simon teaches inexperienced!reader how to ride him. ♡ cw age gap. all characters are 18+.
TRAINING WHEELS.
fully undressed, no training wheels left for you / i'll pull them off for you.*
(reupload from lackadaisies, this is my fic! i'm not a thief!)
Embarrassment takes root somewhere deep in your belly at the proposition, a low-grade tingle spreading up your neck and your ears. A nervous laugh—that sound Simon loves so much, though he'd never say out loud—slips past your Berrylicious ChapStick lips. You can scarcely meet his gaze, the silver of his watch glinting out of the corner of your downturned eyes in the gauzy light. Simon, on the other hand, has never had any problem laying out his needs for you in that unhurried, plain-spoken way of his, like he's been deciding on this longer than you know.
The room is spartan, tucked corners and pine furniture. All business—save for your bra hanging off the bedpost, a pack of gum spilling onto his nightstand, your little sandals kicked off by the door. Heat shimmers off the gravel lot out front, the silhouette of his truck baking in the sun visible through the half-drawn blinds. You can hear the sound of the cicadas starting up over the distant drone of a lawnmower and the neighbors dogs.
“Let's get these off, then.” Simon gestures for you to lift your hips, his hands already finding the lace trim of your panties before bundling it down, down. Your denim cut-offs had been the first to go, and now even the loss of that thin, barely-there barrier of cotton makes all the difference.
“I'm not so sure 'bout this...” Your hands instinctively fly to his broad shoulders for support, your balance teetering on the mattress as the panties bunch around one knee. His grip on your hips tightens ever so slightly, tongue probing the inside of his cheek as he tries to ignore the stirring in his groin with your heat hovering right over him. You can see the vein in his forearm, the set of his jaw.
“I'm no good,” you pout.
You swear Simon rolls his eyes, vaguely. Just enough for you to catch a flash of it beneath that heavy, half-lidded look he gets.
“All I'm hearin' are excuses, lazy girl.” He raps his fingers against your hips in an off handed rhythm, his weight shifting under you expectantly.
“It's not like that! I wanna make you feel good—real good. I just haven't done this before. I told you, Si.”
“Everyone’s gotta start somewhere. I’ll teach ya. Now go on, undo ’em.”
You know he's right, but you like your comfort zone—no chance of disappointment or embarrassing yourself. Your lips pinch together as you lower your gaze to the straining bulge in the front of his pants, the denim scratchy against your inner thighs. His silver belt buckle is worn at the edges, possibly almost as old as you.
Belt first, you hear his deep voice murmur and your fingers fumble at the clasp, your knuckles brushing against the warm flat of his stomach and flinching back like you've been burned. You can feel him watching you, patient, and it makes you clumsier. You hesitate at the button next, your breath shallow, aware of how still he's gone beneath your hands—how much restraint it's taking him to let you do this at your own pace, to not just take over and show you.
When you finally get his jeans undone, he lifts his hips just enough to shuck them down his thighs, and you try not to look at the thatch-colored hair trailing from his navel, the jut of his hipbone, the outline of him through his boxers. It's nothing you haven't seen before, but you've never had to take matters into your own hands up until now.
Simon's calloused palm is on the back of your hand, guiding it down the front of his boxers with a slow exhale, his muscles seeming to uncoil beneath you. Your painted fingernails stick out between his fingers like little jewels, your palm pressing flat against the cotton.
“Feel that?” His offhand grips the back of your hair, the prominent bridge of his nose bumping against yours before your lips touch, murmuring into your mouth. “That’s what you do to me. So go on, then—do summat about it.” He pulls his boxers down just enough, and you feel him spring free against your thigh, the sudden relief making him hiss.
You shift forward on your knees awkwardly, and he steadies you with a hand on your hip, warm and familiar. The position is strange—you hovering over him, his length pressed between your bellies, the head of his cock nudging against your softness. Your thighs tremble with the effort of holding yourself up, and you're distinctly aware that you're hardly as spry as you should be, while Simon has been the exact opposite in that department despite the years.
“Easy.” His hands settle under your ribs. “Go on. You heard me. Sit yourself down.”
His head tips back against the headboard, his voice unexpectedly hoarse as he notches himself at your entrance, and you gasp as the head of his oversized cock stretches you out.
“Now,” he says. “Nice and slow.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders. You sink down inch by inch, your breath coming in short, punched-out little gasps, and he doesn't intervene as you find your own pace. You feel the shape of him in your belly, and you're painfully aware of the way your body resists, then gives, the way his jaw tightens as you take him incrementally.
“Up—that’s it. Slow. Now, move your hips into it. No, don’t just bounce, sweetheart. You’re not a bloody jackrabbit. Roll ’em.” A small adjustment, thumbs pressing into your waist with pedagogical indifference to your whimpers as he impales you on his cock, maneuvering you along the slight curve of his cock. “Yeah. That’s it. Like that.”
Sparks shoot up the base of your spine as your clit grinds against him with each pass, palms braced against his stomach. You feel the sweaty muscle flex under your fingers in time with your hips, the wet squelch of each rise and fall making your cheeks burn, leaving a shining trail down his length before you sink back down with a gasp.
His voice remains low and even—the Lieutenant guiding instead of commanding for once. Praise is rare with Simon—only the occasional murmur of good—but the approval is there all the same.
You stop but once to huff and tell him your legs are tired, and while Simon does consider that perhaps he's spoilt you too much, you turn out to be a surprisingly quick study once you've had your fill of pouting. You're too accustomed to letting him take control, perhaps, to the point that you'll even be on top if that's what he wants.
I keep thinking about kissing him when we see each other in person again, of pulling him close as we hug, then sliding my hand up his back to his neck, to pull him in close and make out with him
Or...
Grind up against his cock as we make out on a chair or sitting somewhere, I'd love to have my calves/knees on either side of his thighs, fully apart yet wrapped around his lower half
Priest who says it’s not breaking his holy vows if he doesn’t fuck his cock into your mouth, your pussy or your ass.
He strips you with impatient hands until you lie, exposed and naked, in front of the altar.
He anoints your tits with holy oil and thrusts between them, swiping his fingers across his leaking cockhead and pushing them deep into your mouth so you can taste his pre-cum on your tongue.
When the priest climaxes, the first spurt of cum stripes your neck. More cum pools between your tits, warm and slick.
Priest who watches with hungry eyes as you scoop up his cum. You swipe it across and into your waiting hole, pumping your fingers in and out, in and out, til you climax with a cry that echoes in the silence of the church.
Imagine a pretty subby priest on top of you. His robes at his waist, and his head on your shoulder.
His tears falling on you, and his breath hiccups as you hold his cock right at your entrance, while your other hand brushes his hair and holds his crying form.
“Please” he pleads and whines out “please, just the tip. Let me put just the tip inside.”
He tries to moves his hips to stimulate movement, but you keep holding him.
He whines with frustration.
“Please, please, I promise to be good. I promise to be so good, just the tip. It’s not a sin if it doesn’t go all the way in, right? Please, let me just- please” his lip practically kiss your shoulder as his words muffle.
You click your tongue before you grab hold of his hair harshly, holding him in place and help him push in just the tip inside yourself.
“Oh god! Oh god yes! Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you thank you—“ he keeps repeating against your shoulder as you shudder.
“Stay still, father” you tell him.
His tip stays right there, inside you. You don’t let him move before you start stroking him, as best you can with him on top of you.
He starts gasping and moaning. Twitching as he unconsciously tries to move his hips according to the movement of your hand, but only being able to move because of you.
His hand move to the side of your head, gripping the sheets beside you. You move your hand faster as you pull on his hair and pull his head back, wanting to see his face as you make him cum with your hand.
His mouth is hanging open. Loud ‘ah-ah-ah’ slipping out as his teary eyes start to roll.
He takes you by surprise as he crashes his lips into yours. His tongue inside you as he cums with a loud moan.
Imagine him breathing heavy as he kisses your face all over while you’re thinking about how you’re about to make him cum again.
I want to be the reason a priest sins. I want to be the object that receives all of that pent-up shit from years, possibly decades, of celibacy. I want that virgin man panting and fumbling, not fully knowing what he's doing but driven by pure, animal instinct and desperate to touch, kiss, and get inside me. Moaning and begging his God for forgiveness as he slides in to the hilt.
izuku is addicted to porn—now, before you turn your head, hear the man out. he’s not hooked like most men are, chasing a quick goon session, getting off purely for the sake of getting off, fapping their dick to any pussy scattered across the internet.
see, izuku has collections of porn.
starting with his hentai collection first—meticulously organized, color-coded, even ranked from worst to best by an absurdly intricate ratio of how much they made him cum. how many orgasms. how quickly the orgasm hit. whether he had to work for it or if release came embarrassingly fast. if his hand grew tired halfway through. details like that.
he has twitter on his phone too, entirely full of grainy pictures and low-quality videos—various girls getting fucked into couches, women gagging around cock, glossy leather leashes and collars cinched tight. izuku was almost certain he could get off to anything.
the way izuku watches porn is different from those guys.
izuku observes it.
first, he has to watch it. listen to it.
he listens to the sounds spilling from breathless girls’ lips, every strained gasp and broken moan, trying to see if maybe—just maybe—her voice sounds anything like yours.
he’ll even pause the video sometimes.
freezing the frame, right where the guy is rutting his fat cock into her pretty hole, the way her greedy pussy clings and swallows him whole, her body yielding around him while he watches with an almost unsettling focus, gaze flickering between every detail, studying the way she reacts, the way she trembles, the way she takes him.
his hand is already on his own cock, palming the hardened length, slow at first, then tighter, stroking as he watches the way she’s stretched open around him, slick and messy, imagining it’s your hole instead, your cunt taking him, sucking him in just like that.
he can’t help the way his hips twitch into his hand, grip tightening, breath going uneven, eyes locked on the screen while his mind replaces her with you, your face, your sounds, the way you’d look getting fucked like that.
it doesn’t take much after that—he’s jerking himself off faster, sloppy, hand slick, until he’s coming hard, painting his fingers and palm in thick milky streaks, chest heaving, face flushed, verdant colored curls sticking to his damp heated skin.
and it doesn’t help that the girl looks like you—just like you—taunting him and his thin hold on restraint, practically forcing him to cum :(
masterlist - kofi - emergency comm info!
note: this came to me while half asleep also ik twitter is x now but idc divider creds @/ cursed-carmine
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You don’t even get a warning. One second you’re teasing him, calling him farmboy with that smirk he hates, and the next—bam. Back hits the barn wall. His mouth is on yours, soft, hands everywhere. It’s so fast. Dizzying even.
His hand’s already in your panties, middle finger dragging up your slit delicately. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, “you’re soaked.”
He shoves your panties to the side and lines himself up. He just can’t wait. And God, he can’t. He’s muttering all these shaky little pleas under his breath.
“Please let me, please need it so bad—” and you’re nodding, panting, already gripping his arms that’s all holding you together.
When he pushes it in? It knocks the wind out of you. He’s so big you feel it in your stomach, and he just keeps whispering “Sorry, sorry, I’ll be gentle,” while absolutely railing you against the wall.
But he’s shaking. Holding back. Breathing hard like he’s scared he’ll break something, like you.
And then you moan out his name, a soft 'Clark' leaving your lips, and that’s it. He loses it.
He grabs under your thighs and fucks into you so deep the whole damn wall creaks behind you, barn dust raining down from the rafters. Every thrust knocks a whimper out of you. And he’s watching your face.
“Look at me,” he says, voice wrecked. “Just—just look at me while I fuck you.”
Trying to walk squeeze by Simon when he’s standing is hard enough, but when he’s sitting? It’s like a Herculean task. He manages to take up just as much room as he always does, if not more—legs spread wide, feet kicked out in front of him. He's like a human-sized boulder, and it's impossible to get to where you need to go if he's in your path.
"Christ—" you kicked at his foot, "Close your fucking legs, LT."
He grumbled something unintelligible, glaring blankly into the middle distance and making no effort to ease up in his seat or grant you the space you needed to pass.
"I’m serious," you huffed, "There’s no way your balls are so big that you can’t spare a few inches of legroom for me."
It sort of just slipped out; a low-effort joke you hoped might get him to empathize with your struggle—or maybe embarrass him into closing his fucking legs.
"Might be."
Simon didn’t bother looking up at you when he spoke. He remained statuesque, thick arms crossed over his wide chest.
"What?"
"Balls might be ‘at fuckin big," now he looked up, that deep glare finding your face. "Try findin' time for a wank in 'is line o’work."
"I find plenty of time," you shot back quickly, trying to keep up with his odd brand of humor—was it humor? "What? Shower's too good for you? Can’t jerk off in bed like a normal person?"
"Tired." He shrugged.
His eyes were half-lidded, frustrated, but not angry, and when he tilted his head to the side, an almost imperceptible gesture, you thought the conversation was done. You thought you might be able to kick your way past his legs; be able to storm off, knowing you had lost this battle, and allow yourself the time to stew over it.
But then he dropped his forearms to his thighs with a quiet huff—whether it was one of amusement or not, you could never tell with him.
"'Nd the mess ain't worth it."
You swallowed, almost taking a step back out of sheer surprise that he was being so direct. Granted, Simon's only method of communication was to speak candidly, or not at all.
“Maybe you just need someone to…help you out,” there was no hesitancy to your words, though you couldn't hide the slight waver in your voice. “Somewhere pretty to…for—for easy clean up...”
And that’s how you wound up face down on Simon's bed, bent over yourself on shaky hands and trembling knees. A calloused palm pressed against your back, forcing you to arch, squirming while he fucked his previous load back into you.
"Pretty li’l cumslut," his voice was almost jovial, despite the gravelly baritone he maintained, as he watched the messy combination of slick and cum drip down the backs of your thighs. "S'at what you are, sweetheart?"
"I—mmh…Ye-es—"
Groaning at your easy submission, the quiver in your voice as you confirmed his query, he slid his hand down from your upper back, maneuvering between your shoulder blades and pressing down on the side of your head in a gentle but apparent show of control. You arched further, unable to stop yourself from chasing that perfect angle—the one that let you feel him between your ribs, that pushed the air from your lungs while he pulled another orgasm from you.
"Yeah, s’right," his free hand came down to rest on the curve of your ass, spreading you further—wider—for his own enjoyment. "’Nd whose fuckin’ cum dumpster are ya?"
"Please—Simon!"
Your cry of his name inadvertently answered his question, and he growled in recognition, bringing his hand down hard over the flesh of your ass before squeezing.
"Yeah, s’fuckin’ right—" another squeeze, "Mine."
His grip on your ass faltered slightly, just enough to let his palm sweep inwards, his thumb brushing against the tight rim of your asshole while you gasped beneath him.
"Think when I’ve pumped your pretty cunt full, you’ll let me fill ya ‘ere?" He pressed lightly, watching your eyelids flutter as you drooled onto his bedspread.
You moaned wantonly, keening at his words; his filthy promises and desperate touches. The lazy arch of your back against the pressure of his thumb and silent mouthing of his name—that was answer enough for him.
"Yeah—fuck, gonna give it to ya, sweetheart," he practically crooned it, determined to provide what you both wanted again, and again, and again. "Give ya every fuckin’ drop..."
It was so much easier for him to avoid getting cum on his sheets like this, with you so desperate to take everything he mercilessly fucked into you.
Sweetheart!Simon finding out you never squirted before-!
cw: porn link, mdni, fingering, squirting, sweet simon
When you casually mention that you can't squirt, Simon immedietaly pulls over from the road and looks at you confused.
And when you further explain it's because non of your past partners could do it when they tried, you whine about how you're totally convinced that there's something wrong with you and he decides to prove you wrong.
He immediately rolls up his tinted windows and lay you down in the backseat, spreading your legs open slowly and lowering your pants, eventually taking them off and tossing them somewhere followed by your panties short after, making you feel bare and embarrassed.
"Nothin's wrong with you, luv. Blokes these days just don't know how to treat a woman right, hm?"
He kisses your knee and spreads your legs wider when you try to close them because you started feeling exposed, suddenly shy under his gaze, but don't worry he'll take good care of you.
"Just relax for me sweetheart, yeahh just like that" he drags the syllable, eyes hooded with need and lip bitten between his teeth.
He starts by making you relax, kissing your hand, knee, calf; wherever his lips can reach, while rubbing slow deliberate circles on your aching clit.
After getting you all needy, relaxed and soft for him he'll press a finger in your waiting cunt, the length stretching you and making you squeeze him only to get a tut and a "need you to relax for me, luv"
And when you finally relax again he'll start moving his finger, the squelching sounds of your dripping cunt filling the small space only for him to add another when you least expect it, but the pain is nowhere to be found, replaced by pleasure and lust.
Simon thrusts his fingers in and out of you and just when you start to feel the coil in your stomach, indicating your approaching orgasm, he'll press his palm over the surface of your lower abdomen- right on top of your uterus- making you squeal and squirm a bit, receiving a light tap on the soft flesh;
"need you to stay still for me, sweetheart."
His voice is gruff and his breath starts quickening along with his fingers, his palm on your abdomen applying the perfect pressure, and just when you're about to cum, he'll curl his fingers just right to hit the spongy spot you can't reach by yourself making you arch your back and press harder on his palm;
"W-wait, Simon! F-feel like peeing-"
"That's the point, sweetheart. Let go for me" he pants above you, barely holding himself together.
And just like that, your jaw goes slack and your juices squirt all over his palm, his pace not slowing one bit. Simon would finger you through your orgasm, and when you get down from your high, he'll take out his fingers and slap your pussy making you moan.
Simon brings his hands to his mouth and licks his fingers clean, maintaining eye contact while doing so. And in a moment of embarrassment you avert your gaze only for it to land on his crotch, an evident dark patch coating his bulge
"See what you do to me, luv? Without any touch." he chuckles sweetly and kisses your forehead
"If you ever want to squirt, just come to me. I'll take good care of you, o'right?"
pairing: Stalker! Simon Ghost Riley / Pervy! Simon Ghost Riley x fem!reader
summary: simon needs to get it together
warnings: slowburn, unreliable narrator, angst, stalking, objectification, pill use, alcohol use, simon is a bum, fixed simon pov, simon is crashing out. ?simon has a cock and it gets hard? no use of y/n etc etc you get the point dead dove do not eat simon is weird yada yada.
authors note: this chapter rlly pisses me off cus it was super frustrating to write. there's a lot of things that might read as straight up word vomit; and for that i apologize. while this is still experimental, yappy details mentioned do play significant roles down the road (as this is intended to be a slow burn). once again, i'd like to reiterate i am not a fic writer or a writer in general so i'm truly sorry if this is bad. I should've spent more time on it, but the longer i sat on it the more i wanted to stop writing it cus it was just driving me insane. again, any and all feedback is encouraged. be critical or nice . enjoy. all luv-- me & 'nam my rabbit
word count: 4k
He didn't want to be seen.
The walk was twenty minutes, though he always made it fifteen.
He knew the shortcut through the alley behind an old church, the one that cut past the residential housing and dumped him onto your street just as you were rounding the corner.
He wasn't hurrying. He was efficient.
You were slower tonight than he expected. He watched as you paused outside a tesco; peering through the window like you were considering going in, then kept walking. He filed that.
Doesn't eat late? Or maybe money is scarce.
Your flat was in one of those converted victorian houses near the treeline. It had bay windows and peeling paint and a front door that stuck, because you had to shove it with your shoulder every time. He knew because he'd watched you do it three times now. Tonight was the same; fiddling with a zipper to retrieve your keys. A shoulder against wood; force that coaxed taunting grunts of effort.
He crept forward, watching through a sliver that the curtain had failed to reach.
He waited until your bedroom light came on. Waited longer until your shadow passed the window.
You toed off your sneakers; then your socks. Shuffled through a drawer before disappearing into the bathroom.
The faint sound of water hitting tile bled through the single pane glass. His eyes darted to where you'd discarded your gym bag beside a heap of clothes that'd been accumulating all week. You still didn't have a hamper.
Messy? Or saving money?
Must've been saving.
He would help.
How would you feel about that? Would you accept help? Or maybe you'd get offended by the assumption that you needed help. He could always just leave money– no strings attached. Or maybe he could slip it into your gym bag. When you unzipped your bag to find money beside your water what would you do?
He was tempted to test it. Test if you were the type to shove it to the bottom or bring it to the front desk with open palms and a curious smile, asking if anyone had misplaced it. If so, he imagines Tony would lie and pocket it. Would you notice?
You'd come out of the shower quicker than usual. Hair still dripping, greying splotches against the white oversized cotton was evidence of your haste. You shuffled through a drawer; pulled out a lotion bottle before giving two good pumps and lathering it between your palms.
His eyes had snagged on your hands, allowing them to guide his gaze.
A leg propped up on a chair as hands smeared the cream; kneading the flesh until it turned to silk. His tongue was velcro, jaw slack. Adjusted his stance; poor attempt to redirect the affliction growing against his groin.
Eyes glided back up tracking as bare feet padded into the hallway before returning with a mug.
Fingers curled at the base. Not steaming. Probably water. The light in your room went out. He stayed for another fifteen minutes watching as you scrolled your phone.
No one called. No one texted.
He waited until your room was no longer illuminated by blue light. Stepped further away, tapping his own phone to life. Couple missed texts asking about training reminders. Tony's message of irritation about how he wasn't going to close anymore.
Tony was a lazy kid getting paid more than he deserved; always coming into work reeking of skunk; replacing lunches with spliffs. He figured the only reason Tony sought a job in the first place was because he needed a way to fund his excessive cannabis consumption. Regardless, he never gave him too much shit for it. He preferred Tony’s intoxicated indifference to another's enthusiastic curiosity.
He pocketed his phone as he began walking back to the gym.
Something rotten had been lingering on his tongue. It’d been there for weeks. He tried to remove it like plague, but did little to help.
Because he needed to feed it. Needed to know why you didn't read like everyone else.
Most women had friends. Most women look at him sideways. Most women make themselves known–want to be known. But you didn't want to be known, and you didn't look at him at all. Didn't pretend to care. Didn't flash faux-politeness. Too engrossed in your own head. You didn't pay him any mind at all–or anyone for that matter. It irked him.
Made him want to know you.
He wanted to know what you were hiding. What was so important in your head that deemed everything else so unimportant. He wanted to know what it was that could catch your attention. What deserved your attention–who deserved it.
He didn't know why it bothered him so much. Maybe it's because he didn't understand how you could trust yourself. You were too young. Too oblivious. Too alone.
Who makes sure you're safe? Who makes sure you eat? Who makes sure the door actually locked?
No one.
He half expected the gym lights to still be on by the time he’d gotten back, so he was surprised to see it dark. He sidestepped equipment, checked the back door and the bathrooms before he slipped into his office; unlocking the stairwell to his flat.
Cotton met the laminate flooring as he stepped into the shower. The tile chilled the soles of his feet before being warmed by the water. He scrubbed his hands over his face, stubble pricking his palms. The sound of the water on tile brought him back to earlier, to the sound of your shower running.
A distasteful image of you materialized on the back of his lids–cock half hard.
Soapy. Dripping. Completely bare.
He considered giving in.
Considered letting you consume him whole. To allow himself to come undone; even if it was just for a moment.
Considered.
His hand flicked the water to cold. Jaw clenching, a hiss through grit teeth as his blood turned to ice.
He had to reel himself back in. Needed to stop giving you custody over his body and his mind. He was tired of fighting it because no matter how hard he fought the current, he was unable to divert from it.
You fit into him like a hook into an eye. Yet you hadn't cast a line.
He flicked the water off and fisted a towel; drying himself in the mirror. The scars that littered his body had always made him cringe. Reminded him of what he’d gone through and he’d done.
What bothered him most wasn't the fact that they were there; it was the fact that it’d happened and he came out the other side with nothing to show for it. Nothing to feel proud of.
He had never killed for fun–never considered it. He killed because it was what he was good at. Something that came naturally. He never felt bad–it was always kill or be killed, but he never felt good either. Just regretful. He knew that he'd never tried to be something else.
For that, he entertained regret.
As he fingered through the strands of blond that had re-sprouted from his head, he looked himself over; toothbrush tucked between his lips. Wondered what you'd think of a man like him. Mangled and marked.
Minty spit globbed to the porcelain before he tied a towel to his hips. He trekked into the kitchen; grabbing a bottle of Kentucky. Tossed back a couple of swings. Paused. Couple more.
He wasn't a fan of being drunk. Made him all angry and unpleasant.
He'd sworn it off even before opening the gym. However, in light of you, he could no longer sleep. So he drank. Just to sleep. Did the trick–most of the time. Other times, pairing it with leftover ambien prescribed by his former shrink was a foolproof way to get some rest.
He was already feeling warm. His stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten since lunch which then reminded him he hadn't been to the store in days. Checked his phone. Too late for takeout. Didn't matter. He could already feel his body uncoiling as he sank against his flattened couch.
In between the buzz of the fridge and the sound of the building settling in place he felt his mind go blank again. Allowed himself to be lulled into half-consciousness.
Made a promise he'd made the night before.
To rip out the hook.
Even if it took his eye.
He hated his clients. They probably hated him too.
The faint threat of alcoholic nausea paired with mild disorientation had caused him to forget about the client he had scheduled that morning. Only reminded when he checked his phone; skimming a nasty message that demanded a refund. Following that: a text from Tony, complaining about handling client complaints–otherwise known as; having to do his job.
He really ought to fire Tony.
It was a good thing that his main stream of revenue was the memberships rather than the clients; if not for that, he'd be living off veteran benefits. He didn't take handouts.
He stepped into some joggers; shoes followed as he dragged himself down to the office. Saturday meant high traffic. He hauled ass. Called back the client, letting him know he had an “emergency” and rescheduled him.
He peered out the window; instinctively scanning for your presence. He glanced to your usual machines–then to the corner where you'd usually store your bag. You weren't there though.
You didn't come on Saturdays or Sundays.
He didn't know what you did on the weekend. His schedule being slammed hadn't granted him time to slip away and check on you. In retrospect, it was probably a good thing, but the idea of you possibly being out and about unsettled him. You could've been drunk, partying, high, or something worse.
God forbid it was more than one.
You’d given him no reason to believe getting intoxicated was something you were keyed into. No liquor bottles in your trash can. No ashtrays on your porch, not even a single cigarette butt in the dirt.
Still, he couldn't be sure. Especially not if you had friends who were bad influences.
He pushed the thought down. Lock clicking behind him as he pushed forward; pledging to grant his obligations what limited energy he had.
His battered knuckles made quick work of the rusted buckles that supported the weight of the punching bag. He guided a client through the swift movements, each blow coaxing a grunt from him. The man was too stubborn to heed directions. He was convinced if he’d told him to punch left the man would've gone right–just to spite him.
Far be it for him to understand why people like this requested personal trainers in the first place.
He used to find solace in instructing others; but lately, monotony lacked the comfort it had once endowed him with. Now he just found it inferior. Rinse and repeat as the peak hours egged on.
He made sure to check everything off the list. Waited until he deemed it slow enough to slip away. Pocketed a couple protein bars, and retreated into his office.
Canines tore away the wrapping of the protein bar before biting into the dough. Dry. Grainy. Still something.
Index scrolling through emails. Junk. Bills. Scams. He exhaled through his nose, dragging the pointer to the search bar. Typed in your name enough for it to pop up in recent searches.
Scrolled. Clicked off.
Nothing.
His eyes drifted absently as he bit into the bar again. The buzz of the machinery and whatever god awful 2010s rock from Tony’s playlist bled through the concrete walls. Tore open the second bar. Paused.
His gaze was pulled by rhythmic red flashes blinking from the security camera; brows knitting together.
His hand found the mouse again, clicking around his monitor until he found the security folder.
Keys clacked under the rapid movement of his fingers. Username–password–error.
Slower.
Username. Password. Loading.
Success.
He scrolled to two days ago–skimmed through footage until he landed on the time you'd arrived yesterday. Clicked around more.
Different angle.
Better.
He waited. Body slowed. Muscles constricted. Watching you come into frame.
You fiddled with some headphones. Then your phone. Fingers meticulously brushing stubborn strands from your ears before beginning a stretching routine.
Expanded resolution. 100%, 125%. 150%.
150%. Maxxed.
Wanted to see what song was playing. No use. His fault.
Shouldnt’ve cheaped out on the cameras.
You pulled your arm across your chest; other arm. Left above, right above. Positioned feet. Folded down. Left hamstring. Right.
He tugged his boxers for relief.
You paused. Straightened out. Craned your neck.
Inhale.
Your eyes landed directly on the lens. Blink. Cock of the head–only for a moment, then you were out of frame.
He reached for the mouse.
Rewind; again.
Crane. Eyes. Gone.
Not his imagination.
Had you felt his eyes?
Two loud fists against metal. His neck snapped up. Index clicking out of the tab as the door groaned open. Tony's face poked through.
Exhale
“Taking my fifteen.” Tony's gaze was hesitant; almost accusatory. He couldn't decipher if he was high or if he could sense his culpability. He offered a stiffled grunt—then a nod.
“Fifteen–not thirty,” he reiterated as Tony shut the door behind him.
The chair protested as he pushed himself up. He did a lap around the gym to check the equipment; his body was wound so tightly he thought it’d implode. Still, he willed himself to the floor; punishing his body with iron. He made every set more intense than the one before. More weight. More resistance. Welcomed the pain. Let it distract him.
It helped. It released the trapped tension between his ribs.
Somewhere between noon and nightfall he'd gotten lost in the rigour; his body sent no signals for him to stop. It wasn't until he walked out of the training room that he noticed how late it was. The sun had already burned out; Tony fiddling with the rubbish bin.
He sent him off. Closed up early.
He hadn't noticed how exhausted he was until the door to his flat clicked shut behind him. He made his way to the couch and collapsed. An arm draped over his eyes.
He shut off the light. Just needed to rest for a moment.
Relief; for sleep found him naturally for the first time in weeks.
Absence hadn't made his interest grow stronger.
It'd been over four weeks since he'd last seen you, and he was grateful for that because falling back into step felt like a relief. He read online that it takes twenty-one days to break a cycle–thirty-two to recreate enough neuro-plasty to alter his brain chemistry and kick specific habits for good. For his own sake; he'd hoped that was true. Meant he was nearly out of the woods.
However, he'd be a liar if he said that he didn't still feel the urge to check on you.
The first week, he checked your file and saw you had removed your subscription to the gym. Went to your house; saw you were fine. A part of him considered that you did have a sixth sense. That you'd felt unease the second you looked into the lens. He wondered if you anticipated his eyes on you; if that was the case, you were more perceptive than he’d given you credit for.
He thought he'd sleep easier knowing you weren't there to tempt him. But nights were still rough.
He was down to only a handful of ambien–zero refills. He figured he'd pay the doctor an overdue visit for the first time since the move. He didn't care for doctors; most of the time they'd just go on and on about therapy, or how bad his lifestyle was. Made him feel like he was a proper junkie for not heeding the side effects of controlled substances.
“I just don't feel comfortable prescribing these to you-I mean God forbid you up and drive into a lake or something.”
He'd been sent home with nothing–or rather an SSRI that “helped” insomnia; didn't matter though, was no more useful than a benadryl.
What were pills for then if not for men like him? Men who actually needed it. Things like that were what made him regret ever having served his country; he couldn't even get the services he fought for. Spilled blood for.
He figured if it was a sign to stop; a blessing in disguise. Didn't concern himself with religion, but it was true what they said in the field.
Nobody was an atheist at war.
Although war was a thing of his past, it still had a way of presenting itself in ways that were non-lethal. War is never-ending, and sometimes that war is mental. Lucky for him, nobody knew war better than him. He’d beaten both types, and now he had retired again.
Retired you.
He starved the impulse; nothing more than stubborn fat.
Even so, his flesh hadn't forgotten the fat had been there. Loose and flabby in its absence. Remembering. It'd take time.
But he had time.
When he wasn't working he'd occupy himself with his extracurriculars.
Started going to the range. Began dialing back on the gym management and branching out. There weren't any established firearms trainers in Durham, nor an appetite for any, but he had contacts in Northumberland where there was high demand for marksmen. It was a bit over an hour's commute; figured if he brought someone else on board for the gym management he'd be willing to make the drive.
They called him back that evening.
The guys in Northumberland asked him to come out Monday. Said they were honored to have him train a group of guys.
He ordered in. Pizza. Large. Figured he'd treat himself. He was nursing his sixth beer. Some stupid reality show buzzed on the television as he completed his second crossword page.
Serendipitous
He sucked his teeth. The corner of his mouth twitched up boastfully. Lopping the magazine to the cushion. He glanced at the television. Empty pizza box. Threw back the last sip of his beer. Burped.
He really ought to toss out the trash, but the cushions were swallowing him whole. And it was a Saturday night; trash pickup wasn't until Monday.
He had time.
The gym was running well. No clients today. Still busy.
He'd gone to the shop on his break; part of his conscious effort to put some proper food in him. Considered a smoothie. He deserved it. Queued. Eyes darting over the menu before landing on the bird who was being nudged forward.
Rude thing she was. Must've drawn the short stick in the silent duel between who'd be the unfortunate one to take his order. A flat-lipped smile as she took his order. Hardly a nod when he thanked her.
Standard.
He sipped the fruity drink. Let the mixture sit on his tongue for a moment. He couldn't recall the last time he had one, yet it tasted like familiarity.
He headed back to the gym. No rush. Pushed through the doors; Tony sitting glued to his phone. He sidestepped him; hoping whatever slop was flashing behind the screen was particularly engaging so as to distract him from his return. He wanted to enjoy his lunch today, so Tony’s blunt would have to wait.
Shitty rock music. Treadmills revolving. Weights thudding against mats. Guys flexing in the mirror–constipated and straining; photos they’d no doubt be using as the front-pager for their dating profile(s).
He sipped his smoothie again, weaving through the gym. Took the long way–wanted to make sure trash was actually emptied.
He paused, the air felt different.
Inhaled
Feminine deodorant.
Stilled. The chilled drink now lukewarm beneath his tongue.
He stilled near the corner; eyes sticky on a bag he hadn't yet forgotten. Stomach sinking. Muscles taut.
Swallowed.
He felt you before he saw you. Brushing past him. Dipping down into your bag. The air grew thicker as your gaze found his own.
“Sorry. Lockers are annoying.”
His eyes had moved from you. Then the bag. Back to you.
A bottle to your lips–gone as quickly as it'd been there. Your chest rising and falling, light reflecting off a thin glaze on your skin.
“What?” Head tipped. You glanced down at the bag; then back to him. “Should I move it?”
Words caught in his throat. Jaw ticked. He forced out the first thing that came to mind.
“No.” Not an answer.
“Okay.” His eyes tracked you as you set the bottle back into place.
His next movements were a blur. He couldn't tell if he was awake or not. Couldn't tell if he'd actually seen you, or if it was a hallucination. The bird at the shop must’ve slipped something into his drink– didn't know which would be worse.
He swung the office door open. Found the chair. Double vision.
He leaned forward. Elbows cutting into the edge of the desk as he clicked through the monitor, cursor going to the cams.
Surely if you’d been a drug-induced hallucination the cameras would have come to a verdict.
There you were. Leg presses, hair drawn up; it was unmistakably you. The bird now absolved of any wrong doing.
He zoomed in to be sure.
You shouldn't be there–weren't supposed to be. It didn't make sense. You’d disappeared, revoked your membership– why now. Had God found humor in taunting him?
He saw Tony walk past the camera. Clicked out of the tab. Moments later he popped his head in.
“Taking my-” a pause, “what's wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“You're sweating.” Accusation.
“It's a gym.”
“Whatever man.”
He really ought to fire Tony.
His head was pounding. A lump at the back of his throat. He looked at the smoothie that'd been condensating atop a stack of papers. He tossed it to the bin–realizing they were the papers he was meant to bring to Northumberland tomorrow.
It was the cherry on top.
The air in his office become too heavy. He needed to step away. Needed to put some distance between himself and you. He went up to his flat. Double checking the lock. Set a timer on his phone.
Forty minutes.
Rummaged through the pantry; then the medicine cabinet. Bedside drawer. Blue and red. Dumped a hefty dose of acetaminophen into his palm. Choked it down dry. Another bottle–an orange prescription. Ambien.
He allowed the mattress to catch him as the world tilted sideways.
The ringing had already grown distant as he felt his heart grow sluggish. Relaxed forehead, then eyebrows. The knot between his nape and his shoulders. Tension rolled off him; absorbed by the firmness that cradled him.
Quiet.
He saw you behind the screen looking up at him.
Again when he stood in front of you; eyes waiting for him to say something–to explain the expression that he’d worn.
Your expression was neither fawned nor angry–threatened nor interested. Like he wasn't worth a reaction. Wasn't worth judgement.
A man–who was just that;
a man.
If you had known you'd consumed him would that have changed anything? Would it provoke reaction? Emotion? Thought? Feeling?
He drew a blank. Tired.
If he hadn't become consumed by you, would it have changed anything? Provoked reactions,
emotions
thoughts
feelings.
Another blank.
Was it worse to be seen for what he was; or to have never been seen at all?
The alarm blared. Setting sun bleeding through the curtain and onto his retinas.
Ceiling fuzzy. Skin sticky.
He wanted to be seen.
shout out if u caught the margaret atwood poem reference. also shout out if u made it to the end of the chapter. thanks for reading.
tag list: @unknowndeepspace @withluvmia
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