Call Me Little Sunshine

sundog

prompt: Simon comes across a girl when she's recently been evicted and takes her back to his place, despite her reservations (nsfw, 8.5k) [based on this old post] [on ao3 here]

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The circumstances of your life change so abruptly that you lose sight of it for a moment. 

Then, you’re out on the streets with the clothes on your back and a suitcase packed so full that a sweater sleeve sticks out where the zippers meet. The locks to your apartment have already been changed. You know because you tried them anyway, desperately hoping that the eviction notice taped to your door might have been misplaced.

Evidently not. The keys don’t work. You contemplate chucking them on the walk out, but instead you keep them close like a talisman of protection, though it’s failed to live up to its purpose so far. 

You’ve got it under control for a day. If by ‘under control’, you mean experiencing a full body panic attack in the locker room of the twenty-four hour gym down the street from your old apartment. The staff gives you uncomfortable looks when you come in on the verge of tears with your suitcase rolling behind you, but they let you in because your membership is up to date. If you can count on anything in life, it’s consumerism. 

That doesn’t last long though, mainly because a locker and a wood bench won’t cut it in the long term. You sleep in the back of the local library until a stern-faced, if pitying, librarian threatens to call the cops on you. Pity isn’t sympathy, evidently. 

Gym management threatens to cut the lock on the locker you’ve been using as temporary storage space. Matter of fact, they say, you can’t be using the locker room as your quasi apartment between the hours of nine P.M. and seven A.M. just because everything else in the city is closed. Go home, they say. 

What home, you don’t say, before packing up your things and heading out on your way. 

If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s capitalism. 

You didn’t think this kind of thing could happen to someone like you. Someone like you being an ordinary person. Homelessness always felt like a far away concept. But the world is cruel and life is brutal. What you didn’t realize before was that, at any moment in time, you’ve been closer to poverty than wealth, and here you are now, sitting in the park with your suitcase between your legs, the sun rapidly setting behind you, your phone at ten percent battery, and nowhere to go because your family is, frankly, nonexistent, and your friends, for lack of a better word, have almost entirely washed their hands of you.

Sorry, they’d say, the frown emoji expressing something like pity at a distance. We don’t have a couch to spare. 

I can sleep on the floor, you’d texted back. They’d gotten cagey after that. People like to be wanted only to a certain extent.

You can feel the panic rise up in you, too big to contain. It comes out in the form of blubbering tears and snot running from your nose. Big, hiccuping sobs. It’s not pretty. Passersby avert their eyes for the most part, save for the ones that eye you with something bordering on perverse delight and that’s what finally makes you get up and speed walk away, lest they feel compelled to approach you. 

But even in the tailwinds of summer, it gets cold outside at night. Worst of all, as the evening grows dark, the streets empty out until you can’t help but feel like a beacon with your little rolling suitcase. It clatters against the sidewalk as you try to hoof it down the street, looking for any shop still open to loiter in. Most close after nine though. You’ve googled homeless shelters, but the sheer anxiety keeps you floundering around up and down the streets instead.

It feels beyond helpless. You’re in a state like you’ve never been before, crying under a streetlamp because you needed a moment just to get your bearings. 

What you know now is that this world is a house of false bottoms. You thought the circumstances of your life could never change. You were never well to do, but you were doing well. The sight of the unhoused sitting with their backs to the brick and mortar stores on your walk home or congregated in a park in the middle of the city with their tents and shopping carts used to fill you with immeasurable pity, maybe even a quiet moment’s reflection; now, you see them as kin. 

Easy, isn’t it? To slip between states. To go from solid to liquid to gaseous. Easier than you ever could have expected. 

When it starts to rain, you almost close your eyes in relief. Anyone could’ve predicted this. 

You almost don’t respond to him at first, keeping your eyes trained on the sidewalk to avoid any bumps. Also, it never pays to look up at a man barking at you, especially not when he’s barking something like, Girl or Bird, turn around. 

Then he says it again, closer this time, and you’re forced to look up, if only to see who’s approaching you. Your suspicion melts away to distrust at the sight of the man stalking towards you. Distrust with a touch of trepidation—maybe outright alarm. Surely no man his size wearing a balaclava tucked into a hoodie straining around his arms would have innocent designs on you. 

He’s one of the bigger men you’ve ever come across. You look across the street to see if there’s a bar missing its bouncer, but all the shop fronts are dark like the ones on your side. 

You don’t bolt at the sight of him, but it’s a near thing. He appears from nowhere, and yet there’s nowhere for him to hide. Not with the size and breadth of him damn near taking up the whole sidewalk. His demeanour and stride evoke such a sense of authority that at first you mistake him for a plainclothes man, and wouldn’t that be just the icing on the shit cake of a week you’ve been experiencing. But something about him says otherwise. 

“Plan on catchin’ your death out here?” he asks, and you shiver. Not from the cold, but from the sound of his voice. 

You’re not used to talking to strangers. A month ago, you would’ve ignored the man lambasting you for being out in the rain; maybe crossed the street and hailed a cab instead. You don’t have those kinds of options anymore. The only thing left in your repertoire is to shout back. 

“I’ve got mace!” you yell out, your voice a hoarse rattle carved out from hours spent crying. 

“That’ll do ya fuck all out here,” he says, a touch condescendingly. “You lost or somethin’?”

“I’m not lost,” you sniff, rubbing the snot away from your nose with the end of your sleeve.

“Then get home instead of roamin’ the streets. You’re askin’ to get snatched up, bird.”

The threat of that has been lingering in your head these past few days, even stretching back to the very first moment that you noticed the sign on your door, but now it has its intended effect. You shake. 

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Bloody hell,” he sighs. “Why the fuck not? Need someone to call you a cab?”

“I got evicted. I don’t have a home,” you say, and sniffle when your nose leaks again. Saying it outloud brings tears to your eyes again, a pressure building behind your orbital sockets and down to the tip of your nose. 

You must look like the saddest thing in the world standing there in the rain under the dim light of the streetlamp, the pole looped with graffiti and old gum. When the man berating you for being out in it takes a step forward, coming into the light, you can finally make out the bored depths of his eyes. A deep brown. Entirely unimpressed with the picture in front of him, maybe even a bit peeved. 

Your socks are wet and your shoes squelch when you take a step back. You pull the sheer sweater tighter around your frame, but it does nothing to protect you from the damp, frigid air. 

“You been out here long?” he asks, taking another step closer. Not tentatively either. His gaze sweeps over you proprietarily, taking stock; his arrogance comes as an afterthought. He’s not rubbing it in your face that he can do whatever he likes—he just does. 

You wheel your suitcase around in front of you to put something between the two of you. “…Just today. The gym kicked me out.”

You sound petulant, words chewed between your lips and teeth; begrudgingly admitting to the various pitfalls of your existence. All the bad luck. It’s shameful to admit to losing complete control of your life. 

“Haven’t ya got any family, girl? Friends? What’re they letting a girl like you stay out on the streets for?”

You could be sick on the pavement. “…That’s none of your business.”

His eyes go flat at that, unimpressed. “You always this nasty to people tryin’ to help?”

And you’re not. That’s the part that grates the most. You’re all soft underbelly; no bark, no bite. It’s inconceivable that this could’ve happened to you—inconceivable because your head is filled with false promises and mythologies. The myth of exceptionalism. This happens to other people. Not good girls that go to college and get their degrees and find a stable job. 

They’ve pulled the rug out from under you so fast that you haven’t even toppled over yet. That’s how quick it all happened. 

“What help are you?” The bite comes out of nowhere, fueled by bitter humiliation and resentment for the predicament you’ve found yourself in. “Are you gonna put me up in a hotel?”

“Think I’m made of money, bird?” he asks rhetorically. 

“You’ve probably got more than I have.” 

Now you’re weepy again at the thought. Down to your last hundred dollars and you’re in between jobs at the moment. It might’ve been easier to haul yourself out of poverty if applying for jobs didn’t require a mailing address. That’ll be your first priority once you find a place to live. But conversely, how are you meant to find housing with no proof of income? Landlords laugh in your face before slamming the door shut. The conversations are circular, but they always come to a grinding halt; that’s the only thing you’ve learned to expect. 

The worst part of this whole conversation is that it doesn’t follow any of the scripts you’ve previously memorized. When have you ever had to deal with a man interrogating you about your place of residence? It makes no sense. 

It’s inconceivable to imagine that this is happening to you, but it is. Life comes at you hard, with a razor’s edge. Sharp enough to cut, to lacerate. 

“You need a place to stay,” he states bluntly. 

“It’s fine. I’ll—I’ll find something.” 

“You could come home with me.” He says it so bluntly that for a moment all you can do is blink. Surely you misheard him. Surely a man of his size and breadth, dark mask obscuring his face, wouldn’t be daft enough to ask a woman he found on the street to come home with him.

The offer, as well-intentioned as you hope it is, puts you on edge. “No, that’s…that’s alright. I don’t want to…put you out. I was going to look up nearby shelters.”

“Shelters’ll all be full this time of night,” he says. “Never been on the streets?”

You clenched your teeth, nerves starting to get the better of you. 

“I can go to a church,” you say, voice terse now, frayed with nerves. 

He snorts. “Haven’t been to one in a long time, but pretty sure those close too, pet. It’s late.”

You sway on your feet, the suitcase at your side the only thing keeping your knees from buckling. Dead ends everywhere you turn. You’ve always thought of yourself as resourceful; that if push came to shove, you’d figure your way out of any sticky situation. That smacks of arrogance now. All your suppositions are dissolving right in front of you, your own self-image along with it. 

A heavy foot stepping into a puddle brings you back to focus. The masked man is closer now, within arm’s reach. Your heart jumps into your throat. He towers over you, monolith man; big as a sequoia, or other deadland creatures that vanish out of sight when you catch a shadow out of the corner of your eye and whirl around to look it dead on. 

“I can’t go home with a stranger.”

You know you’re not supposed to put your faith in strange men. Bad things happen to girls that go around trusting any man that offers up their help. 

The fist in your chest loosens infinitesimally when the man reaches up to pull the mask off his head. He’s every inch the brute you imagined in your head—blunt chin and crooked nose, a nasty scar running up his lip. There are scars all over his face, in fact—bisecting his left eyebrow and down his cheek. The blond hair on his head is slightly grown out, like he’s used to keeping it neat and tight but it’s been awhile since his head has seen a razor. His beard grows in a bit patchy, the burnish gold of a five o’clock shadow.

You frown. “Is that supposed to make me trust you?”

“Well, now we’re not strangers, are we?”

“That doesn’t—that doesn’t change anything! I still don’t know you.”

He shrugs. Takes a step back. “Suit yourself then. No skin off my ass.”

Your stomach roils, anxiety coming back with a vengeance. You hadn’t noticed it recede since the man started talking to you, but you notice its return. When he makes a move to turn back around, you lurch forward, your hand extending out and fisting in the side of his shirt. He pauses, then looks down at you. 

“…Where else am I supposed to go?” you whisper.

He tilts his head. “Could sleep on a bench in the park.”

You glare at him through tear-soaked eyes. “That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t meant to be. You’re shit out of other options at this time of night.”

“So, what? Now it’s-it’s my fault or something?”  

His eyes don’t exactly soften, but they lose their hard edge. 

“I’m not gonna ask twice,” he says. Not cautioning you, just stating a fact. “You coming or not?”

Disaster seems like a given at this point. At least you could pick your poison. 

Words are beyond you though, so you just bite your lip and nod, eyes downcast now. 

What else is there for you to do but follow him after that? You trail along after him like a sad, wet cat left out in the rain. 

He finds her wandering the streets with her pretty little suitcase rolling over every bump and crack in the sidewalk and there’s no fighting the urge to drag her home. 

She doesn’t look like a runaway. Just a poor thing down on her luck. Her cheeks practically glisten with her tears when she looks up at him with her big, pathetic eyes, and it makes his cock plump up against his thigh. 

That’s not what this is about though. Simon presses his hand against his dick to rub out some of the ache while she flutters around the bedroom and reminds himself of that again. He didn’t take her home to maul her like a dog. He dragged her back to his flat because she looked wounded and scared out of her wits. 

He can be good every now and then. 

“Sit down, will ya?” he grunts, tugging her down onto the couch when she flits across the room to grab more of her shit out of her suitcase, glancing down at him apprehensively on her way by. She yelps when he sends her sprawling onto the couch. 

His flat isn’t much. A one-bedroom above a laundromat; eggshell walls and torn up baseboards because he hasn’t gotten around to fixing the place up. It’s better than sleeping on the streets though, he knows that much. 

Simon’s no stranger to that; if being in the military taught him anything, it was how to survive regardless of circumstances. In the weeks after his medical discharge—his knees beyond busted, basically bone on bone, and even these days, though he works more to have something to do than to earn a living, they still scream at him when he puts too much weight on them—he wandered aimlessly for a bit, crashing on Gaz’s couch for a bit and sleeping on benches for a spell after that before finding his footing again. 

Simon ignores the way that she yaps at him though, used to tuning people out. He flicks on the television and flips to a show that looks vaguely entertaining before getting up and ambling over to the kitchen. 

“D-do you want me to help?” she asks from the kitchen, tripping over her words in her haste to get them out. 

She reeks of the need to please. Desperate; cloying, sickly sweet like flowering dracaena. It clings to her like a perfume, silk-wrapped and packaged just for him. It could give a man like him indecent thoughts. His thoughts already tend towards the impure. 

He must eye her like a ravenous animal because she flinches suddenly under his gaze, eyes flicking away nervously before meeting his again. Good girl, Simon wants to say. Eyes on me. 

“Sit down,” he barks instead, and relishes in the way she sits back down with her hands tucked under her thighs. 

She’s really a pretty little thing. A shame that he found her out wandering in the rain, out where any man with worse intentions could have stumbled across her. The thought alone could drive him to violence. Again he stares at the back of her head and the slope of her shoulders, evaluating. His bloodlust dulls to a simmer. It pounds in his ears like a dull drum, but at least now he can hear again. 

Anyone else could have found her first, but they didn’t. He did. That tempers the homicidal impulse thrumming in his blood. She’s in his flat now, freshly showered and skin still damp. When she looks over her shoulder, it’s him she sees. 

Poor bird with her clipped wings. She’s not in danger of flying off anytime soon. The thought placates him. Tucked away in his cage, he doesn’t have to rend anyone limb from limb.

It’s been years since he traded in his fatigues for a hi vis jumpsuit, but some days he misses it so acutely that his hands shake and his vision fades in and out. This is one of those days. He toys with the idea of reaching out to Price in the morning to learn more about her, but then discards the idea. Better if it comes straight from her.

Besides, he doesn’t like asking for favours anyway.

“Name’s Simon, by the way,” he grunts, nostrils flaring when he sees her flinch at the sound of his voice. “Riley.”

“Oh,” is all she says. He waits a beat.

“Gonna give me your name, bird?”

She does, voice squeaky like it’s said under duress. That pisses him off more. 

He's not much of a cook, but he can whip up something quick, so he tosses one of his frozen meals into the microwave and sits her in front of the TV while she shivers and shakes on the couch.

They eat in silence, the TV on in the background. It’s the only noise besides the soft sound of her chewing. Simon can tell she’s gone hungry in recent days by the voracious way she eats, unable to keep herself from shovelling the food into her mouth. She seems almost embarrassed by it after swallowing her last bite, looking over at him from the corner of her eye like a guilty dog. He ignores it, keeping his eyes on the TV instead.

He can tell she wants to say something. A shit childhood and two decades in the military have left him with the ability to sniff out tension, and it comes off her in waves. After putting her plate on the coffee table, she sits back against the couch and squeezes her fists over her lap. Gnaws her lip and casts furtive glances in his direction. When the tears build up on her waterline, his cock twitches. 

“What?” he barks after the umpteenth sniffle, twisting to face her. 

“I—um—I just wanted to say thank you,” she whispers, her head still tilted downward, trying to make herself small enough to go unnoticed. 

Simon stares down at her, unblinking. He half wishes she’d cry a little more, just a few tears to soothe the beast in his chest. It’s better for her that her eyes remain dry. He doesn’t think he could hold himself back if one slipped down her cheek right now. He’d have to grab her by the nape of her neck and twist her over the side of the couch, shove down both their drawers and feed his cock into the warm, wet slot between her legs. Pummel her little cunt until his spend leaks out in thick, viscous globs, until her thighs shake so violently that only his hands on her shoulders and his shaft shoved deep in her pussy keeps her upright. 

He can almost smell it from between her legs, throbbing with gratefulness. He stares down unabashedly at the spot between her legs. Let her say something about it. 

“Don’t mention it,” he says instead, tilting his head when her tongue peeks out to wet her lips. “‘Was nothing.”

“No, it was really nice of you,” she insists, speaking more forcefully after gathering up some of her courage. “What if I…—you took a stranger into your house.”

That gets the blood pumping. “Gonna gut me while I sleep, pet?”

It’s half deranged that his cock chubs up in his jeans at the thought of his little bird with a knife in her hands, hands dripping with wet, dark blood. He shifts, readjusting himself so the metal teeth of his zipper don’t bite into his dick. 

She frowns. Endearing. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Not really good at looking after yourself, are you?”

“I am—it’s just…” tears build up on her waterline again, “it was one thing after another. I couldn’t get it all together.”

Pity isn’t an emotion he’s accustomed to feeling. Simon’s not even sure if that’s what he’s feeling now. It’s more like the bastard child of pity. 

He lets her off to bed with a warning not to fuck with anything in his room. She skitters off quickly after that. Her cute little ass follows her into the room until she shuts the door behind her, hiding it from view. He huffs. Being good never gets him anywhere.

He lets her run away though because he can’t tarnish everything he touches. Some things deserve to stay polished. 

Instead, he brushes his teeth and washes the last of the dishes before turning in as well, getting a clean sheet out of the linen closet to drape over himself. The couch isn’t nearly long enough for him to stretch out on, not like the king sized bed in his room; there’s already a spring poking him right in the middle of his back.

Sleep won’t come easy tonight. 

Simon wakes up on the couch with a kink in his neck. He lays there for several minutes gritting his teeth until the worst of it passes. When he sits up, his back cracks and pops, joints loosening only reluctantly. His age is getting away from him again; the wear and tear on his body finally starting to catch up. There’s only so much abuse he can put himself through. 

The morning races on outside his front door and he has work to get to, but his body orients towards the closed door of his bedroom almost without his say. It creaks as it swings open. 

In the slowly dimming haze of sleep, he must have subconsciously thought he dreamt the night before because seeing the girl from yesterday curled up in his bed halts him in his tracks. Her suitcase is open on the floor beside the bed. She must have changed into her pyjamas after slinking away last night because he doesn’t recognize the little cotton shorts hugging the swell of her ass and the shirt riding up over her belly button. 

Despite the perfunctory morning jerk he gave himself just ten minutes prior, his cock twitches in his work pants, gaze locked on the underside of her ass, the flesh peeking out from beneath her sleep shorts. 

The hunger ebbs out of a deep, cavernous hole in him. A heavy, oppressive heat; lust so gnarled and twisted that he hardly recognizes it. He can see it play out in his mind—crawling over the bird’s prone form and turning her over onto her belly, his knees on either side of her legs, cloaking her. Tugging down the zipper of his pants and wrenching those slutty shorts down to mid-thigh before burying his shaft in her hole. Little bird that followed him home, sleeping in his bed. She should thank him for his help with a wet hole. 

Simon takes a step into the room and then stops. He won’t—can’t—

His teeth grind together from how hard he clenches his jaw. 

He stands in the doorway and watches her sleep in his bed for longer than he should. Only when he feels something ugly well up in his chest does he finally bark out her name, snorting softly when she jumps and nearly falls right off the side of the bed. 

“Get up,” Simon grunts. “And make yourself something to eat. I’ve gotta head out.”

He walks away before the befuddled look on her face makes him crack a smile. 

She tiptoes out a few minutes later, still in her PJs. Her wary glances tick him off. For the effort it’s taken him to keep his hands to himself, he deserves more than her shifty looks, scoring him like he split her little peach open in her sleep.  

Breakfast is an uncomfortable affair. It’s partly his fault, but he doesn’t apologize for it. They eat in tense silence until it’s time for him to head to work. 

“Don't think about leaving—any of my shit gets nicked and it's your ass.”

He leaves her with that warning, slamming the door behind him.

Your heart goes quiet at the dawning of your new life. 

Adjusting to your new reality takes a bit of effort. The first few days with Simon feel tenuous at best. You worry constantly about doing something wrong and finding yourself back out on the streets. You’re thankful to the point of pandering, apologizing for any sudden move or sound that you make. You can tell it annoys him. 

The real work is recontextualizing your perception of yourself. The world feels strange now that you’re outside of it; alien somehow. You used to think of yourself as somehow inextricably woven into the fabric of society. The thought of losing everything never even occurred to you. It never even presented itself as a possibility. You worried about homelessness the way people worry about quicksand—in some nebulous way touching on the real without being absorbed by it. 

And now you are cut from another cloth altogether; abruptly, without any warning. You used to feel like one with the rest of the world, a kind of kinship based less on parentage or ancestry and more on inner nature. Weren’t you the same as any of them? But now the drapery has been pulled down and you know—you are not the same. 

Your future used to shimmer under the surface like a bioluminescent fish, but now it’s just a ghost.

He tells you to stay put when he goes to work so you do, spending the days puttering around the apartment, watching TV, and cleaning. There’s not much else to do. It’s almost a relief, to be honest. You’ve spent so much time without a place to call home that the second someone offered you one, the outside world became anathema in your head. You couldn’t step foot out of the front door even if you wanted to. 

Tears well up at the smallest thing. You blubber over not being able to work the coffee machine in the kitchen. When the sound goes out on the TV, you cry so hard that it leaves you woozy. You’re lachrymose, downtrodden. Soul a startling verdigris; your waterlines might as well be white with encrustations of salt. 

He must notice the dark cloud following you from room to room, but he doesn’t bring it up. You’d find it tactful, but you know him a bit better than that. 

Then Simon brings home a cat after his shift one day and you don’t know what to say to that.

Thank you doesn’t seem to suffice. I love it doesn’t cut it close. The truth of the matter is that words only ever approximate the feeling; they can get close enough to give you a glimmer of what’s stashed inside, but you can’t pry them all the way open. So you take the off-white cat from him when he practically tosses the poor thing into your arms, and stare up at him wide-eyed, eyes already watering for reasons once again unbeknownst to you. 

“Thank you for taking him home,” you say, already on the verge of tears.

He stares down at you, unblinking. You’re learning to read into his silences though. 

“Don’t expect me to take care of it,” he says instead of accepting your thanks. “If you can’t handle it, it’s going back outside.” 

You hold the cat tight to your chest, staring up at him with horror until the little beast nearly scratches your eye out in an effort to squirm out of your arms. 

At first, you’re not sure what to make of it. It can’t be a peace offering because, apart from the rare occasions where you manage to get on his nerves (not wholly impossible, but you’re learning how to stay on his good side for the most part), you and Simon get along pretty well. You coexist, at least. He cooks, you clean. 

It’s likely a distraction, you finally realize, something to keep you from moping around the apartment all the time, listless and directionless. Despite the fact that you’re no longer in any immediate danger now that you have a roof over your head, misery still clings to you like a second skin. The relative safety of Simon’s flat has actually only given you a chance to really properly mourn the loss of your former life. 

Training the cat to wear a harness without tipping over (the little drama king) and taking him on his first walk outside (just a little turn around the block, though you half jump out of your skin whenever you cross paths with another person) gives you enough of a sense of purpose to propel you through the next week. 

You can tell that Simon thinks the cat is more trouble than it’s worth, especially when it decides to fixate on the one person in the flat that doesn’t pay it a lick of attention, but still it makes your heart melt to see it curled up by his side when you watch TV together at the end of the night. 

“Is this normal for you?” you ask, hands folded in your lap.

His gaze doesn’t move from the television screen. “Is what normal?”

“Taking in strays.”

He snorts, then takes a second to answer. “No.”

You wonder if he intends to sound as caustic as he comes across. The truth is self-evident though. Words only mask the real, and the real in this case is that Simon Riley is a man that feeds and takes home strays. He can grumble about it all he wants. It’s a bit demeaning to think of yourself that way, but once again, the truth is what it is. 

You study him from the corner of your eye until bedtime rolls around again. He’s become the most interesting thing in the world to you, through every fault of his own.

If he didn’t want you to fixate on him, he wouldn’t have left you home alone with nothing else to do. 

“Bird!” Simon roars from the other room. “The cat’s pissed on the floor again.”

You spring out of bed before Simon has a chance to toss it out onto the balcony. 

It feels temporary up until the first time you use Simon’s address on a job application. It stands out stark on your phone screen, black on glowing white. You’ve always preferred it to dark mode, though that preference has fluctuated in recent weeks as you’ve spent more and more time on your phone. 

This is the first time staring at the screen without blinking for a prolonged period of time that hasn’t left you with a throbbing migraine. 

He tells you to stop bothering him with stupid shit when you ask him if it’s alright to use his address. That answers that. Guilt lingers on the periphery of your mind the first time that you do, but then the application is submitted. An innocuous grey box that redefines your whole world in a way that [Thanks for applying!] doesn’t seem to encapsulate. 

Your old friends come next. They come back one by one, guilty, furtive looks aplenty. You Facetime the one who wouldn’t let you sleep on her couch while sitting on Simon’s bed. When she asks you about your living situation, all you tell her is that you found a roommate. It doesn’t feel right to give her more information than that. What has she done to deserve your honesty? 

You manage pleasantries and a half decent conversation, but truth again lingers at the back of your mind. The unspoken reality that this person—someone you trusted—could’ve been there for you in your time of need but chose to look the other way instead. Like taking you in would’ve been some big, terrible thing. 

The body forgets everything except what hurts it. The body remembers nothing except what helps it survive. 

Gratefulness lodges into your heart like an arrow shot from a castle’s ramparts intent on your demise. You could pull it out from the other side and succumb to blood loss, or you could push forward, lay siege to the man hidden inside its walls. 

And you do. You want to show him every grateful inch of you. Even when it only results in more upset. Simon comes home to the smoke alarm blaring and a small fire in the microwave before he bans you from the kitchen altogether. You only cry for an hour in the bedroom with the door shut before he drags you out to takeout on the table in the living room. It’s an improvement. 

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle into your veggie burger, on the verge of tears again when you glance into the kitchen to see most of the mess still there. 

“It’s fine.”

“I just want to—I wanted to make it up to you…for taking me in.”

“You don’t owe me shit,” he says brusquely, dismissing you. His tone tells you to drop it, but that seems as likely as you growing wings and flying away. 

“Yes, I do. You let me stay here when I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“If you want to make it up to me, take care of the cat and stop leaving your shit all over the bathroom. Found your knickers on the floor after you showered yesterday.”

Your face goes hot at that. You have nothing else to say. 

Your attraction is a banal consequence of living under the same roof as him. There are only so many times he can come up behind you while you’re making your morning cup of coffee and swipe your mug before taking a sip from over your shoulder, barricading you against the counter. Acutely aware of the size of him with the way he’s pressed up against you. 

You lose your train of thought whenever Simon wanders into a room. He lumbers in like a beast, steel-toed boots covered in mud and dust, ignoring the way you scold him for walking around the apartment in his shoes. Just cocks an eyebrow and stares down at you knowingly, like he can see right through you, knows that you’re only squawking and flitting around to hide the way your thighs rub together. 

“It’s my fuckin’ flat,” he says instead of pointing out that your pussy’s wet because she knows there’s a man in the house that could take care of her proper. You know it too. 

“I live here too, you know,” you huff. “I can’t wash the floors every time you come home.”

“Thought I was doing you a favour letting you live here.”

His words would fill you with righteous indignation, but they don’t because his actions don’t line up. You study him like a moth under glass, enthralled by the parts of him that used to frighten you. 

It’s more than that though. He’s wedged himself into the hurt place in your heart, holding it up like Atlas. 

You really do think that there’s something so special about him that you’ll never be able to articulate. Simon is everything you didn’t know you desperately wanted. The longer you live with him, the harder it is to deny how much you need him. 

You will show your gratitude though. Every tender, aching morsel of it. 

The little peach she grinds on his thigh is wet and ripe. Simon doesn’t tell her that he doesn’t need her gratitude; if he wanted it, he would’ve taken it already. But he doesn’t shove her out of his lap either. It’s not his problem if she thinks it’s necessary or not.

Maybe it’s not solely for his benefit, he concedes when she winds both arms around his neck and pushes her supple tits into his chest, climbing over his lap until her pussy is pressed right up against the cock fattening up in his jeans. She whimpers like she’s in pain. 

Must not come a lot; he knows she at least hasn’t in recent days. Simon’s always been a light sleeper—he’s sure he would’ve heard any desperate attempts to get herself off in his bed, the springs creaking under her weight, her hushed, bitten off moans leaking out from under the doorframe. The thought riles him up more than he thought it would. 

Still, Simon doesn’t lift a hand to help the poor bird in his lap as she grinds down on his length. His arms stay stretched across the back of the couch, hips canted just enough to give her a perch and nothing more. 

She gasps every word into his ear, voice all pitched and breathy. “Ah, ah, ah—thank you, thank you, I…—can I please have it? Please, please let me, Simon, pleasepleaseplease—”

It feels like everything they’ve been through so far has been leading to this. He’d smelt it coming like blood in the water. 

All week, his bird has been sitting on her hands and trying not to give herself away. Cloaked in a nervous, frenetic energy. Anticipatory. She’d doe-eyed him the night before and begged him to sleep in the bed with her instead of wrecking his back on the couch, but he’d ignored her in favour of watching Argentina decimate Croatia in the semi-finals. It must have not sat right with her though because she’d been broody from the moment he left for work until he got home, steering him into the kitchen and practically hand feeding him before coaxing him into the living room to watch a movie while she cuddled up beside him.

That hadn’t lasted long. 

“What’s gotten into you, pet?” Simon asks, hardly dissuading her when she presses petal soft lips to his jaw and nuzzles, breathing heavily. His heart swells. Desperate little slut. 

“Took care of me,” she mumbles, almost slurring her words. “Always taking care of me, Simon.”

There’s no denying how hard it makes him to think about being her protector. The littlest things make her smile. Even the bloody cat had her trailing after him for a week straight after the fact, eternally underfoot. Always trying to curry favour. Eager to please. 

Her worship leaves him unbalanced. Unstable even. A train careening off its track, the massive weight of catastrophe right behind it. The sense that life will never be the same after this. His surface level indifference is underscored by steeled self-control. He keeps his arms on the couch because he knows the second he puts them on her, it’s over. There’ll be no holding him back anymore, no possibility of him ever letting her go back out into the real world. Lock jawed, teeth sunk into her tender underbelly. 

“Told you, you don’t owe me nothing,” Simon murmurs, curling his hands under her ass. 

“Then—then…—I don’t know, pretend it’s just for me.” It’s a joke because they both know it’s not just for her. When her eyes sparkle with amusement, his cock throbs.

He lets her ruck the shirt over his head and struggle with his belt until she manages to unbuckle it like he has no say in the matter. She’s far less considerate with her own clothes, shucking them off and nearly ripping her knickers in the process, which almost prompts him to take her by the wrists and slow her down. He likes the lace and frills. 

It’s a fight to fit his cock into her hole, as slick as she is. Coin slot tight; he almost breaks and tells her to take it easy when she reaches behind her to line his shaft up with her entrance and sits down, just barely stretching around the mushroomed head of his dick before wincing, tears springing into her eyes. 

Simon does break when she tries to sink down another inch, thighs shaking violently. “Right, get off—you ain’t ready for this.”

“I am!” she insists, face screwed up in a scowl and a bead of sweat dripping down her temple. “Just—I can do it, Simon—”

“No, you can’t. You’re rushing and hurting yourself—”

“Wait, okay, wait, I can…just give me a minute, okay?” she begs, and he doesn’t tell her that he’d give her all the time in the world. Stay on this couch until the flesh fell off his bones. He’s waited so long; what’s a little longer? 

Besides, the sight of her stretching herself out with her fingers is reward enough. She whines into his shoulder and shudders when she has to force another finger in before she’s ready. Too eager. It could give a man a complex. His blood is already scorching him from the inside out, too hot for his veins.  

He considers helping her out, but watching her writhe and struggle in his lap is far more enjoyable. 

He stopped paying attention awhile back, too focused on cupping her tits and running his tongue around the budded areola, sucking her pert nipple into his mouth, but she couldn’t have gotten to more than three fingers before running out of patience and lining him up again. This time, she sinks a bit deeper on the first stroke, still choking on her breath but forcing herself to take a bit more. 

“You’re alright—you’re alright,” Simon murmurs, stroking a hand up and down her back while she impales herself on his length. She’s still too tight to take him comfortably, sweats and shakes over him. He pinches her nipple to distract her from the pain and smiles when she yelps. 

She melts all over him, slick drenching his shaft and lap, her tongue lapping at the sweaty skin of his neck. Honeysuckle fragrant; the sweetest thing he’s ever known. Silken, tight. Fits like a glove around him. 

He could lose himself in her. Piston into her until the thought of where he begins and where he ends dissolves into the tight warmth between her legs.

His bird is a greedy girl. She uses him like a toy to get herself off, bouncing in his lap and mewling into his ear everytime his cockhead nudges against her cervix. Too big to fit all the way in. 

“You do this a lot, pet? Fuck every man that lends you a hand?” he pants, taunting her.

“No!” she snarls in his ear, feisty and sharp-toothed. Her nails dig into his back, scoring white lines into his skin. The shiver that wracks him is so violent that his arms tighten around her waist reflexively, making her gasp. 

It doesn’t matter whether she does this often or not; the only thing that matters is that he’s the only man that gets to fuck her from here on out. Still, winding her up is half the fun. 

“Perfect girl,” Simon chuckles, breathless. “Made for me. Got m’self a pet right off the street.”

And he did, didn’t he? Went wandering out into the night and came home with a bird fluttering her wet little wings. 

His conscience is clean. He could’ve tied her down, kept her right where he wanted her (in his bed, his flat, the yawning cavity of his chest—) but his self-control remains unparalleled. Tough as nails. Strong as steel. And now look at what he has as a reward for his patience—a fever-hot cunt around his cock and delicate fingernails scratching the base of his skull. 

A pretty bird that’s made his chest a cage. 

The world goes vertical, horizontal. Fluid; sliding away from him. Something crashes in the background, so far off in the distance that he can hardly make out the sound. 

He opens his eyes to find the ceiling staring back down at him, and then her face, hovering over him on the carpeted floor, her hands kneading the muscle of his chest. Her brows are drawn tight now, pinched. She stares down at him, past him, gaze like a transparent veil. 

“Gi’me…gi’me…” she pants, barely able to pull herself off his cock. 

He has to dig his fingers into her ass and pull her off, ignoring the way she whines and begs him to fill her back up. Ignores it because he knows what’s best for her; knows how to take care of what he owns. 

When he bucks up into her, she chokes, fingers nearly yanking his chest hair out. 

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s pretty,” he breathes. Snaps his hips up into hers again, relishing in the way she squeezes tight around him, almost to the point of pain. 

His pleasure always comes jagged though. Whether the ache of his joints or nails tearing up the skin of his back and chest. Vicious and messy—how he likes it. She gives him everything he could want and more. The hand dug into his chest right above his heart could pierce right through the flesh and tear it out.

He pulls her all the way off his cock just for the pleasure of hearing her beg him again, then pulls her up his chest and eats her out until the beast in his belly calms down. 

He yields to her whining only after a good few minutes. Soft bastard. Drags her back down until her soaked hole mouths at the head of his cock and he thrusts back up inside. Home. It’s his now, whether she likes it or not. Simon guesses he’s lucky that she wants it too; if he had to convince her, he would, but her desperation is just another gift for him to savour. 

“Squeeze me good, bird. Say thank you—” thank you for taking me home, thank you for keeping me– almost spills off his tongue, but he reigns it in. She knows what to be thankful for. 

“Nngh, Simon,” she sings, fucking herself on his cock. The sweetest sound he’s ever heard. 

Simon’s never felt bigger than under his sweet bird. Thighs spread so wide around him that he knows she’ll ache in the morning. Brutish hands groping her thighs and waist and tits, rough against the softness of her skin. Stuffed full of a big cock, not even to the root; she bites right through her bottom lip when Simon pets at the thin skin stretched around his cock, her gaze wounded, overwhelmed. 

Nearly blacks out at the thought of cramming a finger up there too. Only faint concern for her well-being tamps down the urge. 

“Come on, fuck—that good, pet?”

“R-right there, oh god, ohgodohgod—”

He lets her ride him until she comes, until he comes, until his spend is blistering hot in her cunt, drooling down the length of his cock, frothy white with her cream and his come. 

It’s a sight to look at. Gets him right in the chest. Nothing like times of yore; this is something with meaning, with feeling. When he lifts her off, his seed trickles out of her soft hole in white globs and makes his chest ache. It doesn’t matter whether it takes root or not. All that he needs is already here. 

Beautiful and rare as a sundog; haloed by light. All this time, he dared not think this could be it. 

He thinks he’ll love her with the same ferocity Icarus had on his descent.

She shivers when he traces his fingers up her spine. “N’more. M’tired.”

“Wasn’t gonna, pet.”

The bedroom then. She twitches in his arms when Simon carries her to bed and pats his chest approvingly when he slides in beside her. 

He could’ve told her that it’d end up this way. He smiles indulgently when she shifts and splays over his chest, her nose nudging his nipple. Already fast asleep. 

In the morning, you sit across from him, half a grapefruit in a bowl in front of you and a mug of coffee, black. 

“I think I want to go back to school,” you say, apropos of nothing. The spoon clinks against the inside of the bowl. 

“Yeah?” he says, only half-listening. 

“I can always get a part time job on the days when I don’t have class. I never liked my old job anyway.”

“Do whatever you want,” Simon grunts. “Not my problem.”

Under the table, your cat’s tail curls around your ankle while he waits for you to sneak him the scraps. 

You smile.

mean!simon riley headcanons*

~ ~ ~

mean!simon, who tears your clothes off the second he enters the house, grabbing your throat and shoving you on the couch, spreading your legs open

mean!simon, who kisses you so hard, your lips get swollen. his tongue pushes inside you, licking your mouth till you're so out of breath, you feel like you would pass out

mean!simon, who kisses your neck, and immediately bites on it, leaving his mark. even though you tell him not to, he still does, at places less noticeable.

mean!simon, who bites and sucks at your nipples, till you're whimpering and moaning, practically begging him to fuck you. he would rile you up to the point where you have no other choice than to beg him to fuck you

"please, si? fuck me, please, i'm so wet" you would pout, and only that, will he line his cock with your needy hole

he would push his tip in, just the tip, watching as your lips would spread open to take him in. your pussy would welcome him in, and it's only mere minutes before he's bottomed out, his balls against your ass as he relishes in the feeling of your tightness and warmth around him

"you're so tight, maus, just gripping my cock, aren't you? such a des[erate little girl" he would mock you, watching as you would roll your eyes at his comments. but he wouldn't stop, till you roll your eyes from how fucking good he feels

the couch would creak, the springs making a dreary sound as his cock would plunge into you. you're used to it by now, knowing the same would happen if you buy a new one, so why bother?

your moans would be louder than the creaking, swallowing it down, coupled with his grunts. he moans too, but only when you clench around him, squeezing him so good he can't help but whimper with his eyes closed.

mean! simon, who would rub your clit, whilst continuously pressing against your sweet spots with his fat cock. it's big, yeah, but the girth makes you see stars.

he won't stop till he's made you cum atleast twice, knowing justwhat effect he has on you. knows that he can turn you into a whimpering, moaning mess within seconds

mean!simon, who would pull out as soon as he's close, cuming all over your tits and tummy. he doesn't care where it shoots, sometimes on the couch even. once he's done, he takes a tissure and wipes it off, throwing it in the trash

he would wear his balaclava back, his sweat still dripping down his forehead. you would run your fingers on his back, seeing scars, injuries, running your fingers near the wound. he never even uses bandages, even though you've offered to do that a million times.

mean!simon, who brings you water, having to lean down while passing doors so his head doesn't knock against the ridiculously small doorways.

mean!simon who leaves as soon as you're back to reality, locking the door behind him. it's quite later that you catch his dog tag lying on the table, that he forgot by mistake, giving him a perfect reason to come back as soon as possible, doing everything all over again

~ ~ ~

tags: @ilovehobi101

Hey!!! I was wondering if you could write a fic with fem reader x Ghost, where the reader is super innocent and doesn’t realize how she looks when she gets on her knees to pick something off the ground? And ghost likes her but is too nervous since he’s her superior?

Like reader just drops something and gets on her knees to pick it up, maybe has to bend over if it fell under something, and ghost gets hard and embarrassed????…👀👀👀👀 🤭 maybe smut????

thank you so much for the ask bestie!! this is for everyone i emotionally scarred with the angst fics lately<3

a work affair

mutual pining and smut !

cw: age gap, some unbalanced power dynamics (he's kinda your boss), and unprotected sex

simon remembers the exact day you joined the team, he almost scoffed out loud upon seeing you for the first time. he thought you were lost, a face like yours didn't belong in the military let alone his branch; too much gore and violence.

your smile never flinched as you were introduced to each member of the team, even when you looked up at him in his mask he swore that smile got even wider. he spent that whole night tossing and turning, thinking about how on earth price and laswell okayed someone like you joining the team. it just seemed irresponsible.

but simon ate those words almost immediately, he was surprised to see how efficiently you worked in the field. the way you took orders on the field sent a weird sense of pride through his chest and he was relieved to see the way you seamlessly found your place in 141.

he found himself wanting to hang around the team after missions, just to be around you for a little longer. he hoped no one noticed though, he'd lose his job if he was caught mingling with a subordinate. so he watched from the sidelines while you joked with soap and gaz, occasionally finding himself making comments and additions, just to see your smile and the mischievous glint in your eye.

———

you were sitting on the old couch in the safe house, flicking through your sudoku book since you were having a hard time falling asleep. you twirled your pencil in your hand while you worked on the puzzle, trying to find the next number in the line.

the utensil accidentally slipped from between your fingers and hit the floor, rolling under the couch. you groaned and dropped your book onto the seat next to you, then moved to kneel on the floor. you leaned over and stuck your hand under the couch, feeling around for the pencil.

you cursed under your breath when you felt your finger hit it, but slide it further away so you angled your head so you could try to look for it instead of feel around. you almost had it with your middle finger when you heard someone clear their throat behind you.

you jumped and pulled your arm out from under the couch. then you sat up, still on your knees and huffed to blow your hair out of your face.

"oh, l.t.," you were relieved to see that it was just him, "what are you doing?"

his voice was deep, still scratchy with sleep, "could ask you the same thing." he was wearing a t-shirt and some sweatpants, but his mask was still pulled over his face, from your angle he looked even bigger than he usually does. you'd always sensed some sort of tension between you and your lieutenant, at first you thought it was because he didn't like having you on the team.

a few months into that awkward tension and you asked soap about it, he told you that ghost was just sorts like that with everyone. what surprised you the most was when he said that he noticed the masked man was actually nicer to you than he'd ever seen him before. you couldn't help blushing at that and it stayed in your mind for months after, only getting worse whenever you interacted with him.

you dusted your hands off, "my pencil fell and i can't reach it." you thought you were going to die of embarrassment, your lieutenant, who you might've had a mild crush on, just witnessed you in the most awkward position imaginable.

"shouldn't you be sleeping?" he was standing with his arms crossed over his chest now, his biceps practically bursting through the short sleeves of his shirt.

"sorry sir," you tipped your head to the side a little, "i couldn't sleep so i came out here."

he sighed and moved towards you, getting on his knees in front of the couch, "move over so i can see," you scooted back and he pushed his arm under the couch.

when he sat up right again he had your pencil in his hand, you smiled wide and he dropped it in your hand. even though he was wearing his mask, you could see the way it shifted when he smiled back, then he turned and sat with his back against the front of the couch and let out a quiet grunt.

you mirrored, grabbing your book from the couch and flipping it open to your page. you were sitting close enough that your shoulder pressed against his bicep, but neither of you moved. you liked this about ghost, he wasn't the kind of person that made conversation when he didn't need to, he was fine just sitting there with you.

you worked on your puzzle for a little while, mumbling numbers to yourself and chewing your lip. you could feel him look at you occasionally, you turned your head with a smile when his eyes lingered for a little longer than usual.

"what about you l.t.?" you turned your body towards him a little more, "shouldn't you be asleep too?"

he lifted his arm to scratch the top of his head, "same as you, kid, hard time sleeping."

you nodded and looked down at your book, "i started bringing these a few missions ago," you huffed a laugh, "they don't even help, i actually spend the entire night working on them because i lose track of time."

he chuckled and took it from your hands, his fingertips brushing over yours made you jolt a little. he flicked to a random page and took your pencil, then started marking numbers down.

you leaned over his shoulder and watched, unfortunately for ghost, he flipped to one of the harder puzzles. he was struggling but didn't want to admit defeat.

"that 5 doesn't go there sir," you chimed in.

he snapped his head around and looked right at you, "i know, quit talking i'm trying to focus," he tapped the book with the pencil eraser.

after a few more minutes of making no progress, he finally turned the book towards you and pointed to a square with the tip of the pencil, "what goes here?"

you laughed, "ohhh," you pushed his arm a little, "now you want my help?"

"just tell me," he grunted.

"ok fine," you leaned over again, pressing yourself against his arm as you pointed and gave numbers for him to write down.

after he wrote the last number into the last box you turned to him, your faces inches apart as you grinned. "there ya go l.t.," you wrapped your fingers as far around his forearm as they could go and squeezed his arm a little, "you did it all by yourself."

his eyes bounced between yours, then scanned across your face. the book slipped from his hands and the pencil rolled under the couch again, but neither of you cared. you've never been this close to him before, you could almost feel the warmth rolling off of him.

your hand was still on his arm but before you could take it off, he covered it with his other hand. he lifted his hand again and brought it up to cup your cheek, your eyes widened.

“sir?” you whispered

"tell me to stop," his voice was low as the other hand lifted his mask over his nose.

your eyes didn't leave his lips as you shook your head and wrapped a hand around his wrists, "i don't want you to," you whispered.

he grabbed your bicep guided you into his lap, letting you straddle him while he pulled your face to his to attach his lips to yours. your hands went to his large shoulders and you held on as he rubbed his hands all over your back.

you were panting when he moved down to plant kisses down your neck, nipping and licking the sensitive skin. his hands gripped onto your hips as he helped you roll your hips down into his.

"god," he said our name and the pulse in your pussy throbbed, "you have no clue what you do to me, do you?”

you whimpered and let him slip your shirt off your head, he groaned after seeing that there was nothing under it. well, you were supposed to be going to sleep and sleeping in a bra is insane, but thank god that thing wasn't in the way right now. his large hand cupped your left boob while his mouth littered kisses all over the other.

you tugged on his shirt, begging him to take it off so you could feel his skin against yours.

"take your pants off," he demanded, lifting you off his lap so he could take his shirt off but he left his mask on. you desperately wanted to see what he was hiding under there, but one step at a time, even if these steps were a little out of order.

you wasted no time getting back into his lap and attaching your lips to his again, you slid your hands up the back of his mask and into his hair. you tugged a little and he groaned into your mouth, then brought one hand up to grip the back of your hair.

he slipped the hand that rested on your hip along the waist band of your underwear. you impatiently rolled your hips again and he finally let his hand slide lower. he cupped your pussy, applying pressure with two fingers to your slit.

you whined and gripped his hair tighter, while he used his fingers to rub circles on your clit through your underwear. his lips moved back down to your neck and it took everything in you not to moan out loud.

you could feel his cock hardening under you, the length of it poking your ass a little. you wanted to giggle because who knew lieutenant simon riley was a commando kinda guy?

it didn’t take long for you to be a panting mess, moving your hips in time with his hand to help yourself reach your high. but before you could get there he pulled his hand away and loved his hands back up to your chest. you huffed in annoyance and he nipped at the underside of your jaw.

“cmon now,” he was grinning, “i’ve been waiting so long, let me take my time.”

you rolled your eyes at him, but he was unbothered by it. he let his hand fall back down to your pussy, sliding the crotch of your underwear to the side so he could feel you with nothing in the way. he wasted no time slipping his fingers into your slit, groaning at the wetness he felt there.

you started to ride his hand, dropping your head into his neck to muffle yourself. he slid a finger into your, moaning with you and curled it to hit the spongy spot that made your toes curl. the heel of his palm rubbed against your clit and a new feeling of pleasure flowed through you.

“oh god,” you whined, “i need more.”

he slid another finger in and pushed his free hand into your hair so he could pull your head back and see your face. he slotted his mouth over yours, swallowing your moans and pushing his tongue into your mouth.

it all felt so good, every part of him was pressed up against you and you felt like you were going to explode. the base of your skull was burning with euphoria and your abdomen tightened as you got closer and closer. the hot feeling in your lower stomach got hotter as he picked up the pace with his fingers.

“there ya go,” he spoke against your mouth, “you wanna cum?”

you nodded your head and whimpered again, tightening your grip on his hair, “please— sir, i’m gonna—“ you were cut off by your orgasm and ghost attached his mouth to yours again to keep you quiet.

he helped you ride your high then pulled his fingers out of you, you rested your forehead on his shoulder while you panted. his left hand rubbed your back and went all the way up to your neck before it went back down again.

“you okay?” he asked.

you nodded, feeling his hard cock still poking you in the ass. you lifted your head off his shoulder and put your hands on the sides of his neck, “what about you?”

“we can stop here if you need,” he looked into your eyes.

your hands slid down his bare chest, all the way down his nicely built abdomen to the waistband of his sweatpants. you pushed your hand in and wrapped your hand around him, earning a gasp from the large man.

“i don’t wanna,” you looked up into his eyes again.

you kissed the side of his neck and freed him from his pants. he was big, so big it made you a little nervous, but you were anything but a quitter. you stroked him, using his precum to help. both of his hands were gripping your hips, holding you so tight his knuckles were white and you knew you’d bruise in the morning.

you lifted yourself up a little, using your hand to guide the head of his cock up and down your slit, letting it bump your clit while you gasped into his mouth. you could see him holding back, biting down into his lip so he couldn’t make the sounds you needed to hear.

he threw his head back into the couch cushion when you let the head press against your entrance. you winced at the feeling of his grip getting tighter until he got impatient and swatted your hand out of the way to replace it with his own.

"let me do it," he pecked your lips one more time, then looked down to where the two of you were joined.

he used the hand on your hip to guide you down, checking on you for any signs that you want to turn back when he heard you wince. you were far from that feeling, trying to push him deeper, only to be slowed down by his hand.

"fuck-" you whimpered, letting your head fall back.

ghost immediately started kissing along your collarbone and neck, feeling you squirm a little when he got to ticklish spots. he finally bottomed out and wrapped both his arms around you, groaning into your neck while you bit into your lip. you felt so insanely full and with every small movement you felt him inside you hitting every spot.

"baby," he sounded whiney in your ear, it made your cunt flutter and he whimpered, "i gotta move now."

you nodded your head and he started with shallow trusts. your arms were wrapped around his neck and your eyes rolled back into your head, it felt like he was going impossibly deeper with each movement of his hips. he cursed under his breath, running his hands up your shoulders and keeping your front pressed up against his.

"so tight, gonna make me cum so fast," he held you tighter and started to move his hips a little faster.

you could barely form words, each time the head of his cock pushed into your cervix the air was knocked out of you. he tried to move slowly so the sound of your skin slapping together didn't wake anyone up and you bit on his neck to keep yourself quiet.

the position you were was making you see stars, your oversensitive clit rubbed against his pubic hair as you moved your hips to meet his thrusts.

"yeah," he whispered in your hair, "get yourself off on me, love."

his words only made you more desperate for him and you dug your fingers into his back while you chased your second orgasm. ghost's movements got faster and his hand moved down to your ass to help himself reach his high. he was letting curses and moans slip from his lips while he fucked into you at an almost brutal pace. all concern for the noise you two were making flew right out the window with the only things on your minds being your orgasms.

"i knew you'd like this," he was panting in your ear, "wanted to get fucked by your lieutenant so bad, didn't ya?"

you couldn't find your voice to respond, so you nodded into his neck. he chuckled and got even faster, "i know you sweet dumb thing, just couldn't help yourself."

he squeezed his hand between your bodies and started to flick your clit, the sudden feeling had your toes curling. you felt a stronger feeling than the one before, this time your entire body felt like it was on fire, especially in the places where his bare skin was touching yours.

you could tell he was close too, his trusts were rougher and a little sloppier. his cock was twitching inside you and every time you clenched around him he gasped.

"go on, sweet girl," he whispered, "let me feel you soak my cock this time."

his words pushed you to your edge and you came on his cock, pulsing around it while he moaned in your ear.

"good girl," he praised.

he was right behind you, crushing you into his body as he started to slam up into you. with no warning, his hips stiffened and he came inside you, letting out a broken moan into your ear. he trusted in a few more times, letting you have every last drop.

the two of you panted against one another, squirming as his hands slid over your skin while the both of you came down. you sat up with your arms skill around his neck and his hands settled onto your hips, you pressed your forehead to his and he let out a delighted hum.

"y'know," you looked into his dark brown eyes, "i do sorta like you."

he laughed, "sorta?" he pinched your thigh and kissed you again.

"you know what i mean," you rolled your eyes, then shivered from the sudden coldness that hit you.

he picked his shirt up off the ground and helped you get into it while you stayed seated on his lap. you stayed like that for a second, until you yawned and he chuckled again.

"finally tired," he said while rubbing your back, "guess we found something that works."

he helped you up and into your pants because your legs were a little wobbly and almost useless, then guided you back to one of the bedrooms. he stood in the doorway for a second, his hand interlocked with yours pulled you back a little.

"can't tell anyone about this," he said in a hushed voice.

"yeah," you looked up at him and he took in your messy hair and raw lips, "that’s okay though," and you smiled up at him.

in that moment, simon was glad price and laswell okayed someone like you joining the team, because never in a million years would he have had it in him to approach you in the outside world.

***

bestie, i hope you liked it!!

pls comment and reblog, i need to know what you think!!

does anybody have any fic rec for simon “ghost” riley x “tomboy” reader? (idk if tomboy is the right or appropriate term, i apologize) where reader is afab and etc but she’s like masculine? kinda looks like a boy and not very feminine, but yk she still tries to look feminine? and she has like short hair? (totally not projecting😅)

ps: also maybe where reader is short (i’m sorry)🥲😭

Simon Finds a Toy

You had just moved to town when the serial killer who was passing through takes a shine to you. Simon/Reader, 3.5k

18+ cw: kidnapping, hobbling, spanking, animal death

March is practically over when everything goes wrong.

Running through an abandoned warehouse avoiding bodies was not how you saw your evening going.

When the first of you began disappearing into the dark, no one noticed. You didn't all know each other, it was one of those friend of a friend types of gatherings, with everyone separating into pre-formed cliques within the first hour.

It was a younger guy who had suggested exploring the old building a mile down the road—no surprise there. Per his words, he fancied himself an urban explorer. You hadn't seen him since the beginning, one of the first to go missing.

You weren't even supposed to be here tonight! You'd just moved into town and you were trying to make friends. When the pretty girl at the bakery invited you to hang out, you thought you were good. That maybe life wasn't so hard and setting down roots wasn't impossible.

Stupid—tempting the universe like that.

Whoever this guy was, he was massive. The kind of massive where if he barreled into you, you would be pancaked. You had watched him take a bear of a man (Jeremy? Jason? Maybe—all you can remember is he said he was a footballer) out half an hour ago—lifted, bent, and broken all in one smooth, brutal move.

It was as awe-inspiring as it was fear-inducing.

So you run.

You run and you hide until you're backed into a corner. He's found every other person and now it's your turn. You're bleeding and bruised, aching where you slammed into sharp corners and machinery in the dark.

This is it, the climax of your story, is anyone surprised that you run your mouth a little? You don't hold back as you tell him everything you think about him, every new fucked up thing this evening had presented, every grievance ever buried down under the veneer of civility.

Why is he just staring? You're caught, nowhere to go, and he's just … looking. He's got shark eyes—pools of inky black that suck you in. Drowning.

He decides to take you home with him.

This has to be a joke.

///

April brings cruelty in its change, where you're expected to learn the shape of the season.

Stop messing with these knots or you won't like the consequences.

How were you supposed to know this is what he meant? He said it exactly once; the first night in the truck when he hopped out after hours of driving just to find you with the rope halfway undone, eyes glaring at him from above your gag.

He grunted out his warning while retying it, calm as you please, as if it wasn't a bother to him one way or the other.

Looking back at it he was probably hoping you would ignore the warning, the psychopath.

The next morning he had to tighten them again after your long night spent fiddling but he didn't say anything—just adjusted the knots and walked back around to continue the drive. He hadn't stopped that day other than for gas and one bathroom break on the side of a cracked and potholed back road, where if there had been any traffic, they would've gotten quite the show.

He didn't even have the decency to take you into the trees.

You had gotten one hand completely out of the hog tie by the time you two reached your destination; this little tin-roofed shed with just enough room for him to pull all the way in and close the doors behind him was the only building you'd seen in hours.

He doesn't address your unbound hand—simply refastens it into the tie while ignoring how you had removed the cloth gag with your partial freedom. What follows is the culmination of days worth of you sitting in enforced silence, thinking up every creative thing you could call him. Unfortunately he ignores you cussing him out, and throws you over his shoulder to begin his trek through the woods.

He doesn't seem to mind you screaming your head off, at least other than making sure you don't do it directly in his ear. That got a sharp adjustment of your torso across his shoulder; your grunting wheeze in response not very demure.

Now you're here—staring at your hands. Or rather, your thumbs and where they were taped in little braces to stop you from moving them. Sweat and dirt making the skin itch beneath the bandages.

He told you you wouldn't like the consequences. He TOLD you. Did you think he was lying?

Well—kind of, yeah. What sort of monster breaks someone's thumbs?

Your stare turns into a glare, unseeing of anything around you until a heavy hand landing on your shoulder makes you jerk in surprise.

"Leave it, pet. No use thinking on it now," is grumbled down at you before he huffs in something resembling amusement as you lean sideways, trying to get out from underneath his grasp.

You've been waiting for the day when he loses his patience and murders you too, but it hasn't happened yet. Maybe he finds it entertaining when you act like a kicked dog around him.

Which is a funny thought considering he has a dog that damn near idolizes him.

He ignores him most of the time—takes care to feed and water him but that's the extent. No scratches behind the ear, no tummy rubs, no kisses between the ears. As if you needed another reason to hate this guy.

You watch him put together three plates, two in bowls and one on some kind of wooden board. You snort to yourself when you think of this guy enjoying a charcuterie board, ignoring him when he cocks an eyebrow back at you, waiting for an explanation that won't come.

At least you've gotten better at keeping your expression blank when he sets the two bowls on the floor, before taking his charcuterie board wanna-be into the dining room.

Asshole.

///

May saw flowers blooming and lessons learned.

You have use of your thumbs again. That's a win.

Puttering around this stupid cabin is driving you insane. You've learned a few things since you've been here—his name is Simon, he's military, he murders people in his free time, and his dog's name is Dog.

Fucking. Psychopath.

You're not allowed outside. Simon had told you this as he was unwrapping your thumbs for the last time, break yer ankles if ya even try f'r the door. So you don't. You make your displeasure known in other ways, pushing to see where the lines are, so you know where to press to cause the most damage.

He annoyingly stoic. Nothing you say seems to get a rise out of him and other than breaking an established rule—don't touch the rope, don't go outside, don't try and stab him with a kitchen knife—he leaves you to your own devices.

He's always around, hovering. He responds if you talk to him civilly, ignores you if you scream at him, and bends you over his knee if you start swinging.

The cup you threw at his head was ugly anyways.

You screamed yourself hoarse that first time he pulled you across his lap, other leg pinning yours down with a forearm pressed between your shoulder blades. You thrashed but could barely move, well and truly immobilized.

You began pleading as your pants were pulled down, begging him not to touch you, telling him you were sorry. He acted like he couldn't hear you.

The first slap was more shocking than anything. Your voice caught on a hiccup of air as his palm made contact, the fat around his strike rippling. You don't get a moment to process before he's smacked you three more times, alternating cheeks.

Eons later, after he's reached whatever preconceived end he had decided on, you're a limp, sobbing mess, your face pressed into the cushions, great gasping sobs rolling their way out of your chest.

He cleans your face before applying cooling balm to your skin and that was a greater gut punch than the spanking had been. He doesn't get to be both—he doesn't get to hit you over and over again and then hold the tissue while you blow your nose. You can't handle him being both.

You don't sit comfortably for days and a new rule is created—don't throw things inside the cabin.

///

You're allowed to eat at the table with him now, no more guarding your bowl from Dog who was surprisingly nimble. Simon and Dog have the same conversational aptitude so at least you can eat in peace.

That's another good thing he has going for him (are you going to go to hell for thinking of good qualities in a murderer?) he never stints on portion sizes.

You were quite pleased to realize you had stayed delightfully soft over the past couple of months. Locked in the cabin as you are, the only exercise you've gotten is for your tongue, which has been honed razor sharp by this point with the vitriol that never seems to cause as much damage as intended.

He was a decent cook too. Nothing insane, his meals were basic and limited by what he had stored in his kitchen and cellar, but you hadn't had a bad meal yet.

He left sometimes to restock. Or for other excursions. When it came time for him to leave you would be moved to the bedroom, regardless of how much you kicked and snarled, and a leg chain would be connected to a hook under the bed.

Those days were some of the worst. If he noticed the salt crusting the bed when he eventually returned he never said anything.

///

June saw the temperatures rise, tensions following suit.

You don't like to think about the start of summer.

You had a nervous breakdown one day when the heat was intense. Simon had gone to pick up food and he had left you unchained. You were standing in the living room, looking at the front door, free to walk through it whenever you wanted.

So why were you standing here?

Simon would be upset if you left the cabin. Its one of the rules, don't go outside, that you're supposed to follow. There are consequences if you don't follow the rules.

You ignore the tremble in your knees as your fingernails dig crescents into your palms, the door taunting you with its presence. You could do it; you should do it. Run. Get away, get to the police, have him thrown in jail.

You're going insane, you're losing your mind. Is any of this even real? Why are you still standing here?

In an attempt to get yourself out of the standstill you were in, you forced yourself to take a few trembling steps . . . towards the kitchen where you got yourself a glass of water, and ignored the door behind you that was taunting you by calling your name.

You taught Dog a few tricks instead.

Nothing crazy—sit, lay down, shake. Still, you were pretty proud. Something good came out of this.

You didn't make eye contact with Simon for a week once he was back.

///

July is sunburns and fingermarks left where you touch him.

All you see is Simon, he's all you talk to (that sometimes talks back), all you hear. Is it any surprise you said fuck it?

You remember reading something once that said humans required touch, if they didn't get it they'd go crazy. Heh. Maybe that's what happened to Simon, living up here in this cabin, hard to have anybody to touch.

So you bend first; you always bend first with Simon. Every day with him is a yielding in one way or another. You're not sure if you even know how to stand upright any longer.

It starts with a pat on the shoulder.

He had brought you back a puzzle book from his last murder spree. Some giant workbook with a dozen different types of puzzles. If you had any dignity left it would've been lost at how excited you got for that puzzle book.

So, you thanked him. You took the book, patted him on the shoulder, and then went to sit at the table to play with your new entertainment. Simple, simple, simple.

So explain how you ended up here.

Don't swallow, keep your throat open for me, don't you fucking swallow—fuck, fuck, fuck.

///

August was a sticky heat and you were careful not to dig too deep.

You had to butcher your first animal at the end of the summer months.

Simon was out on a short trip when the dog caught a fox. He came dragging it in just like his papa, proud of the innocent blood dripping from between his jaws, his own muzzle bleeding where sharp teeth and claws had sank in.

When you pried it from his teeth, you realized the fox was still breathing, little heart thrumming against your fingertips, vibrating at an almost continuous hum.

The dog's fangs had punctured its stomach. Organs and muscles ruptured and bleeding. Another mark in the 'just like papa' column. Not decent enough to kill cleanly. Have to play in it, enjoy it.

You knew what you needed to do but still you hesitated. Weren't you going to attempt to save it? It's what you would've done before. Before Simon, before this cabin, before the nightmares.

One hand held it firmly, keeping it from attacking out of fear or pain while you softly dragged the other through the damp fur of its back, attempting any sort of comfort.

You could see yourself in it; living your life with your own sharp little teeth as protection until something bigger came along. Something that saw you and decided you would taste best in its maw, your blood coating its throat.

It drug you as a prize back to its home, uncaring of the blood you leaked on the floor, the bile you spit at its feet. You wondered if it would hurt less, to be the dog.

You did the fox a favor when you sliced its neck. No more pain.

///

September saw the leaves changing and witnessed your further plummet into Simon's orbit.

He had been home for weeks. Continuously. No little camping trips, no missions, nothing. He was beyond pissed but it was his own damn fault for getting stabbed in the leg.

You had cackled when he came limping in, blood oozing through the fabric he'd tied tightly around the wound. Looks like his latest quarry had sharper teeth than he realized. Good for them.

Stitching him up was repugnant—he laughed in your face when you gagged at the blood that coated you up to your forearms and were thankful to wrap him up and be done with it so you could bathe. The blood left a stubborn stain under your fingernails for days.

After weeks of him following you around—touching you constantly, sticking his fingers in your mouth or in your cunt whenever he liked, eating the food you made for yourself—you were fit to burst.

Go find your next plaything, just get him out of my hair!

///

October saw the trees shedding their leaves, their bare branches showing through. It saw you without a mask of your own.

You were allowed outside when Simon was home. It had been such a subtle decline, you thinking of escaping, that you didn't notice it's absence until now, when you were watching the cold sun create shadows on the ground with no desire to wander father than the front porch.

You were allowed outside, you were no longer chained up when he left, you could leave. You could pack a bag, pick a direction, and walk. For however long you needed to.

But.

It was getting colder at night. You'd be out there for days if not weeks before you found a road to follow if you were lucky. Plus you had no idea which direction to go. What if you ended up deeper in the mountains?

What if you continued to lie to make yourself feel better?

///

November saw the winds begin to howl with your feral side howling along, music in the dark.

Simon was gone—getting the last of his energy out before you were snowed into the cabin with the winter storms that were starting up. The eerie howling having long become a background echo in your ears.

Dog had been acting strange all day. Staring out the windows, growling at the door, barking when the trees brushed the roof. You'd let him out to check several times but he always came back inside after circling the cabin.

Strange.

The sun had almost set when you saw movement outside the window, a dark mass moving between the trees, too deep in the dusk to make out.

Dog hadn't come back yet from his last perimeter check, leaving you alone inside the cabin. You watched out the window for several long moments, only hearing the wind moving through the trees.

A loud bang on the opposite side of the cabin had you looking away from the window with a start; when you looked back after a few short seconds, the shape was gone—faded back into the trees.

Your heart pounded in your chest, mouth drying up and palms becoming damp. You ducked out of sight of the window and creeped into the kitchen, pulling one of Simon's knives out of the knife block.

One benefit to living with a serial killer, his knives were always in pristine condition. You know if you needed to stab someone, this knife would be slicing through them like butter.

Pressing into a corner, your mind spun in rabid circles. Who was that outside? How did they find the cabin? Were they there to hurt you? Dog never came back in. What if they murdered him and left his body to rot in the leaves? Dog was a good boy, he didn't deserve that.

You gripped the knife tightly, steadying your nerves. You weren't going to be the victim again. You'd been there, done that and you knew how it played out. When (if you told yourself, it might not happen, they might leave, there might not be anyone out there) they came through the door, you would defend yourself. If someone came through that door, it means they killed Dog and they will be coming for you.

You took a deep breath while wedged into the corner with the door firmly in sight, holding your knife in front of you, ready to attack. You would do it. If they thought you wouldn't, they're about to be too dead to relearn.

The door opens between one heartbeat and the next, the wind's grasping fingers catching, causing it to slam back against the wall, a dark hulking mass standing on the doorstep. You pounce, screaming like a wild thing, knife flashing through the air. They snatch your wrist and wrench it behind your back, kicking the knife away.

Thought we were past this, pet.

Oh. It's just Simon.

The following let down had your body shaking like you'd spent all night out in the cold. Tremors wracked you from head to toe as you tried not to think about how readily you'd been to commit murder.

The last few moments replayed in your head as you breathed in a controlled manner, attempting to regain control of your body. It's only Simon, it's only Simon you repeat to yourself, self soothing, it's only Si—what?

Since when has the fact that it's Simon been comforting? Have you forgotten what he did to you?

No, of course not. You hadn't forgotten. You knew Simon wasn't the good guy of the story. You were simply happy for the devil you knew . . . right?

///

December saw the snow begin to fall, walls following suit.

Simon finished last minute preparations around the cabin, within ears reach all day, every day. You spent a lot of time trailing after him, watching him work. Helping occasionally when he'd hold out nails for you to pass him as needed, or holding a board steady as he cut.

You asked him questions—things you hadn't bothered wondering before, how long have you lived up here, do you have any family, what do you do for your job?

He answered truthfully, as far as you could tell. It made you offer pieces of yourself in return.

///

January saw the snow pack everything in, forced proximity tightening bonds.

You and Simon spent all day together, every day. He never ran out of stories to tell you about his past mission or murdering sprees. Listening to him talk, you realized he really did get rid of the annoying ones first. A strange thought to have with no feelings attached—you didn't even notice their absence.

///

February was dark. February was cold. Hadn't it always been you and simon?

///

March saw the snow melting, the sun waking earlier each day. When Simon left to stretch his legs, March saw a second body following along behind him.

Next

Story Repository || Main Repository

I made a little poem for y’all ^^

𝗪𝗶𝗹𝗱

Look at your strong legs

They run through the fields and forests

Look at your ears

They turn and twitch as they track the sounds

Look at your eyes

Beautiful and shiny, taking in the world

Look at your claws

Weapons and a tool, they help you run and fight

Look at your nose

Smelling scents even from afar

Look at your fur

It blows in the wind majestically, it keeps you warm

Look at your fangs

Menacing and sharp

Look at you

You’re wild

You’re free

Not mad or anything but why are all the good Omni man fics gay? Do us ladies not like Omni man? Like at all? I can't find one decent fic where he has an actual healthy relationship (or not). I'mma fix that real quick

Ghost who breaks things off with his sorceress FWB when she starts to catch feelings. She's vindicative but sworn to do no harm, and in a rage she curses him into a stuffed toy of himself.

True love, as always, will break the curse, and she's satisfied that Ghost will be miserable for a very, very long time.

Enter you.

The skeleton plush you find at the second hand shop is cute. A little dusty, like it had sat for a while, but soft and stuffed full still, and nothing you can't clean up.

It's an impulse buy.

Ghost wants to stew in his anger, but how can he, when a pretty soft thing like you sleeps with him every night?

When you slip between the sheets in your pink pajamas and crush his polyester face to your bare breasts on a bad day?

He thinks there are worse punishments to bear. He just wishes he could fuck you happy, take the nipple shoving into his face between his teeth until you writhe and beg him to touch you, troubles forgotten.

Watching you cry is the worst, when he can't move, and he can see that you're lonely and need someone to lean on.

He wants to wrap his arms around you and shelter you from the storm.

He stops thinking quite so much about how good sex with you would be, and starts thinking about how he'd like to take care of you.

He'll never be loved like this, not the way the sorceress meant when she'd cast the curse, and it's not fair, but he slowly falls for you anyway, spends his days while you're away fantasizing about how he could make you happy, the life you two could have.

Jokes on him, though, and his ex. There's no purer love than that between a girl and her comfort plush.

Your end of the bargain was sealed months ago.

When he finally crosses that last hurdle one night, he's sitting propped between your legs listening to you sniffle over a romcom. He admits at last to himself he's fallen for you, and the curse snaps.

And suddenly there's a full grown man in your lap.

This is going to take some explaining.

We're dreaming big - prologue here

Cw: Nsfw (gym owner+ your personal trainer Simon)

Simon notices you the moment you step into the gym. nervous, pretty, looked entirely out of place. He greets you with a nod and a gruff “Hello” when you saunter to the counter and look up at him timidly. Gleaming doe eyes meeting his and a bit intimidated by his presence.

“I want…want to sign up for the course…” your voice comes out soft and quiet, still a bit scared by the wall of man in front of you. His lips curl upward slightly, though his schedule is pretty tight already, but he doesn’t mind squeezing time out just for a cute and beautiful girl like you.

“The only time I’m free now is 21:00.” Simon said, asking if you’re okay with it, and you agree without a doubt. This is the gym closest to your place, and has the highest rating among others, you don’t mind if the session will start a bit later in the night.

He’s a great personal trainer, like the what the comments say on the internet. He’s meticulous, knows how to effectively improve your stance. You’re not sure if it’s normal for personal trainers to stand this close when you’re squatting, so close that you can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath fanning on the nape of your neck. maybe he just wants to make sure you won’t accidentally hurt yourself, you think to yourself after few sessions with him.

Simon can’t forget the first session, you step into the gym with the sports bra and gym shorts, hair tied into a high bun that shows off your flawless neck, he wonders how smooth it will feel when he runs his fingers along it. His chest touches your rear when you’re lifting weights, “In case your grip slips.” He tells you when he sees the confusion in your eyes. His eyes glued on your hips when you just finished few reps of lying leg curls, ass cheeks so nice and supple, you breathe a bit fast as you keep lying on the training machine, unaware of him try not to form a boner from ogling at your moist lips and the contours of your body.

You’re a bit frustrated with the progress you made so far, asking him if you’re not working hard enough. Your slight pout is too adorable, and he resists the urge not to swipe his thumb over your bottom lip. “You’re doing alright, give your body some time to build muscles.” Simon reassures you, but he can still see the chagrin on your face. You’re stressed out, he can tell, and as your personal trainer, it’s his job to help his student unwind, yeah?

The disappointment and anxiety are thrown to the back of your mind when he sits on the bench in front of the mirror, two fingers deep inside you, twirling and pressing the gooey spots with you moaning on his lap.

“Look at the mirror, sweetheart, look how beautiful you look when your little pussy’s swallowing my fingers.” His other hand move to your chin, turn your head towards the mirror. You can see his smug smile even with that disposable mask on, his fingers shoved deep into your cunt, bring out your profuse juices when he drags his fingers out. The scene is too embarrassing, your cheeks flush with arousal and shyness when you shift your gaze away from the mirror.

“Look at the mirror, love.” His tongue clicks twice, tone firm without any space for you to reject, so you obediently look back, let out a high-pitched sweet whine as you watch how his cock sinks into your tight cunt, pussy lips pushed aside to fit his fat cock. “Fucking pussy so tight, so perfect…fuck…” He inhales deeply, landing a soft swat on your bum and makes you yelp at the comfortable sting.

He definitely didn’t choose to schedule your session this late, that no one will be in gym except you two, so he can bend you over every surfaces here and fuck you till you squirt all over the nearest wall. His hips never cease, shows you how much stamina and strength he has as the best personal trainer. Pinning you over the machine you did lying leg curls, the angle of the it allows your ass to arch up and let him drive his pierced cock deeper, each piercings knead and glide through your spots one by one every time he slams his hips back.

When your thighs’ twitching even harder than they were after your leg days, you looking up at him with dazed eyes, entirely blissed out from how many mind blowing orgasms he gave you, Simon lifts you up again, easily maneuver you to hook your knees over his elbows, he pushes his cum-drenched dick inside again, still rock hard and ready to wrench yet another release from your heavenly cunny. He walks you to the mirror again, every steps makes his hips bucks and cock thrust up in the force, and all you can do is moan and whimper. “too much, too much Simon…”

But He only huffs out a laughter at your words while he stops in front of the mirror, giving you the full view to the reflection—your fucked dumb expression, thighs spread widely and supported by his strong arms, pussy swollen and clit peaks out from the folds, yet your tight walls still massaging his cock nicely as if you’re trying to please him.

“So perfect, princess. look just right when you’re in my arms.” Simon presses a kiss to your shoulder, adjust his grip and let your weight help him to reach the deepest, the tip of his shaft rest against your cervix. “Let’s have the next round on the leg press machine, yeah? I know you hate doing leg press the most, maybe you’ll be more pliant the next time, because you know how I’ll make you soak that seat after the session ends, hmm?”

i think i´m finally ready to write the most gut wrenching, toe curling self-indulgent "mini"series about toobluntandharsh!simon x traumatizedANDpeoplepleaser!reader i always wanted but never read before, even if english is my second lenguage and I KNOW i will mess it up

ok too much yap but i hope someone likes it 🫥