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orchidksses · 1 day ago

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the wreckage of ruination. | simon ghost riley

the one where simon comes home from deployment.

“Does this,” he sucks at your throat again, all teeth and tongue and it’s violent just like every breath he manages. “Feel gentle to you, love?”

WARNINGS - 18+ smut mdni. reader afab. simon essentially finding therapy in your pussy. heavy topics. rough sex. size kink. denied orgasm. a whole lot of simon riley psychoanalysis. a few sleep token references. a ton of religious undertones. piv. fingering. im gonna be honest chat idk if im horny or sobbing after this one.

It’s quarter past one when the front door swings open, and you pause with a dish towel in hand — listening as it slams closed again with enough force you half expected to hear the sound of shattered glass following it. Next comes the footsteps, though you already felt those, the dull thud of boots dragging across carpeted floorboards with the type of heavy set gait you could detect with your eyes closed. And then, there’s the rustling —the faint sound of a belt buckle unfastening.

Fuck.

It’s all you can think as he rounds the corner with a slow exhale, standing there in all the shadows of the early morning hour. Your eyes meet, and you see it there in all of its familiarity — the hunger.

It’s a languid look that he gives you, but one you know all too well. The kind that burns with intention backing it. The kind that turns the usual brown of his irises to something molten. A bonfire raging amidst the ashes. Inspiring the familiar sensation low in your gut that spreads through your nervous system like an infection. Sickly. You’d think it was a perfect description — because the next symptom is a tightness in your chest, one that comes robbing your lungs as you rake your eyes over him.

And it’s his hands, of all things, that really get you. The raw, crimson knuckles. Split from months of use. Battered by the wreckage of ruination — remnants of violence still fresh on his skin.

You wonder, stupidly, if he even notices the way you stare. Soaking in the lean lines of his torso. Studying the way his muscles shift beneath his skin with each inhale and ex. The way his dog tags sit against the hollow of his collarbones. The way his shirt sleeves are taut around the sinew bulging against his biceps. You wonder if he knows you can see the aftermath of the past few months in his eyes, the adrenaline still thrumming through him so violently it makes your bones ache.

When he steps forward, you know you have your answer.

“Nightgown.” His voice is a rasp. Gaze busy pinning silk to your skin. “Y’making this easier n’ easier f’me.”

You swallow the shock factor and smile while digesting it. He’s in front of you now. Close enough to feel the heat of him.

“Missing the chase, Si?” A tilt of your head, a tease in your tone. “I could run if you’d like.”

“Y’wouldn’t dare.” He all but hisses — two massive paws grasping your hips to tug you into him. There’s a breath as his mouth finds your hair, and then he inhales. “Much prefer y’right here. Like this.”

And it’s that simple admission, the one tucked behind the few extra syllables and whispered into the strands of your hair that has you leaping for a breath all over again. That has you forcing your sight to meet his with something a little too close to hope blinking in your chest.

“You feeling gentle?” You ask, and immediately wish you hadn’t.

Because his reaction is immediate. An answer in itself. And you’re not sure if it was the question on its own or the way you sounded asking it — but he’s catching your jaw in a grip just shy of bruising, forcing your eyes to hold the darkness in his. Then, he’s leaning in, breath brushing against your cheek, jaw, throat — growing back his sharpest teeth as he nips, tongue lavving out to soothe the sting in what you know is his crafted offering of mercy in a moment where he’s unable to provide much else.

“Does this,” he sucks at your throat again, all teeth and tongue and it’s violent just like every breath he manages. “Feel gentle to you, love?”

It doesn’t. It never has been on the nights he returns and you know this. So you take it for the warning sign it is and inhale the adrenaline permeating the air around you — offering him the closest thing to an answer you know he’ll ever need. Within seconds he’s crashing his mouth to yours with force nothing shy of feral. Wild and demanding, unhinged in the way you know he needs right now because this is how it goes on the night of his return. The beginning of his resurgence — ascension from the depths of the hollow he’d carved himself to be.

After all the war and destruction and damage he inflicts, you are his redoing. So you let him take, in whatever form he needs to, as he swallows everything you give and uses it to feel whole again.

You’re crushed against the counter next, and then he’s lifting you onto it — thick fingers fumbling for the edge of your nightgown as he presses between your thighs, kissing you hard all the while. You can all but taste the desperation on his tongue, the kind fuelled by lust and violence and everything else he needs to draw on just to find himself buried inside you in some capacity. It doesn’t matter to you much which way he chooses. You’ll take it all the same. And that, to him, means the world. The kind of catharsis he can’t get anywhere else.

He fists your hair, jerking your neck back as another hand trails up the heat of your thigh. You squirm and he bites your bottom lip for it, enough to make you squeak. You wonder then, as he drags his tongue along the hurt, how it can be as brutal and rough as it is while still feeling like something you can’t quite name. Something that makes you burn with the very same need.

When he kisses you, it’s like he’s trying to break you. When you kiss him back, it’s like you’re trying to mend him.

He pulls back then, just long enough to shrug out of his shirt — the muscles of his tatted chest gleaming under the low light of the overheads. He’s scarred. Bruised. A little bloodied. But he’s a beautiful mess. One you can’t force yourself to look away from because it’s here that he’s his most vulnerable — it’s here that he’s as beautiful and as dangerous as he will ever allow you to see.

The only time you catch glimpses of the ghosts etched into his irises.

“Never gets easier.” He mutters, both hands smoothing up your thighs now. “Gets harder each time.”

You know he’s talking about this. The way he comes home with the weight of the world on his shoulders, the bloodshed and horrors of what he’s seen still too fresh to call memories. You know. But still—

“Harder how, baby.” You breathe against his lips as he tugs your nightgown up around your waist.

It takes him a moment to speak, and you allow him all of it. In your time together, you’ve come to realize Simon Riley isn’t a man of many words. But when he does speak, you memorize every breath and syllable.

“Harder t’leave.” He admits, and you shiver at the words — or maybe at the fact his fingers are reaching up your thighs now, in search of the heat between them. “Harder t’come home. Harder t’be gentle like y’deserve.”

You close your eyes at that, wrapping your arms around his neck as those same thick fingers find your slit, and soak in the slick there. You let out a whimper, and he brings his lips to your temple, all while you turn those words over in your mind in search of their frontfaced meaning.

To anyone else, that might sound conflicting. But you’re not anyone else. You knew Simon before you knew Ghost — though in learning about him, many unanswered things made sense. You knew that there was always something stuck in the back of Simon’s throat that he could never quite swallow. Something thick. Something unmoving like grief. And you think, rather aimlessly through the pleasure he starts pouring into you, that after all the days and weeks and months he spends going through hell — for him, coming home has always been the harder part.

And there’s something poetic about that, beneath it all. The fact that even after all of it, he can still find it in himself to give you the remnants — the fractured remains of himself that are still in their infancy.

That he can be honest with you, in this way of his making. Letting you into the space beneath his mask.

So you moan. A sound of reward as he teases your clit. “S’good, Si.”

“No,” he whispers, swirling in easy strokes. “M’not good, love. Never have been.”

And that, you know he believes.

He’s a man made by violence. A weapon forged by war, by destruction, by the world that tried to break him just to turn him into the thing it fears most. To them, he’s destruction made flesh. But to you, he’s your salvation made in ink. And despite his best efforts, despite what he’ll always think, your Simon is so much more than he thinks he is. So much more than he’s ever been given credit for.

And you’ll tell him that. Over and over and over again if he wants you to.

“You are so good, Si.” You whinge, hips jerking to his touch. “You are so fucking good.”

There’s a moment, until there’s a hum. “Just as well. It’s not the good in men that keeps em’ aimin’ straight.”

He murmurs, almost to himself, and you know he’s not looking for a response. He’s unloading. Because it’s his truth. And everyone has a truth of their own. You try not to let him see how much his hurts you — the way he thinks his worth is based solely on the man he is behind the mask.

“It’s the men who try,” you mutter against his lips. “And despite your best efforts, sweetheart, you try so damn hard.”

His finger slips inside of you, slow. Like he’s making a point to prove you right. Like he’s showing you he can be good and gentle and patient. All the things he thinks you need him to be.

When you hiss at the stretch, his lips twitch and he pushes in another. “F-fuck, Si.”

You clench around him, and he exhales. “S’fucken’ tight f’me.”

You nod against his forehead, with barely a lung of breath.

“I missed this, you know. This feeling.” You roll your hips against his hand, taking his digits deeper, revelling in the way his cock throbs against your stomach. “This feeling I get when you come home with that wild look in your eyes. Like you’re too dangerous to be around if you’re not inside me.”

He nods, lips twitching again as he pulls back slightly to watch you. Watch his hand work you open with a crease in his brow — with a clench in his jaw that only intensifies as his other hand grips your hair too tight to be soft. You know he thinks you need this — the preamble. You know it’s taking every fucking bloody shred of his sanity to give it. But you don’t want him to be thinking about you right now.

This night, above all else, is about him.

“You’re breaking.” You choke with a smile — just to needle him — and that’s all it takes for his patience to crack.

Your nails drag against his shoulders when he pulls you off the counter — arms winding around his neck as he maneuvers you through the darkness of your living room. And it’s then that you realize you forgot just how strong he is. How the walk from the kitchen to the sofa only seems to take a few steps because he’s carrying you over his shoulder like you weigh less than the bag he left at the door.

He tosses you down onto the couch with a force that knocks the air from your lungs — not giving you a chance to gasp for a replacement before he’s rucking your nightgown up and spreading your legs wide as he settles between them. You watch as he works at his zipper, tugging down his pants just enough to free himself — cock all twitching and glistening with the same need that’s blaring through the rest of him. He strokes it a few times, watching you watch him — watching your hunger meet his in the middle.

“M’breaking, sweet’eart.” He’s growling, that’s the only way to describe it. Deep inflection rolling over you like rain. “But so are you.”

And then, he’s pushing in — burying himself inside the struggling wet walls of your cunt with a force that makes you cry out, back arching toward his chest as he leans over you — caging you under him with two strong forearms on either side of your head. The feeling is rendering. Euphoric in its agony. Thick head working you back open after months of thinking your own small fingers sufficed. But nothing compares to this. Each time a little like the first time — the only difference is back then he let you adjust, gave you all the time in the world to whine and cry about it.

You know that’s not the case now.

He’s selfish, like this. A thing of beauty. This man made from the earth you’ve claimed. A brutal kind of beautiful that most admire from a distance. Wolfish. Best to be kept at arms length — so rough and rabid he could eat you whole if he let himself. But instead, all he wants is this.

“Fuck.” He grunts into your hair as he bottoms out, snug against your cervix. “Gets tighter every fucken’ time.”

It’s a compliment, unspoken in the way he threads his fingers through your strands — because it’s the only way he knows how to handle everything he is. Because violence is second nature when being kind is so hard to come by. Because he’s learned that the only way he can exist is in the middle ground of it.

And fuck, if you don’t love him for it. The trying.

“N’you—ah—g-get bigger—“ you mumble, all exasperation and lust.

“Y’like that, yeah, pretty girl?” His voice is a deep rasp in your ear, a hint of the beast in his tone as he grinds deep. “Like how it feels when I fill you, s’fuckin deep.”

He bites down on your throat when you try to answer him and whatever you were going to say becomes a moan instead. Breathing. It’s all you can focus on as he draws out and then slides home — stretching you to an almost painful point as he pulls his hips back to do it again, his grip tight enough that it makes you wonder if his fingertips will bruise your skin the same way they do everything else he touches.

“Mmmfuck, Si—“ you hiss as he sets a desperate pace, each devastating thrust making you see all the stars in the heavens and then some. “G-god—“

He nods, even though mumbling the name of god right now is ironic at best. There’s no god for men like Simon. Something he’s long come to terms with and knows he no longer needs because you — you are his salvation. His safe haven. And you’ll help him rebuild himself, placing each of those broken pieces back together with all the benevolence of the most graceful god — even if it burns your hands to cinder in the process.

It’s an addiction — your addiction, his addiction, a feverish kind of thing made of violence and love in the same breath. Something that somedays you know you’d die for. You’d die for the fire he brings to life inside your soul. And you can tell by the way he holds you that he knows it, too. Your name a broken incantation on his lips like you’re a prayer. Like you’re his deity — the only one who ever made him believe in something greater than himself.

“Fucken’ missed you.” He buries his face in your hair as he says it, pace slowing, two digits searching for the mess between your legs and swirling. “Oh yeah. Missed y’so fucken’ much.”

It almost hurts, how your breath stutters in your chest — how you hips jerk up to meet where his fingers bully your clit.

“I—fuck. I missed you too.” You wail, climax dragged to the edge of your consciousness as he thrusts in slow and deep. “Ohfuck. Si m’gonna—c-cum—“

He grunts in your ear, the way he only does when he’s trying to regain control — and you know without words that he isn’t going to give you what you need just yet.

Instead, he pulls back — his tip just barely nudging at your entrance a moment before he’s tugging your knees to your chest and slamming back into you deeper than you’d thought possible. It’s so much, and it’s almost too much when he stills. You cling to him, whimpering like he’s stolen a limb with how he takes a second to just wait before he leans back over you — forcing himself that much deeper, lips going to the tip of your ear where the shell meets the edge of the cartilage.

“Not yet.” He mutters. “You’ll end me.”

It’s all a haze then, your consciousness a fragmented thing as he uses you to rebuild. As he uses you to heal the invisible wounds that war has left on his body and on his soul. Every thrust of his hips is an effort to force out the rage and replace it with something that can be good. That can hold you with open palms rather than crush you with clenched fists.

And you know, for all that he is — it’s a miracle then, to love him so freely.

“S-simon—“ you’re babbling, shins tucked to your chin as he ruts deep into you. Every thrust shoving you that much closer. “C-can’t—n-need to—“

“Go on then,” he grunts, reaching up to grasp your hair again. “Y’can—“

And he’s leaning closer still, until there’s not a single inch between you and your lips are brushing — frenzied breaths mingling hot in your mouth.

“But m’gonna right after you.” He punctuates it with a devastating punch to your cervix. “Got months t’give you, sweet’eart.”

You almost scream then, the sound echoing in the dark of the room and it seems to ignite something in him. A match to a kindling. His hand tightening in your hair as he thrusts in hard to the hilt over and over and over again. You’ve never seen him shake this hard. Never seen the way his eyes search yours like he’s memorizing everything you could mean. The way they hold you in yours, making you feel seen in ways you’ve never fathomed. And you think, then, even while the pace at which he drives into you is frenzied, vicious — not even giving you time to draw a breath before he’s slamming back inside — you’ve never been so fucking inlove with the entirety of him. All his broken and all his beautiful. His raw and his vulnerable. His spoken and his unspoken.

And it’s with that thought, that your orgasm bludgeons you across the chest — and you’re clenching and cumming around him, coming face to face with the stars you know he’d dragged down for you.

“S-si! Ohfuck—ohyes—“

He groans. “Mm. That’s it. S’good. S’fucken’ good f’me.”

And when he follows you down to the depths of them, it’s your name that he breathes — a ragged thing that sounds so sweet coming off his tongue you’d think it was sugar — spilling the months of pent up need deep into your bullied cunt, teeth barring against the edge of his lip as it’s ripped from him by the sheer force of yours.

And then, it’s quiet again. Nothing but your heavy breaths to mark the stillness. Your eyes find his in the low light — and you know then, that the storm has passed. He shifts so your legs can wrap around his waist before he cages you under him again — forearms under your neck as he holds you there, softening inside you.

“Fuck.” The exhale. The emergence.

“Welcome home.” You whisper it, and it holds every word you could ever manage.

It’s a while before he speaks. And when he does, it’s rough. The word he gives you is simple, but it means everything — the weight of his soul beneath it like an ancient thing.

“Home.”

#holy fuck #adored ୧ ࣪ ⠀˖⠀⠀

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orchidksses · 1 day ago

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SAY YOU WILL — first try

The last thing Simon expects himself to get into is a dating app. But one stern conversation from Price and a few glances over at Kyle’s phone has him caving. It’s been too long since he last shared any form of intimacy with anyone. He means to practice, to take it slowly and rediscover what it is he’s been missing all these years—intentions which fall through as soon as he finds you.

cw. situationship. simon riley x f!reader. suggestive (18+). wc <3k

#01 first try | masterlist | #02

It’s been a while since Simon’s been on a date, but somehow he doesn’t remember them being this awkward.

Clumsy? Yes. Bashful? Sure. But outright uneasy to the point that he’s almost afraid to meet your eyes across the table? Never. Not in the three long and arduous decades of being alive has he felt so…unprepared.

The restaurant is something too fancy for the likes of him. It’s all white tablecloths and lit candles and roses in slim vases. When he sat down the chair underneath him squeaked with his weight, and even now he feels uncomfortable with how he’s practically looming over you like this.

You don’t seem to be paying much mind to that though.

Instead, Simon's left to watch as you go over the menu for the third time, restlessness evident in the way you tap your fingertips against the laminated sheets. You hum, kiss your teeth, shake your head a little to the side.

And then you flip the pleather casing over, and you’re back to the first page.

It’s not like Simon had anticipated a miracle, but even this feels ridiculously sad. He focuses back on the menu on the table, looking over the meal options which don’t sound all that appealing, trying to decide on anything.

You clear your throat, and he glances up to see the rose on your cheeks, the way your eyebrows have raised in a way that says that you’re not comfortable either.

Your lower lip slips from your teeth. “What are you thinking of ordering?”

“‘M not sure,” he muses, flicking his attention between the paper and you. “You?”

“Ah,” you nod, following with a pause. There’s something caught in your throat, words that Simon sees you're unsure of whether to speak aloud.

If he had any guess, it would be you asking to go powder your nose so you can make a discreet getaway.

“I’m not sure if I’m hungry,” you begin, unable to hold your eyes with his, followed by your hands folding over the menu now dropped to the table.

The end comes early—just as he’d calculated. He’s already reaching in his pocket for his wallet.

“But,” your voice follows, and he notices the way you duck your head a little closer towards him, leaning in like you’re about to tell him some secret. The briefest soured face made at the couple seated at the table next to you. “You know the Spoons down the road?”

His huff is full of amusement. “Yeah.”

“Wanna get some drinks?”

The pub is the same as usual.

Dark in the corners; an unfortunate murky orange blinking from the decades old light fixtures—doing little to help see through the masses. It’s a Friday evening, so as expected, everyone and their mum has decided to flock over, waiting at the bar like seagulls pecking for crumbs. There’s roars of laughter, howls of drunkenness, the occasional sob and shed tears.

It’s nothing gaudy, nothing extravagant or romantic or anywhere for a first date with something pretty like you to take place. Yet, Simon’s a little beat that he hadn’t suggested something as simple as Spoons first.

He’d gotten intimidated, scared, nervous—he’d gone for the safe option which he thought would make him look good, look normal.

You did nothing extra to convince him to come, as soon as he’d seen your eyes full of something hopeful, maybe even desperate, he caved immediately. For your sake and his own, a longing to try and make something out of nothing—a text between strangers into a date.

He remembers how stiff he felt, hovering his thumbs over the phone keyboard, trying to come up with anything that was even remotely interesting to tell you. To try and grab your attention with a detail about him that wasn’t like the sour taste that fills his mouth when he looks in the mirror for too long.

Of course, you messaged first. The first hello, the first how are you, the first you look handsome. You suggested dinner, but he insisted on making the plans, shy—worried and insecure. He doesn’t know what masculinity really means anymore, but he’d immediately assumed it meant taking control. He thought that would set him apart.

As he follows you through the crowds in the pub, beer in hand, the other clasped in yours like a tether to you, he realises all along that you were the one who was driving things along. That the ball was always in your court.

Simon doesn’t think that he minds.

He thinks he might even be charmed—blissed out with the way he can let go of the tight grip he’s held on himself for so long, even with barely knowing you. Your energy emanates off you in waves, a soothing balm over his frayed nerves, a beam of light as you hum to the song drowning in a sea of voices.

Connected to you by your interlocked fingers, Simon follows you all the way into the garden. It’s obvious in the way the chilled wind curls over his skin that it’s the early days of autumn, and he’s mesmerised by the way you shake off a shiver which runs down your spine. Awed in the way you carry yourself, from when he first saw you across the road, right until you sit down and smile as he does the same.

The brightness in your face doesn’t fade as you drink and he drinks, gazes locked in something Simon knows should be awkward but isn’t. It’s soft, a pillow, right until he tips the glass a little further which forces his eyes closed as well.

When he opens them again, your chin is resting against the palm of your hand, and there’s foam clinging to your upper lip.

He motions silently first, a finger circling around his own mouth in gesture, prompting you to sit back up and tilt your head like a curious puppy.

Simon clears his throat, then rolls his lips. “You’ve got a little…”

“Hm,” you look down into the reflection of your glass, and when you see it you choke on a laugh—or embarrassment, Simon can’t discern. ”Oh, fuck–” You reach for the napkin under your glass, a ring of condensation already gathered on it, and wipe at your mouth. “Thanks for that.”

Lost for any other response, he gives a curt of course.

A rhythm is lost, and he berates himself, tries and fails to think of anything worthwhile to say to you. It’s difficult—a herculean effort to meet your face next to him, his hand resting against the rough and chipped wooden slat of the table. His fingers tap against it, restless, and as soon as he realises he stops.

“Can I admit something?” The way you say it is playful, and Simon’s sure no matter what he did in this moment, it wouldn’t deter you from speaking anyway.

He nods, and then on second thought adds: “Sure.”

You chuckle small and under your breath while your foot under the table unsuccessfully nudges his, calf subjected to a weak kick instead.

“I didn’t actually think you’d be this tall.”

Simon scoffs, hums and then realises, turning completely puzzled. “What?”

“Out of all the dates I’ve been on this year, you’re the only one that hasn’t lied about their height.”

Completely bemused, he shakes his head. “People do that?”

Your smile grows even wider, and Simon thinks he’s half-blinded by it, like a kid staring into the sun. Everything in him warming from his cold fingers to the tips of his toes.

“More people than you think,” after a pause you smirk. “Your friends are probably guilty of it too.”

Simon laughs quietly. Thinks of Johnny and Kyle and their dating fiascos. “Yeah, probably.”

He’s not sure how, but you manage to successfully draw him into smooth conversation. There’s a push and pull between you—like unravelling a thread. It’s slow coming, but eventually Simon does find it easier. You offer him something, and in return he speaks freely, says more than he has in weeks. He’s spurred on by the way your face lights up every time you learn something new about him, motivated to keep it that way.

And, God, Simon realises that it feels really fucking nice. Better than nice to talk to you, someone who isn’t his Captain or his Sergeants or anyone even closely related to work. You laugh at his (modified) stories with no filter, and he sees briefly, the memory of Tommy flash through it. You feel familiar in this strangely nostalgic way, and he thinks of how simple things once were.

So he lets himself indulge in simple pleasures. He chuckles a little harder at your jokes and anecdotes; he orders another beer because he can; and most of all he lets himself enjoy you.

Starting with a slow shuffle closer to you on the creaky picnic bench, letting his knee bump yours first, attentive to how you slide yourself closer so your thighs are flush. (When he looks down to see it, surprised but eased, the curl of your lip when he looks back up is nothing but cheeky).

Late enough into the night Simon tests the waters when he settles an arm over your shoulders, the press of your body against his searing—the faint thump of your heart ringing in his ears like a song.

You tip your head backward to look at him like this, tucked into his body, and your eyes are somehow wide but narrowed all the same—teasing, glowing.

Simon learns that when you’re three drinks deep, you get a little bolder. More daring.

It’s the part he was both terrified and thrilled for, breath catching in his throat as your hand moves off the table and towards him. Landing on his chest, his sweater is thick enough to disguise the muscle, the scarring, but you feel around for something anyways—your fingertips pressing harder, sinking into his clothes, travelling downward to his abs.

You giggle, hiccup and then: “What’s all that muscle for, hm?”

Quirking an eyebrow, Simon huffs. “Work.”

Your eyes roll but a smirk pulls at your lip. “What do you do?”

Simon’s palms go clammy. His gulp is one that’s nervous, one that feels slow when it isn’t. For the first time in a long time he’ll have to obscure the details—tell a lie. It feels wrong. Looking down at the sweetness in your cheeks but the foxy, cunning glint in your eye.

It’ll be the first of many. If the truth comes out it’ll be a nasty thing.

“Security.”

Jutting your lip, you nod, seemingly impressed. Your hand inches back upward, further than where it started, settling at the base of his neck. He jumps a little at it, suppressed enough that in your tipsy stupor you don’t realise. Your thumb brushes over his pulse, and he nearly squeals.

“I see,” you hum, he can’t tell whether the intrigue is genuine, your eyes having fallen to his exposed neck. He wonders whether you’ve noticed the faint scar that runs across it. “Like a bouncer?”

He laughs at that, the bob of his throat felt by your curious hand. “No,” he says, and it has you looking back up at him, “it’s more contractual.” He chooses his words carefully, only hoping you don’t realise the awkwardness of his pauses, “I can be gone for days or weeks, sometimes months.”

“Shit,” you drawl and Simon realises just how close your face has gotten to his—barely a breath apart, the smell of bitter beer invading. He’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but your voice dips lower, taps into something alluring that leaves him hot and bothered.

Thinking about it for another second leaves him fighting the blood rush to his crotch.

“Sounds like you’re an assassin, mister Riley.”

Simon can’t do anything but laugh it off, his arm around you pulling you closer into him—gently, but with intention all the same. Your gasp is little, but he can see the way your expression finally settles, full of a burning desire.

“Does that make me sound better?” He muses quietly, mouth hovering just over your own.

You shudder in his hold, tongue darting out to wet your lips, eyes glazing over.

“Yes,” you confess, eyelids falling shut, “yes, yes.”

Simon’s not sure where he finds the courage, but he closes the gap.

A kiss. It’s unpracticed and unsure and slow; a test. He waits for your reaction, seconds passing sedately. His chest constricts, his hands twitch, his back cramps.

Then you sigh, shaky, lips parting further to let more of it in. His own relief manifests as a trembling moan, quiet but unavoidable as your smile buzzes against his skin. Simon continues with it, presses his lips a little harder than before, more energy in the way he swallows you.

Where he thought he’d go wrong—where you’d pull away with a tense grin and tell him no more, already halfway out the building—he seems to do right. You only fall into him more, one hand clutching at his bicep, another at the fabric of his sweater. You use your teeth. You sing your elation. Simon is surrounded by your response, and his anxiousness eases.

The arm around you shifts, and then his fingers are spreading across your nape, keeping you steady. You grow more fervent at the touch, and just as suddenly as he’d closed the gap before, you pull just a fraction off his lips, panting.

“Simon,” it’s drowned in lust, desperation clinging to every letter.

Simon says your name just the same, looking down at your shining lips and hazy eyes—his cock tenting too quickly for him to stop it. You shift a hand to graze along his cheek, huffing a little as you give a small glance over to the rest of the garden where people still sit, nursing drinks and bantering.

“This is nice,” you continue, “but can I please take you home?”

Simon kisses you again, hard, something that steals all the thoughts from your head and the breath out your lungs.

“Don’t have to say please, swee’heart.”

#love love love #adored ୧ ࣪ ⠀˖⠀⠀

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