd asked. He had not asked you almost anything, come to think of it.
Simon Riley, who spoke perhaps a tenth as many words as this man, had always asked.
Simon Riley had always wanted to know. Not because it was polite. Because he actually, genuinely, in the particular way of people who care about very few things very deeply — wanted to know.
You excused yourself to use the bathroom and stood at the sink running cold water over your wrists and looking at your own reflection, and you thought: this is fine.
This is a perfectly nice evening with a perfectly nice man. This is what moving forward looks like. This is what being a person in the world, a person with a life and a future and reasonable expectations of company, looks like.
You dried your hands. You went back to the table. He had ordered himself another drink without asking if you wanted anything.
You finished your pasta and smiled at appropriate intervals and thought about Simon Riley and felt, as you so often felt, quietly furious at him for being gone.
— ✦ —
The birthday card arrived on a Thursday morning.
You almost missed it entirely — it was tucked between a pizza delivery leaflet and something from your energy supplier, the cream envelope almost camouflaged by the mundane. You shuffled through the post on autopilot and then stopped.
Your name, in handwriting you would have recognised anywhere, would have recognised in your sleep, had recognised in your bones for thirty years.
You sat down on the bottom stair. Your legs suddenly uneasy.
Your hands were not steady.
The envelope opened. The card was white. Plain. Almost generic.
Inside:
Happy Birthday, sunshine.
I'm sorry it's been so long.
I'll explain everything.
Come, if you want to.
If you can stand the sight of me.
Below that, an address. Three towns over. A postcode you didn't recognise.
And then, at the bottom, the way it had always been at the bottom: S.
You sat on the bottom stair for a very long time.
Then you got up, went to your room, and started thinking about what to wear.
— ✦ —
You plucked up the nerve to go on a Saturday.
The drive took forty minutes and you spent most of it trying to manage yourself — talking yourself through reasonable expectations (he is alive, that is enough, start there), warning yourself against things you could not control (the five years, the silence, the way your hands were doing that unsteady thing again), cataloguing everything practical (the address, the map).
The street was quiet. Semi-rural, the kind of neighbourhood that sits between things — between town and country, between the ordinary and the aspirational. The houses were spread out, set back from the road, each with its own front garden and its own character.
You parked. You looked at the address. You looked up.
And you stopped breathing.
It was a beautiful house.
Large, substantial and solid, the kind of house that had been built to last. White painted render, clean and bright in the afternoon light. A white picket fence surrounding the front garden, which was full of flowers. Roses climbing the gatepost. Lavender edging the path. Foxgloves and dahlias and great loose clusters of something purple you couldn't name from here. The kind of garden that had been planted with intention, tended with care, left to be a little wild in the best way.
A porch. And a porch swing, painted white, with a yellow cushion on it.
And flying from the corner of the roof, bright against the blue afternoon sky: the Union flag.
You sat very still in the driver's seat.
You were sixteen years old. It was a summer evening and you were lying in Simon's back garden on an old sleeping bag, looking up at the sky. He was beside you in the way he was always beside you — solid, quiet, taking up exactly the right amount of space. You'd been talking about the future the way teenagers do, in great floating hypotheticals that feel more like weather than plans.
"What kind of house?" he'd asked. He asked follow-up questions always, quietly, wanting the specifics. It was one of the things about him you loved.
And you'd described it. A big house, not ostentatious but real — space for books and for people and for a garden that did what it wanted within reason. A white fence, because you'd always liked them. A porch with somewhere to sit. A flag, because you were — despite everything — proud of where you were from.
Simon had been quiet for a long moment.
"Okay," he'd said. Just: okay.
You had thought he was humouring you.
You had not thought — you had not let yourself think — what it might mean, that he was going to do anything about it.
You got out of the car. Your legs were not entirely reliable. You held the gate and walked up the path — lavender brushing your hand where it grew close, the scent of it too perfect, almost staged — and you stopped at the foot of the porch steps.
The door opened.
He had to duck.
That was the first thing you noticed. The physical fact of him, the sheer size of him, his shoulders nearly touching the doorframe on both sides simultaneously, the automatic dip of his head as he stepped through onto the porch.
He straightened.
The afternoon light landed on him and you had to spend a moment recalibrating, because the last time you'd seen Simon Riley he had been seventeen years old with sawdust on his boots and a train ticket in his hand, and this man —
This man.
The white button-down shirt was simple, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and from his left wrist to well past the roll of the sleeve his forearm was dark with ink — a sleeve of tattoos, intricate and considered. A whole geography of imagery that you couldn't read from here but would, you thought, take time to learn.
His right wrist carried a watch. His black slacks were fitted close enough that you could see the muscle of his thighs pulling the fabric with every shift of his weight, and his shoes — loafers, black with gold buckles, completely unexpected and somehow exactly right — were precise.
His hair. A dark sandy blonde, longer than military specification presumably allowed and slicked back from his face, which meant you could see all of it, his whole face; the angles that had sharpened from boy to man, the jaw, the set of his brow, and those eyes. Those brown eyes that had been watching you since you were four years old and had never, not once, looked at you with anything less than complete attention.
He was raking those eyes over you now. Slowly. With the same quality he'd always had — that comprehensive, unhurried assessment that somehow never felt like being measured — and his hands were in his pockets and he was standing there like that, on the porch he'd built or bought or arranged specifically around a description you'd given him at sixteen.
He looked like something out of a magazine and like Simon all at once.
You were going to murder him.
"Hi, sunshine."
His voice. Lower than you remembered, rougher, carrying all the years he'd lived since you last heard it. That Manchester accent — still there, unmistakably, that warm northern flatness underneath everything, the vowels shaped by a city, by a street, by a particular kind of upbringing that no amount of training had entirely smoothed out.
That nickname, in that voice, in that low, deliberate way he'd always said it: like you were his.
Like it was a prayer.
You opened your mouth. And you closed it. And you looked at him — this enormous, tattooed, stupidly handsome man who had stood on your mother's doorstep at twelve years old with bruises he didn't mention, who had kissed your cheek at thirteen and broken Ryan Marsh's nose at fourteen and waved goodbye from a train platform at seventeen and then sent you birthday cards from the edges of the world for a decade and then stopped for five years —
"Five years," you said. Your voice was very quiet.
Something moved in his face.
"I-,"
"I thought you were dead." You snapped cutting him off.
"I figured you would’ve."
"Simon."
"I know, sunshine." He said it the same way he'd always said things he couldn't argue with — not deflecting, not dismissing, just absorbing. The Manchester vowels in his voice like a hand on your shoulder. "I'll explain everything. I promise. All of it. Whatever you want to know."
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
The afternoon settled around the house, around the garden that was your garden in your own sixteen-year-old description, around the flag and the porch swing and the lavender and all of it, and the distance between you on the path and him on the porch steps was perhaps four feet and thirty years and five years of silence and a whole life of choosing not to say the one true thing.
"You built me the house?" you asked, whispering it. Like you were afraid to say it.
He was quiet for a moment. Then, "Bought it. Had the garden done the way you said."
"Simon." Your heart ached.
"You said lavender at the edges," he said. His voice was completely level. "You said a porch with somewhere to sit. You said you wanted to see the flag from the garden."
You pressed your hand to your mouth.
The rage was still there — it was not going anywhere quickly. The five years of it, the grief of it — but underneath it, something else. Something that had been there since you were four years old at a preschool art table, larger and quieter and more permanent than anything else you'd ever felt.
"You were sixteen," he said. As though this explained it. "You told me what you wanted. I just..." He stopped. Started again. "I wanted to be enough first. I wanted to have what you needed."
There was a long silence. A bee moved through the lavender. Somewhere a few streets away, a lawnmower hummed.
"Come inside," Simon said. "I'll make you tea. And I'll tell you everything."
You looked at him on the porch of the house he'd built you from a word, and you thought: you absolute idiot. You wonderful, impossible, infuriating man. You thought I'd stopped. You thought thirty years of this was something you could be enough for eventually, like it was a bar to clear, like there was a version of you I was waiting on instead of just —
Instead of just you. Always just you.
The lavender brushed your hand again. You walked up the steps and he looked down at you with those brown eyes that had never once left you.
"Hi, Simon," you said.
Something happened in his face. Something opened.
"Hi, sunshine," he said, his hand coming to the small of your back to guide you inside.
He made the tea.
You stood in the kitchen of a house that smelled of fresh paint and cedar and something faintly floral from the garden drifting through the open window over the sink, and you watched Simon Riley move around it like he'd always lived here — filling the kettle, finding the mugs without opening the wrong cupboard, knowing where the teabags were — and you thought: how long. How long has he been here, in this house he bought for you, learning where everything lives, waiting.
You sat at the kitchen table. It was a good table, heavy oak, the kind built to last and you ran your thumb along the grain of it and tried to arrange your feelings into some kind of order and failed.
Simon set the mug in front of you. Milk in last, the way you'd always taken it, which he knew because he'd made you approximately four thousand cups of tea over the course of your lives. He sat down across from you, his own mug between his big hands, and looked at you.
You looked back.
The kitchen light was warm and it caught the angles of his face. The jaw, the brow, the slight crook in his nose that was new, or newer, the result of something you didn't know about and weren't sure you wanted to.
He was watching you with that particular quality of attention he'd always had. Complete. Patient. Like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.
"You're not wearing your glasses," he said.
You blinked. Of all the things. "No."
"Contacts?"
"For about ten years now, yes."
He was quiet for a moment, studying your face with that same unhurried attention, "I missed them."
"You missed my glasses?" You say with the deadpan tone you'd perfected over the years.
"Tortoiseshell ones," he said. "Used to push them up your nose when you were concentrating." He took a gulp of his tea, Adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed.
You stared at him. Eighteen years. Eighteen years of distance and war and God knows what else, and he missed your glasses. "Simon."
"Just saying."
"You are unbelievable." You scoff.
"The contacts suit you," he said, and the corner of his mouth moved — barely, almost nothing, but you'd spent your whole life reading that face and you caught it. "Everything suits you. But I liked the glasses."
"Stop it." You snap.
"Stop what?"
"Whatever that is," you said, and you pointed at his face, at the not-there-almost-smile, at the quality of his voice when he said everything suits you, at all of it. "You don't get to do that. You've been — Simon, you've been gone. You've been gone for eighteen years and for five of them, I thought you were dead." Your voice stayed steady, which surprised you. You'd expected it to crack on that. "So you don't get to walk out onto your porch looking like — like that — and tell me you missed my glasses and flirt at me like no time has passed."
He listened without interrupting. He always had — it was one of the things about him, the way he gave you the whole space of what you were saying before he entered it.
"You're right," he nodded.
"I know I'm right." Your spine straightened.
"I owe you an explanation."
"You owe me considerably more than that, Simon Riley, but yes. An explanation would be a start."
He wrapped both hands around his mug again and looked at you across the table and there was something in his face that was not the blank-nothing face, was not the armour he'd worn since he was twelve years old but something that was quieter and more exposed and a great deal more frightening because of it.
"Not here," he said.
You frowned. "What?"
"I don't want to do it like this. Sat in a kitchen." He glanced around the room briefly, as though orienting himself. "Come to dinner with me tomorrow night."
"What I—"
"The Grill on Merton Street."
You went very still.
The Grill on Merton Street. You hadn't been in years — not since you'd moved away from the area, not since things had shifted and the rituals of your old life had quietly been replaced by other things.
But you knew it. You knew every table in it. The way the light came through the front windows on a Sunday, the smell of it — roasted meat and old wood and the particular warmth of a place that had been feeding families for decades.
Your mother had loved it. Your father used to order the same thing every time and be pleased about it every time, and you and Simon had sat across from each other in the corner booth with the sticky laminated menus and kicked each other under the table and laughed.
"That's still open?" you managed.
"Had a look earlier this week," he said. "Still there. New owners but the same building. Same corner booth."
You looked at him. He looked at you. Outside, through the open window, a late bird was making itself known in the lavender.
"Fine," you said. "Dinner. Tomorrow. And you're going to tell me everything." you struck at him with a serious face.
"Everything," he agreed.
"I mean it, Simon. All of it."
"I know you do."
You drank your tea. It was exactly right. The temperature, the strength, the milk ratio and you hated him a little bit for that. For the fact that he still knew, that across seventeen years and God knows how many miles he still knew exactly how you took your tea, and he'd made it correctly on the first attempt without asking, and you were absolutely not going to cry about that.
You were not.
— ✦ —
You dressed carefully.
Not because you were trying to impress him.
You told yourself this firmly, standing in front of your wardrobe in the room you'd taken in the local B&B — you'd booked a night, not knowing how long this might take, not knowing what state you'd be in for the drive home afterwards — and you told yourself that you were simply dressing appropriately for a dinner at a decent restaurant.
That was all.
That was the entirety of it.
The dress was deep green. Fitted through the waist, falling to just below the knee, with a neckline that was elegant rather than dramatic.
You'd bought it for a work event two years ago and it had lived in your wardrobe since, waiting for an occasion that felt worth it. You put your hair up — not elaborately, just neatly, the kind of arrangement that looked effortless and had taken twenty minutes — and you wore the small gold earrings that had been your grandmother's. Low heels. The good handbag. A slick of red on your mouth that you almost wiped off twice before deciding to leave it.
You were not trying to impress him.
You were absolutely trying to impress him.
He was waiting outside The Grill when your taxi pulled up, standing on the pavement with his hands in his pockets. The air around him relaxed and easy. An anchored stillness, like a man who'd learned to wait and had made peace with it. He has the same dark slacks as yesterday, same loafers with the gold buckles, but the shirt tonight was black.
A deep, clean black that made his shoulders look approximately the width of a doorway, which was in fact an accurate assessment — and he'd left the top button undone. His hair was the same: pushed back, dark sandy blonde curling at the nape of his neck and catching the amber of the streetlights.
He saw you get out of the taxi.
He went very still. Completely, suddenly, entirely present in a way that landed on you like a hand against your sternum. Under your heartbeat.
You crossed the pavement toward him and his eyes moved over you — slowly, comprehensively, that same rake of attention he'd given you yesterday on the porch steps, only this time there was nothing restrained about what it did to your pulse.
He eyed you the same way he used to look at the extra cuts of slow roasted beef your mother added to his plate every time he joined you for a Sunday roast after church.
"Hi," you said.
"Hi, sunshine." His voice was low. The rough Manchester sending tingles down your spine.
He opened the door for you.
The Grill smelled exactly the same.
Roasted meat and warmed bread and old wood and something faintly of candle wax. It hit you the moment you stepped through the door and you had to stand still for just a second, just one second, to absorb the weight of it.
Your father's coat on the hook by the door. Your mother's reading glasses going into her bag as the menus arrived. Simon across from you, fourteen and fifteen and sixteen, his big hands wrapped around a Coke glass, his eyes on you under that careful brow.
The layout had shifted slightly — new owners, as Simon had said — but the bones of it were the same. The dark wood panelling. The low warm lighting. The tables set with proper linen and actual candles in glass holders. And in the back left corner was the booth.
Simon's hand was at the small of your back as the host led you through. A light touch, barely there, the kind of thing that could be merely courteous and was absolutely not merely courteous.
You said nothing about it.
You were almost at the booth when a voice said, "Well. I don't believe it."
You turned.
Margaret and Gerald Howarth.
Margaret had been your mother's friend since before you were born — a small, bright-eyed woman who had somehow barely aged in two decades. Her silver hair cut the same way it had always been, her husband a large, genial man beside her with a napkin already tucked into his collar. They'd been eating here since before you were born too, you suspected. Some people were simply woven into the furniture of a place.
"Margaret," you said, and you felt a genuine, warm rush of it. Of being seen by someone who had known you as a child, who had watched you grow up, who carried that particular knowledge of you that only people of a certain generation can hold. She was already rising halfway from her seat, her hand extended, and you took it and she covered it with her other one, the way she always had.
"We heard you were back in the area," she said — which was interesting, since you'd only arrived yesterday, but news apparently still moved at its old speed around here. Her bright eyes moved to Simon, and something in them softened with recognition and surprise in equal measure. "And Simon Riley. My goodness."
"Mrs Howarth." Simon's voice was respectful, quieter than usual, and you noticed — because you noticed everything about him — that he straightened fractionally. Not stiffly. Just the particular adjustment of a man in the presence of someone he'd known when he was young and unguarded.
"Look at the size of you," Gerald said, not unkindly, staring up at Simon with the frank appreciation of one large man for another. "What are they feeding you?"
"Gerald," Margaret scolded mildly.
"It's a compliment." He shrugged.
Simon almost smiled. "Good to see you, Mr Howarth."
Margaret was looking between the two of you with the expression of a woman who had been quietly observing people her entire life and drawing accurate conclusions from very little evidence. "Are you together?" she asked, with the particular directness that came with age and with having known you since you were in a pushchair.
"We're having dinner," you said carefully.
Margaret's expression said, quite clearly, that she had heard this and had also heard everything it was not saying. "Well," she said, patting your hand once more before releasing it, "it's lovely to see you both. You always did belong together, the pair of you. I said that to your mother once, do you know. I said those two—"
"It was lovely seeing you, Margaret," you said, with great warmth and only mild desperation.
She laughed, a bright, pleased sound and settled back into her seat.
As you turned to follow the host the rest of the way to the booth, you were almost certain you heard Gerald say, to his wife, "told you" in a tone of quiet marital satisfaction.
Simon was very carefully not reacting to any of this. You were very carefully not looking at him.
You saw two others you knew before you reached the booth.
Kim Ashworth, who had been in your form in Year Ten and who looked essentially the same as she had in school except that she had a baby on her hip and a husband trailing behind her with a changing bag.
She stopped mid-step when she saw you, did a small, delighted double take, said oh my God twice, and then looked at Simon in a way that was extremely uncomplicated in its appreciation before remembering the husband with the changing bag. There were promises exchanged to catch up properly, phone numbers that would probably not be used, genuine warmth on both sides.
And then at the bar, perched on a stool with a whisky, Dave Pearce — who had played alongside Simon on the secondary school rugby team and who greeted him with the particular vocabulary of men who knew each other at fifteen and have not changed as much as they think.
There was a brief, loud exchange that involved at least one shoulder-clap that could have knocked a smaller man sideways, and then Dave shook your hand too and told Simon he was punching. Which Simon received without expression and you tried your hardest not to laugh, biting your lip.
Finally the corner booth. You slid in. Simon folded himself into the seat across from you, the table scaled to ordinary human beings and therefore slightly absurd against the size of him, his knees bracketing it, his shoulders blocking the view of the room behind him entirely.
The menus came.
They were not laminated anymore — proper printed card, changed seasonally, the kind that meant the new owners had ambitions. But the roast was still on. The proper Sunday roast, the one your father used to order when you could afford to.
"Same corner," Simon said quietly.
"Same corner," you agreed.
He was looking at you across the table the way he used to look at you across this table, except that now his face was older and larger and had been to places that had clearly asked things of it. The look was different in its texture. Deeper, maybe. Older in the same way he was older. Like it had more weight behind it from all the years of being carried.
"You said everything," you reminded him. "All of it."
"I know."
"So." You gestured for him to start.
He set his menu down. Looked at you. And then he started talking.
He told it the way he told everything — without embellishment, without drama, in the flat, precise language of a man who had learned to communicate facts and trusted the facts to carry the weight without decoration.
He'd gone in at seventeen and he'd been good at it. Not surprising. He was built for the structure of it, for the clarity of having a purpose and a unit and a chain of things that made sense.
He'd moved up fast — faster than he let on in the cards he'd sent you, which had been careful, he explained, deliberately careful, because the more you knew the more you might worry. Which, you pointed out, had not been his decision to make. He didn't argue with that.
Task Force 141 came later. Years later, after deployments that he summarised in a sentence each and you understood enough from his face to know that each sentence was doing the work of much longer things.
He was a lieutenant now. He said it the way he said most things about himself, flatly, without vanity, presented as information. He had certain freedoms now that he hadn't had before, certain ability to make choices about where he went and when and what he did with the things the years had given him.
You both ordered your food.
"And the five years?" you asked, sipping your cocktail the waitress had brought over.
He was quiet for a moment, he stared at his San Miguel pint, the condensation sliding down the glass. Your food had arrived at some point during the waiting, while Simon collected his thoughts.
He picked up his fork and then set it down again.
"There was a man," Simon said.
Something about the way he said it made you put your fork down too.
"He ran drugs. Major operation, international — I won't go into all of it." He said this without flinching, looking at you steadily, not softening it. You'd always appreciated that about him — the way he treated your intelligence as a given. "After I escaped him, he decided to make it personal. He went after the people I—" He stopped. Chose the word carefully. "The people I was connected to."
The candle in the glass holder between you threw warm, unsteady light across his face.
"He killed them," Simon said. "My brother. Tommy's family." A pause that cost him something; you could see it cost him. "My Mother."
The restaurant continued around you — the murmur of other tables, the clink of cutlery, someone laughing softly near the bar — and you sat very still.
"Oh Simon," you whispered, you could feel the way your face formed the sympathy.
"I'm alright." He said it the way he'd always said it, the Manchester flat and absolute. The way that meant; don't make it bigger than I can hold right now. You knew that voice. You honoured it.
"He knew about you," Simon said and you froze. "That was the other thing. He'd done his research." His jaw shifted slightly. "As long as he was alive, you weren't safe. If I'd contacted you, properly contacted you, kept the thread going the way I wanted to, it would have given him a cleaner line. A more reliable way to reach me."
You understood the logic of it. You understood it clearly and immediately in the part of your brain that processed information. The other part — the part that had sat on the bottom stair with a birthday card after five years of silence, the part that had thought past tense — that part was going to take considerably longer.
"So you cut me off," you said. Not as an accusation. As a fact, laid down. You were starting to understand the shape of it.
"To keep you safe. Yes."
"Without telling me why." You sighed but you knew you were being unreasonable, but you hoped he would let you for a little longer.
"If I'd told you why, you'd have known there was a threat. And you'd have—" He stopped. The corner of his mouth moved, something that was not quite a smile and not quite not one. "You'd have done something about it. Gone looking. Made noise."
"I would not have—" You stopped, because you would have. You absolutely would have. You'd spent thirty years being completely unable to sit on the sidelines where Simon Riley was concerned, and the knowledge that someone was threatening him would have made you entirely unreasonable. "That's—" you huffed.
"Yeah," he said.
"You could have found a way—"
"There wasn't one. Not one that was safe." His voice was very level. "I went through every option, love. I promise you. Every one."
The word arrived quietly, without ceremony.
Love.
He'd never called you that — not in thirty years, not in all the time and all the familiarity of what you were to each other. He said it the way he said everything that mattered: without preamble, without dressing it up, laid down like the fact it was.
"And now?" you asked. Your voice was quite steady. Steadier than you felt.
"He's dead." No elaboration. None needed. The flat Manchester vowels carrying the weight of it cleanly, without mess. "And you're safe. And I—" He looked at you across the table, across the candle and the white linen. "I bought the house," he said. "I've spent a while making it what it is. Making if perfect. I saved up for years. The 141 pays well when you get to a certain level and I wasn't spending it on anything else."
"For years," you repeated, feeling a shiver rack up your spine and your toes go numb.
"Since I was about twenty." He said this without apparent embarrassment, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to spend fifteen years saving money to buy a woman a house from a description she'd given you at sixteen years old. "Took a while to find the right one that wasn’t too far from your parents. The lavender took three growing seasons to look like it did when you pulled up."
Three growing seasons.
He had planted the lavender three years ago. He had stood in a garden three towns from where you lived and planted lavender along a path because a sixteen-year-old girl had mentioned it lying on her back in his garden thirty years ago, and he had tended it for three years, and he had waited.
"Simon Riley," you said.
"It's got room for your books Sunshine, built the shelves myself." His lips quirked up at the corners at your flabbergasted expression.
"You are the most—" You stopped. Started again. "Do you have any idea what the past five years have felt like? Do you have any idea what I—" Your voice did the thing you'd been preventing it from doing, cracked at the edge of the sentence like a plate under too much weight. You stopped. Pressed your lips together. "I grieved you. I sat in my flat and I genuinely, actually grieved you and decided you were dead. I had — Simon, I had a plan for getting through it. I was managing it."
"I know."
"Don't say I know." you snapped sounding more like a bratty child than angry.
"I'm sorry." And this was different. This was not the automatic I know, the absorbing of your anger. This was something he said the way he said very few things — carefully, with full weight behind it. His eyes on yours across the table. "I'm sorry for the five years. I'm sorry I couldn't find another way. I'm sorry you were on your own with it." A pause. "I'm sorry it took me this long to have something worth coming back with."
"The house is not—" You stopped. "You didn't need to buy me a house, Simon. I didn't need—"
"I needed to," he said. Simply. "I needed to know I was coming back with something real. Something that wasn't just me turning up with nothing after all that time, asking you to — to accept—" He moved his hand across the table, and his fingers stopped just short of yours. Not touching. Close. "Asking you to take me as I was. I needed it to be enough. I needed there to be something I could give you that was—"
"Simon." Your voice was very quiet.
"I know it's not—"
"Simon." You turned your hand over on the table. Just that. The small, deliberate movement of turning your palm up.
He looked at it. Then he looked at you. Then, slowly, he put his hand in yours — his enormous, careful, tattooed hand. Not quite the one that had carried your bag through every corridor of secondary school and pulled you up off the pavement after Daniel Holt and held you on the platform at the train station, but this one now and his fingers closed around yours and he held on.
"I only ever wanted you," you said softly.
"Sunshine-"
"You were always worth it," you cut him off. And then, because it was time — because it had been time for approximately thirty years and you were done waiting for the right moment when the right moment had repeatedly failed to arrive — "You were always enough. You were always the thing I was — Simon, you have always been the only one I wanted. Exactly as you are."
He was very still.
"I didn't tell you on the platform," you said. "I should have. I've thought about it every day since."
"So have I," he said.
The candle between you flickered in some movement of air from the kitchen, and in the warm unsteady light his face was open in a way you had waited thirty years to see. His hand was warm and sure around yours, and from the other side of the restaurant you were almost certain you heard Margaret Howarth say something to Gerald in a satisfied undertone.
"You planted the lavender," you grinned.
"Three years ago." He finally smiles back at you, it was crooked and uneven and you loved it.
"You are," you said carefully, "the most ridiculous man I have ever known." You shook your head still grinning.
"Missed you too, sunshine," he smirked.
Dinner ended the way the best dinners end — not with a definitive conclusion but with a gradual, reluctant unwinding, the kind where both people keep finding one more thing to say, one more thread to pull, because the alternative is standing up and the evening becoming past tense.
You ordered dessert.
Neither of you particularly wanted it but you both ordered it, and you both knew why, and neither of you said so. The chocolate brownie was very good. Simon ate his methodically, the way he ate everything, and at one point looked up and caught you watching him and said nothing.
The candle between you had burned down to a stub by the time the bill came.
He paid. You protested on principle. He gave you a look that had not changed at all since he was fourteen years old — flat, certain, faintly amused — and handed the card to the waiter without further discussion.
"That's not—" you started.
"Next time," he said.
Next time. You let it sit there between you, warm and presumptuous and everything you wanted.
Outside, the evening had cooled.
The last of the summer still holding in the air, the kind of September evening that felt like a concession, like the year wasn't ready to be done.
The street was quiet for a Saturday, just a few couples moving between the restaurants and a group of lads outside the pub further down having a smoke. The amber of the streetlights made everything look like something worth remembering.
Simon stood beside you on the pavement, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he turned to look down the street, and you were very aware of the warmth of him and the black shirt and the lavender you couldn't smell from here but could somehow still feel in your hands.
"Walk with me a bit," he said. Not a question, not quite. He'd always done that — phrased invitations as though the outcome were already agreed, as though he simply assumed you'd say yes because you almost always did.
"Alright."
He fell into step beside you, and for a little while you just walked — past the wine bar with its fairy lights, past the old library that had become a gin distillery at some point in the last decade, past the post office that had been there since before either of you were born. You talked about small things. Easy things. The kind of conversation that runs alongside the real one underneath.
Then he stopped.
You stopped too.
Simon looked down at you. His hands were in his pockets. That brown gaze of his moved over your face in the way it had been moving over your face all evening — like he was cataloguing it, like he was making up for lost time in the looking.
"Dance with me," he said.
You blinked. "What?"
He tilted his head, "Come dancing with me."
You stared at him.
Simon Riley, who had sat against the wall at every school disco you'd ever attended, arms folded, watching everyone else with the expression of a man conducting a private risk assessment.
Simon Riley, who you had never, in thirty years of knowing him, seen voluntarily approach a dance floor.
"You don't dance," you said.
"No," he agreed. "But you do."
The simplicity of it landed somewhere very central.
You do.
As though that were reason enough. As though your enjoyment of a thing were sufficient justification for him to walk into it without hesitation.
Which, you supposed, when it came to Simon, it always had been.
"Alright," you said, for the second time in ten minutes.
His hand found the small of your back again, that same light, deliberate touch from inside the restaurant and he guided you down the street.
Simon said you weren't far, when you heard it.
The particular sound of a Domino's box. The slight crinkle of a carrier bag. And then your mother's voice, carrying across the quiet street in the way it always had — warm and clear and entirely without volume control.
"Oh honey! We thought - oh!"
"Oh fuck," you cursed.
You said it very quietly. Not quietly enough. Simon chuckled under his breath.
Your parents were coming along the pavement from the direction of the only car park around here — your father in his weekend coat, your mother in the blue one she'd had for fifteen years. A Domino's pizza box balanced in her arms and a carrier bag hanging from your father's hand.
Movie night. Of course. They still did it every other Saturday, had done since you were small, and of course they would do it tonight of all the Saturday nights in the entire calendar.
Your mother's face when she saw you was pure, unguarded delight — the face she always made when she encountered you unexpectedly, as though each time were still a pleasant surprise. Then her gaze moved, naturally and automatically, to the man standing beside you with his hand at the small of your back.
The delight didn't disappear. It did something more complicated.
"Oh honey," she said again, but differently this time. Softer. Her voice going somewhere else entirely. "Simon?"
The Domino's box dipped. Your father caught it with the reflexes of a man who had been catching things your mother nearly dropped for forty years.
Simon had gone still beside you. Not that controlled, present stillness he had, the one that wasn't tension but something adjacent to it. He was looking at your mother with an expression you couldn't fully read from the side, but you could see the line of his jaw, and it was careful.
"Mrs—" he started.
"Don't you Mrs me," your mother said. Her voice was not angry. That was the thing — you'd prepared yourself, in the split second between seeing them and now, for anger, or for the brisk, self-protective coolness she used sometimes when she'd been frightened. But it wasn't that. It was something that had tears in it, which was considerably worse to witness.
She handed the pizza box to your father without looking at him — he took it with the silent competence of long practice — and she crossed the pavement in four short steps and she put her arms around Simon Riley.
He was so much larger than her. He had always been larger than her, even at fifteen when he'd eaten her shepherd's pie at the kitchen table and been careful to seem like it was casual and not like he was starving. Even when she gave him seconds and he looked like he would beg for thirds.
But now it was almost absurd, the smallness of her against the width of him, and he stood there for just a fraction of a second — that fraction where you could see him recalibrating, receiving something he hadn't prepared for — and then his arms came around her and he held on.
Your mother was crying. Small, quiet sounds, the kind she made when she was trying not to. Her face was pressed against his chest and her hands gripped the back of his black shirt and she said, muffled and with great feeling, "You absolute boy."
Simon said nothing. His eyes, over the top of your mother's head, found yours.
You had to look away. The street was very interesting. The lamppost in particular.
You bit into your lip.
Your father appeared at your shoulder.
He was a quiet man, always had been. The kind of steady, observant presence that took things in without making a production of the taking in. He stood beside you with the pizza box over one arm and the carrier bag in the other hand and watched his wife hold the boy who had eaten at their table for a decade, and he said, very quietly, to you,
"Well. He's not dead then."
"No Dad," you managed. "He's not dead."
"Good," your father said.
As though this settled it. As though the entirety of the past five years of your grief and his, because he had grieved Simon too in his quiet way, in the way of a man who doesn't say things aloud but feels them thoroughly. He looked at Simon over the top of your mother's head and gave him a single, deliberate nod. The kind that meant; we'll talk. The kind that meant; I have things to say to you. The kind that also, underneath both of those, meant; I'm so glad son.
Simon received the nod with equal gravity, which was exactly right.
Your mother finally pulled back. She held Simon by the arms — or tried to, her hands not quite making it around the circumference of them — and looked up at him with red eyes and the particular expression of a woman who has a great deal to say and is choosing, for now, not to say most of it.
"You'll come for dinner," she said. Not a question. The same tone she'd used on him at fifteen and apparently intended to continue using indefinitely. "Sunday. Proper dinner. Not a restaurant. Mine."
"Yes," Simon said. Immediately. Without hesitation.
"Good." She released his arms and reached up and patted his cheek once, firmly, the way you might with someone who had done something frustrating and beloved in equal measure.
Then she turned to you, and her expression did something complicated and warm and knowing, and she didn't say any of the things she was clearly thinking, which you appreciated deeply.
What she said instead was: "Don't stay out too late. You're thirty-five, not seventeen."
"Mum." You scolded.
"I'm just saying." She shrugged.
"We're going dancing," you told her, with the energy of someone redirecting a conversation through sheer momentum.
Your mother looked at Simon. Simon looked at your mother. Something passed between them that was private and thirty years old and not yours to have.
"Of course you are," she said.
Your father passed the Domino's box back to your mother, and said, "Right then. We'll leave you to it." He looked at Simon one more time. "Sunday," he confirmed.
"Sunday," Simon said.
Your parents moved off down the pavement.
Your mother looked back once — just once — and her face when she did was the face you'd seen her wear at your primary school nativity and at your GCSE results and on the morning you'd gone to university; the particular face of a woman watching her child be happy and feeling the full, complicated, loving weight of it.
Then she turned back to your father and said something you couldn't hear, and his hand found her shoulder as they walked, and they rounded the corner and were gone.
You stood on the pavement in the September evening and breathed.
Beside you, Simon was also very carefully just standing there.
"She cried on me," he said, after a moment.
"Yes."
"Didn't expect that."
You turned to look at him. He was looking at the corner your parents had turned, and his face had the quality it sometimes had when something had reached him — not visibly, not dramatically, just in that particular stillness that meant something had got through.
"She cried about you," you told him. "When you stopped writing. Three years ago — there were several times, actually, but three years ago was the worst. She held me in her kitchen and we both—" You stopped. Managed the next part carefully. "She loves you too, Simon. She always did. You were at our table every other night for years."
He was quiet for a moment. Something moved in his jaw. "I know," he said. And this time the I know was different from all the other times he'd said it tonight — heavier, and private.
"You agreed to Sunday dinner," you giggled.
"Of course I agreed to Sunday dinner," he said knowing full well he would have been stupid not to and gotten an earful from your mother.
Simon offered you his hand.
Not at the small of your back this time. His hand, palm up, in the space between you. Old-fashioned and deliberate.
You put yours in it.
"Come on then," he said. "Let's go dancing."
There was, as it turned out, only one place to go dancing in this town on a Saturday night if you meant actual dancing — the kind with a proper floor and music with a real structure to it.
It was not a club.
It was not a bar with a cleared space near the speaker.
It was the old church hall on Callow Street, which had been hosting the Saturday Evening Social Dance since before either of you were born, and which Simon seemed to know about with the specificity of a man who had done his research.
"A dance hall," you said, standing outside it. Through the tall, thin windows the warm light was visible, and the sound — strings, a proper band, something with a waltz rhythm that made the windows hum faintly. "You're taking me to a dance hall."
"Only place with a floor."
"Simon, this is a — there will be pensioners in there." you said quietly.
"There'll be a dance floor," he looked down at you. "And you said yes." he shrugged but looked smug.
He pushed the door open and held it, and because you had in fact said yes, and because the music through the door sounded genuinely lovely, and because you were still holding his hand from the pavement, you went in.
The church hall smelled of floor polish and tea. Fairy lights were strung along the rafters — someone's addition, not the original fixtures, and they made the whole space amber and soft.
Round tables lined the edges, most of them occupied by couples in their sixties and seventies and eighties, a few younger faces dotted among them, everyone dressed with the particular care of people who still believed an evening out was worth dressing for.
On the small stage at the far end, a four-piece band was working through something in three-four time with the ease of musicians who had played together for years.
And at the edge of the floor, clipboard in hand, wearing the same expression of organised authority she'd worn every PE lesson for fifteen years was Mrs Valerie Croft.
She was smaller than you remembered. Or perhaps you were simply larger.
She'd retired at some point — the hair was fully silver now rather than streaked — but the posture was identical: spine straight, chin up, the bearing of a woman who had spent decades telling teenagers to stand properly and had eventually simply become the embodiment of the instruction.
She looked up from her clipboard as you approached and her eyes moved from you to Simon, and to her credit, she didn't miss a step.
"Well," she tilted her chin up to meet his eyes, "Riley."
"Miss," Simon said. Which was technically incorrect given that she had a ring on her finger and had for as long as you'd known her, but you suspected it was because he'd called her Miss in secondary school the way you had. "Mrs Croft. Sorry. We were passing and— " He paused, which was unlike him. "Is there any chance we could crash it?"
Mrs Croft looked at him. She looked at you. She looked at your joined hands with the expression of a woman who had supervised enough teenagers to recognise a development when she saw one.
"Can you behave yourselves?" she asked.
"Yes," you said nodding.
Simon said nothing.
Mrs Croft made a sound that was not quite a laugh but was adjacent to one. "Floor's open," she said. "Don't knock anyone over." And she turned back to her clipboard.
The first dance was not elegant.
Simon was, as he had always been and had openly admitted, not a dancer.
He was a man built for other kinds of movement — purposeful, directed, the kind that had somewhere to go. Dancing required a different relationship with your body, a willingness to be present in it without agenda, and that was not naturally his.
But he was trying. And Simon Riley trying at something he wasn't good at with complete, unhesitating commitment was one of your favourite things in the world.
He held you correctly — one hand at your waist, the other holding yours at the right height — because he had clearly looked this up at some point, which you were choosing not to think about too hard. His footwork was careful. Deliberate. Slightly behind the beat in the way of someone counting silently.
"You're counting," you told him trying your hardest not to laugh.
"Shut up."
"Simon, I can see your lips moving." you snorted.
"I said shut up."
You were laughing now. Properly, helplessly, the kind that came up from somewhere real — and he looked down at you with that face, that flat, long-suffering, completely fond face, and something in his eyes that was warm in a way that had nothing to do with patience and everything to do with the fact that your laugh had always been, apparently, one of his favourite sounds.
"You're doing fine," you told him, once you'd recovered.
"I'm doing terribly," he answered. "Keep going."
By the second dance, he was better.
By the third, he had found something. Some adjustment in the way he held you, the way his hand settled more fully at your waist, drawing you closer so the movement between you became less about individual steps and more about one shared thing. He was a quick study. He always had been, once he'd decided something was worth doing.
You became aware, gradually, of the room watching.
Not intrusively. Not all at once. But in the soft, peripheral way of a room full of people who have been in love for decades and recognise the particular weather of it when it walks through the door.
An older couple near the stage — she in pale blue, he in a suit that had been good once and was still cared for — had stopped talking to watch you.
A woman at one of the corner tables had her chin in her hand.
Mrs Croft, by the door, was very deliberately looking at her clipboard and failing to look only at her clipboard.
You didn't mind. You were too busy watching Simon watch you.
The band changed tempo at half past nine.
The waltz gave way to something with a different shape entirely — something that moved from the hips rather than the feet, a rhythm that was slower in its pulse and considerably less innocent in its intention.
A rumba.
You looked up at Simon.
He looked down at you.
"I don't know this one," he said.
"I'll show you." you breathed.
You took his hand and placed it lower at your waist, right above the curve of your ass. Deliberately watching his face when you did it, watching the shift in his expression, the way something in his eyes went very still and very focused. "Hip to hip," you told him. "Slower than you think. Let the music pull you."
He followed your lead with an attention that was frankly overwhelming in its completeness.
Simon Riley giving you his full, undivided, physical focus was not a small thing. He was so large and so present and he moved with you rather than against you, adjusting with every shift of your weight, and somewhere in the second minute of the song the counting stopped and something else replaced it.
He drew you closer. His hand at your hip pulled you in until there was no space left between you, until you could feel the warmth of him through the green of your dress and you were very aware of every point of contact, of the music and of the room full of people who had gone very quiet.
Then he turned you.
It was not technically correct. It was not what the dance required. But he turned you in a single, smooth movement that his body had decided on and yours simply followed, because that was what it did with him.
And then he dipped you.
The room tilted. His arm was across your back, solid and immovable, and you were suspended in the amber light with the music around you and your hand at his shoulder.
He lowered you — slowly, with complete control, no hesitation in the hold and then his face was close, very close, and his nose grazed the line of your throat making your breath hitch.
A slow, deliberate graze. The warmth of his breath against your pulse point. You felt it in places that had nothing to do with dancing, between your legs throbbing.
His hand — the one at your hip — slid down, just slightly, just enough, finding the outside of your thigh where the fabric of your dress lay, and he hooked your leg, slowly, around his hip. His fingers at the back of your thigh. Holding you there. His nose still at your throat.
The music resolved. Somewhere behind you, someone started clapping.
He brought you upright. Smoothly, slowly, until you were standing again and his hand was still at the back of your thigh. Your leg still around his hip and your faces were very close. Your heart was conducting itself in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with exertion.
You were panting. Slightly. Just slightly.
He was not panting. He was looking down at you with the almost-smile, the one that had always been rarer than gold and twice as valuable — and his eyes were warm and very dark and entirely, completely satisfied with themselves.
"You looked that up as well," you managed.
"No," he said.
"Simon—"
"That one," he said, "I just wanted to do."
From the table by the stage, the woman in pale blue was applauding with great enthusiasm. Her husband had two fingers in his mouth and was whistling.
Mrs Croft had given up entirely on the clipboard.
The taxi back was not a long ride.
It felt longer than it was, and shorter than you wanted.
You sat beside him in the back seat with his thigh against yours and the city moving past the windows and neither of you speaking. The silence had a texture to it that was thick and warm and anticipatory in a way that made the air feel heavy in your lungs.
His hand was on your knee. Just resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything — with complete, unapologetic certainty.
You did not move it.
The house appeared at the end of the lane with its white fence and its dark windows and the lavender silver in the moonlight.
You were out of the taxi before it had fully stopped and you were aware how eager this appeared and you didn't care.
Simon paid the driver and caught up with you in three strides because his legs were considerably longer than yours and always had been.
He got to the door first. Key in hand.
The door opened.
And you did not wait for him to step through it.
You took him by the front of his shirt, that black shirt, warm from his body, the fabric bunching in your fists and you lips were suddenly on his.
You walked him backwards through the doorway and you felt the moment his back met the wall just inside and you were already kissing him before he'd fully registered the sequence of events.
Your mouth on his. Your hands in the front of his shirt. Thirty years of it finding its way out all at once, without ceremony, without preamble, without any of the careful management you had been applying to yourself since you were four years old at a preschool art table.
He kissed you back.
He kissed you back the way he did everything — thoroughly, completely, with his full attention and no apparent interest in doing anything else ever again.
His hands came to your face, big and careful, tilting your jaw, and for a moment you were simply inside the realness of him and the warmth of him and the fact that he was here and alive and kissing you in the hallway of the house he'd bought for you.
He pulled back.
"Easy, sunshine," he said against your lips. Low. A little breathless, which you would be privately triumphant about later. The corner of his mouth pulled up in that crooked smile.
You became aware, in the slightly dazed way of someone returning from somewhere, that your hands were still in his shirt and his hands were still on your face and you were standing approximately two inches apart in his hallway.
You also became aware, in the refocusing of your vision, of his mouth.
Of the scar on his upper lip.
You didn't know how you hadn't noticed it before — through dinner, through the dancing, through all of it.
Perhaps you had simply not been this close before. Or perhaps you had been looking at so many things that you hadn't been looking at everything.
It was small, a thin pale line bisecting the left side of his upper lip, old enough to have faded to silver, the kind of scar that had been there for years and had been lived with so thoroughly that the face had absorbed it.
You lifted your thumb and touched it, gently. "How'd you get this?"
He went very still, alert and present and reading you.
You kissed it. Softly. Just that.
Something moved in his throat.
His hands shifted from your face to your waist, warm and settled, and he began to move you gently — backwards, one steady step at a time — turning you both away from the wall and deeper into the hallway. His foot found the door behind him and pushed it closed with a quiet, final click.
"If I tell you about that one," he said, his voice low and even above your head as he guided you past the entrance and toward the stairs, "I'll have to tell you about the rest."
He looked down at you as he said it, that look, the one that said you were the most interesting thing he had ever encountered. The one that made you feel simultaneously seen and slightly undone — and his expression had in it something that was fond and amused and entirely, devastatingly warm.
You kicked your heels off at the bottom of the stairs. They went somewhere behind you. You didn't look.
Your bag went next, dropped against the banister.
"The rest?" you repeated. Your voice came out slightly smaller than you intended. Your eyes, entirely without your permission, moved down the front of him — the black shirt, the breadth of his shoulders, his torso, his thick thighs, all of him — and back up again. Slowly.
He watched you do it. He said nothing.
You swallowed. "Tell me then."
His hand at your waist steered you up the first step, and then the second, and the stairs curved slightly toward the landing above, and at the top of the stairs he pushed open the door to a bedroom.
The room was large and furnished.
A bed, properly large, the kind that accommodated a man his size without complaint. Low lamps on either side casting the same amber warmth as the hall below. Dark wood floors, a window looking out toward the garden, the curtain shifting slightly in a crack of night air.
He kissed you, just inside the door you kissed him back and his hands were at your hips.
Then he pulled back with a groan. Both of you breathing slightly harder than was strictly accounted for by climbing one flight of stairs.
"I want to, sunshine," he said. His voice was very low. Restrained. His hands still on your body, holding you there, his thumbs moving in a small slow motion against the fabric of your dress that was doing nothing to help you think clearly. "I do. But I need to hear it from you first. Your permission. Clear words. I don't want to misunderstand you."
You opened your mouth.
And then your eyes moved, over his shoulder, to the dresser.
A skull mask looked back at you.
You closed your mouth. You looked at it. The mask, white and stark and precise but somehow both alien and completely, recognisably his. The balaclava beside it, folded neatly. And tactical gloves — enormous, black, reinforced, approximately the size of your head.
"That yours?" you asked.
Simon turned his head, following your gaze. He looked at the dresser, then back at you. "Yeah."
"What is it?"
"What I wear on missions."
"Oh," you said.
And then your brain did something entirely beyond your authority. It constructed, with great speed and considerable detail, an image: Simon, broad and enormous, in black tactical gear. Gloved hands. That mask. Hovering over you.
You swallowed.
The image did not leave. It simply settled in, warm and vivid and decidedly unhelpful.
"Sunshine."
His hand came to your face — his big, warm, ungloved hand, his actual hand, the one you knew — his thumb sweeping gently under your eye, bringing you back into the room and the amber lamplight and the present moment.
"Hmm?" you managed meeting his gaze.
His eyes moved over your face with the same comprehensive attention he always gave you.
"Your permission, love," he said. Quiet. Certain.
"Oh." You blinked. "Yes. Yes, you have it. Always."
The almost-smile. "Not for everything I want to do to you." His thumb was still moving, very gently, under your eye. "I'll ask. Multiple times."
You stared at him. "Multiple—"
"Times," he confirmed. His voice was entirely level. His eyes were not.
You pushed his shoulder and your cheeks burned.
He caught your hand as you pushed it and laughed, a low, real, full sound, the kind that you had spent most of your life engineering because it was so rare and so completely, unreasonably good.
You laughed too, properly, the helpless kind, and his forehead came down to rest against yours and you were both laughing in the amber light of his bedroom with the skull mask on the dresser and the lavender outside the window and thirty years behind you and everything in front.
The laughing settled.
Not all at once — it unwound gradually, the way laughter does when it's the real kind, leaving something warm and loose in its place.
His forehead was still against yours. His hands had moved from your face to your waist, both of them now, holding you the way he'd held you on the dance floor — with that complete, unhurried certainty, like you were something he'd been waiting to hold properly for a very long time and intended to do it right.
The amber light of the lamps lay across everything. Through the gap in the curtain, you could see the edge of the garden — the pale shapes of flowers, the dark of the lawn.
"Tell me about the rest," you said quietly.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. "The scars?"
"You said if you told me about the one on your lip you'd have to tell me about the rest." You reached up and touched the scar again — that thin, silver line — with the pad of your thumb. "So tell me about the rest."
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached up and began, without ceremony, to unbutton his shirt.
You were very still.
He did it the way he did everything — without drama, without performance, button by button from the collar down, and when he shrugged it from his shoulders and set it aside you understood, in a way you hadn't before, what eighteen years of that life had written on him.
He was enormous.
You'd known that in the abstract — had known it from the doorframe and the dance floor and the way rooms seemed to reorganise themselves around him — but this was different.
This was the specific, undeniable reality of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the muscle of his arms that carried the tattoo sleeve on the left, the ink wrapping from wrist to shoulder in dark, intricate patterns that in this light you still couldn't fully read but wanted to.
And the scars.
There were more than you'd expected.
Each one a different shape and age and story, written into the topography of him in pale and silver lines. A long one along his left ribs. Something older, fainter, across the top of his right shoulder. A circular scar below his collarbone on the left side that your medical knowledge was sufficient to identify and that made your chest constrict briefly and completely before you put that particular knowledge away for now.
He was watching your face as you looked. Careful. Giving you the time of it.
You stepped forward. You placed your hand flat against his sternum — his heart under your palm, steady and real — and you felt him exhale.
"The lip," you said.
"Kandahar. 2004. Caught the stock of a rifle." He said it the same way he'd told you everything tonight — flat, factual, trusting the fact to carry the weight. "Bit through my lip. Wasn't pretty for a while."
You moved your hand from his sternum to his ribs. Found the long scar there, traced it gently with your fingertips.
"That one."
"Knife. 2009. I moved the wrong way and the other man moved the right way." The shadow of something in his face that was not quite humour and not quite not. "Lesson learned."
Your hand moved to his shoulder. The older, fainter scar.
"Before the military," he said, before you asked. His voice changed, just fractionally. Flatter. Doing more work to stay level. "Not a mission."
You understood. You didn't ask further. You pressed your lips to it instead — gently, just that, your mouth against the old pale mark — and you felt the breath go out of him in a way that was different from all the others. Slower. Deeper.
"Sunshine," he said. Very quietly.
"The one below your collarbone," you said.
A pause. "That one's not a story for tonight."
You tilted your head back to look up at him. "Is it a story for eventually?"
His eyes on yours. Something in them that was considering, assessing, "Yeah," he said. "Eventually."
"Alright," you said. You meant it. You had waited thirty years; you could wait for the story of one scar.
His hand moved to your face. That same gesture from the hallway — his thumb at your cheek, slow and deliberate and he tilted your chin up and kissed you. Not urgently this time. Slowly. Deeply.
His hands found the zip at the side of your dress — careful, unhurried — and he looked at you, a clear question in it, and you nodded, and his hands were very steady and very gentle. Your dress went the way of your heels and your bag, somewhere behind you, unmissed.
He looked at you the way he had looked at you on the porch yesterday, and outside The Grill tonight, and across the restaurant table, and on the dance floor — with that complete, comprehensive attention.
Only now there was nothing restrained about what was in it. It was simply there, open and certain, and it was thirty years of something finally being allowed to be exactly what it was.
"Hi," you said. Which was absurd. Which made him laugh again, low and real.
"Hi, sunshine," he said. His hands at your waist. His forehead dropping to yours.
“Si I need to-“ you breathed in deep, “I um,” he pulled his head away from yours, looking into your eyes with those brilliant brown ones of his.
“What is it Sunshine?” He asked, his finger under your chin tilting your head up.
“I’m, I’ve never-“ you sigh, “I’ve told you so many things, I can’t believe I can’t even say this to you.”
“Do we need to slow down?” He asked, his voice softening.
“No. It’s not that. I mean I’m not a virgin if that’s what you’re thinking I just, no guy has ever-“ you sigh again, your eyes dropping from his.
Simon is quiet. He waits, the way he always waits — giving you the whole space of it, not rushing you toward the end of the sentence.
“Made it good,” you finally say, to his chest. “For me. It’s always just, fine. Maybe sometimes I get close but then it’s over. Not that there’s been loads of guys, maybe three.”
A beat.
You make yourself look up at him.
Something changes in his face.
You see the flare of it.
Anger.
Not toward you — you feel that immediately, the anger isn't at you, it moves through him and settles somewhere else entirely. His jaw shifts. His eyes, for just a moment, go somewhere dark and quiet.
"Every one of them," he says. Low. More to himself than to you.
"Simon—"
"Had you," he says. "And didn't—" He stops. The jaw again. His eyes squeeze shut. "Didn't pay attention."
"It's not—"
"It is." His eyes open. He looks at you, his hands moving to your hips, both of them, settling there with a weight that feels like anchoring, like he needs the contact as much as you do. The darkness has settled now, controlled, underneath everything else.
"And I wasn't here." Something moves through his expression — not guilt exactly, but something adjacent to it, something private and old. "Should've been your first, sunshine. Should've been there to—"
He stops himself. His forehead drops to yours.
"I've waited years for this," he says quietly. "I'm not rushing it. And I'm going to pay attention."
“Pay attention?” You ask breathless.
“To every sigh,” he kissed your cheek, “whimper and moan.” His lips moved down to your jaw. “To the way your hips move, the way your back arches, the way you’ll writhe under me, how I’ve imaged it every time I’ve gotten off for the last two decades.” He whispered the last bit into your ear, teeth tugging on your earlobe.
You gasp, “Simon.” Your cheeks burn.
“Oh don’t tell me you never thought about it.” He grins pulling back to look down at you.
You look at the floor sheepishly cause of course you have. Of course you’ve cum the hardest you ever have in your life only when thinking about Simon fucking you.
"Oh you have." He smirked titling his head.
“Shut up.” You push his shoulder and he laughs.
His hands leave your hips and then you're moving, his arms around you, and the edge of the bed meets the back of your knees.
Then his massive paws are in your hair and his lips are on your neck as your back meets the sheets. His weight heavy and solid on you. You could tell he was holding himself up so he didn’t squish you.
He leaned back on his heels, kneeling between your legs. You sighed in satisfaction when his fingers ran over your bare skin. His blunt nails scratching softly where your pelvic bone sits.
"So beautiful Sunshine," He grabs your hips and squeezes, "Fill my hands with you finally." Simon groans. A noise you've been picturing in your head. This and everything else that happens this evening, you truly believe, will be one of those times when reality is better than anything you have imagined.
Simon's brown eyes have always been intense, but right now the way he's looking down at you it's like he is someone else entirely. His eyes almost black with how much they have darkened.
"Simon." You tangle your fingers with his.
"Can I?" He asks. His hand, the one not in yours, trailing down your thigh and stopping on your mound. You clench around nothing when he pushes down, just a little bit of pressure that you feel in your clit and makes your hips buck.
You don't miss the way his lips do the almost smile thing. You nod furiously but he shakes his head.
"Need your words love." He raises a brow.
"Yes, yes Simon touch me." You breathe out, your chest feeling tight when he nods, moving his hand down to cup your cunt over your underwear.
And maybe its because you haven't had sex in three years, maybe its because you are touch starved or maybe its simply because its Simon, but your back arches and your moan is down right pornographic with a simple touch over your underwear.
"So responsive." He mumbles, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit through the fabric. "Get your tits out for me Sunshine, wanna see em." he grunts feeling your underwear getting wet.
Shakily you reach behind your back and unclip your bra. "Been thinking about them for years. What they look like, how they'll bounce when I fuck you." He groans as you pull the straps down your arms and fling the bra on the floor.
His eyes are on your chest, he doesn't blink. Then as if his system has rebooted, he blows air out of his cheeks and whistles low. "Fuck lovie, so pretty. You're a dream." Simon leans forward and wraps his lips around your breast, his tongue swirling around the nipple as his thumb continues circling your clit.
You moan, fingers tugging at his hair.
He comes off your breast with a pop making you whine and push at his shoulder. He grins pressing his thumb firmer against you, while sliding his other hand over your leg, index finger tracing over the small scar on you leg from when you fell off your bike after Simon broke your training wheels.
There was something comforting about this. Simon wasn't someone you had to explain yourself to, he already knew every version of you, he was simply adding this one to his list. This version, open and honest and begging the man you'd known for thirty years to make you cum on his fingers.
This didn't feel like a hook up, not like other guys have, but it felt like two people who have been each other's home for years and they're finally admitting it.
"Kiss me Simon." You're not even sure if what you said made sense with how much you were panting. But he leaned down to graze his lips along yours. Teasing and soft, despite the fast past he'd started to set with his thumb.
"Stop teasing." You huffed.
"Its my favourite pastime." He grinned hooking his fingers in your underwear, pulling them down and moving with them to settle between your legs.
You gasp, when his tongue slides from your asshole to your clit. "Simon!" His dark eyes are locked on yours as he swirls the tip of his his tongue around your entrance. Your toes curl, your head falling back onto the soft bed sheets.
A few occasions, you could count on one hand, had a guy you were with eaten you out and it was good but fuck, it didn't feel like this.
You felt like you were burning all over with each swipe of his tongue, each dip inside your entrance, each pattern he begins to circle over your clit.
He was learning you.
Simon groans against you, his breath hot, it made you dizzy. You feel everything, its too much to quick and your hips start to buck against his mouth.
Simon clearly had no intention of slowing down or stopping as he slides his arms around your thighs and splays his hands over the tops of them locking you in place.
It feels like fire, like molten lava pooling low in your abdomen the harder his tongue presses against you.
You don’t even recognise the sounds coming out of you, it’s as if every movement pulls a new one from you.
His thumb replaces his tongue and he rubs the bump in small circles until you can barely breathe. “Sound so pretty,” he murmurs just as your back arches and you moan loudly into the night air.
He is still speaking but you can’t hear anything he is saying, it’s all blurring together the way your vision is blurring. His thumb slides from your clit down until it’s pushing its way inside you. Your hips jerk away but his other hand is quick to hold you in place.
“No running.” Simon growls.
You cry out when his tongue comes back to torture you, lapping at you like he’s never had a drink and you're fresh water. Soon enough the rhythm he’s built has your hips rolling forward seeking more of whatever he has to give you.
Your hand reaches for his arm and squeezes hard the exact moment your vision turns white and your body shakes, dissolving into pleasure. It's like lightning pulsing through you. He works your through your orgasm, wringing every last wave of pleasure from you before he moves to your lips, kissing you.
“Did so good Sunshine. I’ve got you.” His arms wrap around you, your nipples grazing against the hair on his chest, that alone has you whimpering.
"Need more, want you inside me Simon. Please." You look into his eyes, your shyness gone with your orgasm.
"Okay Sunshine." Simon chuckles, the sound vibrating against you.
He pulls back and gets off the bed before he starts to unbuckle his belt. He pushes his black slacks down along with his underwear, his large, and he was so fucking big, cock already hard.
"Always wondered what you'd be like in bed," He tilts his head with a smirk, "If you'd like being in control. Or if you'd prefer me to lead," He knelt on the bed again, and oh my god Simon Riley, your best friend of thirty years and the love of your life was crawling up the bed towards you until his cock was flush with your entrance. "If you'd be needy and beg. Or if you'd bark orders at me." He slapped the head of his cock against your clit. "If you'd be loud or quiet."
"If you'd let me do whatever I wanted to you," his head titled back, eyes shut, "Fuck Sunshine, the things I've imagined doing to you," He looks down at you with the most intense gaze, pining you there on the bed, "Would you let me lovie? Do whatever I want to you?" He asks, pearly whites peaking out to sink into his bottom lip.
"Like what?" Your breath is so unsteady, so hitched and uneven you feel your cheeks heat even more than they have done at his words.
He grins, "Like what?" He chuckles pushing the head of his cock against your entrance, not in, but resting against it, "Wanna fuck you so hard you can't walk. Make love to you slow and so deep you'll feel me everywhere. Bend you over every surface in this house and make you cry on my cock-"
"Simon!" You gasp.
"Can I Sunshine?" He groans pushing in a little more and your eyes sting with tears at the stretch.
"Yes! Please yes!" He pushes in slowly. One of his hands coming next to you on the bed and the other gripping your hip. He keeps sliding in further, so slowly until its sheathed inside you.
Simon does not move. You can see the restraint within the way his teeth are gritted, his brows furrowed, sweat forming on his forehead.
“Fuck you feel amazing wrapped around me, so tight.” He groans.
You don’t have any words and even if you did, you doubt you would be able to say them. You have never felt so…full. So filled to the brim and unable to get a reprieve from it.
“M’gonna move, gotta move Sunshine,” Simon growls and the fullness disappears for a second before he’s pushing himself back in.
“Fuck you feel so good Si.” You shudder and stars appear in your vision when he moves forward and takes your legs with him folding you in half.
Simon Riley has you in fucking mating press and didn't even break the slow rhythm he's building. He continues this push and pull movement until it begins to flow, each movement begins where the other ends. The pattern making you sob, “Don’t stop!”
You can't function and its only now that you understand the phrase 'being fucked dumb', rocking your hips, trying desperately to keep up with each thrust, back arched so beautifully.
Simon lets his hand slip and curve around your jaw without thinking about it, "Taking me so well Sunshine." The feral look in his eyes sends a shiver up your spine.
"Too big." You sobbed, your hands grabbing at his large biceps as he thrusts harder. He could feel every ridge and curve of your sopping cunt.
"You can take it." He encouraged you, biting at your neck leaving marks in his wake and looking so damn happy whilst doing it.
You continued to moan and whimper, tears of pleasure falling down your face while Simon's huge body hovered over you. Protecting you from the outside world, in here, it was just you and him.
"Si..oh!" you cried out feeling him hit that rough spot inside your weeping, swollen cunt.
"There it is." He didn't mean to grin like a obsessed man in such an intimate moment but he couldn't help himself. He never can with you. Each thrust hits the one place no man ever seems to be able to find but Simon seemingly found with ease. A spot that makes a tightening begin like a coil, being wound with every drive of his hips.
Your sinful noises morph into higher pitched breathy little screams.
"I know lovie, I know." He cooed, holding you closer. His sweat glazed skin meeting yours as his large veiny hand slips under your head, his other arm curling around your waist.
You move your hips and he groans vulgar into the air, his hand gripping your hair and pulling your head back, a little to the side before he attacks your neck all messy. Smearing his lips across your throat, you don’t even recognise the sound that leaves your mouth.
He pulls away, his dark eyes flit to your squelching pussy, the noise attracting his attention pupils dilating, honing in on the way your cunt sucks his cock back in. He couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to and fuck he doesn’t, he wants nothing more than to stay in your pretty pussy forever.
“Simonfuckyespleaserighttheredontstop!” All the words and moans blend together until your mumbling nonsense trying your hardest to keep conscious, it’s difficult with the way he’s fucking into you so deliciously it’s making you delirious in the best way.
His big body towering over yours, big hands gripping you almost bruisingly. His thick muscular hairy thighs press against your skin compellingly, the sight before you, it's irresistible. All you have to do is look down to see his massive cock sliding in and out of you, a ring of white collecting at the base.
It's too much seeing him like this, feeling the sweet pleasure burn through you and yet Simon moves one of his hands off your head and presses a thumb to your swollen, aching clit.
You're done for.
You sob, so fucking loud you swear everyone in the world can hear it, hot tears flow down your cheeks staining them.
"That's it." The words wash over you with your orgasm, it swirls around you, clings to you, and pushes you down down down the rabbit hole of pleasure. Oversensitivity sets in making you whine at his touch, but you can't stop yourself from wanting more.
Your hips buck into his touch eliciting a dirty chuckle from him.
As Simon picks up his thrusts, he comes to the conclusion that he loves you like this, wants to see it everyday. You're so drunk, so delirious and he loves it. Loves the far away look in your eyes right before they roll back into your skull.
He shoves his face into your neck groaning, "Gonna cum Sunshine, need to. Where?" his thrusts pick up again, as if that were even possible.
"Cum inside me Simon, fill me up." You cry out.
Simon must have been right there as he cums the second you finish your sentence. Hot thick robes of cum pushing deep inside you. He rubs your clit faster and another smaller orgasm zips through you leaving you whimpering.
He stays in you, holding you until he goes soft. He moves your legs so they don't cramp. "Did so well for me Sunshine. I love you so much." He looks into your eyes as more tears spill down your cheeks.
"I love you Simon." you bring your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer to kiss you. The contrast between the way he just destroyed your guts and is now kissing you so softly, is astounding.
He is careful when he picks you up and walks into the ensuite bathroom to the right, flicking the light on and placing you on the toilet. "Gotta pee sunshine, don't want you getting you a uti." He says and you're so tired you don't even have the energy to be embarrassed.
Your eyes as still closed as you pee. Your hand moves to find the toilet paper but a warm flannel is being pressed against you, Simon's other hand on your knee to keep them open. You whine and push his hand away, "Simon that's icky." You frown at him opening your eyes to see him looking at you with a frown of his own.
"Nothing about you is icky Sunshine. I'm clearing up my mess, now move your hand." You do as told and it occurs to you, through your tired haze, while Simon gently wipes you clean that he must be used to clearing up mess with the job he does.
"All done. Want a shower or straight to sleep?" He asks.
"Sleep." You yawn making him smile at you.
He carries you back to the bed, lifting the duvet and settling you both underneath it.
The particular quality of afterwards settles in the room.
The warmth of it, the specific silence, the way the world outside the window continues to exist and you become aware of it again in layers. The sound of the garden. The distant sound of a car somewhere. The sound of him breathing.
You were lying with your head on his chest. His arm around you, heavy and warm. His heartbeat under your ear, steady and unhurried, the same heart that had been beating beside you in one form or another for thirty years.
His hand moved. Slowly, idly, up and down your back.
You watched the lamplight glow on the beside table. You thought about the lavender. You thought about the train station in 2001, and the birthday cards, and the bottom stair with the cream envelope, and Margaret Howarth saying you always did belong together with the satisfied certainty of someone who had known it before either of you did.
"Simon," you said.
"Yeah."
"You planted lavender for three years."
"You mentioned that already."
"I'm still processing it."
A low sound in his chest that was the rumble of a laugh contained. "Take your time Sunshine."
You propped yourself up and looked at him. His face in the lamplight — older, marked, those brown eyes that had been watching you since you were four years old, now watching you from a pillow in the house he'd bought you.
His expression was open in the way it had been open on the porch and at the restaurant table and in the dance hall, the way it had been open perhaps three times in thirty years before tonight and was now, apparently, simply his face when he looked at you.
You loved him so much.
You had loved him in different quantities and different registers for most of your life and now you loved him in this one too, this new one, and it was the same love and completely different and you thought you would be discovering its dimensions for a considerable amount of time.
"You should have told me," you said. "Years ago. Before the train."
"Yeah," he said. No argument.
"I would have said it back then too."
Something moved in his face. "I know," he said. And then, quieter, "I wasn't ready then. Wasn't enough yet."
"Simon—"
"I know what you're going to say."
"You were always—"
"I know," he said. "I believe you. Now." His hand came up to your face, tucking a strand of hair back, his thumb at your cheekbone. "Took me a while to get there. But I'm here."
"You're here," you agreed smiling.
"And you're here." his hand tangled itself in your hair.
"I'm here." you giggled.
He looked at you for a long moment. Then, "Stay with me."
Not a question, not quite — more like a hope said aloud. The rarest thing from him. He had carried so much silently for so long, and this one small thing cost him something, and you could see it, and you loved him for it.
"It's my house," you said cheeky and bright.
He blinked. Then that laugh again — the real one, the rare one — and your heart did what it always did when you earned it, that particular, irreplaceable lurch.
"Yeah Sunshine," he said. "It is."
You lay back down against his chest. His arm came around you. His heartbeat under your ear.
Outside, the lavender moved. The Union flag was still on the roof. The porch swing sat in the dark with its yellow cushion, waiting for morning.
"Sunshine," he said. Into your hair.
"Hmm."
"I love you."
You pressed your lips to his chest, above his heart.
"I love you too," you said. "I've loved you since you were that chubby four-year-old who stole my crayons."
A long pause.
"Chubby," he repeated.
"Stocky," you amended, grinning into his chest. "You were very stocky."
"I was four."
"You were a very solid four year old."
His arm tightened around you — not painfully, just firmly, the way of a man making a point through the medium of holding — and you laughed again, helplessly, into the warmth of him.
He made that sound, that low rumbling laugh that lived in his chest, and the lamp burned warm and low and outside the lavender moved in the dark.
Simon Riley.
Who stole your crayons at four and broke your glasses at seven and learned to read because of you and carried your bag through every corridor of secondary school and punched a boy for pushing you over and kissed your cheek in a toilet corridor and sat beside you through every lunch and glared at anyone who called you a nerd and came round to your kitchen table for years and went to war at seventeen and sent you cards from the edges of the world and planted lavender for three years and bought you the house you described at sixteen and came home.
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, please heed the tags before each chapter as this story is 18+
Jealous! Simon Riley × Sergeant's Wife Reader Pt 2
Part 1 here ♥️
A/N: I'm sleep deprived writing this. Ignore any mistakes please. Likes, reblogs and comments are more than appreciated. Love y'all. (I get hard reading comments😩)
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It was raining as you rushed out of your restaurant.
Not rain–proper Manchester-style rage from the sky. Cold, sideways, relentless.
“Fuck” you mutter, yanking your jacket tighter. Didn’t check the weather today, did you? Brilliant.
You pull your phone out with numb fingers and call Ryan.
He picks up on the third ring. Music’s loud enough that you can hear the bass crackle through the speaker. Women giggling and glasses clinking.
“Uh–love, hellooo” he says, distracted.
You close your eyes. “Ryan, it’s pissing down. Like–really bad. I didn't get my car today.”
“Yeah, well… call a taxi, babe. I’m in the middle of somethin’ important.”
“You think I haven’t tried?” you snap. “It’s a thunderstorm. No one’s picking rides.”
A pause. Laughter in the background. Someone shouts his name.
“Come on” you say quieter. “Please. I just wanna get home.”
“Why don’t you just wait in that little restaurant of yours till it stops?” he says, irritation creeping in. “You’re safe there, yeah?”
Then the line goes dead.
You stare at the phone.
“…Did he just”
You call again.
Switched off.
“What the fuck” you whisper.
The rain soaks through your shoes as you step under the shed. The street’s empty–too empty. Even the usual late-night traffic’s gone.
Mr. Humphrey, the security guard, jogs over with an umbrella. “Kid, you alright? I can drop you home.”
“No, no” you shake your head quickly. “Your place is the opposite direction. You should go.”
“I’m not leavin’ you alone in this weather kid.”
“My husband’s on his way,” you lie smoothly, bumping him with your elbow. “You should go, yer old bones will freeze in rain. Promise.”
He eyes you, unconvinced, then sighs. “Alright. If he doesn't come go back in. But don’t linger.”
“I won’t.”
He drives off.
The second his taillights disappear, a car tears down the road, tyres slicing through a puddle–
—SLAM—
Freezing water drenches you head to toe. Cold, disgusting and humiliating.
You gasp, soaked, shaking.
“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” you scream, bending to grab the nearest brick. “COME BACK! I’LL SKIN YOU ALIVE!”
The car screeches.
Stops. Then reverses.
“Oh” you breathe.
“Oh fuck” Shouldn't have yelled.
The headlights glare at you like eyes. The engine hums–slow, deliberate. It was an expensive car.
You lift the brick anyway. “DON’T TEST ME!”
The window rolls down.
“Get in, miss. Get in–now.”
That voice.
Low. Rough. Familiar. That cute accent you heard few months ago.
You blink.
Simon Riley stares back at you from behind a balaclava, eyes sharp and dark.
“Ghost?” you snap. “You’ve got a lot of nerve”
He’s already out of the car, rain plastering his jacket to his broad frame as he yanks the passenger door open.
“Get. In” he says again, accent thick now. Mancunian, unmistakable. Finally know where he was from.
“Before you catch hypothermia or brain damage—whichever comes first.”
“I’m not gettin’ in your–”
“Miss Y/N” he cuts in, voice dropping. “That brick won’t win against a windshield. Not mine. Trust me. Get in. Or.I.carry.you.”
Your jaw clenches.
“…Prick.”
You climb in.
He shuts the door hard and circles back, sliding into the driver’s seat. The silence stretches–tense, loud, broken only by rain hammering metal.
“I didn’t see you” he mutters.
You let out a sharp laugh. “Oh funny. You didn’t see a grown woman under a light?”
“Road glare” he says stiffly. “Rain.”
“Bullshit.”
You fumble with the heater controls, fingers clumsy.
He reaches over, catches your wrist–gentle, but firm.
“Careful” he murmurs. “You’ll break it.”
He turns the heater on himself.
You yank your hand back. “I don’t need your help.”
“Clearly” he mutters, reaching into the backseat and tossing a shawl over you. “Put that on.”
You flinch seeing the shockingly pink and flowery shawl. Must be his girlfriends you think.
“…What's this”
“Dry” he says shortly. “You're shiverin.”
You wrap it around yourself despite yourself. It smells clean. Warm. Comforting.
“Why didn’t you call Ryan?” Simon asks suddenly.
You stare straight ahead. “I did.”
“And?”
“He was busy.”
His jaw tightens. “Team’s on leave.”
“I know.”
“So what’s so important he can’t pick his wife up in a storm?” he snaps.
You turn to glare at him. “You’re his superior, not his keeper.”
You swallow. You can't be rude to your husbands boss can you.
Neither of you speaks for a long moment.
“Wanna do renovation” he smirks raising a brow.
You glance down. The brick’s still in your lap.
“…Sorry.”
That earns a low huff of laughter. Dangerous. Brief. He reaches up to take his balaclava off placing it on dashboard.
You see him as he watches the road. How his blonde hair were curled up now thanks to rain. This was a different Ghost, not the balaclava clad brute. This one was the one who ate biryani in your home and devoured plates in your restaurant smiling ear to ear. The streelights light up his cheeks and you see freckles dusted...oh.
You guide him toward the mansion, rain blurring the windshield.
“Thanks” you say quietly when he parks. “I mean it.”
You step out.
“Come in” you add before thinking. “I’ll make something warm.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“You said it’s an off.”
He hesitates. “Bloody stubborn” he mutters, following you inside.
Later, you’re stirring soup, sleeves rolled up, hair damp. Simon leans against the counter, massive arms folded, watching.
“You don’t stir like that” he says.
“Oh?” you glance up. “And how should I stir, mister Lieutenant?”
“Like you mean it” he says. “You’re being gentle.”
You snort despite yourself.
“See this” you say, pointing. “If you don’t keep it moving, it clumps. Never add salt to tomatoes, it shrinks them.”
You look upto to check if he follows.
He nods solemnly, staring at your lips “Aye. Bugatti design. Sleek. Expensive.”
“…You didn’t listen to a word I said, did you?”
“Not a bloody clue” he admits proudly.
You sit on the couch together, soup steaming between you.
“This is unprofessional” he mutters.
“Then leave” you laugh shrugging. Suprisingly, you were relaxed around him. He was just so adorable in that stupid mask of his.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he blurts out “Why’d you marry a jerk?”
Your spoon clatters as you choke on bread.
“What did you say?”
“A jerk” he repeats calmly eating soup. “Man lets his wife walk home in a storm.”
“He was busy.”
Simon’s eyes snap to you. “Busy doin’ what?”
“That’s none of your-”
“Busy enough to lie about you?” he interrupts. “Said cookin’s just a hobby. A top chef. Michelin star. Funny hobby–run a Michelin kitchen. A whole chain of them.”
You stand. “Stop.”
“No” he says, standing too, towering over you now. “He shrinks you. Makes you small.”
“That’s not–”
“You let him” Simon says softly. “That’s the worst part.”
Your chest tightens. “You don’t know anything about my marriage.”
“I know a loser when I see one.”
“You’re crossing a line. Sir Riley” gods you were wrong. You wanted to feed him full till Ryan comes home but now you wanted to yell at him for being such a jerk twice in a day!! How dare he question your marriage when he doesn't even know your maiden name.
“Someone should’ve crossed it ages ago.”
Silence. Thick. Electric.
“I think you should leave” you whisper.
He studies you for a long moment. How your eyes look around uncomfortably but you were still not backing away..fierce. A woman who picks bricks..
“…Aye.”
He won't say anything further, not now. Not today. You're his seargents wife who 'likes' cooking. Why should he care.
At the door, he leans in, voice low, dangerous, intimate.
“Don’t throw bricks you can’t take back, little bird.”
Before you could ask if he wanted his shawl back – the door shuts behind him. You see him settle in his car tugging his mask back down as it roars to life. He nods at you and drives away.
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What you don’t know that he’d seen you under the shed long before you saw him. He waited till the kind guard left you alone. He could see snipers hiding in trees in missions and you believed he couldn't see you??? Hah.
That he sped up on purpose to splash you.
That the shawl wrapped around your shoulders was his mother’s. The only thing he had left of her. It was expensive, one of a kind Pashmina. The one she asked him to gift his "future wife".
And now?
It was with someone he’d already decided—
He wasn’t letting go of. He had to fight fate now. Sometimes we make our own destiny.
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P.S - Yes guys she has cold now. Yes she's wiping her nose on the pink Pashmina. Ryan is still not home :))
𖧁୧ 🍦 dad's bestfriend!au. | mdni. — outdoor sex, piss kink (f), porn without plot, slightly dubcon, secret relationship, simon referred to as 'uncle simon' 1x (not by reader), simon calls reader 'kid' 1x.
a/n : gross! ik! and to the anon who requested tf141 piss kink (giving), ur time to shine might come later, this was just a draft i had lying around without finishing until now.
18+ only / all characters are 18+. | previous post. | all my fics.
likes & comments appreciated! let me know your thoughts please, reblogs are SO important ♥︎
“Nature calls,”
you announce to no one in particular while hauling yourself to your feet, mumbled words overtaken by the crackling campfire and the animated conversation that surrounds it. Simon's ears perk at the sound of your words—not for any deviant reasons in particular, not yet—hooded eyes trailing after your retreating figure as the shadows swallow you up. The sandy-haired man grunts to himself noncommittally, tucking his chin in and staring down the neck of his Budweiser, a shadow of deliberation passing over his angular features. He takes stock of the firelit faces of your friends and family sitting in a circle, before his eyes follow the spit of sparks from the fire, lying low at their feet.
“Off for some firewood.” Simonʼs burly frame unfolds from the fallen log, forcing his companions at either side to shuffle down the makeshift seating arrangement and make way for the behemoth-sized man. Nobody pays any mind to his sudden departure, which, curiously, always seems to coincide with yours—after all, he's just Uncle Simon, isn't he? Your father's hulking, phantom-like bestfriend who seldom speaks. No one thinks twice about it, and why should they?
They resume chowing on toasted sʼmores undisturbed like a herd of gazelles at a watering hole.
His emptied drink joins the rainbow of soda-lime bottles on the grass, the back of his arm dragged carelessly across his mouth.
Simon makes quick work of retracing your path through the woods with the efficiency of a seasoned hunter—or perhaps a SAS operator. The white flash emanating from your smartphone dapples through the foliage, the device, your sole source of illumination, perched precariously on a nearby boulder. He watches you stiffen, then slowly turn, at the crunch of leaves under Simon's boots, a brow ticking upward as he takes in your prim little set-up with a roll of toilet paper and one of those gimmicky-looking portable bidets you bought online. You're delightfully far from the rag tag life Simon himself has grown accustomed to. Simon doesn't blame you; his bestfriend raised you well.
“Simon,” you call his name incredulously, half-relief, half-exasperation as you clutch your racing heart over your clothes. “It's just you. Gosh, I thought a grizzly was coming to get me.”
“Just me,” he responds dryly, his gaze stuttering down your form as you drop the hem of your sundress back down. His clothes rustle as he folds his arms across his chest, leaning one shoulder against a tree trunk.
“Do you mind?” You raise your brows at the man expectantly, gesturing for him to look away with a flourish of your index finger. “I need to pee.”
The toes of Simon's boots bump against your feet as he covers the distance between you with three strides flat, the flashlight near you lighting the planes of his face from below, giving them a ghostly cast. “Go 'head, then. Who's stopping you?” His hands, large and heavy next to your shorter limbs, toy with the edge of your dress, bundling it upwards while goosebumps rise along your thighs.
“Quite literally you,” you retort, one hand on his chest as you back up against the tree bark—and hope for dignity's sake that he doesn't notice how your knees rub together, the pressure in your lower belly growing more potent.
“Just need a little taste,” he groans against the delicate shell of your ear, his lips roaming over your cheek until they successfully land on your warm mouth. You meep against his mouth before finally squeezing your eyelids shut in concession, humming sweetly for the few seconds of heaven you afford the Brit before pulling away, your lips disconnecting with a wet smack.
“Okay, enough, big guy.” An exasperated giggle peters past your lips despite yourself as you nudge his solid chest, attempting to fix him with a stern look in your eye and hoping he gets the message. Simon can be surprisingly willful, at times. “I got business to d—”
Cool air brushes your skin as he snags your panties down your hipbones, hooking his thumbs under the waistband. For a frightening moment, you almost fear your underwear dropping will force muscle memory to kick in and you'll lose control of your bladder—but your body doesn't betray you for the time being.
“Iʼm serious,” you mumble against his chest to no avail, thighs clamping around his thick wrist as he lowers his fingers to your bare cunt. “Maybe later.”
“Not later. Now.”
Simon interjects with his fingers breaching your entrance, your knees instantly buckling under you and sending your head towards his chest. The space between the tree trunk and his torso is tight, an arm beside your head barricading you in place as he thumbs your clit, fingers simultaneously curling inside you.
It tickles, almost. Calloused fingertips graze your slippery walls, tingles blooming up your spine like live sparks. Your muscles feel far too weak, too lax to contain your body's baser instincts, but you try, nibbling your lip and keening into his shirt.
“So wet,” Simon coos fondly, his voice drowned by the lewd squelch of his fingers twisting and pumping inside you. The moisture does little to help your urge to pee, and you feel a little put out by yourself for being so distracted by your bladder when you have a tall, rugged man eager to please you. Ah, the consequences of drinking 8 cups of water a day.
A droplet races down the inside of your thigh to your ankle, your walls tightening around his fingers with a pained-sounding grunt as you hop around in surprise, warmth flooding your belly.
The blood drains from your face. For a second, you just hope he doesn't notice and consider pretending nothing happened, but you probably couldn't live that down. Instead, the fabric of his shirt twists in your fists as you tug and push at him with a spillage of apologies. God, Simon is going to hate you forever and never be attracted to you ever again, isn't he?
“Holy crap, holy crap—Simon, wait. I think I just, a little, Iʼm sorry—!”
Simon’s fingers are still inside you nonetheless, your inner thighs rubbing against his wrist as he keeps at it. His lips brush the top of your head when he shushes you. “Baby, baby, baby,” Simon murmurs sedatively, patting your back, but you aren't hearing any of it.
“Wait, wait, wait. I gotta go, Si.” You stomp your foot in all seriousness, but Simon’s attention is caught by your arched spine, the heat in your face as you bend forward, knees pressed together as you tug anxiously at the hem of your dress. “I told you 'later.'”
“And I said we're doing this here and now,” Simon grunts bluntly, cocking his chin up sharply—brooking no room for arguement.
You whine from deep in your chest, letting out an exaggerated sob and throwing your head back in defeat and exasperation altogether. “Easy does it,” the man murmurs, not without a touch of vexation at your perceived insolence, and backs you up against the tree. He turns your back towards him and unceremoniously maneuvers you against the tree trunk with the fabric of your sundress bunched in his fist.
“Youʼre, like, insane. Iʼve never met someone so stubborn,” you whisper-yell incredulously, the petulant pinch of your brows visible over your shoulder.
The insistent throb between your legs sharpens as his fingers return, stretching your achy cunt full again. Simon grunts, satisfied, at the break in your voice. The heel of his palm smacks against your soft flesh with each snap of his wrist, your cunt dripping around his dextrous fingers.
Red-hot shame crawls up the back of your neck and into your ears as your hips buck uselessly against his hand, the pressure in your belly building while your walls spasm and squeeze around his fingers.
“Hold it,” Simon's voice rumbles behind you evenly—which to you is the only option either way. You don't understand his intentions.
“Simon, Iʼm trying,” you answer back, antsy, fingers fidgeting restlessly with your dress. You brace one hand against the tree, folding forward in your attempt to restrain yourself—anchored only by his hand, two fingers knuckle-deep in your cunt. Perhaps if you weren't so panicked, you'd think twice about how ridiculous the situation is.
You make a valiant effort—holding your breath, squeezing your legs together—and still, your muscles falter with each prod of his fingertips. Hopping from one foot to the other, you don't even notice the first telltale drops of liquid past his fingers, only that his hand feels treacherously good. It sounds wet and fucking filthy, his fingers sliding into your wetness without a hitch.
A high-pitched, pathetic string of 'ah-ah-ah's fall from your gaping mouth, accompanied by his name on your tongue, always. You don't realize you're tearing up until your vision is blurred, hips rocking back against his coarse hand.
His fingers pull out of you with your juices splattering onto the dry leaves below, your body sent stumbling forward against the trunk with a startled 'Oh!' He lowers his zipper and chucks the denim down his legs, then yanks your panties off your ankles and lines himself up with your entrance. Your panties land in the same pile as his crumpled jeans and boxers.
Your dripping cunt pulses in anticipation as he rubs himself against your seam, leaking down your inner thighs bit by bit. The agonizing stretch makes you preen and clamp your thighs together, your belly taut with his cock pressing against your stomach from the inside.
You feel a warm liquid travel down your thighs every time he bottoms out, the pressure on your bladder too much to bear. “Simon, please, I can't hold it,” you plead tearily. The friction of your body trembling against him as you shift your weight between your feet and cross your legs elicits a groan from low in his chest, his head falling back languidly.
“Shit, baby, let go f'me.” His palm caresses your lower belly before flattening against it, the large expanse of his hand nearly enough to cover your waist.
“What!? No, jus' hurry pull out—oh—stop, wait—”
Your pulse spikes so fast it’s dizzying, his long fingers pressing down below your navel now.
“Ssh, ssh. Youʼll feel better, luv, I promise. Come on, kid, lemme help you,” Simon murmurs, his other hand reaching up to fondle your tits through your sundress.
You feel the tightness in your abdomen, the way the slight curve of his shaft carves into you, warmth coiling inside of you until you're mewling. Your hips stutter before a rush of clear liquid sprays from between your legs, your clit pulsing insistently as your piss gushes around his cock. Simon groans into your neck as his cock continues to pummel your tender insides without abandon, warm liquids streaming down his cock.
“Atta girl. Fuck, that's good. You're so fucking good f'me. That's it, baby.”
You sigh breathlessly in relief as your cunt squeezes around him, almost crying out, a warm sensation blooming between your thighs. It sloshes out of you in a steady stream each time he pulls back, leaving only the tip inside before he plunges balls deep and it splashes against both your thighs.
“So fucking sexy,” Simon groans behind you, calloused palms covering your ass, groping and kneading. “Such a messy lil' girl. I fucking love it. Make a mess all over me.” His voice lowers to a guttural rasp as he gives your ass a squeeze, cupping the underside of your plush ass, thumbs spreading your folds open around his cock to watch your piss leak around him in sheer infatuation despite your shy squirming.
It lasts shamefully long—a slowly unwinding knot inside you as your full belly shrinks, like the longest-lasting climax you've ever had—the sound of the liquid hitting the ground louder than it has any right to be, making your ears burn with embarrassment.
The stream slows to a thin trickle between your legs, your chest heaving as he fucks the last few drops out of you. Your cunt pulses and throbs by the time it ends, your clit slightly swollen. He pulls his hard cock out just to watch the remaining droplets clinging to your folds, hunching over you and slapping the shaft against your glistening ass. You blink slowly in astonishment, both palms braced against the tree trunk as you peer back at him, shame-faced. “...I—I think I just came.”
♥︎ gentle reminder that likes & reblogs are some of the best ways to support authors here ! tysm in advance, petal !
ׄ ۪ 𓂃 ੭୧ authors note : 2 FICS IN 3 DAYS FROM DAISY?? who woulda thunk! i think this is my shortest oneshot, which is an accomplishment for a rambler like me! i tried to hurry it up. i’m not a fan of how simplistic my writing is here, but i wrote this after my john fic and didn’t get many notes on that one (where i'd worked rly hard on the writing style), so i wasn’t sure what style y’all preferred back then.
Corruption kink with boyfriend Simon Riley, part 6 (nsfw)
Part 5 here
Simon can’t lie. He’s been dying to eat you out. As in, dying. He’s dreamt about it, imagined it, jerked off to it…And he can’t wait any longer.
“Baby, you ever imagine my mouth on you?” he asks quietly as he kisses at your neck. You’re on the bed, just cuddling, but the way he’s been holding you too tight is a clear indicator that this is gonna go a little further.
“How do you mean?” you ask, and Simon almost melts. He keeps forgetting what a sweet, innocent thing you are. God, it turns him on so bad.
And it makes him want to make you as filthy as he is.
“My mouth on your pussy,” he explains, a hand slipping between your legs and cupping your mound as if to emphasize his words. Your breath hitches and he grins. You’re wearing one of his shirts and a pair of panties, nothing else.
You’re in trouble.
“But why would you put your mouth down there?” you question. “It’s dirty.”
He tsks. “Oh, baby. It ain’t dirty. Why would you think that, love?”
You seem scandalized. The expression on your face equal parts adorable and amusing to him. “But…but…” You stutter in your struggle to find an explanation.
“I promise you’ll enjoy it,” he says as he gets off the bed. He grabs your ankles and pulls you to the edge of the bed, your legs dangling over the side. He kneels in front of you, his eyes ablaze with desire. “Don’t overthink it.”
You just watch him with wide eyes as he kisses at your thighs, his lips causing goosebumps to rise on your skin. He moves up, up, up the inside of your thighs, getting closer to your mound.
He nuzzles his nose against your pussy through the cotton of your panties and growls like a fucking animal at your scent. His cock stirs with interest. He mouths at you, kissing and licking at the very center of your panties until your breathing is heavy.
He tugs your underwear off, almost hasty in his haze of need, and he grabs your legs, placing your thighs on his shoulders. He looks up at you, meets your uncertain gaze, and he dives in.
His tongue parts your folds before licking up your slit, towards that needy little bud you’re so obsessed with him touching. You reward him with a gasp and he grins.
He licks at your clit gently, tongue swirling around it then over it, alternating until your legs are quivering. And then he buries his face in your pussy, nose against your clit, tongue slipping into you.
Your back arches, beautiful moans pulled from you as your thighs press together against his head. He groans and doubles up his efforts. He doesn’t care if your thighs suffocate him; he’s going to make you come on his mouth even if it kills him.
Your body starts shaking, your moans ring throughout the room, and you’re writhing and twisting in the bed.
There’s a moment where everything in you tenses, freezes, and then you come, arousal gushing right onto his mouth. Simon gasps, groans, and laps it up like a starved animal. He’s barely weaned you off your high when he stands up, shoves his sweatpants down, and comes on your stomach, the thick ropes of his cum warm and sticky on your skin.
He collapses onto the bed next to you, both of you breathing heavily.
“See, baby? That ain’t dirty. It’s worship—it’s sacred.”
That's how people would describe your relationship with Simon, even your friends gave you a confused, almost unsettling look when you first introduced him to them.
But you couldn't care less. Despite the constant disapproval looks of your parents—especially your father—you still kept on seeing Simon. That's why both of you are on your second year together.
Inside your relationship, both of you managed to stay . . . holy? Or maybe only you. Simon is definitely just holding back, he's aware you want to wait until marriage, and being the best boyfriend he is, he's willing to wait.
Though of course, you still have needs. And despite not wanting to acknowledge it, Simon insists it's okay if you do.
Kisses here and there begin to happen, even though it started as quick pecks on the lips, it slowly turned into a full-blown make out sessions. You pray after—you always do—telling God to forgive you for doing such things and having sinful thoughts.
But soon after, it isn't just kisses. Simon would occasionally pull you into his lap when things get heated, his rough and heavy hands guiding your hips to grind down on his erection, fully controlling your movements.
"'S alright, luvie," he whispers in your ear when he notices your eyebrows furrow slightly, caressing your hips, "It's not in, right?"
And how can you resist your boyfriend when it also feels good for you? So you let it happen, you close your eyes and let yourself feel pleasure, feel him.
Which is why you end up laid down on the couch, skirt lifted up just enough for Simon to see all of you, panties pulled to the side as the angry tip of his cock nudges your soaked entrance.
"Jus' the tip, angel," he coax, leaning down to press a kiss on your cheek, an attempt to calm you down.
"Si . ." you whine at him, fat tears already threatening to spill down your cheeks any moment now, "I don't think I can—"
"Ya can," he answers, almost too fast, "Yer a good girl."
He places a hand on your cheek, caressing softly as his tip slide out of you, then in again, making you breathe in sharply. He makes sure to help you relax again, whispering lowly in your ear as he continues to slip his tip in and out.
He does that for a while, groaning lowly everytime he feels your pussy clench tightly around his languid thrusts—but then he lets an inch of his cock slip inside.
"Simon!" you gasp, mouth agape, your fingernails now digging further into his skin, leaving marks on his bicep. A stray tear runs down your cheek as you close your eyes.
"Shhh, luvie," he coos in your ear, kising your tears away and massaging your hips, "Feels good, doesn't it?"
When you nod hesitantly, he presses deeper once again, working his thick cock inside you inch by inch. It's buried inside your sweet cunt until it bulges in your stomach, the outline of his cock visible.
"Look at tha'," he chuckles darkly, looking down at where your bodies are connected, "Fuckin' made f'me, ye are."
His thrusts becomes harsher soon after, holding you down when you weakly attempt to squirm away from him, or rather his pistoning cock abusing your virgin pussy.
"Atta girl," he rasps, opening your legs wider in order to see more of your glistening cunt swallowing every thick inch of him, "Yer made f'this, made to take my cock, yeah?"
The size of his cock alone is enough to overwhelm you—but the way he fucks you is a different story, he does it like there's no tomorrow, like he's trying to break the damn couch. And his cock reaches your sweet spot over and over again, making your body shudder with each thrust, eyes rolling back.
He's so filthy, filthier than you thought he is. His raspy voice, whispering things in your ear like;
"Look at yer lil' pussy, angel. She's already so eager for it."
"Don't cry, luvie. 'S not wrong, yer still a good girl. My good fuckin' girl."
If you thought him fucking you mercilessly was already too much, you definitely weren't prepared when he fills your cunt up with his seed, hilting himself as deep as he can.
Simon is the largest, most skilled and ruthless warrior of the whole clan—and he's claimed you as his prize after the last successful raid.
He's never found a woman quite like you before.
The women he's laid with before were all lean and strong; wild warriors in their own rights, hardened by the harshness of the North. They'd kept his bed warm, and he'd enjoyed them all, yes, but never longer than a night.
You, though, you are soft in all the right places.
Fat and marbled by a different, more shielded life. Not really a noblewoman, but loved and doted on by your family as their only daughter.
When he finally brings you to his tent late at night, the skin around your neck and wrists are rubbed raw from the rope that'd been bound around them. You're shivering, scared, and still in denial about what happened.
How your life, your family, and everything you hold dear has been so cruelly taken from you in the blink of an eye.
As you kneel on a large direwolf fur rug in the middle of the tent, upheld by mammoth tusks and thick animal hides, the large Wildling brute rests his great axe against one of the bigger tusks before shedding the first layer of his pelt–lined clothing.
And you don't dare look at him, don't dare move, like a newborn fawn seeking cover in the high grass during spring; hoping he'll forget about your presence if you stay still and quiet enough.
But you're trembling so badly, muscles aching from the steady tremors, that you fear you might keel over any second if you don't will your body to obey.
The Wildling groans lowly in relief as the last of his heavy clothes are shed. He rolls his wide, muscular shoulders, takes his skull–bone mask off and stretches his thick neck from left to right to stretch the sore tendons.
He's broad, strong and meaty, taller than the tallest man you've known; covered in battle scars, though some look more like carvings of his or someone else's own making. They give his milky skin an even more skeletal and intimidating appearance.
Naked as the day he was born, without knowing any shame or decency, his large cock sways obscenely between massive thighs; pale as the rest of his body.
Your breath hitches painfully in your throat when he crouches in front of you and brings the tip of a blade up to tilt your chin to his liking. It's almost gentle, how he tries not to nick you—or perhaps he's just playing with his meal before snapping his maw.
And you keep your eyes squeezed shut tightly, face twisted in fear, bottom lip wobbling. A moment of tense silence passes before he slowly exhales through his nose before grunting:
That's how people would describe your relationship with Simon, even your friends gave you a confused, almost unsettling look when you first introduced him to them.
But you couldn't care less. Despite the constant disapproval looks of your parents—especially your father—you still kept on seeing Simon. That's why both of you are on your second year together.
Inside your relationship, both of you managed to stay . . . holy? Or maybe only you. Simon is definitely just holding back, he's aware you want to wait until marriage, and being the best boyfriend he is, he's willing to wait.
Though of course, you still have needs. And despite not wanting to acknowledge it, Simon insists it's okay if you do.
Kisses here and there begin to happen, even though it started as quick pecks on the lips, it slowly turned into a full-blown make out sessions. You pray after—you always do—telling God to forgive you for doing such things and having sinful thoughts.
But soon after, it isn't just kisses. Simon would occasionally pull you into his lap when things get heated, his rough and heavy hands guiding your hips to grind down on his erection, fully controlling your movements.
"'S alright, luvie," he whispers in your ear when he notices your eyebrows furrow slightly, caressing your hips, "It's not in, right?"
And how can you resist your boyfriend when it also feels good for you? So you let it happen, you close your eyes and let yourself feel pleasure, feel him.
Which is why you end up laid down on the couch, skirt lifted up just enough for Simon to see all of you, panties pulled to the side as the angry tip of his cock nudges your soaked entrance.
"Jus' the tip, angel," he coax, leaning down to press a kiss on your cheek, an attempt to calm you down.
"Si . ." you whine at him, fat tears already threatening to spill down your cheeks any moment now, "I don't think I can—"
"Ya can," he answers, almost too fast, "Yer a good girl."
He places a hand on your cheek, caressing softly as his tip slide out of you, then in again, making you breathe in sharply. He makes sure to help you relax again, whispering lowly in your ear as he continues to slip his tip in and out.
He does that for a while, groaning lowly everytime he feels your pussy clench tightly around his languid thrusts—but then he lets an inch of his cock slip inside.
"Simon!" you gasp, mouth agape, your fingernails now digging further into his skin, leaving marks on his bicep. A stray tear runs down your cheek as you close your eyes.
"Shhh, luvie," he coos in your ear, kising your tears away and massaging your hips, "Feels good, doesn't it?"
When you nod hesitantly, he presses deeper once again, working his thick cock inside you inch by inch. It's buried inside your sweet cunt until it bulges in your stomach, the outline of his cock visible.
"Look at tha'," he chuckles darkly, looking down at where your bodies are connected, "Fuckin' made f'me, ye are."
His thrusts becomes harsher soon after, holding you down when you weakly attempt to squirm away from him, or rather his pistoning cock abusing your virgin pussy.
"Atta girl," he rasps, opening your legs wider in order to see more of your glistening cunt swallowing every thick inch of him, "Yer made f'this, made to take my cock, yeah?"
The size of his cock alone is enough to overwhelm you—but the way he fucks you is a different story, he does it like there's no tomorrow, like he's trying to break the damn couch. And his cock reaches your sweet spot over and over again, making your body shudder with each thrust, eyes rolling back.
He's so filthy, filthier than you thought he is. His raspy voice, whispering things in your ear like;
"Look at yer lil' pussy, angel. She's already so eager for it."
"Don't cry, luvie. 'S not wrong, yer still a good girl. My good fuckin' girl."
If you thought him fucking you mercilessly was already too much, you definitely weren't prepared when he fills your cunt up with his seed, hilting himself as deep as he can.
Simon “Ghost” Riley x afab, petite, chubby reader.
summary : After the boys take johnny back to base, a few hours later after you’ve returned yourself, Ghost talks to you, and shows you how wrongly you think about yourself.
cw : insecure reader, short reader, mentions of insecurities of female genitalia, virgin reader, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), fluff, slight angst. detailed smut.
authors note : Hi, first of all, thank you🖤I didn’t know part 1 would get much love, but i’m kicking my feet and giggling with at the comments. I honestly started writing because i didn’t wanna bother other authors with my numerous requests anymore 😭 enjoy! (It’s sooo long, sorry)
The moment you leave, simon stares daggers to johnny, price rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers
“Christ Johnny, can’t talk like that with a woman here, where’s your manners son?”
“Wha’ d she mean, scared f’ sex?” johnny’s words hint at his drunkenness
Simon sighs “Y’ daft moron, watch y’r tongue once in a while aye?”
Johnny snorted, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin.
“Aye, relax, mate. I was only askin’. Didn’t think she’d take it that way.”
Price gave him a hard look. “That’s the problem, Sergeant. You don’t think.”
Johnny’s grin faltered, eyes dropping to his glass. “Just havin’ a wee bit o’ a laugh, sir.”
Gaz leaned forward, voice low. “A laugh’s one thing, Johnny. Makin’ her uncomfortable’s another. You saw her face?”
Johnny muttered, “Aye, I did. Felt bad after, right? Didn’t mean it like that.”
Price exhaled, shaking his head.
Johnny nodded, reading the room and rubbing his jaw. “Got it, Captain. I’ll keep it zipped.”
Simon leaned back again, eyeing him. “See that you do.”
There was a beat of silence before Johnny gave a crooked smile. “Still, she’s somethin’, eh?”
Price groaned. “Johnny.”
Johnny raised his hands. “Alright, alright. I’ll shut it.”
You’re half-asleep when the knock comes, dull, steady, not frantic but enough to pull you out of the haze. You look up at the digital clock on your nightstand.
Two in the morning.
For a second you think you imagined it, but then it comes again.
You drag yourself up, pad to the door in your oversized shirt, rubbing at your eyes. When you open it, Simon’s there. Hoodie up, eyes tired but steady. He smells faintly of rain and smoke.
“Didn’t wake you, did I?” he asks, voice low.
You know he’s lying, you look painfully sleepy.
“You know you did,” you mumble, leaning on the frame. “S’ Johnny okay? He was really drunk.”
He gives a small nod, glancing around like he’s checking the hallway before speaking again. “Johnny was out of line.”
You shrug, still groggy. “It’s fine. Wasn’t personal.”
His brow furrows at that. “Doesn’t make it fine.” He hesitates, then adds quietly, “Didn’t sit right with me, the way he said it. Thought I’d check in.”
You move aside, wordlessly inviting him in. He steps over the threshold, careful not to track dirt on the floor. The air shifts, heavier now, quieter.
“You shouldn’t be apologizing for him,” you say, closing the door.
“Not apologizin’,” he replies, turning to face you. “Just… makin’ sure you know not everyone’s like that.”
He studies you for a moment, his tone softening. “You look knackered. Go on, back to bed.”
You give a faint smile. “You came all this way to tell me that?”
Simon shrugs, eyes crinkling just slightly. “Couldn’t sleep. Guess I needed to know you could.”
He lingers by the door for a moment, the kind of stillness that makes the air hum. You can tell he’s not sure whether to stay or leave. His hand comes up, rubbing at the back of his neck under the hood.
“You want tea or something? My sleep’s ruined too now.” you ask, just to break the quiet.
He huffs out a faint laugh. “Tea. At two in the bloody morning.”
“You’re the one who knocked.”
That earns you a proper look, tired eyes but warmer now, a small trace of a smile behind the mask. “Fair point.”
You move to the small kitchen, fill the kettle. The room feels softer with him in it, even though he barely moves, just stands there watching. When the water starts to boil, he finally speaks again.
“Johnny’s got no filter when he’s had a few. Doesn’t mean he meant any harm.”
You nod, eyes on the mug in your hands. “I know.”
A beat. Then i continue, filling in the silence.
“It’s not that i’m prudish or anything…m just…”
He’s quiet for a beat, then says, “Just..?”
You hand him a mug, and his gloved fingers brush yours as he takes it. His shoulders relax a little.
After a moment or two of not saying anything, you sigh.
“I’m the complete opposite of whatever johnny was describing” you scoff and get some honey, before stopping and turning to simon.
“want some?” you ask him. showing the honey.
He shakes his head for no.
“Guessed so” you smile and put some in your own cup.
“wha? i don’t seem like the honey type?” he smirks, while looking down at the tea.
You snort “I think we both know the answer to that”
i look up at him, sleepy and confused.
He swallows, inhales a sharp breath then looks away
weird.
“Y’ can talk to me, ‘f you want” he says it casually, but i can tell he’s not used to this small talk.
The honey pot clinked against ceramic, a sound too loud in the quiet. Simon watched you stir, his gaze tracking the lazy spiral of steam rising from your mug. He hadn't touched his tea yet, too hot probably. Too early to drink. Like this whole damn conversation.
"You didn't answer," he repeated, voice low, scraping gravel. Not pushing. Just... stating a fact. Like noting an enemy position.
You blinked, the sleep-fog still thick. "Answer what?"
His jaw tightened beneath the mask. A flicker of something…impatience? Frustration?…gone before you could pin it down. "Back at the pub. You said you were..." He paused, searching your face. "Scared."
"Oh." The memory sharpened: Johnny's drunken leer, the crude jokes, the way your stomach had dropped. You wrapped your hands tighter around the warm mug. "It was just..."
Simon shifted his weight, a subtle movement that brought him half a step closer. The kitchen felt suddenly smaller.
You shrugged, staring into the amber swirl of honey in your tea. "Always been scared…of intimacy." The words felt clumsy. Vulnerable. You hated it.
Simon made a sound deep in his throat—a low, displeased rumble. "Why’s that love?" He took a deliberate sip of his tea, grimaced slightly at the bitterness, then pinned you with those tired, unnervingly steady eyes.
Silence stretched. Thick. Awkward. You fiddled with the spoon. He watched you do it.
"You know y'r beautiful right?" The question landed like a dropped brick. Blunt. Unadorned. Utterly Simon.
Heat flooded your cheeks. Not embarrassment, exactly. More like shock. "Simon—"
"Not fishing," he cut in, gruff. "Not bein' nice. Stating another fact." He looked away, suddenly fascinated by the chipped laminate countertop. "Saw it the first time you patched up Gaz after that close call. Saw it when you told Price his strategy was bollocks. Saw it..." He hesitated, the pause charged. "...when you opened this door tonight, lookin' like you'd wrestled a badger for the sheets."
A startled laugh escaped you. "A badger?"
"Point is," he continued, ignoring the laugh, voice dropping lower, "it's got nothin' to do with Johnny's drunken shite. Or curves. Or... whatever nonsense y’r brain was spoutin'. It's you. Sharp. Kind. Annoyingly persistent." He finally met your eyes again. "Beautiful. Fact."
The air crackled. Not with tension, but with something else. Something raw and strangely hopeful. You couldn't look away. His gaze held yours, stripped of the usual Ghost mask of indifference. Just... Simon. Tired. Honest. Standing in your kitchen at 2 AM telling you things Johnny or anyone else could never articulate sober.
"I…it’s not only what you see with the clothes on…that makes me scared.” you whispered, the word barely there, shaky, even.
Simon’s eyes dart everywhere in your face, eyes, lips, trying to put the pieces together. Then he remembers.
He curses silently and looks down, before looking back at me as if in pain “Christ s’ tha’ why you’ve never done anythin’?”
you can only look away, and then to your mortification, you feel your eyes sting.
Simon swears he can feel one of his heart’s tendons stretching a bit too hard, he sighs, then curses no louder than a whisper, before putting his cup down, next thing you know, your head is nuzzled to his chest, and he’s holding you as if he’s holding you together, and maybe, he is.
“How much d’you bet y’r worrying for nothin’ hm?” his thumb soothes your back.
You shrug, not trusting yourself to talk, but simon understands, he just knows, he guides your chin up and wipes your tears “look a’ me love, anyone eva’ kissed y’ before?”
You shake your head no, and he scoffs as if it’s a blasphemy, maybe to him it is. “Wha’ a fucking shame” and swipes his thumb over your bottom lip, before coming closer.
You’re 100% sure you’ve stopped breathing, knees would’ve buckled if he wasn’t holding you up, as he takes off his mask, and comes closer. The intensity of seeing his beautiful face up close for the first time making you light headed.
When he’s no more than a hairbreadth away, he soothes his hand over your waist, and you let out a whine of disapproval.
“Shh, s’ alright, can i?” he says softly, if you weren’t as close as you are, you would've never heard him.
You can only nod, a small sound of desperation escaping past your lips
He moves slow, deliberate, you expected nothing else from Simon Riley.
When his lips make the first contact, your body burns in waves, starting from the place where the contact was made, up to the top of your head, tips of your toes, your heartbeat so loud you’re sure he can actually hear it.
After the first contact, he kisses you like he wants to eat you, slowly, tasting your mouth like he’s eating the pulp out of a ripe fruit.
You yelp as he picks you up with minimal effort, your eyes widening, holding on to his biceps for support, but when you realise what has happened, you’re sure your cunt just turned to Niagara falls.
He makes room for himself between your thighs, his hands find their way back to your spine, one fisting your hair ever so gently in the back of your neck, he’s pushing you away and holding you close at the same time, all while you’re panting and kissing him sloppily back, it’s obvious you don’t know what you’re doing, simon grins against your lips.
“Relax dove, i’ll do all the work yeah?”
You blush in embarrassment, he doesn’t let you like that for long before he’s back to kissing you, his hand finds its way under your shirt, touching the side of your stomach rolls, immediately as if on auto pilot, you whine and suck in your stomach, pushing his hand away
At first, he thinks you panicked, so he backs away slightly, but after he realises what actually happened, he scoffs, and he uses an amount of force to pull you close again that tells you one thing : he wasn’t even trying earlier.
His lips find your neck, while his hands are under your shirt, one of them is kneading your midsection flesh, the other slowly makes its way to your bra strap
He stops for a second to look at you in the eyes “Y’ good so far? Wan’ me to stop?”
I hesitate a bit, and that has him gentling his touch
“No- wait…i just…” you swallow “i don’t want you to be disappointed.” your voice is small.
For someone who has felt big all their life even at 5’2, you’re feeling incredibly small at this moment.
He scoffs “M’ right where i wanna be love, trust me.”
He picks you up and walks to your bed “Last chance t’ tell me to stop”
But you know he’d stop in a heartbeat.
After some silence on your side, he carefully lays you down, leaves the lights off, however much he wants to keep them on, he thinks this will help you if anything.
He takes off your pants first, your legs clamped shut, he soothes his hands down your thigh “Y’r okay babygirl.”
The nickname has your chest warming up. Like a furnace that hasn’t been lit up in years.
He can’t help but feel up your thighs, groaning quietly “Fuck..”
He takes off his shirt then plays with the hem of yours, as if giving you a chance to back off.
Drunk on faux confidence, you help him take it off.
You look at simon for any hint of disgust so far, you find none as he looks at the pudgy stomach, the meaty thighs, he’s eyeing you up like he wants to eat you, no, devour you.
He kisses you again, slow, gentle, almost distracting you as he deftly unhooks your bra, in a last minute panic, you hold the cups against your chest, shaking a bit.
He pets your arm gently, waiting for you to be okay to continue.
“S’ jus’ me an’ you doll, can stop whenever y’ want yeah?” he says quietly.
You shake your head for no and slowly take off the cups, now unsupported by the bra, your heavy tits hang lower than before, nipples down instead of high and proud on your chest, areola big instead of neat and tiny, like the girl johnny was bragging about.
Simon groans louder than before “G’na kill whoever made y’ feel bad about these.”
He kisses you again, as he cups them, spilling from his hands.
“So fuckin’ warm, smell so good” he mutters, as if he’s talking to himself, before he moves down your neck, then your collarbone, then looks at your reaction as he blows air on your nipple, making it stand on the attention.
He swipes his thumb against the left one as he licks the right one without holding back on the eye contact, you swear you make a noise that you’ve never made before. Whole body on fire, every single nerve wakes up after 23 years of no attention.
“Christ” he says before he keeps giving them attention, he bites licks and sucks, until my thighs are rubbing together, he takes it as a sign to kiss lower, down your sternum, slow deliberate kisses down your belly button, biting the flesh of your stomach slightly, with a grin on his face, before kissing your hipbone. And that’s when the warmth goes away.
Suddenly anxiety overtakes you, you forgot about this part, your insecurity since you were a pre teen, your breathing quickens as you realise what’s happening.
His hands are on your cheeks before you can even process anything else “No baby, no, eyes on me, y’r doin so good” he peppers kisses all over your face.
It takes a while and a lot of gentle coaxing before he actually slides down the hem of your underwear, your forearm is over your eyes, his thumb going back and forth on your hip bone.
With your underwear off, your heart clenches in anxiety as you feel the cold air of the room to the one place you can’t stand.
“Bleedin’ jesus dove…”
He carefully takes off your arm and kisses your forehead
“Tha’ what you were worried of?” he says with a smirk, as if he didn’t just wipe away 10+ years of insecurities.
He actually moans as he spreads you open, you turn red, and try to shut your legs, to no avail, his strength not letting you, your fleshy asymmetry now seeming like nothing infront of his eyes as he makes eye contact before licking a long stripe from perineum to clit.
Your body shudders hard, you swear your gasps can be heard all the way to price’s office
“Sweeter tha’ fuckin’ honey baby” he mutters between wet open mouthed kisses all over your cunt.
He sucks and hollows his cheeks, moaning at your clit, his ring finger teasing your entrance. You tighten up on reflex, before another hand rests on your lower stomach “Shh, let me in, y’r okay”
You try to relax, whatever you do it ends up working, because you can feel something entering and thrusting in and out, going deeper each time. At the second finger, you hiss. “Simon…”
“I know baby, i know.” he coos.
After some moments of lavishing your cunt, the tip of the second one fits inside, and he starts thrusting while scissoring slowly, starting up a rhythm with tongue and hand.
The noises you’re making are obscene. Simon keeps saying something in the lines of “Singin’ jus’ like a bird” and “That’s it, show me you like it.”
But you can’t even think or hear, blood rushing, ears ringing, fisting the sheets below.
“Listen to ‘er” your juices and his spit mixing together as he sucks your clit, the hand on your lower stomach making you feel every move of his fingers, his moans working like a vibrator.
It only takes a few thrusts to the spongy little spot before you’re gasping and whimpering as if you’re about to cry, simon just shushes you and keeps telling you to be good and make a mess.
You clench his fingers so hard you swear they might break, he still works you out until the final drop.
You’re both panting by the end, he licks his fingers clean before gathering you into his arms, whispering sweet words, as you tear up in relief, the emotional release making you cry yourself to sleep.
And when you wake up with clean clothes smelling like simon, and your favourite breakfast dish in the making, you find relief in your chest for what feels like forever, because you knew this was your happy ending, the one you never thought you were good enough to get.
Summary: A picnic in the rural forest turns into a steamy game of profanities as Henry decides to demonstrate how he would persuade you to be his.
Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader (2nd person POV)
Word count: 2K
Warning: 18+, smutty smut, oral sex - female receiving, lewd, descriptive profanities that will make your ears burn,praising, outdoor sex, gentle rough sex, creampie.
A/N: This was requested ages ago: messing around with Henry duri picnic. The dirty talk was inspired by a chat with Wendy. Beta’d by the one and only queen @agniavateira. The Mythology quotes of Apollo and Dapne are based on Wikipedia. *No permission is given of reposting, copying my work or ideas and parts from it and claiming it as your own*
Feedback is welcome, comment and reblog if you enjoyed.
Title: Dirty Henry
Honey-coloured leaves floated in the air, flapping tenderly like frail butterflies that danced frivolously in the wind. Lying on your back over a blanket, you watched them as you listened to the rustle of leaves and the water flowing down the small stream nearby.
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cw: tub sex (slightly big tub fit for two people and loki's monster cock), fingering, praise kink, overstimulation, soft but mean!dom loki, subspace subspace subspace
"ssh," loki chuckles, kissing your forehead and laying you down, his cock sliding out of your spent hole. you whimper, sensitive from all the orgasms he just gave you.
"i know, i know, i did very well," he teases, knowing you don't have the strength to hit him with a pillow. you laugh, though, and your chest heaves as you catch your breath, your thighs still twitching from overstimulation.
loki giggles, brushing some of your hair back as he kisses the spot under your eye. "i'll get to running you a bath, dear. get some sleep for now, little dove~"
you smile and nod, and he puts on a pair of pants as he heads into the bathroom.
a few seconds pass and you suddenly get this impatient feeling, one where you want him to come back and smother you in kisses and whispers and hugs and all the love he can give... what is this? why are you suddenly so clingy now?
whatever it is has you hopping off the bed and picking up your robe, tying it around your waist as you walk to the bathroom, half-hiding by the door frame as you meekly watch your lover turn on the tap to fill the tub, his back to you as he waits for it to fill up.
it's quite fascinating to watch him do this, you've never seen him set up your bath before. usually you fall asleep or are just too weak to get up, so you have no idea what loki does that makes these baths so relaxing.
he fishes through the drawer and pulls out a jar of flower petals, scattering them in the water.
it makes you think of how well he takes care of you, always insisting it's the least he can do to repay you for "being such a sweet angel" and "obeying him like a good girl". though you protest every single night, he never seems to give in, pressing a finger to your lips to silence your whining.
you peek a little more as he takes a scoop of some bath powder and salt and pours it in the tub, a light fizzing sound tickling your ears sweetly.
loki stretches, groaning lightly as his back muscles tense, and he turns to you.
"oh, hello there~"
he grins cheekily, and you gasp, almost darting off in embarrassment, ashamed you got caught. but he's quicker, and vanishes from his spot just as you feel two arms wrapping around you from behind.
"loki-!" you yelp. he laughs loudly, lifting you up over his shoulder and lightly squeezing your butt. you squeal, only making him more amused.
"there we go," he huffs, setting you down on the counter. "now, what is my darling, sweetheart, pretty angel doing out of bed?" he pecks your lips, waiting for an answer.
"i just wanted to watch you," you mumble.
"mm." he nods, though he doubts that's all to it. "this came unprompted, love?"
"yeah," you hum, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him closer. "just wanted to see you."
he tilts his head curiously as you sink into his bare chest. "you just wanted to see me? it hasn't even been a minute."
you don't reply. he senses something a little different in the way you act, but he pulls back, kissing your nose and lifting you up into a princess carry anyway.
"well, do you still want the bath?"
you nod, clinging to him tighter. he sighs fondly, making his way to the tub and setting you down in the foamy water.
god, it feels super warm against your sore hips and legs. you whimper in satisfaction, sinking further into the tub as loki laughs.
"feels good, baby?" he asks, and you nod, ever so grateful.
loki takes off his pants, sitting down behind you and sighing in relaxation.
he opens his eyes and laughs when he sees you almost fully soaked in the water, sighing again at the refreshing feeling. you rise back up, eyes squinted, hair wet and covered in orange petals and he internally swoons at just how cute you are.
"how are you feeling?" loki asks, moving to hover above you.
"okay," you mumble shyly, smiling up at him.
"just okay?" loki kisses your neck, reveling in the way you try to hide your tiny noises of pleasure.
his fingers trace your thigh as he sucks at your sensitive spot just under your jaw.
"well, i hope you can take my fingers for just a bit more, i'd like to give you a little... reward~"
your eyes widen as you feel his fingers just barely grazing your most sensitive areas. "reward? but we- we just-"
"ssh," he soothes you, nuzzling into your neck. "i know, but i can't help it when you're being so good for me."
he reassuringly squeezes your hand, before pushing your chest so you fully lay back on him. "stay still for me, angel."
"o-okay," you mumble, and he laughs, playfully nipping your cheek, then tracing his tongue over it and doing it again while his fingers slowly work their way inside you.
"is that alright?" he asks lowly, his fingers completely still inside you as he gauges your expression.
you whimper, his voice making you pulse around his digits. "still- still okay," your legs twitching from the slightest stimulation.
loki chuckles, his kisses moving slowly towards your ear as he sucks harder, seeing that you're already so sensitive. he can't not milk you until you're crying, he just can't, you're just too irresistible.
he feels you weakly grip his thigh the moment he moves his fingers inside of you. this must feel heavenly for you, he thinks with a smirk, as you shiver and mewl weakly.
"loki-!" you cry softly, eyes burning with pleasure as he nudges at your sensitive spot again and again. he goes in deeper, eliciting another broken whimper of his name as a singular tear leaks from your pretty, glassy eyes.
you come within seconds, already so sensitive from earlier, and in the perfect headspace for a single touch to make you go crazy and mumble little loki, pleases, and sob softly, no more-
"hmm? more?" he asks teasingly. he knows what he's doing to you, tiring you out until you can't object so he can towel you off and bring you back to bed and use you as his cute little cocksleeve until you pass out, dripping with his essence and twitching in pleasure, the pillows wet with your tears.
he knew what you wanted from the start, even before you did: from the moment he saw your tiny frame in the bathroom doorway. that meek energy he could practically feel, the shy submissiveness in your eyes that he knew all too well, that gives him the sign to make you forget anything but his name and the way he makes you feel.
he's built it up all this time: pampering you and treating you so delicately, kissing you and praising you until you ultimately melted in his arms and gave in to that warm feeling blooming inside you.
it's all planned, except for the way his heart beats so loudly whenever you do anything so adorable.
that's new every single night.
that's why he makes sure to only ever give you the best things, like a nice, soothing bath and more orgasms than your poor little hole can handle.
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