18+ only. afab!reader. grinding. angry, unprotected p in v. cream pie. dirty talk. mw4 price with a beard. daddy kink. ignoring pleas. drooling. holding down. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. implied somnophilia.
.˳˳✧.⋅ॱ word count: 1.8k
Price who’s really beat after a long day at work. Just wants to relax in bed and let the stress of the day melt off him. Until you look up at him, your eyes wide with eagerness, legs rubbing against his under the comforter, hands caressing his arms. All frowns and pouts when he scratches at his beard and lets you down with a pet at your hair and kiss to your forehead.
You say it’s okay with a huff and roll over but when Price clicks the light off and turns to his side, after a few minutes you shift, scoot back a little. Again and again until you’re pressed to his front, head on his arm, and Price figures you just want to cuddle, pouting too much to admit it, so he wraps a heavy arm around your waist, nose nuzzling into your neck. Shiver with the scrape of his beard along your shoulder.
Sleep slowly building behind Prices eyes when your hips shift slightly, grind into his. Doesn’t think anything of it other than you’re getting comfortable. Until the movement of your hips becomes constant, knocking and rubbing against his cock. Can feel your back arch into him and he grunts into your ear, huffs a breath onto your neck that makes your need so much worse.
“Stop that.” He grumbles into your ear, knows that you’re trying to rile him up, so he tightens his arm around you in hopes it keeps you still. A little annoyed now because he’s all chubbed up in his boxers and knows it’ll take a minute before he’s calmed down enough to fall asleep.
You stop, thankfully. Until you don’t. Hips moving just subtly, slowly enough the need clogs your throat and it takes everything in you not to move faster. But Price can feel you moving even though you think you’re being sneaky, sucks in a deep breath before slapping at your thigh with the hand securing your waist.
“Cut it out. Don’t make me tell you again.” You shudder, eyes fluttering shut at the hoarseness in his throat. It only eggs you on, makes you throb at the threat behind his words.
You smash your hips back into his cock, grind without subtleness because he’s all worked up now even though he wouldn’t want to admit it. Angry and so hard against you that his arm under your head curls around your front, forearm under your jaw and hand clenching at your shoulder to keep you secure against his chest.
“Want it? Here it comes, baby.” He croaks in your ear. Annoyance and anger rolling off of him in waves as his other hand shoots down to lift your leg, yanks your soaked panties to the side. Makes you whine because he doesn’t bother touching your achy clit just huffs in your ear, rough with his grip that has tingles running over your body shuddering with anticipation.
Your breaths get heavier, body drumming when his hand darts back to wrestle his cock out. Feel it hot and heavy against your ass that you whine, need so heavy in your mind that just the feel of it against your pussy has you gushing.
Price grins when he lines himself up, soaks in the loud cry you let out when he thrusts in because you’re going to regret riling him up.
The airs punched from your lungs when he bottoms out. Pussy stinging at the quick stretch around him, whimper at the pleasure it shoots up your spine. Moan at the throb of him stretching you wide and filling you to the brim.
Bitterness in the way he handles you exactly what you were throbbing for when he pet your head and said maybe another night.
Price grunts and groans into your neck, hooks his arm under your knee and pins it to your chest so you can feel him deep inside you. Starts his thrust all of a sudden, pace so quick and harsh the air is knocked from your lungs. Have to gasp and huff to force air in from the grip he has around your front and pressure from his thrusts.
Makes sure he stuffs you to the hilt as he pounds away at your cervix, has you clawing at his arms, loud keens and moans drowning out the squelching of your pussy.
“What you wanted, huh? Desperate slut. Always needs Daddy’s cock fillin’ you up.” He spits into your ear, jerks when you flutter around him. Mind feasting at how pliable you are. How he can bully his cock into you and all you do is swallow him up and moan. How if he goes at it long enough you’ll blabber thank yous until Price has to fill your mouth so you shut up.
Price groans at the thought, cock slamming into you roughly as the imagine flashes in his mind. You mewl, words clogged in your throat, forced down by the pleasureful cries you can’t hold back. His beard scratches at your neck and shoulder, has tingles shooting down your back and making you push your ass into him.
The bed squeaks and rocks, Prices hips pounding forward and slapping into your ass. You bounce off his hips with each thrust, eyes fluttering closed because you can feel the head of his cock dragging against your walls and knocking at your cervix.
When you clench around him he shifts his hips, pummels his cock into your sweet spot so he can really feel you convulse around him. Has you squealing and toes curling, mind going fuzzy and soft with the pleasure coursing through you. Nails digging into the thick forearm around your throat, mouth falling open in silent cries when the feeling makes your body burn, heat blazing in your stomach.
Can feel drool dribble down your chin onto his forearm. Hand flying back when it feels like you might pass out, mind humming so violently you can’t think straight. “Slow, Daddy.” You whimper. “Too fast.”
Price tuts, grunting as he growls into your neck. “Take what I fuckin’ give you, baby. Wouldn’t let Daddy sleep because of your greedy cunt. Gonna pump ‘er full of cum so she sleeps real good tonight.” He purrs, drops his arm from your shoulder to hold your knee up so he can squeeze at your tits.
You squeal and grip at his arm when he pinches at your nipple through your shirt, rough material making lightening shoot through you.
“‘M sorry, Daddy.” You pant when his hand darts under your shirt. “I’ll be good. Just- slow down!”
Price palms at your chest, squeezing and tugging as his hips pummel into you, dips his mouth to nip at your neck when he sees you swallow thickly. Beard scraping your shoulder raw as he kisses and sucks harshly to leave purple marks for later.
“Too late for sorrys, baby. This is what you were begging me for. Can’t back out now.”
Tears spring to your eyes at the overwhelming amount of pleasure coursing through you. Think you’re getting a break when Price takes his plucking fingers away from your chest but lurch when you feel them at your clit.
Cry out when his rough fingers rub quickly at you, spasm and clench so hard you hear his low moans muffled against your neck, covered in sweat which he licks up, sends shivers down your spine and zips to your cunt.
His groans get lower, thrusts turning sloppy and short, feel every inch of him pull out and thrust back in more clearly. You can feel the veins of his cock grind against your walls, not a blur of feeling anymore, but they drag and tease you, have tingles shooting up your neck.
The pace of his fingers stay the same though, quick and sharp that an orgasm is quick to form. Have you squirming and whimpering, digging your nails into his arm as your ears ring.
Price curses, clench’s his jaw at the tight convulses around his cock, draws his balls tighter until the need to cum is clawing at his brain. Fingers still working against your clit for a second orgasm so he can have you cumming with him.
“Too much, Daddy.” You squeal with overstimulation, claw and tug at his hand until he coos, drops your leg and snatches your jaw in his paw to smash your lips together, beard nuzzling into your face so he can swallow your soft whimpers until you can’t breathe. Legs clenching and kicking around his hand, but never stopping his movements until another orgasm claws its way though your overstimulation.
Snatches his lips away, hand tight on your jaw to watch your face contort as you cum, picks up the pace of his hips when he gets closer. His groans and your soft mewls mixing together until you squeal and Price grunts lowly, your toes curling as you come together. Fingers and cock moving so quick your whole body tenses as your orgasm runs through you. Flutter so tightly around his cock you can feel the pulses that shoot his cum deep in your cunt. Ears ringing as you tremble until the waves of pleasure are soft throbs.
Price curses into your lips, groans when he gives a lazy thrust to make sure the last bits of his cum make it inside you. Pulls out slowly and watches you whimper at the noise and feel. Tugs your panties back over your spent pussy, before cupping your cunt with his palm.
Satisfaction coiling in his chest when you squeal, head slumped against his arm, jerk your hips away from the pressure at your clit, but you’re attempts are futile when there’s no where to run, and he follows you until his palm is nestled against you.
“Settle down, whiny girl.” He rasps, shakes his palm against you until you clutch at his wrist to stop the vibrations from moving your clit. “Ain’t nothing to cry over now you’re nice and full. Or does she want more?” He squeezes.
You gasp and hold his wrist down as much as you could. “No more, Daddy. She’s too full.” You whine, squirm at the feel of him leaking onto your panties. Too impossibly tired to care about how dirty you are.
“You sure, baby? I could stop now or be greedy and keep going like you did.” He taunts.
You suck in a deep breath, eyes heavy with sleep. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I won’t do it again, I’ll be good.”
Prices pecks your temple with a soft chuckle. “I’ll let you sleep for now, baby. Fuck your little cunt through the night. Daddy’s gonna teach you a thing or two about messing with him while he’s trying to sleep.”
You shudder at the thought, promise lingering at the back of your mind as he tucks you both back into bed, until he wakes you up later, mind so drowsy you barely notice how you’re pinned underneath him, hips grinding another round of cum into your cunt.
remember when i said i was trying to quit smoking…
…yeahhh
anyway ghost has a cigarette settled between his chapped lips all while staring up at you. you’re riding him, although your movements are sloppy.
one massive hand sits atop your thigh, relaxed but every so often he gives it an encouraging squeeze cause “you’re doing such a good job for me, darlin’”
you’re sensitive. barely able to sit up straight as your pubic bone grinds against the patch of hair at the base of his cock. he’s buried so deep you don’t know where you end and he begins.
he has a hand resting behind his head, his biceps and the fat of his arms bulging each time he tenses. your inner walls drag along a vein that makes his eyes almost roll back into his skull.
“tha’s it…tha’s my girl. use me. i know that pussy’s missed me. let’s make sure she gets her fill.”
Thinking about ghost who occasionally babysits for single mom!reader during his leave, right?
It was a simple arrangement born of ghost dying to try that chicken you cook every weekend, and you needing someone to watch your little girl at the park while you worked. First, you were scared it wouldn't work out, either ghost wouldn't click or your daughter wouldn't like him.
Turns out ghost loves taking care of kids, and your sweet girl loves having 'Mr Simon' around.
Which is how ghost is woken up at near six in the morning by incessant knocking one day.
You stand in his doorway, face burning in embarrassment while your little girl waves up at him excitedly "Mr simon!!! Mr simon it's me!! Happy father's day!!"
Ghost is too shocked to do anything other than take the paper, with macaroni shapes glitter-glued into the word 'dad' with a bit heart around it. He glances at the paper, then down at your beaming daughter, then at you.
"I'm really sorry, it's so early–" you try to apologize, hoping to get your daughter back to your apartment before she thoroughly embarrasses you "but she was so excited. I hope it's no trouble—"
"...I'm not a father?" Ghost tilts his head, because of course he can dismantle a rifle in ten seconds but can't pick up cues.
"No!!" Pumpkin yells from down by his knees, having already latched on like the clingy thing she is "you're my dad!! Because mom looooovessss you!!! She told the voice on the phone so!"
The voice on the phone being your friend you call every Tuesday while your sweet pea is supposed to be napping.
"That so?" Ghost mumbles, eye's wide. You watch the deep blush spead from his face all the way down his neck, silently dying inside the whole time.
"Yeah!! And she told the phone voice you're gonna give me a little brother—" you gasp, haul your child up and quickly cover her mouth, wondering if moving countries is really that hard.
"Uhm. Ignore that, she's young and doesn't understand things—" you rush out, backing up to your apartment while you talk. "Uhm, sorry for waking you! Okaybye!!"
"Huh." Ghost blinks.
The macaroni art is the only thing pinned up on his wall. Right above his bed.
Fat Reader crying because theyre insecure about their weight, and when Simon, the man Reader's been pining on for months confesses to them, they think its a cheap joke, and degrade themselves, saying "You can't even pick me up!"
Simon somehow gets Reader's number (Reader did NOT give it) and sends a video of Simon hip thrusting double Reader's weight with sweet groans, the outline of his bulge straining, clearly imagining Reader was on top of him.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex
Note: I’m on Instagram now (kinda), come say hi :-)
Word count: 2.1k
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.
You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.
By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.
That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.
And things had only been official for a week.
You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.
He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.
Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move
Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.
You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.
“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.
You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.
“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.
Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”
He slid deeper for emphasis.
You didn’t.
You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.
“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.
Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.
This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.
Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.
“Better?” The man’s question was simple.
Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.
You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.
Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.
“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”
“I—I know, I just can’t—”
At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.
You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.
“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”
The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.
“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”
“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”
“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”
But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.
Maybe you’d never found that place after all.
This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.
You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.
Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”
“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.
Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.
With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.
You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.
“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”
Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.
It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.
“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.
“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”
Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.
Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.
He still held onto your other hand tight.
Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.
Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:
“Higher.”
“Higher?”
“Um, to the…to the left.”
Simon tilted his hips left.
Yes.
That was just it. So close.
Almost…
Or, maybe…
“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”
Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.
Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…
“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”
The grin above you stretched even wider.
“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.
“Right there.” You nodded furiously.
A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.
“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.
“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”
Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.
The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.
Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.
You realized as much when he whispered it to you.
“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”
Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”
Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.
“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.
“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”
The ones that you’d been with before.
You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.
Simon was back inside you in a blink.
Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.
He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.
Vindicated.
“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”
You nodded in agreement.
You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.
“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”
When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.
And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.
Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.
“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.
His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.
You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”
“Feel good when I hit it?”
“Fucking perfect, Si.”
You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.
“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”
“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”
“Go on then, love.”
And, shortly, you did.
Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.
Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.
It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”
You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.
“Thank you,” you murmured against him.
Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.
He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.
No thoughts just alpha!ghost who grew learning to control his scent and omega!reader who very much...didn't.
Ghost had always been told that spilling your scent everywhere was poor manners, that only children couldn't control their scent. Meanwhile you were taught that having an open scent was essential for communication and perfectly normal.
Which means the first time ghost meets you, his instincts have no idea what to do with such strong happy omega scents suddenly in his space. Ghost grew up with scent blockers at home, and in most public spaces people wear some sort of blocker. You barely have a chance to purr a greeting before he's grabbing you by the shoulders and shoving his face into your neck.
"Mghhggh— omega. Sweet. Good." He rumbles, low and muffled into skin, almost as if he doesn't register it's happening. You can only stand in shocked confusion. Gaze slipping to the still open door of his office and wondering if you should call for help, because you have no idea why he's acting like this and—
"Fuck— you smell good— christ—" ghost holds you tighter, crowding you against the desk. You tentatively lean in to sniff around his scent blockers and get the faintest scent of arousal.
Which is instantly confirmed by his hips rutting forward, his hard cock rubbing against you while he whines "sorry— I don't— fuck that's good—"
Oh. Oh shit. The peices slowly click into place, and you realize exactly what your scent is doing to him, though you always thought this sort of aphrodisiac like reaction was a myth.
You try to soften your scent, knowing it will stress him out if your own scent fluctuates too much, one hand sneaking up to massage the back of his neck "hey. Hey, it's okay. I get it, do what you need to do."
Ghost makes a sound caught between a growl and a keen, pressing the entire length of his body against you. "Fuck— sorry— hold still— omega. Smell good. Mhhh—!"
You've never seen an alpha react like this.
You've also never seen an alpha pop a dry knot in his trousers, and yet thats exactly what ghost just did.
....you. probably shouldn't leave him alone in such a vulnerable state, right? You should stick around in his office, close the door and makes sure he's okay.
You're just being a considerate coworker....or thats what you'll tell yourself later.
Five years into marriage, you and Simon stand in the middle of the warm, chaotic family life you once only dreamed about, raising your two children in the kind of ordinary, hard-won happiness that finally feels like home.
46. The Good Noise
Five years later, the house is noisy in all the right ways.
Not the kind of noise that grates. Not the kind that makes you want to hide in the bathroom with your phone and pretend you are somewhere quieter.
Good noise.
Lived-in noise.
The tiny thud of little feet in socks on hardwood. The creak of one kitchen cabinet that still has not been fixed because life keeps being busier than hinge repairs. The soft whir of the baby swing in the corner of the living room. The kettle beginning to hiss. The monitor on the counter giving off the faint static-breath sounds of a newborn who has only just drifted off again.
This house is nothing like Simon's old flat.
It is not small. It is not dark. It is not built for one careful man who once arranged his whole life around mobility and exits and silence.
It is a real house.
A warm one.
A little outside Manchester where there is enough room for a garden and a swing set and a kitchen big enough for chaos. Cream walls. Deep green cabinets. Wide windows over the sink. A long wooden table always buried under some combination of crayons, your laptop, toy cars, packaging samples, and at least one abandoned sippy cup.
The kind of house you once described half-jokingly in bed, back when future talk still felt like tempting fate.
Good windows.
A big kitchen.
A bit of space.
Somewhere cozy. Somewhere lived in.
You stand in that kitchen now, bouncing your daughter lightly against your shoulder while trying to stir pancake batter one-handed.
She is only six weeks old, all warm milk scent and soft cheeks and tiny noises. Simon's daughter in the most unfairly obvious way. Dark little wisps of hair already coming in. Sleepy, serious eyes when she is awake. Long fingers. Dramatic outrage when her bottle is thirty seconds late.
His princess.
You had laughed the first time the phrase slipped out of his mouth in the hospital. He had looked mildly horrified at himself and then impossibly more gone when he looked down at her.
Now it is simply fact.
You shift her gently and reach for the whisk again.
At your feet, Tommy is narrating an entire war campaign to a line of dinosaurs and toy trucks.
"No, no, no," he says to a plastic T-rex in a tiny, fierce little voice. "You have to wait your turn."
You smile to yourself.
Tommy is four and built entirely out of knees, opinions, and endless questions. Your eyes. Simon's mouth. Simon's serious stare too, though mercifully deployed only in short bursts before he is distracted by toast or bugs or the promise of helping in the garden.
He is in the stage where he wants to be involved in everything.
Cooking. School pickups. Candle labels. Mud.
Especially mud.
He looks up now, curls falling into his eyes. "Mum, can Dad make the big pancakes."
You laugh softly. "Dad's not home yet, baby."
Tommy considers this. "But he's coming home."
Not a question.
Never a question anymore.
That certainty still catches you sometimes. Not because the job got easier. It did not. Not because the world got safer. It did not.
But because Simon made coming home a promise he built his life around, and Tommy has grown up inside that promise.
"He is," you say, and set the whisk down. "He'll be home soon."
Tommy nods once, satisfied, and returns to repositioning his toy convoy.
Your phone is propped in the little stand by the fruit bowl, camera angled just so.
Weekly vlog day.
You still do them. Not with the frantic, daily, algorithm-chasing pace you once had to. The brand is established now. Healthy. Bigger than you dreamed when it was just labels and mockups spread over Simon's table.
You still film, but it is slower. More intentional. Home life. Work life. The reality of being a mother and founder and wife in one moving body.
The comments call it grounding. Comforting. Aspirational in a cozy way.
They never see the children's faces.
That was Simon's only hard line.
"No faces online."
Simple. Final. Non-negotiable.
You had agreed before he even finished the sentence.
So your content adapted.
Tiny hands grabbing blueberries. The back of Tommy's head in a raincoat while he helps water herbs in the garden. The top of the baby's blanket-covered carrier on a morning walk. The side of a little socked foot kicking in your lap while you answer emails.
Enough to share the life.
Not enough to hand it over.
You hit record with your elbow and smile toward the phone while adjusting the baby against your shoulder.
"Good morning," you say softly. "It's weekly vlog day, which means we are doing pancakes, package approvals, and trying to answer emails before someone very small decides she hates being put down."
Tommy pops up at the bottom of frame like a summoned spirit, only his curls and little striped shoulder visible.
"I don't hate pancakes," he announces.
You laugh. "Good. Strong take."
From the monitor comes a tiny newborn grunt.
You tilt your head toward it. "That one has not submitted her opinion yet."
You let the camera roll for a few more seconds. Batter bowl. Baby blanket. Small hand reaching for a measuring spoon. Domestic proof of life.
Then you stop the clip.
The morning moves the way most mornings do now.
Half mess, half choreography.
The baby finally lets you lay her in the bassinet by the window. Tommy "helps" by carrying napkins one at a time to the table while wearing one of Simon's old baseball caps backwards and announcing himself as "the pancake boss."
You pour the batter.
Coffee brews.
There is a stack of Ember & Ash proofs on the far end of the table waiting for your notes. Autumn line updates. Packaging tweaks. A draft launch schedule. Business still lives here too, but it lives among the fruit snacks and crayons now, and somehow that feels more honest than it ever did in polished studios.
By ten, the vlog has already caught a few little moments that will make your audience lose their minds later.
A tattooed hand entering frame to set your coffee beside the laptop.
A second larger hand reaching down to catch Tommy's bowl before it tips.
The comments will be a bloodbath.
Because after all this time, the internet still only really knows Simon in fragments.
His hands.
His forearms.
The edge of his wedding band.
A glimpse of him from the chest down carrying groceries in from the car or passing a snack into frame or lifting a small body out of sight while you laugh behind the camera.
Now they also know mysterious dad hands.
There are whole edits dedicated to "the way her husband always appears when the toddler is two seconds from disaster."
You showed him one once and he stared at it for a full ten seconds before muttering, "They need jobs."
Then immediately reached out to take the baby from you when she fussed, proving the entire point.
The back door opens just after noon.
The sound is familiar enough that your body reacts before your brain fully does.
You look up from the counter.
Simon steps in.
Dark jacket. Boots. That particular tiredness in his face that never fully goes away after a long stretch of work. He looks broader somehow now than he did in the flat all those years ago. More settled in his body. More grounded. Not softer exactly, because life has never allowed him to become soft in the simple sense.
But gentler around the edges at home.
Tommy sees him first.
"Dad!"
The whole kitchen changes with that one word.
Tommy launches himself across the floor. Simon barely gets the door shut behind him before he's crouching to catch the little body that barrels into his legs.
"There he is," Simon murmurs, voice roughened by the cold outside and softened instantly by the child in his arms.
Tommy wraps both arms around his neck and starts talking before he is even fully lifted.
"We made pancakes and Mum says I'm the boss and I did not spill and the baby was grumpy and I have a truck war and can we go outside later?"
Simon glances up at you over Tommy's shoulder.
Your eyes meet.
There it is.
That tiny, private pause that still belongs only to the two of you.
Home.
Then he's crossing the room with Tommy on one hip like he was built that way, like he has always been built that way. He kisses your mouth first. Then your forehead. Then glances into the bassinet with an expression that still undoes you every time.
"How is she."
"Fed. Warm. Deeply offended by existence for about twenty minutes, but otherwise okay."
He huffs a soft laugh and sets Tommy down just long enough to wash his hands.
Then he goes straight to the bassinet and lifts your daughter with astonishing care for a man who once terrified half the world for a living.
She makes one tiny sound and settles instantly against his chest.
Tommy climbs onto a chair and sighs dramatically. "She likes Dad best."
Simon looks down at the baby, then at your son, with a seriousness that is almost funny.
"She likes whoever's warm."
Tommy narrows his eyes. "I'm warm."
"You are sticky," you correct, walking over with a dish towel to scrub at his syrupy fingers.
He twists away, scandalized. "Mum."
Simon smiles.
Smiles.
Still one of the best things you have ever earned.
He leans against the counter with the baby tucked against him, Tommy now pressed to his leg talking a mile a minute about absolutely nothing and everything. Your phone, still quietly recording on its stand, catches only pieces. The edge of Simon's hand smoothing over the baby's back. Tommy's little arm around his thigh. Your own laughter from just off frame.
It is enough.
More than enough.
The afternoon goes the way most afternoons do when he is home.
You answer two work emails with one hand while bouncing the baby again because Simon insists on making actual lunch for everyone now that he is in the kitchen. Tommy "helps" stir cheese into pasta and gets more on the spoon than in the pot. Simon pretends to be stern about it and fails because your son's grin is too much like yours.
Later, while the baby sleeps on your chest and Tommy watches cartoons under a blanket fort in the living room, Simon sits at the far end of the couch with his laptop open and one ankle over his knee, helping you go over a supplier issue for the winter line like this is the most natural thing in the world.
Which it is now.
Your careers still coexist without tangling.
His work remains his. Private. Boundaried. Protected.
Yours remains yours. Visible in the ways you choose. Built by your own hands and still growing.
Neither one swallows the other.
You built your life around the edges of each other without cutting either one down to fit.
And somehow, impossibly, it worked.
When evening settles in, the house glows.
Kitchen lights warm. Fireplace low in the sitting room. Rain threatening at the windows. Tommy finally asleep upstairs after three stories and one dramatic negotiation for extra water. The baby dozing in the crook of your arm while you and Simon stand together in the kitchen cleaning up the remains of dinner.
Your phone is propped nearby one last time for the end of the vlog.
You hit record.
The frame catches the sink, the warm window, your hand reaching in to steal a clean spoon from the drying rack. Then Simon's hand enters to take it from you and set it somewhere safer because apparently, even now, his instinct is to manage quietly from the edges.
You laugh softly.
"That's all for this week," you say toward the phone, voice low so you don't wake the baby. "We had pancakes, work, package approvals, and at least one tiny kitchen meltdown, which feels like a very accurate summary of our life."
Simon's hand settles at your back just out of frame.
You smile without looking at him.
"See you next week."
You stop recording.
The house falls into that deep, precious kind of quiet that only comes after children finally sleep.
You turn toward him.
He is looking at you with the baby in your arms, your ring still on your hand, your whole life written into the lines around you.
"What," you whisper.
He steps in close enough that your hips touch.
"Nothin'," he says, because some things about him never change.
You raise a brow.
He lets out the smallest breath of laughter, then leans down and kisses the baby's head first. Then your mouth.
Slow. Familiar. Home.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead lightly against yours.
"This is a good life," he says quietly.
You look around him.
At the kitchen. The toys. The monitor on the counter. The proofs still stacked beside the fruit bowl. The little muddy wellies by the back door. The huge, impossible, ordinary thing the two of you made.
The place you always wanted but never knew you needed.
The life you built.
And he came home to it.
"Yeah," you whisper, smiling. "It really is."
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You surprise Simon with a secluded lochside honeymoon lodge in Scotland, where the quiet, privacy, and slow domestic intimacy let him fully settle into being your husband.
45. Where the World Goes Quiet
You do not tell Simon where you're taking him.
Not when you first book it in a fit of smug, over-caffeinated post-wedding bliss. Not when you print the reservation and hide it in the drawer beneath your side of the wardrobe. Not even when he catches you triple-checking train times and asks, one brow raised, "What are you up to."
You just smile and say, "Trust me."
He looks immediately suspicious.
"Don't like that phrase."
"You married it," you say sweetly, and kiss him before he can interrogate you further.
That is how you get away with it.
Mostly because he is still in that dazed little pocket of post-wedding tenderness where he seems permanently one half-step behind his own happiness. He is still looking at your ring, still saying wife like it sneaks up on him, still pulling you close in the kitchen for no reason other than he can.
So when you tell him a week after the wedding to pack for three nights and not ask too many questions, he does exactly what you hoped he would.
He grumbles.
But he packs.
The morning you leave, Manchester is silver and cool and half asleep.
Simon is in the kitchen before you, because of course he is, making coffee in joggers and a grey tee with sleep still rough in his voice. You walk in wearing leggings, one of his hoodies, and an expression so pleased with yourself that he immediately narrows his eyes.
"You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
He slides your mug across the counter and studies you over the rim of his own. "Should I be worried."
"No."
"You say that with too much enthusiasm."
You grin and take a sip. "Pack the boots."
He freezes for half a second.
Then, very carefully, "Boots?"
"Mhm."
He sets his mug down slowly. "You're not takin me somewhere where I have to wear linen, are you."
You snort. "No."
"Or smile at strangers."
"No."
"Or eat decorative food."
You laugh. "No."
His whole body loosens a fraction.
"Alright," he says, like he's trying not to sound relieved. "Fine."
You set your mug down and wander over, sliding your arms around his waist. "I know you, baby."
He looks down at you, one hand resting automatically at the small of your back.
"That's what worries me."
"You're dramatic."
"You planned a mystery trip for a man who likes maps and exits. That's cruel."
You kiss him anyway. Slow enough that by the time you pull back, he's lost the edge of his complaint.
"Trust me," you whisper.
He sighs softly. "Still hate that phrase."
"You really don't."
He doesn't.
You get him to the train station with exactly zero clues.
He figures out quickly that you are not leaving the country, which already helps his mood. Then he realizes you are heading north and gets quieter in that thoughtful way that means he's trying to work it out.
You sit across from each other on the train, your legs tangled beneath the little table, your coat tossed beside you. Rain tracks the windows in thin silver lines while the city slowly gives way to open green.
Simon watches the landscape, then watches you watching him.
"Scotland?" he asks after an hour.
You smile and shrug. "Maybe."
He stares. "You're takin the piss."
"Maybe I am."
His mouth twitches despite himself.
It is the best part of the surprise so far. Not the destination. Not even the smug satisfaction thrumming in your chest.
It is seeing him begin to soften into it.
Seeing the way his eyes move over the hills when the scenery changes, the buildings thinning out, the sky opening wider. The way some old tension in him starts slipping off by degrees.
He reaches over at one point and hooks two fingers around your ankle where your foot rests against his leg.
"You really planned this."
You smile down at the contact, then back at him. "Yeah."
His thumb brushes absently over your sock through your leggings.
"Why."
You tilt your head. "Because I love you. Because I wanted to take my husband somewhere he'd actually enjoy instead of somewhere with too many white robes and couples massages."
He gives you a look. "Could've done without the robes, yeah."
"Exactly."
You lean forward a little. "And because you take care of everyone else all the time, and I wanted to give you a place where your shoulders actually come down from around your ears."
His gaze goes quiet at that. Warmer.
"You noticed that."
"Simon," you say, deadpan. "I have literally seen you evaluate the exits of a brunch place."
He huffs a laugh and squeezes your ankle once. "Fair."
You sit back and let the train rock the two of you north.
By the time you pull into the small station nearest your stop, the rain has eased to a mist. The air outside is colder. Cleaner. It smells like wet stone and green things and distance.
Simon steps onto the platform and actually stops.
You watch him take it in.
The hills beyond. The dark water visible through breaks in the trees. The little stone station house with flower boxes under the windows. The total lack of anyone trying to sell him a champagne package.
His chest rises in one slow breath.
"Where are we."
You grin and loop your arm through his. "Come on."
The place you booked is a lodge.
Not rustic in the "mould and spiders" sense. Rustic in the expensive, deeply intentional, ridiculously beautiful sense.
Private enough to feel hidden. Warm wood and stone. Big windows looking out over a loch bordered by trees already turning. A fireplace built into the main room. Deep sofa. Big kitchen. Huge bed. Bigger bathtub. The kind of place that feels like exhaling.
When you pull up in the little hired car, Simon goes quiet again.
You know by now that quiet can mean a hundred things from him. This one is almost always good.
You kill the engine and look at him.
"Well?"
His gaze moves from the cabin to you and back again.
"You got me a lodge."
"Yes."
"In the middle of nowhere."
"Yes."
He looks out over the water again. The hills. The soft grey sky. The privacy.
"You sneaky little shit."
You burst out laughing. "So that's a yes?"
He turns to you fully then, expression giving way just enough for you to catch the softness underneath it.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "That's a yes."
The inside is even better.
The owner left a little welcome basket with local bread, jam, whisky, and a handwritten note. There are heavy blankets folded at the foot of the bed and the fire is already laid, ready to be lit. The kitchen has black iron fixtures and a long wooden table that instantly makes you want to drink coffee and kiss there.
But Simon doesn't even make it that far before he sets your bags down just inside the door and catches your face in both hands.
"You did all this and didn't say a word."
You smile up at him. "Well, if I'd told you, it wouldn't have been a surprise."
His thumbs brush your cheeks.
"You're ridiculous."
"You married me."
His mouth curves in that small, private way that always feels like being chosen. Then he kisses you there in the entryway while the lodge smells like wood and cold air and whatever that shift in his chest is called when he realizes someone built something just for him.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
"I love you," he says quietly.
It still catches you every time, not because he says it rarely now, but because he says it like he means the full weight of it.
"I know," you whisper. "And I'm very smug about it."
He laughs softly and finally lets you go.
The first afternoon becomes all the things you hoped it would be.
You unpack slowly, because there's no rush. No plan except being here.
You film a little, naturally. Small clips. The view from the window. Your hand on the door latch. The kettle whistling in the kitchen. Simon's broad back carrying logs in from outside because of course he's already claimed stewardship over the fireplace.
You keep him out of frame mostly, though one shot catches his hand setting your mug down by the couch and you know the internet will lose its mind later.
"You're impossible," he says when he catches you filming him stacking wood.
"It's for the memories."
"It's for your followers."
"It can be both."
He gives you a look over his shoulder, then goes back to the fire. "No face."
"Never."
That relaxes him immediately.
You wander outside before sunset in borrowed wellies and one of Simon's heavier jackets zipped to your chin. The ground is damp. The air has that edge that makes your cheeks pink. Simon walks beside you with his hands in his pockets, boots sure over the gravel path, your fingers linked with his because there is no one around to make him self-conscious about it.
The loch lies dark and glassy beyond the reeds.
"This is nice," you say softly.
He glances down at you. "That all."
You smile a little. "No. But I'm trying to be understated."
He nudges your shoulder gently with his. "Don't suit you."
"I know."
You stop near the edge of the water and look out over it, then up at him.
"You really like it."
He doesn't answer right away. He just looks back at the lodge, the smoke beginning to curl from the chimney, the total lack of noise beyond wind and birds and water.
"Yeah," he says finally. "I really do."
It's such a simple thing, but the relief of it floods you anyway.
You step in close, wrap your arms around him under the big jacket and press your cheek to his chest.
"Good."
He folds around you automatically.
"You know," he says after a second, voice low in your hair, "I was prepared to fake enthusiasm if this was terrible."
You laugh. "Oh, I know. But I was also prepared to leave you here and go to a spa by myself if you got too mouthy."
He huffs a laugh into the top of your head and kisses your temple.
"You'd miss me."
"Probably."
"Liar."
He's right.
The first night is slow.
That's the only word for it.
You cook together because you genuinely want to, not because you have to. Something simple. Pasta and salad and too much bread from the basket. Simon pours whisky after. You curl up on the sofa under a blanket while the fire throws warm gold over the walls and rain starts again beyond the glass.
You don't turn on the television.
You don't need it.
You talk instead.
About nothing and everything.
About the wedding, now that it's done. About how strange it still feels to say husband and wife out loud. About children in that softer, less abstract way it's become safe to do lately. About how much Holly cried during the first dance. About how Johnny nearly got himself escorted out by one of the old venue staff because he tried to climb a chair during his speech.
You laugh until your sides hurt.
Then it quiets.
The sort of silence that belongs only to people who know each other's breathing well enough not to fill it by force.
Your head is in his lap. One of his hands is in your hair. His wedding band catches the firelight every time he moves.
You look at it for a while before speaking.
"I like seeing that on you."
His hand pauses, then continues slowly smoothing your hair back from your face.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You smile. "Makes you look married."
He rolls his eyes. "That's because I am."
"Mm. To me."
That gets you a different look. Not annoyed. Not teasing.
Something softer. Heavier.
He slides down off the couch enough to kiss you slow and deep, his hand warm at the side of your neck, and when he draws back he murmurs, "Best part of it."
You close your eyes for a second because otherwise you might actually melt into the rug.
The second day is even better because all the edges are gone.
No travel. No checking in. No settling.
Just the two of you in rhythm.
You wake tucked against him while pale morning light washes the room. He's warm, sleepy, softer here than he is anywhere else. No phone buzzing. No schedule. No one expecting anything.
You make coffee barefoot in your pajamas while he lights the fire again because he likes the ritual of it. You film the smallest little clip of his hand striking the match, then lower the phone because some things still feel too private in the moment to capture.
You take the little hired car into the nearest village later, just to browse and eat and exist. There's a tiny bookshop and a bakery and a home store where you find a wool blanket that smells faintly like cedar and old paper. Simon buys it before you can tell him not to.
"For the flat," he says.
You raise a brow. "For our flat?"
He gives you a look over the counter where he's paying. "Yeah."
The woman ringing you up smiles like she knows exactly what she's looking at.
You buy jam and postcards and a ridiculous hand-carved spoon you do not need, then bring it all back to the lodge and spend the afternoon doing absolutely nothing of consequence.
You read on the sofa with your feet in his lap. He dozes with one hand on your ankle. At some point you move to the bed because the blankets there are warmer and it becomes one of those drowsy, half-laughing, softly heated afternoons where clothes disappear without urgency and kisses last longer than they have to.
The sex is slow and domestic and thick with affection. You in his shirt, him warm from sleep, the room dim and full of rainlight. Nothing performative. Nothing dramatic.
Just husband and wife in a bed far away from everything else.
After, he lies on his back with you draped over him, fingers lazily tracing the line of your spine, and says into your hair, "Could get used to this."
You smile against his skin. "The honeymoon lodge or being married to me."
"Yes."
You laugh softly, then lift your head and kiss his jaw.
"Good answer."
That night, when the fire has burned down low and the whole lodge is dark except for the little lamp over the kitchen sink, you make one final video.
Nothing flashy. Just little cuts.
The loch in the morning mist. The mugs on the windowsill. Your rings side by side on the blanket. A hand passing bread at dinner. Boots by the door. The blanket from the little shop folded at the foot of the bed. The back of Simon's neck for one frame as he leans over the stove and nothing more.
You sit curled beside him on the sofa editing it while he reads.
"What's the caption," he asks after a while.
You think about it.
Then smile.
"Gone somewhere quiet with my husband."
He lowers the book slowly.
"Husband."
"Mhm."
His mouth twitches. "Still sounds mad."
"You'll survive."
He closes the book, reaches over, and drags you halfway into his lap with one arm.
"I might."
You post it.
The internet, predictably, loses its entire mind.
Not because of the loch or the lodge, though people do scream about both.
Because the first line says my husband.
Your comments fill instantly.
MY HUSBAND??????
the hands got upgraded
quiet honeymoon content i'm SOBBING
she said husband and i blacked out
You laugh so hard you nearly drop your phone.
Simon peers over your shoulder. "Idiots."
"And yet," you say, turning to smile at him, "they are right."
He looks at you for a second too long.
Then, in that quiet way he has when he means something more than the words themselves, he says, "Yeah. They are."
And you kiss him while the fire glows and the rain taps and the whole world beyond the lodge disappears into dark.
Exactly where you wanted him.
Exactly where he thrives.
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✨ Want to be added to the taglist? ✨
Drop a “TAG ME” below and I’ll make sure you never miss a chapter! Influencer chaos x Ghost brooding is not something you wanna sleep on 👀🖤
tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, killing of animals, graphic depictions of domestic violence, graphic depictions of violence, religious guilt, infidelity, please read at your own risk
ch. 7 | masterlist | ao3
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There’s blood everywhere.
Crimson staining the concrete under you, and splattered on your husband’s sleeves. The juxtaposition of your husband and Simon solidifies itself then. Something that made your mouth water and heart race with desire when it came to Simon is repulsive on your husband. Something that lodges a lump deep in your throat, makes it difficult to swallow the tears running down your cheeks.
Your hands shake as you reach out to the bunny lying there motionless. Fear runs through your body, raging anger, but the guilt is the heaviest.
It’s your fault. It’s all your fault.
The bunny was innocent. A sweet, pure thing that had nothing to do with you and Simon or your deceit. And still, your husband took his anger out on it, snapped its neck in two like it was the one coercing you to Simon's doorstep. The poisoned apple.
He’s too narcissistic to realize it was him. Too much of a coward to confess he was the one who forced you down this dark and moldered path. One that made you lose your wedding ring somewhere in the backroom of Simon’s butcher shop when you left your dignity on your knees.
Your husband had hardly noticed really, it’s not like he paid attention to detail when it came to you. You were shocked when he did notice, stuttering over your words, and you offered a weak apology, saying you had lost it while washing the dishes.
It was a lie, he knew it. A part of you thinks you didn’t try to convince him on purpose. That you lost it on purpose because you didn’t know how to end this any other way. It’d be easier if he was the one.
Everything else after that is black, a flurry of running after him as he storms to the backyard shed. You had screamed so loud when he picked the bunny up, the poor thing kicking its hind legs in the toughest fight it could muster. It looked so tiny in his palm, trapped in his confines.
“Been letting you feed this damn pest in my backyard and this is how you repay me?” He spat it out with fury, globs of saliva landing on your cheeks.
“Put it down, please." You spoke calmly, masking the way your chest was vibrating with anxiety. "I don't even know what you're talking about, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. There's that damn word you trickle in. A front. Appeasement of sorts to show you still care, that this is a marriage you want.
“I should’ve known, marrying a whore like you.”
Whore. He says it so often you don't even bat an eye. Sweetheart, whore, the words have become analogous at this point.
You were too late after that. The sound of its cracking neck came first. Its thrown limp body on the floor. Its head makes a thud as it lands hard on the gray cement at your feet, blood splashed underneath it.
It all happened so fast you didn't have time to react besides falling to your knees next to it. The worst part is you didn't even name it. A part of you afraid of the attachment you would've grown when you knew it would eventually lead to this. Afraid of what it would mean when he finally did.
You think you black out for a few seconds, coming to in short fuzzy bursts as reality dawns on you. It's funny the way raw meat did not affect you, not when Simon was the one meticulously handling it. Funny how you were willing to lie on the butcher block next to it all, be the sacrificial lamb instead, but this draws a vizierial reaction.
You stay still, despite your quivering fingers, until the fog clears, until your hands stop and your heart calms. Everything clashes together then, morphing into this ugly, angry monster in your chest that takes over. Years of just burying it down, pretending you were okay, boil over and your pretty bow that sealed it all together unravels. Tears in two for the first time since you've laid eyes on your coward of a husband.
You look up at him then, at the ugly figure that has the audacity to call himself a man. You won’t be too late this time.
“You’re right.” You stand, saying it with the same conviction he spat at you, except yours has reason, a deeper meaning than insecurity. "It’s the butcher. Had me on my knees last week.”
He storms across the distance then, an anger in his eyes you're not quite used to. You don't move though, not even a flinch when he wraps his hands around your throat and slams you against the wall of the shed. Your head throbs from the impact, a panging tightness radiating from your skull down your spine. Your hands find purchase on his forearm, dragging your nails along his skin until it draws blood, legs kicking out as the bunny had in his grasp too.
“Right on top of the meat you eat for dinner every night.” You say it between your strangled breaths and stinging lash line with tears you try your best to hold back.
His fingers tighten around your neck after that and the edges of your vision go dark, hands losing their grip on him when you physically can't fill your lungs with air. You see your mom at the edges, the abuse she endured when you were young. When she wasn’t brave enough to do something about it and leave. When she put her faith above reality. Above you.
You think maybe you should be thinking about your faith instead of hers. Muttering a prayer you were forced to memorize growing up, but none of them come to mind. None of them could help you now. This God should’ve saved you years ago.
The rest is a blur, you don’t know what you grab, or how you even manage to, but it’s heavy, and you can barely wrap your fingers around it. All you know is it makes your husband’s hands fall from your throat, falling back after repeatedly bashing his head with it.
Your cross necklace follows him, silver jewelry ricocheting off the floor. You think it has to be a metaphor, a sign from this God. Being set free from the expectations of religion, set free of the shackles that weighed you down for so long. The cross scalded on your skin melted off.
There’s blood dripping from his forehead when you finally stop, and he’s looking at you in shock, fingers dabbing at the wound like he hadn't just had his hands around your jugular. It makes you laugh, a sound that comes out half broken from your strained throat.
“We’re done.” It's raspy, but final.
You don't look back as you walk back inside the house you've lived in for years. Don't even give him a shred of acknowledgement when you pack a duffel bag.
You find you don't have much of importance in this house besides Simon's jacket.
You don't even realize you've got blood on your shirt and under your finger nails until you're outside Simon's door and he looks at you concerned.
You’re not even surprised when you see your ring glimmer out of the corner of your eye, pinned to the wall like a trophy he’s won.
What begins in soft pre-dawn nerves becomes a wedding day full of truth, joy, and people who love you, ending not in spectacle but in the quiet, perfect rightness of coming home as husband and wife.
44. Deeply Right
The wedding day starts in the dark.
Not dramatic dark. Not storm-cloud, cinematic dark. Just the soft kind that belongs to very early mornings when the rest of the world has not caught up yet and your life is about to change anyway.
You are awake before your alarm.
Of course you are.
You lie in bed for one quiet second, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling of the little bridal suite at the venue, and feel your own heartbeat all the way down to your fingertips.
Today.
You are getting married today.
That sentence still feels a little impossible, even now. Even with the dress zipped in its garment bag by the wardrobe. Even with your ring sitting cool and familiar on your hand. Even with your phone already buzzing on the bedside table from Holly, who is somehow downstairs and caffeinated before sunrise.
You reach for it.
Holly:
Awake?
Then, immediately after:
Dumb question. Obviously you're awake. Open the door in 30 seconds or I'm kicking it in.
You laugh, because there is nothing else to do, and push yourself upright.
The room is warm. Quiet. Your things are everywhere. Makeup spread across the vanity. Shoes by the chair. Emergency pins and tissues and perfume and one lipstick tube laid out with the care of a field medic. In the corner, your phone tripod leans against the wall because yes, you are making content, but carefully. Respectfully. Little moments. Little breadcrumbs. Enough to remember. Not enough to turn the day into a production.
You swing your legs out of bed and stand.
For a second, it hits you so hard you have to put a hand on the dresser.
You once thought a life like this belonged to someone else.
Someone more settled. More certain. More simple.
Not a woman who built her world out of content calendars and flight confirmations and candle labels. Not a woman who crossed an ocean and somehow ended up in a Manchester flat with a man who had never expected to keep anything soft alive inside his life.
And yet.
Here you are.
A knock sounds.
Then Holly's voice, stage whispering through the wood.
"If you are standing in there crying alone, I'm going to be furious."
You laugh, wipe quickly under your eyes even though you are not actually crying yet, and open the door.
Holly sweeps in like weather. Robe. Coffee. Beauty bag the size of a carry-on. Layla close behind her in silk pajamas and perfect skin because, apparently, some women are simply chosen by God.
"There she is," Holly says, stopping short with one hand over her chest. "Oh. Oh no. I'm emotional already."
"You're emotional because you've had too much coffee," you say.
"Correct," she says. "Move. We've got a face to build."
Layla kisses your cheek. "Morning, bride."
Bride.
It slides into place easier now than it did at first. Bride. Wife. Your life.
You let them fuss because you love them and because this, too, is part of the reward. The women who watched the whole thing happen. The build. The move. The launch. The quiet little pieces of your life fitting together until this day made sense.
You film one little clip while Holly lays your makeup out.
Nothing dramatic. Just your hand smoothing over the front of the dress bag. The robe. The soft morning light. Your voice low as you whisper to the camera, "Today."
Then you turn it off and tuck the phone away.
The rest is for living first.
Across the venue, Simon is already dressed.
Of course he is.
Price finds him in the small room set aside for the groomsmen, standing at the window with his cuffs undone and a coffee in hand he has not touched.
He looks immaculate.
Dark suit cut close through the shoulders. White shirt. Tie hanging loose around his neck while he stares out into the gray-gold morning like if he thinks hard enough, the day might slow down for him.
Price shuts the door quietly behind him.
"Morning."
Simon grunts, not turning around. "Bit early for a performance review."
Price comes further into the room. "You're wound tight enough to snap. Thought I'd save the walls from it."
That gets Simon to glance over.
Price takes him in once, then nods. "You clean up well."
"MacTavish says I look like I'm goin' to court."
"MacTavish looks like he rents suits to himself."
As if summoned by disrespect, the door flies open and Johnny barrels in already talking.
"Price, I need you to settle this. Gaz says the pocket square should be white. I say black because I'm mysterious."
Gaz appears behind him, tie half done, looking deeply unsurprised by the nonsense. "He's not mysterious. He's loud."
"You wound me."
Gaz clocks Simon by the window and grins. "You alright, mate?"
Simon should say yes. Should mutter something dry and move on.
Instead he looks back out the window and says, "No."
The room goes briefly quiet.
Soap recovers first, because of course he does. "Good. Means you've got blood in there somewhere."
Price pours himself a coffee from the tray on the sideboard and says nothing for a second. Then, very mildly, "Cold feet?"
Simon's jaw tightens. "No."
Gaz adjusts his cufflinks and leans against the dresser. "Then what."
A beat.
Simon looks down at the ring box-sized emptiness in his chest that had been there before the proposal and is now something different entirely. Not emptiness. Pressure. Weight. Love so big it feels almost like fear because of how badly it could hurt.
He says, "Just feels big."
Johnny's face changes. Less menace. More brother.
"Aye," he says softly. "That's because it is."
Back upstairs, your mother arrives just in time to make you cry.
She steps into the suite in a dress you helped pick months ago and stops dead when she sees you in the chair, half done, hair pinned up in sections, makeup soft and glowing, your whole face already carrying that bright, quiet thing it gets when you are overwhelmed and trying not to combust.
"Oh, sweetheart."
That's all she says.
You laugh with your hand over your mouth because if you do not laugh you will cry, and if you cry now Holly is going to make a noise no one deserves to hear at this hour.
Your mother kisses your forehead. "You look beautiful already."
"Don't say already," Holly says from behind you, waving a brush. "I've got contour to finish."
Your father knocks once and appears carefully at the door like he is approaching a sacred site.
He sees you, still only half ready, and just... stops.
For one second he looks wrecked by it. Not because of the makeup or the hair or the dress bag waiting in the corner.
Because this is real.
Because his little girl is getting married in a manor house in England to a man with a dangerous job and very careful eyes, and somehow all of it feels more right than strange.
"Well," he says, clearing his throat. "That happened fast."
You laugh, eyes wet. "Hi, Daddy."
He comes over and squeezes your shoulder gently because he knows if he hugs you now, your face is done for.
"I'm proud of you," he says quietly.
That one gets you anyway.
The dress goes on in pieces.
Undergarments. Shoes. Jewelry. One tiny thing at a time until finally Holly and your mother lift the gown and the room gets reverent.
Because there it is.
The dress.
The one that made you cry in a boutique. The one that made Simon stare at the receipt like he had just been mugged by fashion and then pull you into him with that half proud, half scandalized look in his eyes.
The fabric feels cool under your fingers.
You step in carefully. Holly zips and fastens. Your mother smooths the waist. Layla fusses with the fall of the skirt and steps back with a hand to her mouth.
For one suspended second, no one says anything.
Then Holly whispers, "Oh, you are going to ruin him."
You look in the mirror.
And there you are.
Not content girl. Not bride-to-be. Not someone planning. Not someone hoping.
Bride.
Wife.
You.
Your throat tightens.
The dress is everything you wanted. Elegant without trying too hard. Soft without losing shape. Romantic without fuss. You feel like yourself, only sharpened into the most honest version of it.
You lift one hand slowly. The engagement ring catches the light. Soon there will be another band beside it.
"Okay," you whisper to your own reflection.
Holly dabs at her eyes. "Can I cry now."
"Yes," you say, voice shaking.
"Thank God."
She immediately does.
You laugh and cry at the same time while Layla starts filming exactly three tasteful seconds for the private wedding reel and your mother hands you a tissue like she knew this would happen down to the minute.
Downstairs, Simon sees the room before he sees you.
The ceremony space is small and warm and exactly what you wanted. Candlelight already flickering along the mantle. Chairs filled but not packed. Family. Friends. Enough.
The soft sound of people settling.
The music starts.
Soap, beside him, mutters, "Right. I'm already emotional and I hate everyone."
"Be quiet," Price says.
Gaz straightens his tie and glances toward Simon. "You good."
Simon looks ahead and says, "No."
But his voice is almost gone because then you appear at the end of the aisle.
Everything in him goes still.
You in the dress.
You in white and softness and certainty and all the impossible beautiful things he had never thought would belong in his life, much less walk straight toward him with your father's hand under yours and tears already bright in your eyes.
He hears Johnny suck in a breath hard enough to qualify as a wound.
He hears nothing else after that.
Just you.
You moving toward him slow and radiant and so unmistakably his that it almost hurts.
He had seen the dress hanging in his room. Seen the bag. Seen the shape of it in his mind.
It did not prepare him for this.
You look like the answer to every prayer he had never known how to say.
By the time you reach him, his chest feels tight enough to crack.
Your father squeezes your hand once before placing it in Simon's.
Simon takes it with more care than he has ever taken anything in his life.
Your father looks at him with the sort of serious warmth only dads and officers seem capable of and says quietly, "Take care of her."
Simon nods once. "Always."
Then your father steps away and it is just you.
Your eyes meet.
You smile through the shine of tears.
He swallows hard.
"You look..." He stops, because the word beautiful is not enough and he knows it. "Christ."
You laugh softly, the sound trembling. "Hi."
"Hi."
That's all either of you have for a second.
But it is enough.
The vows are simple.
That matters more than poetry ever could.
The officiant keeps it warm and light and brief, because you asked for that. No performative declarations. No endless speeches. Just truth.
When it is your turn, your hands shake a little in Simon's.
You look at him, really look, and everything else in the room falls away.
"I didn't think life would look like this," you say, voice soft but steady. "I didn't think I'd cross an ocean and find home in a city that wasn't mine yet. I definitely didn't think I'd find it in you."
A little laugh ripples through the room.
Simon's thumbs brush over your knuckles.
"But you made room for me," you go on. "In your flat. In your mornings. In every guarded, quiet little piece of yourself you thought was easier to keep shut."
His jaw flexes once.
"And I promise to keep choosing this. Our life. Our home. The ordinary days and the hard ones. The coffee. The waiting. The coming back. The laughter. All of it." Your eyes sting. "I promise to love you in the softest ways and the loudest ones. To build with you. To fight for us. To keep making a home in every room we get."
By the time you finish, Holly is already crying again.
You hear it. It almost makes you smile.
Then it is Simon's turn.
And because he is Simon, he does not make a show of finding words.
He just looks at you for one long second and then says the truth.
"You came into my life and made it bigger."
The room goes still.
"You made my flat a home before I even realized that's what was happening. You made me want things I'd stopped expectin' to have."
Your breath catches.
"I'm not good at speeches," he says quietly, and the smallest smile touches your mouth because that is obvious and also somehow devastating. "But I'm good at this. At you."
His hand tightens slightly around yours.
"I'll come home to you for the rest of my life," he says. "I'll choose you every day I get. I'll protect what we build. I'll love you steady. Even when I'm bad at sayin' it. Especially then."
That one breaks you.
A tiny sound escapes your throat and you have to laugh so you do not fully fall apart at the altar.
Simon's mouth twitches. Just barely. Because he knows exactly what he's done to you.
The officiant says a few more words after that, but honestly, you barely hear them.
The rings are exchanged.
Your hand trembles as you slide his on. His is completely steady when he slides yours into place beside the engagement ring.
And then:
"I now pronounce you husband and wife."
The kiss is everything.
Not rushed. Not performative.
Deep and warm and full of relief and certainty and all the years that have not happened yet, somehow already alive between you.
His hand cups your jaw. Yours fist in his lapel. The room around you erupts in applause and laughter and probably crying, but all you know is his mouth on yours and the fact that when you pull back, he is smiling like a man who cannot quite believe he won.
You kind of feel the same.
The reception is exactly right.
Not huge. Not loud in the wrong ways. Just warm.
Candles everywhere. Long tables. Wine. The low hum of people who love you.
You manage the content carefully.
A few little clips. Details first. The tablescape. Your bouquet. The ring on your hand against his when you steal a shot under the table. One private little tripod clip of the two of you entering the room, him with his hand at your waist, your smile all bright and dazed.
Enough to remember.
Not enough to lose the day.
Soap's speech is, predictably, chaos.
He stands too quickly, nearly takes out his own chair, points at Simon with his drink and says, "Right. I had notes. I've lost them. So we're doin this from the heart, which is dangerous for everybody."
The room laughs.
Johnny paces for exactly three steps before Gaz physically guides him back toward the microphone.
"I've known this miserable bastard for years," Soap says, pointing again. "Long enough to know he was always doomed the second he met a woman who could outstare him and reorganize his flat without askin."
You laugh into your glass.
Simon mutters, "Jesus Christ," but there is no heat in it.
Johnny goes on, voice softening under the nonsense. "You make him better. More human, somehow. Don't tell him I said that because he'll deny it." He lifts his glass toward you. "And you, hen, somehow looked at this haunted tree and thought, yes, that one. Which means either you're the bravest woman alive or you've got worse taste than I thought."
The room explodes.
By the end of it, Johnny is emotional, you are emotional, and Simon looks like he wants to throttle him and hug him at the same time.
Gaz is better.
Of course he is.
He keeps his speech short. Warm. Honest.
He talks about watching Simon change in all the quiet ways that matter. How you did not soften him into someone else, just gave him a place to put all the parts of himself he usually kept locked up.
"And that," Gaz says, looking between you both, "is a rare thing. To be fully yourself and still be chosen. You've both got it. So hold on to it."
Price does not make a speech.
That is somehow more moving.
He just comes to you both later, after dinner, while the room hums around you and Holly is trying to teach your mother some dance from the internet.
He shakes your hand first, then Simon's.
"Well done," he says.
You smile. "You already said that."
Price's eyes soften a fraction. "Worth saying twice."
He looks at Simon then, and whatever passes between them is old and deep and not really yours to fully understand.
But you get enough.
Pride. Approval. Relief.
And maybe a quiet kind of gratitude that someone finally got his best man to stay still long enough to be happy.
There is a moment later, after the first dance and before the cake, when you slip away for air.
Just for a second.
The manor house hallway is quiet compared to the warmth and noise of the reception room. The windows are black mirrors now, reflecting soft candlelight and your own white silhouette moving through it.
You kick your shoes off and carry them for exactly six seconds before Simon appears at the end of the hall like he was always going to find you.
"You alright," he asks.
You smile. "Yeah. Just needed one minute where no one's looking at me."
He comes closer, gaze moving over you slowly.
This is not the first time he has seen you in the dress today.
But it is the first quiet time.
No guests. No music. No officiant. No applause.
Just him and you in the golden hush of the venue you picked together.
He stops right in front of you.
And for one suspended second, he just looks.
Really looks.
Like maybe the whole day has been moving too fast for him to properly take you in, and now, finally, he can.
His hand comes up and skims the line of your shoulder, the fabric there. His throat works around something.
"What," you whisper.
He shakes his head once, but there is too much in his face for that to mean nothing.
"You're my wife," he says quietly.
And there it is.
The break.
The little crack in the composure.
Not dramatic. Not a speech.
Just the raw, astonished wonder of it.
Your chest aches so hard you have to step into him.
He catches you instantly, his hands settling around your waist, your arms looping around his neck.
"You looked like you were gonna cry when I came down the aisle," you murmur.
He huffs a breath that is almost a laugh. "Didn't."
"You absolutely did."
He tips his forehead against yours. "Maybe a bit."
You smile, kissing him once, softly. "Good."
He kisses you back slower. Deeper. The kind of kiss that belongs in hallways away from everyone else, with your shoes in one hand and your husband holding you like this moment is not one he ever intends to waste.
"Come on," you whisper eventually. "We should go back."
"In a minute."
You grin. "You're trying to skip our own reception."
"I'm trying to steal my wife."
The words send a thrill right down your spine.
You laugh and kiss him again anyway.
By the time the night ends, you are exhausted in the happiest way.
Your hair is a little looser. Your lipstick long gone. Your feet sore. Your cheeks aching from smiling.
The room has softened into late-night warmth. Half empty glasses. Guests hugging their goodbyes. Holly crying into Layla's shoulder while insisting she is fine.
Soap hugs you like a brother. Gaz squeezes your shoulder and says quietly, "You look happy." Price kisses your cheek in that old-school gentleman way and tells Simon to get you home before you fall asleep on a chair.
You very nearly do.
So leaving is not glamorous.
It is better.
You in your coat over the dress. Shoes in your hand again. Bouquet left behind in a vase because honestly you cannot carry one more thing. Simon beside you in his suit, tie long gone, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, looking a little wrecked and very, very yours.
The car ride is quiet.
Not because there is nothing to say.
Because everything that matters already happened.
Your head rests on his shoulder in the backseat. His hand covers yours, wedding bands warm together.
When you get home, he unlocks the flat and lets you in first.
The sight of it hits you unexpectedly.
Your home.
Not the venue. Not the dress. Not the candlelight or the applause.
This.
The hallway hook with your coat beside his. Your mugs. Your slippers. The little content corner by the window. The life waiting exactly where you left it.
You turn to him in the doorway.
He closes the door behind you.
And just like that, it is quiet.
You smile up at him, tired and glowing and full.
"We did it."
He looks at you, really looks, and smiles in that small real way that means everything.
"Yeah," he says. "We did."
Then he bends, slips your shoes from your hand, sets them neatly by the door, and kisses you in the warm dim hallway of your own flat.
Not glamorous.
Just deeply right.
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Once again thinking about omega!reader getting nest sickness during long ops...
It's something you and every omega is trained to handle, yearning for a nest and fighting off instincts during prolonged stress. Usually it's fine, nothing you can't handle, but something about this op has your hands constantly shaking and every small thing setting you off.
Were it not for the blockers price is sure your sour scent would be enough to set off any alpha.
"Alright, c'mon runt, that's enough." Price grunts when you pace the length of the safehouse for the tenth time without sitting to rest. He gently grabs the back of your neck, thumb brushing over the blockers and against your gland soothingly "lets get you settled, hm?"
"What? No, sir, it's fine–" you try to assure your pack leader, but the warm scent he pushes off has your own instincts melting at the prospect of something that smells so similar to your nest.
"No, runt. Yer pacin' is throwing off the others. No need to act all big, it's only natural." He attempts to soothe, forcing you to the one semi-decent couches in the house. You notice the other's jackets are piled on it, no doubt the best approximation of nesting materials price could think of. "Alright, you know what to do."
Which is how price ends up smothered under purring omega, with your face shoved into his neck and little claws kneading his chest and arms.
Not only are you surrounded by the scent of your pack, you're also surrounded by softness.
It makes your instincts delighted, all that stress you've been keeping pent up melting away until you pass out on top of your pack beta.
While you sleep, price gently peels off your scent blockers, and everyone else relaxes at finally being able to smell their omega nice and happy.
A ridiculous luxury bachelorette weekend leaves Simon sulking in your absence.
43. This is Home
Simon starts sulking about the bachelorette weekend the second you mention the house.
Not openly.
Not in any way that would let you tease him too much.
But you know him now.
You know the way his jaw shifts when he is pretending he is not bothered. The way he goes quieter instead of louder. The way his hand lingers a little longer at your waist while you stand in the kitchen talking through logistics like this is a normal thing that happens to normal women and not you getting carted off to some influencer fever dream for three straight days.
"It's only Friday to Sunday," you say, folding another swimsuit into the open case on the bed. "Two nights."
He leans in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching you decide between a white cover-up and the little black set Holly bullied you into buying.
"Mm."
You glance up. "That sound means something."
"No, it doesn't."
"It absolutely does."
He shifts one shoulder, gaze dropping to the suitcase again. There are bikinis and silk pajama sets and a sparkly dress hanging from the wardrobe door because apparently Holly has decided there will be themes.
"She rented this huge place outside the city," you say, trying not to laugh. "Pool, hot tubs, too many bedrooms, probably at least one weird neon sign. It's very... my life."
He makes a low sound in his throat that says I know exactly how your people are.
"Holly says it has a champagne wall," you add.
"A what."
"A wall. Of champagne."
He stares at you.
"I didn't design it, Simon."
"Sounds stupid."
You grin. "Yeah. I'm excited."
That gets you a look.
Not annoyed. Just soft around the edges in that way he hates being caught at.
You walk over with one of his shirts still in your hand and stop right in front of him. "You know you can just say you'll miss me."
His hands settle automatically at your hips. Warm. Familiar.
"I'll miss you," he says, because he knows better than to lie when you're looking at him like that.
You smile, immediately smug. "There he is."
He leans down and kisses you once, slow and a little annoyed at himself for giving you exactly what you wanted.
"Don't make fuckin' a thing of it."
"Too late," you whisper against his mouth. "I already won."
He huffs softly, forehead resting against yours for a beat. Then his eyes flick back to the suitcase and he mutters, "Still don't like you gone all weekend."
The honesty in it makes your chest ache a little.
"I know," you say softly. "But I'm coming back."
His thumb strokes once at your side. "Yeah."
"And you are absolutely not allowed to mope in our flat like some Victorian widow."
He gives you a flat look. "I won't."
You narrow your eyes. "Simon."
"I said I won't."
You kiss him again because you already know he is lying.
The house is exactly as ridiculous as Holly promised.
A huge rental dripping in polished wood and expensive tile and giant windows that look out over rolling green beyond the terrace. The pool is absurd. The hot tubs are worse. There is, in fact, a champagne wall. There are floating swan things in the water and a table already covered in little gift bags and sunglasses and some kind of monogrammed robe situation Holly definitely spent too much money on.
The second you pull up, the girls start screaming.
Not because of anything dramatic.
Just because they are women on a bachelorette weekend with no responsibilities for forty-eight hours and this, apparently, is what the body does.
Layla sweeps you into the first hug in the drive, already in white linen and giant sunglasses.
"Bride," she says, like she's announcing royalty.
Holly comes right after her, nearly taking you off your feet.
"We are getting drunk in a classy way and no one is allowed to cry before sunset."
"That feels very specific," you laugh.
"It is," she says darkly. "I know myself."
Inside, the place is beautiful in that overdone rental way. Every room has been styled within an inch of its life. Neutral everything. Enormous kitchen. Fancy little ice machine. Open plan living room with floor-to-ceiling doors that push all the way back to the pool deck.
Someone has already made a charcuterie board the size of a car tire.
You film the whole thing for the vlog, of course.
"Okay," you say into your phone while Holly throws open French doors behind you like she's starring in a perfume ad. "I'm here. This place is insane. I think I've accidentally entered a luxury cult and honestly? I'm okay with it."
The girls shriek when you pan the camera.
By the time you make it up to your room, your phone is already full of messages from followers calling the house "divorce settlement chic" and asking whether your mystery boyfriend is okay with you being surrounded by this much champagne.
That one makes you laugh.
Because somewhere back in Manchester, Simon is absolutely standing in the kitchen right now, staring at the empty space you left behind like it offended him.
Back at the flat, Simon lasts precisely forty-three minutes before he realises how quiet everything is.
It's not dramatic at first.
Just wrong.
No music from the bathroom while you do skincare. No muttering from the content corner when a clip won't line up. No scattered products on the table. No you in one of his shirts, pacing while you argue with Holly on FaceTime about flower arrangements.
He sets his keys in the dish.
Looks at the empty couch.
Looks at the kitchen.
The silence feels bigger than the flat.
"Christ," he mutters.
He opens the fridge and sees the sticky note you left him on the top shelf.
Eat something real. Not just chips.
Text me.
Miss you already.
x
His mouth twitches despite himself.
He does eat, to be fair. Something half decent. Leftovers you made the night before because you know him too well.
But he eats it standing up and stares at his phone the entire time, pretending he is not waiting for it to light up.
It does.
A photo message.
You in enormous sunglasses and one of those soft white button-down cover-ups, grinning into the camera with the pool in the background.
You:
alive. deeply moisturized. Holly is already yelling.
He looks at the picture longer than necessary.
Then replies:
Simon:
Looks expensive.
Your answer is immediate.
You:
It IS expensive. That's the point.
He smiles despite himself.
Then:
You:
Miss you.
That settles heavy and warm in his chest.
Simon:
Yeah. Miss you too.
He stares at the chat after sending it, thumb hovering.
Then sets the phone down, because if he lets himself keep standing in the kitchen feeling things about your bikini selfies, he'll lose what remains of his dignity.
You are having the time of your life.
Of course you are.
The first afternoon becomes a blur of champagne flutes and hot sun and girls sprawled around the pool on loungers in expensive swimwear. Holly insists on making TikToks in between actual relaxing, which means there's a constant rotation of phones propped on towels, girls lip-syncing, someone always reapplying lip gloss.
You do all of it happily.
Because this is your world too.
The loud, glittering, ridiculous, feminine, over-the-top part of it. The part Simon understands mostly through affectionate endurance and occasional amused observation.
There's a whole shot sequence of you stepping down into the pool, water shining blue around your thighs, your engagement ring catching sunlight as you lift your hand dramatically to the sky.
The comments will be insane later.
You know that already.
When the sun starts to dip, the girls migrate toward the hot tubs with drinks in hand and damp hair thrown up into messy clips. There's music playing low over hidden speakers and someone lights the big outdoor fireplace because apparently this place really does have everything.
You sit wrapped in a towel between Holly and Layla, legs tucked up beneath you on a giant outdoor sofa, and let yourself breathe for the first time all day.
"This was a good idea," you say softly.
Holly tips her head back and groans. "I'm always right."
You look out over the pool, the glowing house, your girls dotted around the deck in little clusters of laughter and light.
Then, because honesty has become easier this year, you say, "Yeah. Really happy."
Layla nudges your shoulder. "Good. You deserve a stupidly expensive weekend and a stupidly good man."
You laugh, but your chest tightens anyway.
Because you miss him.
Not in a weepy, dramatic, every-second-is-agony way.
Just constantly.
Like a low ache.
A tug every time something funny happens and you instinctively think, Simon would hate this. Or Simon would roll his eyes at that. Or I wish he was here to see Holly attempt to sabre a champagne bottle and nearly take out a succulent.
You pull your phone into your lap and check it before you can stop yourself.
No new message.
You frown.
Holly catches it instantly. "Text him."
"What."
"You have the face."
"I do not."
"The 'my fiancé is not in a ten mile radius and I hate it' face," she says. "Text him."
You laugh because she's obnoxiously right.
So you do.
You:
How's your very boring evening without me?
The reply doesn't come right away.
You tell yourself he's probably in the shower. Or reading. Or pretending he doesn't miss you because he's stubborn and tragic and deeply masculine about inconvenience.
Then your phone rings.
You blink.
Simon.
You answer so fast you almost drop it.
"Hi."
His voice comes low and warm through the speaker. "Hi."
The smile that hits your face is so immediate Holly and Layla both start making kissy noises at you.
You stand and walk a little farther down the terrace for privacy, though the girls are still absolutely watching you.
"You called," you say.
"Yeah."
That's all he says at first.
You lean against the stone railing, looking out over the dark water of the pool. "Everything okay?"
He's quiet for half a beat.
Then, "Yeah. Just... wanted to hear you."
That goes straight through you.
Your hand tightens on the phone. "I miss you too."
He exhales. You can hear the faint rustle of him moving around the flat, maybe pacing a little.
"How's it going," he asks.
You smile. "Very influencer bachelorette weekend. There's a champagne wall."
"Still think that sounds stupid."
"It is stupid."
"You in a hot tub?"
You laugh. "Just got out."
He grunts. "Figures."
There's something in that sound that makes your stomach dip pleasantly.
You lower your voice. "You hate that I'm gone."
"No."
You wait.
A second later, more honest, "A bit."
You grin into the dark. "You're cute."
"Don't start."
"I'm serious. You miss me."
"Yeah," he says quietly. "Flat's too bloody quiet."
That one gets you.
You turn a little, looking through the glass into the warm gold of the house behind you, all your girls moving around inside it.
"I'll be back soon."
"I know."
"You surviving?"
"Barely."
You laugh softly. "Liar."
"No, really. I had to make my own coffee this mornin."
"Oh, the humanity."
He makes a low noise that might be a laugh.
For a few minutes you just talk. Nothing huge. Your day. The pool. Holly's behavior. The ridiculous robe gift bag situation. He asks actual questions, which somehow makes it sweeter.
"What'd Layla wear."
"Of course that's your question."
"Humor me."
"White linen. Millionaire on a yacht vibes."
He hums. "Right."
You smile. "What did you do tonight."
He hesitates, and you hear it immediately.
"Simon."
"Not much."
"Simon."
He sighs. "Tidied up."
You go quiet for one beat.
"Oh my God."
"What."
"You missed me so much you cleaned."
"It needed done."
You laugh so hard you have to cover your mouth with your hand. Inside, you can see Holly pointing at you through the glass and waggling her eyebrows to the other girls.
"You're in love with me," you say.
"Unfortunately."
You soften, your forehead resting briefly against the cool stone pillar beside you.
"I love that you called."
Another little pause.
"Yeah," he says.
When you finally hang up, it feels both better and worse. Better because you got him. Worse because now you miss him with fresh detail. The sound of his voice. The little way he clears his throat when he's saying something that actually matters. The warmth tucked under all that restraint.
You step back inside with a smile that gives you away instantly.
Holly looks up from where she's trying to stack champagne glasses. "Oh my God, he called."
Layla makes a soft sympathetic sound. "He's gone."
You flop dramatically onto the sofa. "He cleaned."
The girls scream.
"NO."
"Husband behavior."
"Not him nesting because his woman's away."
You hide your face in a cushion, already laughing too hard to defend him.
And yet, deep down, it makes you ridiculously happy.
The second day is louder.
There's brunch content. A coordinated pool photo that takes thirty-seven tries because someone keeps splashing too early. A dress-up dinner where everyone is required to wear black except you, which Holly says is "classic, babe" and you say is "an excuse to force me into satin."
You look beautiful. Everyone says so. The pictures are insane.
And still, in every little quiet moment, you think of him.
Of his side of the bed. Of his hand at the small of your back. Of the way he would stand off to one side and watch this whole glittering nightmare like it was anthropological research.
He texts more the second day.
Nothing clingy. Nothing dramatic.
Just:
Simon:
You alive.
Then later:
Simon:
You eaten.
Then, after you send a photo of your dinner plate:
Simon:
That's decorative, not food.
You laugh into your wine.
You:
I knew you'd say that.
Then, because the music is good and the girls are loud and you miss him in that warm sharp way, you send a mirror selfie from the bathroom. Satin slip dress. Hair curled. Ring glinting against your hip.
You:
You'd hate this place.
The typing bubble appears.
Stops.
Appears again.
Then:
Simon:
Yeah.
You look beautiful though.
You stare at the message long enough that Holly has to physically shake you by the shoulders when you come back out.
"Oh my God, you're blushing."
"Shut up."
"No, what did he say."
"Nothing."
"You liar."
You do not show her.
Some things are yours.
Back in Manchester, Simon spends Saturday evening standing in the kitchen with a beer he forgets to drink and your last message open on his phone.
You'd hate this place.
The picture glows up at him.
You in silk and a sharp little smile that says you know exactly what you're doing to him.
He looks at it. Locks the phone. Unlocks it again five minutes later.
The flat is too quiet. Again.
He ends up on the couch, book open, not reading a word. Johnny sends him an unhelpful meme around nine and Gaz follows it with missing her, mate? which Simon pointedly does not answer.
Because yes.
Embarrassingly yes.
He misses your noise. Your clutter. The way you take over the bathroom sink without apology. The way your content corner catches the late afternoon light. The way your laugh changes depending on who you're talking to.
He misses you enough that by ten he is considering calling again and decides he should probably preserve what remains of his self-respect.
Then your story goes up.
A short clip. You spinning in the dress with the girls cheering behind the phone. Ring flashing. Smile wild and bright.
He watches it three times.
Then tosses the phone onto the couch and mutters, "Fucking hell."
Because he is in so deep it is actually absurd.
Sunday afternoon comes with a hangover, too many bags, and the long drive back.
You are in leggings and one of the stupidly soft robes by the time you pile into the car with Holly for the ride into the city. Everyone is tired. Happy. A little emotionally raw around the edges.
When you finally step through the front door of the flat, Simon is in the kitchen rinsing out a mug.
He looks up at the sound.
And something in his whole body loosens.
There.
That.
That is what you missed.
You drop your bags right in the doorway and go to him. He barely gets the mug in the sink before you are in his arms, kissing him with the kind of intensity reserved for people who survived forty-eight whole hours apart and would like the world to know it was deeply rude.
He kisses you back hard enough to make Holly whistle behind you before she remembers she is technically still in the room.
"Okay," she says, backing toward the door with both hands up. "I'm leaving. Love you. Hydrate. Don't make eye contact."
You laugh breathlessly into Simon's shoulder while he just keeps you tucked against him, one hand spread wide over the middle of your back.
When the door shuts behind her, the flat goes still again.
This time, right.
He leans back just enough to look at you.
"You have fun."
You smile, because you know what he's asking underneath it.
"Yeah."
He nods once.
Then, quieter, "Good."
You touch his face, thumb brushing the line of his jaw.
"Missed you."
He glances toward the bags still in the hallway, then back at you.
"Yeah," he says. "Missed you too."
And the way he says it, simple and unguarded and entirely real, makes the whole loud glittering weekend feel suddenly very far away.
This.
This is home.
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A ridiculous luxury bachelorette weekend leaves Simon sulking in your absence.
43. This is Home
Simon starts sulking about the bachelorette weekend the second you mention the house.
Not openly.
Not in any way that would let you tease him too much.
But you know him now.
You know the way his jaw shifts when he is pretending he is not bothered. The way he goes quieter instead of louder. The way his hand lingers a little longer at your waist while you stand in the kitchen talking through logistics like this is a normal thing that happens to normal women and not you getting carted off to some influencer fever dream for three straight days.
"It's only Friday to Sunday," you say, folding another swimsuit into the open case on the bed. "Two nights."
He leans in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching you decide between a white cover-up and the little black set Holly bullied you into buying.
"Mm."
You glance up. "That sound means something."
"No, it doesn't."
"It absolutely does."
He shifts one shoulder, gaze dropping to the suitcase again. There are bikinis and silk pajama sets and a sparkly dress hanging from the wardrobe door because apparently Holly has decided there will be themes.
"She rented this huge place outside the city," you say, trying not to laugh. "Pool, hot tubs, too many bedrooms, probably at least one weird neon sign. It's very... my life."
He makes a low sound in his throat that says I know exactly how your people are.
"Holly says it has a champagne wall," you add.
"A what."
"A wall. Of champagne."
He stares at you.
"I didn't design it, Simon."
"Sounds stupid."
You grin. "Yeah. I'm excited."
That gets you a look.
Not annoyed. Just soft around the edges in that way he hates being caught at.
You walk over with one of his shirts still in your hand and stop right in front of him. "You know you can just say you'll miss me."
His hands settle automatically at your hips. Warm. Familiar.
"I'll miss you," he says, because he knows better than to lie when you're looking at him like that.
You smile, immediately smug. "There he is."
He leans down and kisses you once, slow and a little annoyed at himself for giving you exactly what you wanted.
"Don't make fuckin' a thing of it."
"Too late," you whisper against his mouth. "I already won."
He huffs softly, forehead resting against yours for a beat. Then his eyes flick back to the suitcase and he mutters, "Still don't like you gone all weekend."
The honesty in it makes your chest ache a little.
"I know," you say softly. "But I'm coming back."
His thumb strokes once at your side. "Yeah."
"And you are absolutely not allowed to mope in our flat like some Victorian widow."
He gives you a flat look. "I won't."
You narrow your eyes. "Simon."
"I said I won't."
You kiss him again because you already know he is lying.
The house is exactly as ridiculous as Holly promised.
A huge rental dripping in polished wood and expensive tile and giant windows that look out over rolling green beyond the terrace. The pool is absurd. The hot tubs are worse. There is, in fact, a champagne wall. There are floating swan things in the water and a table already covered in little gift bags and sunglasses and some kind of monogrammed robe situation Holly definitely spent too much money on.
The second you pull up, the girls start screaming.
Not because of anything dramatic.
Just because they are women on a bachelorette weekend with no responsibilities for forty-eight hours and this, apparently, is what the body does.
Layla sweeps you into the first hug in the drive, already in white linen and giant sunglasses.
"Bride," she says, like she's announcing royalty.
Holly comes right after her, nearly taking you off your feet.
"We are getting drunk in a classy way and no one is allowed to cry before sunset."
"That feels very specific," you laugh.
"It is," she says darkly. "I know myself."
Inside, the place is beautiful in that overdone rental way. Every room has been styled within an inch of its life. Neutral everything. Enormous kitchen. Fancy little ice machine. Open plan living room with floor-to-ceiling doors that push all the way back to the pool deck.
Someone has already made a charcuterie board the size of a car tire.
You film the whole thing for the vlog, of course.
"Okay," you say into your phone while Holly throws open French doors behind you like she's starring in a perfume ad. "I'm here. This place is insane. I think I've accidentally entered a luxury cult and honestly? I'm okay with it."
The girls shriek when you pan the camera.
By the time you make it up to your room, your phone is already full of messages from followers calling the house "divorce settlement chic" and asking whether your mystery boyfriend is okay with you being surrounded by this much champagne.
That one makes you laugh.
Because somewhere back in Manchester, Simon is absolutely standing in the kitchen right now, staring at the empty space you left behind like it offended him.
Back at the flat, Simon lasts precisely forty-three minutes before he realises how quiet everything is.
It's not dramatic at first.
Just wrong.
No music from the bathroom while you do skincare. No muttering from the content corner when a clip won't line up. No scattered products on the table. No you in one of his shirts, pacing while you argue with Holly on FaceTime about flower arrangements.
He sets his keys in the dish.
Looks at the empty couch.
Looks at the kitchen.
The silence feels bigger than the flat.
"Christ," he mutters.
He opens the fridge and sees the sticky note you left him on the top shelf.
Eat something real. Not just chips.
Text me.
Miss you already.
x
His mouth twitches despite himself.
He does eat, to be fair. Something half decent. Leftovers you made the night before because you know him too well.
But he eats it standing up and stares at his phone the entire time, pretending he is not waiting for it to light up.
It does.
A photo message.
You in enormous sunglasses and one of those soft white button-down cover-ups, grinning into the camera with the pool in the background.
You:
alive. deeply moisturized. Holly is already yelling.
He looks at the picture longer than necessary.
Then replies:
Simon:
Looks expensive.
Your answer is immediate.
You:
It IS expensive. That's the point.
He smiles despite himself.
Then:
You:
Miss you.
That settles heavy and warm in his chest.
Simon:
Yeah. Miss you too.
He stares at the chat after sending it, thumb hovering.
Then sets the phone down, because if he lets himself keep standing in the kitchen feeling things about your bikini selfies, he'll lose what remains of his dignity.
You are having the time of your life.
Of course you are.
The first afternoon becomes a blur of champagne flutes and hot sun and girls sprawled around the pool on loungers in expensive swimwear. Holly insists on making TikToks in between actual relaxing, which means there's a constant rotation of phones propped on towels, girls lip-syncing, someone always reapplying lip gloss.
You do all of it happily.
Because this is your world too.
The loud, glittering, ridiculous, feminine, over-the-top part of it. The part Simon understands mostly through affectionate endurance and occasional amused observation.
There's a whole shot sequence of you stepping down into the pool, water shining blue around your thighs, your engagement ring catching sunlight as you lift your hand dramatically to the sky.
The comments will be insane later.
You know that already.
When the sun starts to dip, the girls migrate toward the hot tubs with drinks in hand and damp hair thrown up into messy clips. There's music playing low over hidden speakers and someone lights the big outdoor fireplace because apparently this place really does have everything.
You sit wrapped in a towel between Holly and Layla, legs tucked up beneath you on a giant outdoor sofa, and let yourself breathe for the first time all day.
"This was a good idea," you say softly.
Holly tips her head back and groans. "I'm always right."
You look out over the pool, the glowing house, your girls dotted around the deck in little clusters of laughter and light.
Then, because honesty has become easier this year, you say, "Yeah. Really happy."
Layla nudges your shoulder. "Good. You deserve a stupidly expensive weekend and a stupidly good man."
You laugh, but your chest tightens anyway.
Because you miss him.
Not in a weepy, dramatic, every-second-is-agony way.
Just constantly.
Like a low ache.
A tug every time something funny happens and you instinctively think, Simon would hate this. Or Simon would roll his eyes at that. Or I wish he was here to see Holly attempt to sabre a champagne bottle and nearly take out a succulent.
You pull your phone into your lap and check it before you can stop yourself.
No new message.
You frown.
Holly catches it instantly. "Text him."
"What."
"You have the face."
"I do not."
"The 'my fiancé is not in a ten mile radius and I hate it' face," she says. "Text him."
You laugh because she's obnoxiously right.
So you do.
You:
How's your very boring evening without me?
The reply doesn't come right away.
You tell yourself he's probably in the shower. Or reading. Or pretending he doesn't miss you because he's stubborn and tragic and deeply masculine about inconvenience.
Then your phone rings.
You blink.
Simon.
You answer so fast you almost drop it.
"Hi."
His voice comes low and warm through the speaker. "Hi."
The smile that hits your face is so immediate Holly and Layla both start making kissy noises at you.
You stand and walk a little farther down the terrace for privacy, though the girls are still absolutely watching you.
"You called," you say.
"Yeah."
That's all he says at first.
You lean against the stone railing, looking out over the dark water of the pool. "Everything okay?"
He's quiet for half a beat.
Then, "Yeah. Just... wanted to hear you."
That goes straight through you.
Your hand tightens on the phone. "I miss you too."
He exhales. You can hear the faint rustle of him moving around the flat, maybe pacing a little.
"How's it going," he asks.
You smile. "Very influencer bachelorette weekend. There's a champagne wall."
"Still think that sounds stupid."
"It is stupid."
"You in a hot tub?"
You laugh. "Just got out."
He grunts. "Figures."
There's something in that sound that makes your stomach dip pleasantly.
You lower your voice. "You hate that I'm gone."
"No."
You wait.
A second later, more honest, "A bit."
You grin into the dark. "You're cute."
"Don't start."
"I'm serious. You miss me."
"Yeah," he says quietly. "Flat's too bloody quiet."
That one gets you.
You turn a little, looking through the glass into the warm gold of the house behind you, all your girls moving around inside it.
"I'll be back soon."
"I know."
"You surviving?"
"Barely."
You laugh softly. "Liar."
"No, really. I had to make my own coffee this mornin."
"Oh, the humanity."
He makes a low noise that might be a laugh.
For a few minutes you just talk. Nothing huge. Your day. The pool. Holly's behavior. The ridiculous robe gift bag situation. He asks actual questions, which somehow makes it sweeter.
"What'd Layla wear."
"Of course that's your question."
"Humor me."
"White linen. Millionaire on a yacht vibes."
He hums. "Right."
You smile. "What did you do tonight."
He hesitates, and you hear it immediately.
"Simon."
"Not much."
"Simon."
He sighs. "Tidied up."
You go quiet for one beat.
"Oh my God."
"What."
"You missed me so much you cleaned."
"It needed done."
You laugh so hard you have to cover your mouth with your hand. Inside, you can see Holly pointing at you through the glass and waggling her eyebrows to the other girls.
"You're in love with me," you say.
"Unfortunately."
You soften, your forehead resting briefly against the cool stone pillar beside you.
"I love that you called."
Another little pause.
"Yeah," he says.
When you finally hang up, it feels both better and worse. Better because you got him. Worse because now you miss him with fresh detail. The sound of his voice. The little way he clears his throat when he's saying something that actually matters. The warmth tucked under all that restraint.
You step back inside with a smile that gives you away instantly.
Holly looks up from where she's trying to stack champagne glasses. "Oh my God, he called."
Layla makes a soft sympathetic sound. "He's gone."
You flop dramatically onto the sofa. "He cleaned."
The girls scream.
"NO."
"Husband behavior."
"Not him nesting because his woman's away."
You hide your face in a cushion, already laughing too hard to defend him.
And yet, deep down, it makes you ridiculously happy.
The second day is louder.
There's brunch content. A coordinated pool photo that takes thirty-seven tries because someone keeps splashing too early. A dress-up dinner where everyone is required to wear black except you, which Holly says is "classic, babe" and you say is "an excuse to force me into satin."
You look beautiful. Everyone says so. The pictures are insane.
And still, in every little quiet moment, you think of him.
Of his side of the bed. Of his hand at the small of your back. Of the way he would stand off to one side and watch this whole glittering nightmare like it was anthropological research.
He texts more the second day.
Nothing clingy. Nothing dramatic.
Just:
Simon:
You alive.
Then later:
Simon:
You eaten.
Then, after you send a photo of your dinner plate:
Simon:
That's decorative, not food.
You laugh into your wine.
You:
I knew you'd say that.
Then, because the music is good and the girls are loud and you miss him in that warm sharp way, you send a mirror selfie from the bathroom. Satin slip dress. Hair curled. Ring glinting against your hip.
You:
You'd hate this place.
The typing bubble appears.
Stops.
Appears again.
Then:
Simon:
Yeah.
You look beautiful though.
You stare at the message long enough that Holly has to physically shake you by the shoulders when you come back out.
"Oh my God, you're blushing."
"Shut up."
"No, what did he say."
"Nothing."
"You liar."
You do not show her.
Some things are yours.
Back in Manchester, Simon spends Saturday evening standing in the kitchen with a beer he forgets to drink and your last message open on his phone.
You'd hate this place.
The picture glows up at him.
You in silk and a sharp little smile that says you know exactly what you're doing to him.
He looks at it. Locks the phone. Unlocks it again five minutes later.
The flat is too quiet. Again.
He ends up on the couch, book open, not reading a word. Johnny sends him an unhelpful meme around nine and Gaz follows it with missing her, mate? which Simon pointedly does not answer.
Because yes.
Embarrassingly yes.
He misses your noise. Your clutter. The way you take over the bathroom sink without apology. The way your content corner catches the late afternoon light. The way your laugh changes depending on who you're talking to.
He misses you enough that by ten he is considering calling again and decides he should probably preserve what remains of his self-respect.
Then your story goes up.
A short clip. You spinning in the dress with the girls cheering behind the phone. Ring flashing. Smile wild and bright.
He watches it three times.
Then tosses the phone onto the couch and mutters, "Fucking hell."
Because he is in so deep it is actually absurd.
Sunday afternoon comes with a hangover, too many bags, and the long drive back.
You are in leggings and one of the stupidly soft robes by the time you pile into the car with Holly for the ride into the city. Everyone is tired. Happy. A little emotionally raw around the edges.
When you finally step through the front door of the flat, Simon is in the kitchen rinsing out a mug.
He looks up at the sound.
And something in his whole body loosens.
There.
That.
That is what you missed.
You drop your bags right in the doorway and go to him. He barely gets the mug in the sink before you are in his arms, kissing him with the kind of intensity reserved for people who survived forty-eight whole hours apart and would like the world to know it was deeply rude.
He kisses you back hard enough to make Holly whistle behind you before she remembers she is technically still in the room.
"Okay," she says, backing toward the door with both hands up. "I'm leaving. Love you. Hydrate. Don't make eye contact."
You laugh breathlessly into Simon's shoulder while he just keeps you tucked against him, one hand spread wide over the middle of your back.
When the door shuts behind her, the flat goes still again.
This time, right.
He leans back just enough to look at you.
"You have fun."
You smile, because you know what he's asking underneath it.
"Yeah."
He nods once.
Then, quieter, "Good."
You touch his face, thumb brushing the line of his jaw.
"Missed you."
He glances toward the bags still in the hallway, then back at you.
"Yeah," he says. "Missed you too."
And the way he says it, simple and unguarded and entirely real, makes the whole loud glittering weekend feel suddenly very far away.
This.
This is home.
💀📱🖤💄💀📱🖤💄💀📱🖤💄💀📱🖤
✨ Want to be added to the taglist? ✨
Drop a “TAG ME” below and I’ll make sure you never miss a chapter! Influencer chaos x Ghost brooding is not something you wanna sleep on 👀🖤
What starts as a ridiculous, Johnny-planned stag night becomes a deeply meaningful last celebration of Simon’s old life.
42. Before Forever
You probably should not have asked Johnny MacTavish to plan Simon's stag night.
In your defense, it had felt funny at the time.
Sweet, even.
You'd been curled up on the couch at Simon's, laptop balanced on your knees, wedding tabs open and multiplying by the second. Simon was in the kitchen making coffee, half listening while you argued with Holly over centerpiece heights in a group chat. Johnny had sent a voice note complaining that no one was giving him "proper best man responsibilities," despite the fact no one had actually made him best man in any official capacity.
You'd laughed and, without thinking too hard about the consequences, texted him:
You:
If you want a job so bad, plan Simon's stag.
There had been no immediate response.
Which should have terrified you more than it did.
Because Johnny MacTavish silent was never a good sign.
Two minutes later, your phone rang.
You put him on speaker.
"Hen," Johnny said, voice grave with fake solemnity, "ye've just handed me the keys to the kingdom."
From the kitchen, Simon looked up sharply. "What's he done now?"
You bit your lip, already smiling. "I may have told him to handle your stag."
Simon froze. Actually froze. Mug halfway to the counter.
"You what?"
Johnny's delighted cackle burst through the speaker. "Too late, LT. It's official. I'm event management now."
Simon set the mug down with exaggerated care. "No. Absolutely not."
"You can't reject it," Johnny said. "The bride's spoken."
"That's not how that works."
"Actually," you said sweetly, "it kind of is."
Simon narrowed his eyes at you, and you had the deeply unsettling thought that your future husband looked genuinely more alarmed by Johnny with a social calendar than by actual gunfire.
"Hen," Johnny said, voice dropping dramatically, "I vow to make this a night he'll never forget."
"That," Simon said flatly, "is exactly what I'm worried about."
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your laptop.
Now, three weeks later, you stood in the bedroom adjusting an earring while Simon glowered at his own reflection like the mirror had personally offended him.
He looked unfairly good.
Dark jeans. Black henley. Boots. Watch. Hair a little messy in that way that made him look more dangerous, not less. He had shaved that morning, then apparently regretted it halfway through, because there was already a shadow coming back at his jaw.
He had dressed like a man heading to a quiet dinner and not at all like a man whose stag had been planned by Johnny "chaos is my cardio" MacTavish.
You, on the other hand, were trying not to laugh.
"Oh my God," you said, leaning against the wardrobe. "You look like you're going to a funeral."
His eyes met yours in the mirror. "Might be my own."
You snorted and crossed the room, straightening the collar of his henley with unnecessary fussing. "It won't be that bad."
"It's MacTavish."
"Okay, fair."
He looked down at you, expression deeply suspicious. "You knew he had plans."
You blinked innocently. "Plans? Johnny? Never."
He gave you a look that said he absolutely knew you were lying and did not have the energy to litigate it.
The buzzer went off downstairs.
Once.
Then twice.
Then three times in rapid succession, like whoever was at the main door had confused the intercom with a game show.
Simon closed his eyes.
"See," you said brightly, "they're excited."
He looked at you the way a condemned man might look at the priest.
"You're enjoying this too much."
"Yes," you said honestly.
He sighed and started toward the front door. You followed because of course you did. You were not missing whatever fresh hell Johnny had cooked up.
Simon hit the intercom without bothering to ask who it was.
The speaker crackled.
Then:
"Open the bloody door, Lieutenant, we know you're in there."
Johnny.
And behind him, faintly, Gaz's laugh.
You clapped both hands over your mouth, grinning.
Simon pressed the unlock button with the kind of weary resignation that came from long experience and opened the flat door to wait.
You hovered just behind him.
Heavy footsteps on the stairwell.
Voices. A muffled argument. Then the three of them appeared around the landing corner and it was immediately, gloriously obvious that Johnny had indeed chosen nonsense.
Gaz was first into view, looking much too composed in dark jeans and a jacket, carrying what appeared to be a bakery box and a six pack. He clocked you in the doorway and smiled.
"Evenin'."
Then came Soap.
He was wearing a leather jacket, a stupid grin, and carrying a black duffel bag over one shoulder with the self-satisfaction of a man who had planned something illegal and fun.
Price followed last, somehow managing to radiate command presence even in civilian clothes. He took one look at your face and the edge of your obvious amusement and shook his head like he'd already accepted he was not getting out of this cleanly.
Simon folded his arms.
"Why's he got a bag?"
Johnny lit up like Christmas. "Ah. So glad ye asked."
"No," Simon said. "Absolutely not."
"You haven't even heard the plan."
"Don't need to."
Johnny ignored that and pulled open the zip on the bag just enough to flash a glimpse of rope.
You squealed. Actually squealed.
Simon's head snapped toward you.
"What," you said, already laughing. "That's objectively funny."
Gaz had the decency to look vaguely embarrassed. "He insisted on the dramatics."
"It's called atmosphere," Johnny said. He reached into the bag and triumphantly yanked out a roll of zip ties and a black blindfold. "We're kidnappin' the groom."
Price pinched the bridge of his nose.
Simon stared at the items, then at Johnny, then back at the items.
"You are not," he said, voice deadly calm, "kidnappin' me."
Johnny squared up theatrically in the doorway. "That's exactly what we're doing, son."
"You're four inches shorter than me."
"Height means nothin' in guerrilla warfare."
"You're not guerrillas, Johnny. You're idiots," Price muttered.
You had to lean against the wall because you were laughing too hard to stay upright.
Johnny pointed at you. "Bride support only, hen. No interferin'."
"I would never," you lied.
Simon looked between the four of you and sighed so deeply it bordered on spiritual.
"Get in," he said finally.
Johnny's whole face lit up. "Knew ye'd see reason."
"No. I've accepted resistance is pointless."
Gaz brushed past him first, handing you the bakery box.
"Peace offering," he said. "MacTavish has been impossible all day."
You opened it and immediately gasped. Cupcakes. Decorated in black and gold with little piped skulls and wedding rings and one that literally said RIP single life in neat icing.
"Oh my God."
"That one was my idea," Johnny said proudly.
Simon looked like he wanted to die.
Price entered last, holding up one hand to you as if swearing an oath. "For the record, I tried to keep this civil."
"You brought them anyway," Simon said.
Price shrugged. "I'm here to supervise."
"That's what they all say," Johnny replied.
The flat instantly felt too full. Too loud. Too warm. Exactly the sort of chaos Simon usually avoided.
And yet, beneath the grumbling and the deadpan threats, there was something else in his face when he looked at them.
Affection. Exhausted. Buried. But there.
Johnny set the duffel down by the door and reached for the blindfold again.
"Right," he said. "Game time."
"No."
"C'mon."
"No."
Johnny lunged.
Or attempted to.
Simon caught his wrist out of pure reflex before the blindfold made it within a foot of his face. The move was so fast it made you blink. One second Johnny was grinning. The next he was lightly pinned against the wall, his own arm twisted just enough to make him yelp.
"Jesus Christ," Gaz muttered, laughing into his hand.
Price looked entirely unsurprised.
Johnny wheezed, "Bit rough before drinks, isn't it, sir?"
Simon released him with obvious restraint.
"I told you," he said calmly. "You're not kidnappin' me."
You covered your smile with the back of your hand.
Johnny straightened his jacket with as much dignity as a man who had just been neutralized in front of a bride could manage.
"Right," he said. "Plan B. Voluntary kidnapping."
"Shut up," Simon muttered.
Johnny grinned. "See? He's loosening up already."
"Not if I can help it."
Price finally stepped in properly then, voice cutting through the chaos with ease.
"Enough. We've got reservations."
That startled you. "Reservations?"
Gaz nodded. "It's not all a disaster. Some of it's planned."
Johnny looked offended. "All of it's planned."
Gaz raised a brow. "Using rope on a Special Air Service operator wasn't planning, mate. That was optimism."
You laughed so hard you snorted and had to hide your face in Simon's shoulder when he looked down at you.
He did not move away.
His hand found the small of your back instead, thumb pressing there lightly while the others bickered.
You peered up at him. "Try to have fun."
He gave you a deeply skeptical look.
"You've sent me to my death smiling," he said.
"That's because you're sexy when you're mildly miserable."
Johnny made a dramatic gagging sound.
"Christ, can we go before I vomit?"
You stepped up on your toes and kissed Simon properly then, because if they were going to make the evening insufferable, you were going to get one thing out of it first.
His hand came up to your jaw immediately, grounding, and for one second the room dropped away. Just his mouth on yours, warm and familiar, the scent of his aftershave, the quiet breath he let out when you pulled back.
"Text me," you said softly.
He nodded once. "Yeah."
"And don't let Johnny get you arrested."
"No promises," Johnny said.
"I was talking to Gaz."
Gaz laughed. "I'll do what I can."
Price touched two fingers to his brow in a mock salute. "I'll return him mostly intact."
You smiled. "Good enough."
Then they were gone.
Well. Sort of.
Johnny tried one last half-hearted "ambush" on the landing and Simon threatened to throw him down the stairs, but eventually the four of them disappeared and the flat went quiet again.
You stood in the doorway for a second after they were out of sight, smiling to yourself.
Then you closed the door, looked down at the skull cupcake in your hand, and whispered, "God help them."
Johnny had, to his credit, planned an actual night.
It just happened to begin with what he called a "security sweep pint" at a pub in town and then escalate from there.
Simon found this out sitting in the back of a taxi with Johnny talking directly into his ear, Gaz trying not to laugh, and Price staring out the window like he was dissociating on purpose.
"We've got a route," Johnny announced. "Pub. Bit of food. Then a private room at that darts place. Then, depending on your attitude, karaoke."
"There is no version of tonight where I do karaoke," Simon said.
Johnny smiled slowly. "We'll see."
"You will not."
Gaz leaned back and glanced between them. "He's already in a mood."
"He was born in a mood," Johnny said.
Price finally spoke. "The bride sent me a message."
Simon looked up. "What?"
"She said and I quote, 'Please make sure he has at least one good time and doesn't spend the whole night standing in a corner glaring at strangers.'"
Gaz barked a laugh.
Johnny looked smug as hell. "See. Direct orders."
Simon slumped back in the seat and shut his eyes.
The first pub was actually decent.
Quiet enough to talk. Warm enough not to feel depressing. They got a booth in the back, pints down within minutes, a tray of chips in the middle of the table, and the sort of easing atmosphere that came when four men who had known each other too long stopped pretending they were not pleased to be there.
Johnny raised his glass first.
"To Ghost. Finally getting his head out his arse and locking down the prettiest woman in Manchester."
Simon stared at him. "She's American."
Johnny waved a hand. "In spirit."
Glasses clinked anyway.
Price's toast was more restrained.
"To you both," he said simply. "It suits you."
That got Simon worse than the ridiculous one had.
He cleared his throat, drank half his pint, and looked away.
Gaz, because he was Gaz, let him have a second before grinning.
"So. Wedding."
Simon looked instantly suspicious. "What about it?"
Gaz leaned back. "Just didn't think I'd see the day."
Johnny slapped the table. "I did. Said it to him at least six months ago. Told him, 'That girl's gonna make an honest man of ye yet.'"
"No, you didn't."
"I absolutely did."
"You said she'd 'sort me out'."
Johnny pointed at him triumphantly. "Exactly."
Price hid a smile behind his glass.
The drinks loosened them all just enough after that.
Stories came out.
Not the classified kind. The old, stupid kind. Johnny recounting a mission in Scotland where Simon had ended up waist deep in mud because he refused to admit Gaz's route was better. Gaz bringing up the time Johnny nearly broke his nose doing some impossible stunt in training. Price telling a particularly brutal story from years back that ended with all three of them arguing over who had actually been right.
Simon even laughed.
Not often. But enough.
Every time he did, Johnny immediately pointed it out like an asshole.
"He's enjoying himself. Mark the calendar."
"Shut up."
"Did ye hear that, Price. Genuine joy."
Price looked bored. "I heard a noise, yes."
The second stop was the darts place.
A private room, because apparently Gaz had used actual practical sense while Johnny supplied chaos. It had low lights, battered leather benches, a board on one wall, and enough space for them to make fools of themselves without witnesses.
That was exactly what happened.
Johnny insisted on teams.
"Bride side versus groom side."
"There is no bride side," Simon said.
"There is now," Johnny countered. "Me and Gaz are obviously for the bride."
"Traitors," Simon muttered.
Price, somehow dragged into scorekeeping, looked at the board and said, "You'll lose if MacTavish is on any side."
"Rude," Johnny said, then promptly proved him right by missing spectacularly and nearly taking out a lamp.
By the second round, Simon was visibly less tense. Not relaxed, exactly. Simon in public was never relaxed. But the tight line in his shoulders had eased. He had taken his henley sleeves down and rolled them once again, exposing more of the tattoos the internet had built a secondary religion around. His cheeks were faintly flushed from beer and laughter.
Johnny saw him smiling at one point after Gaz nailed a ridiculous finish and clutched at his own chest dramatically.
"Price. Did ye see it?"
"See what?"
"His face nearly cracked."
Simon threw a dart at the board harder than necessary.
Price watched it land and said, "He does look happier. Don't push your luck."
Johnny grinned. "I'm best man by spirit if not title."
"By nothing," Simon said.
"By destiny."
That was when the karaoke word came back around.
"No," Simon said immediately.
Johnny put a hand over his heart. "One song."
"No."
"A duet with me."
"I'd rather die."
Gaz, who had taken exactly enough alcohol to become quietly evil, said, "Could do the one from that old pub. You know the one."
Johnny gasped. "Yes."
Price looked like he might finally intervene.
Simon looked at all three of them and realized, too late, that he was outnumbered.
The private room had one of those little rental screens in the corner with a battered songbook. Johnny was at it before anyone could stop him, punching buttons with terrifying confidence.
"This is harassment," Simon said.
"No, this is bonding," Johnny replied.
The song started.
Gaz nearly folded in half laughing before Johnny even got through the first line.
Simon lasted maybe twenty seconds before he gave in just enough to sing the chorus with the dead expression of a hostage.
It was, Price later said, "the worst thing I've ever witnessed socially."
Johnny filmed exactly three seconds of it before Simon threatened him bodily. He deleted it under supervision.
And somehow, in the middle of all that noise and mockery and impossible affection disguised as bullying, Simon had a genuinely good time.
Not because of the darts. Not because of the song.
Because these were his people. Idiots. Loyal idiots. The sort of men who would absolutely take a bullet for him and then spend the hospital stay mocking his haircut.
And because every stupid joke, every lifted pint, every terrible chorus had an undercurrent to it now.
You.
Your wedding.
The future.
They were not celebrating his last free night.
They were celebrating the fact that he had finally let himself be happy and it had stuck.
Much later, after too many pints and a final round of whisky Price swore was "the end of it," the night softened.
They ended up back at the first pub because Johnny wanted chips again and no one had the energy to fight him.
The crowd had thinned. Music lower. Staff beginning that subtle closing shift where every wiped surface means go home soon.
Simon sat with his forearms on the table, half listening while Johnny recounted, for the fourth time, how the attempted kidnapping "would have worked on a civilian."
"It would not have worked on anyone over twelve," Gaz said.
"Lies."
Price looked at Simon then. Really looked at him.
"You alright?"
Simon knew what he was asking.
Not the beer. Not the karaoke. Not the wedding admin.
Everything.
He took a slow sip and nodded. "Yeah."
Price's gaze held his for a second longer.
Then he said quietly, "Don't wait around too long on the next part."
Johnny, hearing only the shape of the sentence and none of the weight, immediately perked up. "What next part. Babies? We talkin babies? Christ, that's me dead. Uncle Johnny."
Gaz nearly inhaled his drink.
Simon gave Price a long, flat look.
Price did not care.
"She's settled you," he said, calm as ever. "That doesn't happen often. Build it while you've got the chance."
The words landed somewhere deep.
Not because Simon hadn't already thought them.
Because he had.
Every quiet morning. Every time he came home and found your things mixed with his. Every time you fell asleep on his chest and trusted him enough to fully let go.
Within the year, he had told himself.
His wife.
His home.
His life with you in every room.
"Yeah," he said finally, voice low.
Price nodded once, as if that settled it.
Johnny, entirely too observant when it mattered least, looked between them. "You're both bein' weird and serious. I hate it."
Gaz smiled into his glass. "Shut up and eat your chips."
Simon got home just after one.
You were awake.
Of course you were.
The flat was dim, lamp on low, one of your candles burning in the living room. You were curled in the corner of the couch in his old hoodie, blanket over your legs, laptop abandoned beside you and phone in hand like you had been trying to stay busy and failing.
The second the lock turned, you sat up.
He stepped inside, quiet and broad in the doorway, the smell of cold air and pub and whisky coming in with him.
Your whole face changed when you saw him.
God.
That look would ruin him every time.
"There he is," you said softly.
He shut the door behind him and barely got his boots off before you were across the room, arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his mouth.
He caught you with a hand at your waist, kissed you back slow and deep, letting himself sink into the fact of home. Of you.
"How was it?" you murmured when you pulled back.
He looked down at you, one hand still at the small of your back.
"Ridiculous."
You grinned. "I know."
"MacTavish tried to kidnap me."
You burst out laughing. "Did he?"
"He failed."
"That part I could have predicted."
He huffed a laugh then, softer than the ones at the pub. Realer.
"They all came."
"Yeah." You smiled up at him. "Surprise."
He looked at you for a second, long enough that your grin softened.
"You did that on purpose."
You nodded. "I didn't want you completely miserable the whole time."
Something in his expression shifted. Warmed.
He leaned down and kissed you again, slower this time.
"Thank you," he murmured against your lips.
You brushed your nose against his. "Did you have fun?"
He thought about it. Then, because you deserved the truth more than the easy answer, said, "Yeah. I did."
Your whole face lit up.
"Good."
He stared at you for one quiet second too long, then pulled you in harder, one hand spanning your waist, the other moving to the back of your neck.
That was all the warning you got before the kiss deepened.
He tasted like whisky and winter and the last edge of laughter. You melted into it instantly.
There was something different in it tonight.
Not urgency. Not just want.
Certainty.
His hands slid under the hem of your hoodie, over your bare thighs, your back. You made a soft sound and clung to his shoulders as he walked you backward toward the bedroom.
The room was dark except for the streetlight filtering through the curtains. The bed half turned down where you had clearly been trying to wait up and not admit to yourself how much.
He undressed you like he had all the time in the world, despite the hour. Like every inch mattered. Hoodie off. Kiss. Shorts off. Kiss. Your hands on his belt, his shirt, his chest. The two of you half laughing, half desperate in the way only people deeply in love and slightly sleep-deprived could be.
By the time you hit the mattress, the whole night had narrowed down to skin and heat and his mouth at your throat.
You were still smiling when you whispered, "Did Soap cry?"
He groaned into your neck. "Don't ruin this."
You laughed harder, and he kissed the laugh right out of you.
The sex was hot, yes. Passionate in the way only reunions and near-misses and too much feeling could make it.
But underneath that, it was reverent.
His hands moved over you like he already knew this body and still could not believe it was his to hold. Your legs wrapped around him like there was nowhere else you wanted him. The room filled with quiet gasps, his rough little curses, your breathless yeses and his name in your mouth like a prayer.
Nothing rushed.
Nothing careless.
By the time you both shuddered apart together, the whole world had blurred into the sound of breathing and rain ticking faintly against the window.
After, you curled on his chest exactly where you belonged. One hand flat over his heart. Your ring warm between you.
He touched your hair, your shoulder, the curve of your waist with the lazy absent rhythm of a man who had no intention of moving for a very long time.
You were half asleep when you murmured, "Good stag."
He smiled into the dark. "Violence. Karaoke. MacTavish."
"So. Perfect."
He huffed softly. "Aye."
Your breathing evened out not long after that.
He knew the exact moment you fell asleep. The tiny shift in your weight. The way your hand relaxed on his chest. The way your mouth softened.
Simon lay there, awake and full of the kind of certainty that did not need words.
Within the year.
No.
Sooner than that.
He looked down at you tucked into him, your ring catching one stripe of pale streetlight, your whole life somehow folded into his with no damage done to either one.
Your work. His work. Your city now too. His home no longer only his.
He kissed the top of your head and stared into the dark, one hand moving slowly over your back.
Within the year, absolutely.
You would be his wife.
He was keeping you here in Manchester.
With him.
And for the first time in his life, the thought did not feel like something he wanted and might lose.
It felt inevitable.
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Drop a “TAG ME” below and I’ll make sure you never miss a chapter! Influencer chaos x Ghost brooding is not something you wanna sleep on 👀🖤
theres a sweet little bird ghost's been keeping tabs on.
lurking at the cafe across from her work with a ratty baseball cap and a surgical mask, making the baristas flinch every time he pulls it down to take a pull off his too-sweet london fog. soft, pretty, put together. like she's made of gold wire. he likes to watch her walk down the sidewalk in her heels and her pencil skirt, likes to watch her toe the heels off and get into sweats as fast as she can once she gets home to her fancy modern flat, the wide open kind with all the windows and edges.
he could easily grab some real high-octane surveillance toys from base, but he's a bit old fashioned, a bit analog. all he needs is the scope of his unloaded rifle and a feed from the spy-cams he placed while he was out. he can hear his own breath heavy on the abandoned rooftop he's been occupying. it's an everything shower day-- shes out on the couch in a thin robe with her hair covered, licking her way through a pint of vanilla ice cream. shes indulgent. her life is just as sweet as her.
ghost reaches down to palm himself as his cock strains against the zipper of his cargoes. he grinds down with the heel of his hand when her robe slips off one shoulder and he can see the soft edge, the bounce of her tits. this is what's satisfying about taking a perch the old fashioned way: the light bouncing from her heart shaped lamp outlines her soft curves and then arcs off into the night right where ghost can catch it and bask in it. it's rare, incidental, more rewarding.
he likes the chase more than the catch. his broads really all break down and sob the same way when he decides to be finished, to reap what he hasn't sown. then they're quiet, and he can almost pretend they're just sleeping next to him.
this one has a few weeks of entertainment left for him. she's working overtime, tonight, and he's in the cafe across from her building glancing into the one florescent office as the sun starts to sink. the cafe closed 30 minutes ago, and he can see the barista mopping the same spot on the floor passive-aggressively. he'll squeeze a few more minutes out of this spot before he leaves.
he finished the last third of his tea in one long sip, letting it flow down his throat like honey, like blood. it's a cozy cafe with nice, fat cushions, little string lights, plants. he's worked past the initial impression he makes and become a tolerated regular, if not a welcome one. first impressions are important, but seconds and thirds can really make or break the game.
ghost blinks. it's pretty late.
he blinks again, and the sky is darker, opening his eyes gets a little harder. he stands to go lurk on a rooftop, to watch her walk home in the dark. make sure nothing untoward happens to her without his say-so. it's a smooth, predatory unfolding he's done a thousand times. this time, stars bloom in his head and he stumbles, nearly going to a knee. he knocks over the empty mug on the flimsy cafe table, and the barista rushes to support him. fucking humiliating. years and years in the sas, and he-
a narrow, steady arm is pushing between ghost's shoulderblades and bringing him to the ground, and ghost still feels relaxed, exhausted, like the second before he falls asleep. he tries to struggle, but can't manage it, lets this fucking civvie fold him onto the lemon-fresh damp floor as he succumbs to whatever the hell was slipped into his drink, lurking under the tablespoon of honey.
in his last blink of consciousness, he can feel himself being dragged behind the counter, over a step and into the kitchen, and he can see the face of the person dragging him.
and your eyes have a bit of a familiar cast to them, your breath a familiar hitch. it's his hitch. he's slipped up.
when he falls into fuzzy almost-sleep, he feels almost warm.
thinking about simon riley and his bratty!missus again. specifically, his bratty missus absolutely putting him to the test in front of the rest of 141.
you've been a menace all night. all night. sitting in his lap even though there's a perfectly good, perfectly empty chair next to him. grinding yourself down against him every time you laugh, whispering filthy shit in his ear that would make a lesser man blush when soap and gaz are mid-conversation across the table.
simon's grip on your hip has gone from a reassuring, comfortable pressure, to tight enough you know you're pushing it, to so tight you know you're going to have fingerprint shaped bruises.
soap loves you. grins every time you lean over the table to talk to him, pushing your tits together and fluttering your lashes just to hear simon's teeth grind together behind you. gaz thinks it's hilarious. hasn't ever seen his lieutenant look more murderous, even under active fire.
price is absolutely fucking done with your shit, and seriously contemplating banning spouses from work drinks.
but the second the front door shuts behind you at 0236 that night after simon has half carried, half dragged your drunk, stumbling ass home, after he's been made to stop (and pay for) cheesy chips from some greasy looking van that you practically inhaled without offering him a single one?
you're fucking in for it.
he's not bothering with the bedroom. or the couch. he's just gripping you by the back of the neck and slamming you face first against a wall so hard the pictures hanging there rattle.
you grin, having foreseen the consequences of your actions the first time you saw simon's eye twitch that night.
his grips shifts from the back of your neck to the front, fingers wrapping around the column of your throat with a deliberate pressure. his free hand shoves the hem of your dress up round your waist - and you're already scrabbling to hold it there.
there's a clink of a belt. a zipper.
your underwear gets unceremoniously dragged down to mid thigh, strings of slick connecting you dripping cunt to the flimsy fabric.
“you think it's cute?” he hisses in your ear, blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance. “acting like a fuckin’ slag in front of my bloody colleagues?”
his grip on your throat tightens hard enough you gasp, eyes flicking back over your shoulder to look at him with an expression he'd think was panic if it wasn't for the way the corners of your mouth twitched upwards.
he rolls his eyes, “fuckin’ the attitude out of you never works. gonna try anyway.” it's half amused, half resigned.
he thrusts into you in one long, heavy stroke, breath catching at how wet you are from teasing him all evening.
“you… ‘ave been a proper fuckin’ nightmare all night,” he mutters against your ear, pulling almost all the way out of your cunt before slamming back inside hard enough you feel it in your stomach.m, hard enough you're sure your brain rattles in your skull. “grinding on me in front of the lads, flashin’ yer fuckin’ tits at soap. you need to come with a bloody warning label: careful, flirts like a fuckin’ whore.”
but there's no real anger in it - exasperation maybe, a tired kind of affection, but none of the quiet coldness that tinges his voice when you've really pushed it.
you moan as his fingers slide down to rub firm, familiar circles on your clit, his head dropping to rest against your shoulder, letting out a rough huff of air, “fuckin’ love you. even if you are a little shite. even if i think you might actually be fuckin' certifiable. even if takin' you to pub should count as a war crime against the rest of the fuckin' team.”
he doesn't let you respond. just tightens his grip on your throat. fucks you against the wall like he's trying to break you in two until your cunt clamps down around him and you come with a strangled, muffled moan. he lets himself follow, spills inside your cunt as deep as he can and lets your fluttering walls milk him for every drop of cum he could possibly give you.
“now go drink some fuckin' water.” he grumbles as he pulls out, pulling your underwear back into place just so you have to sit with the feeling of his cum pooling there. “yer even more of an arsehole when yer hungover.”
(mdni, sexual content, 18+, if you dont like it just block.)
𖹭 tw: innocence kink, mean! toxic! manipulative! simon, virgin reader, possessive simon , inexperienced/oblivious /naive reader.
𖹭 word count: 1.1k.
𖹭 summary: obsessive!Simon as your obsessive childhood best friend who doesnt want to let go of you. Small town scenario. This is just an introduction.
In the dusty outskirts of a forgotten small town, where cracked roads wound through endless fields of wilted corn and rusted silos stood tall, Simon grew up in a ramshackle farmhouse that reeked of neglect and stale whiskey. His father, a hulking brute with fists like hammers and a temper fueled by cheap booze, ruled the household with iron-fisted demands after Simon's mother succumbed to a quiet, unspoken illness when he was just six.
From dawn till dusk, the boy toiled endlessly—hauling hay bales heavier than his scrawny frame, mending barbed-wire fences that sliced his palms, scrubbing pig pens until his knuckles bled raw—while his father lounged on the sagging porch, barking orders and swinging belts for the slightest infraction.
The other kids in town steered clear, whispering about the 'crazy farm freak' with the wild eyes and scowl, their laughter echoing from afar as they played kickball in the schoolyard without him. Isolation carved deep scars into Simon's soul, twisting his young heart into a fortress of solitude; he glared at the world with a mean, grumpy outlook, despising the cruelty of society that had orphaned him emotionally long before his mother was gone. Mentally adrift in a storm of rage and abandonment, he was convinced everyone was out to break him further.
Then you appeared, a pretty little vision with sunlit hair and eyes that sparkled like the rare wildflowers pushing through the town's empty lots, crossing his path during a summer recess when you wandered too close to his solitary chores by the creek. From that first glance, Simon's fractured world realigned around you—his obsession ignited like fuel, erasing the shadows of his abusive father and the ghost of his dead mother.
Nothing else mattered; he schemed in the shadows of childhood, spreading vicious rumors about the other kids who dared approach you—whispering to them that you carried cooties from the city, or that your family was cursed with bad luck, planting seeds of doubt that bloomed into isolation.
He'd sabotage playdates with 'accidental' scares, like hiding spiders in their lunchboxes or tripping them during games, ensuring they fled your side in tears. You became his sole anchor, his pretty lil obsession, and in the sick corners of his mind, he fantasized about dragging you to his cramped room, chaining the door shut, and keeping you forever as his secret treasure, untouched by the world's filth.
Over the years, Simon wove himself into the fabric of your life like an unbreakable vine, becoming your constant shadow, your best friend in a town that suddenly felt emptier without him.
He was there for every scraped knee from falling down, every tear shed over schoolyard taunts, offering gruff comforts and loyalty that no one else could match. You'd share stolen moments by the old oak tree, trading secrets under its branches as the sun dipped low, his presence a comforting weight that filled the voids others left behind.
He listened to your dreams with intensity, memorizing every detail, while subtly steering conversations away from anyone who might steal your attention. Your laughter became his lifeline, pulling him from of his father's drunken rages; he'd endure fresh bruises hidden under long sleeves just to meet you at the edge of his property, his grumpy facade cracking into rare, possessive smiles reserved only for you. This closeness was his sanctuary, where he cultivated your dependence like a gardener tending his favourite plant.
As puberty stretched his limbs and deepened his voice, Simon sharpened his tactics, always finding excuses to chip away at your innocence with a predatory gleam in his eye. He'd 'accidentally' brush against your curves whenever you both were alone, his hands lingering a bit too long on the swell of your hips, chuckling it off as roughhousing between 'friends'.
Movie nights in his dimly lit room turned into lessons in 'grown-up stuff,' where he'd pull up grainy videos on his beat-up laptop, pointing out how the characters touched and moaned, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured, “See? That's just natural, ain't nothin' wrong with explorin', doll.”
He'd made you to try on his shirts, watching hungrily as the fabric clung to your body, then tug at the hem to 'fix' it, fingers grazing the soft skin of your thighs. Each intrusion was cloaked in playful innocence, planting seeds of confusion and heat in your core, his obsession evolving into a hunger to corrupt what was pure, all while insisting it was just him looking out for his girl.
Simon never missed a chance to manhandle you, his touch turning possessive and rough under the guise of brotherly familiarity, claiming your body as his territory with calloused filthy hands that knew no boundaries. "C'mere, dolly,'" he'd grin, scooping you up without warning to toss you over his broad shoulder during walks home, your squeals ignored as his palm smacked your ass 'playfully' to quiet you.
He'd pin you against the barn wall during arguments, large fingers digging into your waist to hold you still, his body pressing flush so you felt every hard inch of him grinding insistently.
Fixing your hair meant yanking your head back by the strands, thumbs tracing your jaw before crushing his mouth near yours in a 'joking' nip. Even hugs turned into full-body cages, arms like steel bands crushing you to his chest, one hand always sliding down to cup your ass or thigh, kneading the flesh as he whispered, "Just keepin' ya close, like always." These moments left you breathless and marked—fingerprints blooming on pale skin—yet he dismissed protests with a smirk, "What? We've been like this forever; i'm your best friend, lovie. its okay between us."
Once a skittish boy with wide, wary eyes and a frame swallowed by overalls that hung loose on his underfed body, Simon transformed under the relentless grind of farm life into a rugged force of nature.
Freckles dusted his weathered face like stars scattered across tanned cheeks, earned from endless hours under the punishing sun, while his hands bore the rugged scars of labor—calluses thick as leather, knuckles perpetually bruised.
Muscles bulged hefty and hard across his broad shoulders, thick arms, and chest, formed from wrestling livestock and splitting logs, giving him the raw power of a boy who could lift a full-grown sow without breaking a sweat.
Dirty blond hair tousled by wind and sweat. jaw shadowed by a very light beard that he never bothered to shave, adding to his untidy allure. He didn't give a damn about mirrors, striding through town in faded jeans over thighs, scuffed boots caked in mud—a roughened-up farm boy whose obsessive gaze always locked onto you.
