#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing
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warning(s): MDNI, sexual contents, attempted baby-trapping.
Simon baby-trapping this, Simon baby-trapping that. How about you trying to baby-trap Simon instead?
Like a fish out of a tank, your lips formed a perfect 'O'âan invitation he accepted as he slipped his rough fingers into your mouth and tucked them beneath the blanket of your tongue. The brush of warm flesh made his cock throb, drawing a muffled sound from you.
Simon put his free hand to continue steering your hips, maintaining their steady rhythm as they started to falter. The angry crown of his cock pulled out before slamming back in and disappearing between your plump labia. He let his ears feast on your cry, watching your eyes squeeze shut as he reached that sweet spot inside. Saliva dripped, running down the curve of your chin and down between your swaying breasts.
The ah-ah! sound becomes the only thing you can produce after he liquifies your brain into a tangled mess, trapping your tongue under the weight of his calloused fingers.
Your inner walls fluttered and clenched around his length, your climax peeking and cresting, forming high waves. Simon growled through clenched teeth. Your back arched, head falling back as you surrendered to your second peak.
His grip on your hips tightened as a warning. âOff, loveâfuck, ye gotta get off, now.â
You did not heed him, continuing to bounce on his twitching cock. He groaned, trying to hold back the inevitable tide of his release.
âLove,â he tries again before calling your name, his own hips stuttering.
âNo, please- IâmâIâm on the pill,â you gaspedâ
And the lie slipped through your lips without thinking.
Even as a part of you knew this was wrongâthat you were trying to trap him and you were being recklessâyou kept going. Simon stopped trying to get you off him, letting you slam your hips one last time before he emptied thick ropes of seed into your womb.
Sex and your indifference to potential consequences permeated the air, screaming for your attention. A voice curses you in the back of your mind, full of snarls that you have gone too far; that you have hated Mother too much to dismiss everything she saysâeven the true onesâas nonsense. That you will only live to regret this.
But you have toâit's a necessity, driven by the roots that tell you to cement this bond between you. Sure, it may be born out of a desperate fantasy of your own insecurities, but you need this.
âNothing can make them stay, my dear. Not for love, not for sex, for all your years of devotion to them, not even for their own flesh and blood!â Your mother is screaming in your head.
(Nonsense. Nonsense, all of it.)
You watch his chest rise and fall; somewhere deep within the confines of his strong ribs is a heart that beats in almost the same rhythm as yours. The dim lighting of the room you only acknowledge when it reflects faintly on the slick of his scar-littered skin. Those brown eyes stare at you beneath a canopy of blond lashes, moist lips pulled into a slight smile under his strong noseâand you return it with a wider one.
Would a child make you stay, Simon?
[part of chapter 10 of "A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING.".]
#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#simon riley x fem reader#x reader#reader insert#cod men x reader#cod x reader#call of duty men x reader#call of duty x reader#simon riley angst#simon ghost riley angst#simon riley x reader angst#simon riley x reader fluff#simon riley smut
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warning(s): MDNI, sexual contents, possible dacryphilia.
Breaking the kiss, Simon gives a slow thrust upwards, grunting as he feels your warm labia. You straighten your back to sit on his pelvis, doing your own set of hip rolls as his hands guide you.
âNo more tears fâme, ye âear?â He meets your eyes before lowering it to the tantalizing view of your glistening body, causing another twitch of his impatient cock. âI ainât worth it.â
The tip of his cock brushes against your folds when he thrusts his hips once more. A small mewl escapes your moist lips, vertebrae drawn like a curve of a bow as his length slowly enters your hole.
âNoâno, donât say that. Youâreâmmh!â You stumble over your words, voice shaking both from emotion and physical overwhelm. âYouâre always worth it, Simon.â
Sweet thing, unaware of the effect her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheek have on a man as corrupt as him. Struggling to find words while he fills her up, trying to convince him that he's worth something.
âThat so?â
Biting your lip, you nod. âYes,â
âYeah?â
Without waiting for a reply, he grips your hips and slams you against him in one swift thrust. Your eyes fluttered shut on a gasp as he sank home. He groans at the blissful feeling, the remnants of your last orgasm completely coating him. But he has never been a man of gratitude; the gaping hole near his ribsâright where the scar he has shown you and told you aboutâseems to consume every fulfillment he might have, leaving him perpetually feeling unsatisfied and not enough.
Right now, he felt utterly insufficient. His old soul was always left wanting for more. That stupid, almost pathetic desire for proof that he would never truly believeâ
âProve it then, love.â
And well, he is a selfish man after all.
[sneak peek of chapter 10 of "A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING.". FULL VERSION OUT NOW.]
#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#simon riley x fem reader#x reader#reader insert#cod men x reader#cod x reader#call of duty men x reader#call of duty x reader#simon riley angst#simon ghost riley angst#simon riley x reader angst#simon riley x reader fluff#simon riley smut
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another sneak peek because i have yet to find it in me to post the full thing. warning(s): MDNI, sexual contents, graphic description of blood, wounds, burn scars, and violence. past-torture, possible dacryphilia.
âThose scarsâŠâ Your voice wavered, and you had to pause to steady it. âWere they from your time in the military?â
Watching those pretty lips tremble, tears marring your beautiful face, he felt a sickening clench in his chest. Part of him hated seeing you so sad, while another swelled with something akin to misplaced pride â that this angel was weeping over scars so old they had long since stopped hurting him.
Scars from battles the old Simon had fought years ago. Scars he had seen as part of his creation, marks he bore without feeling.
âSome from service, yeah. Others⊠more personal-like.â He said it nonchalantly. In his perspective, as proof that it didnât hurt anymore, didn't need to numb it with ice like he did in the pastâso, sweet thing, stop crying over him.
As if that were possible. He could tell you that it happened years ago, but it doesn't matter; it wouldn't lessen the pain even if your human life spanned a hundred centuries. Your tongue seared, heart slicedâsomeone touched the one you love with the most brutal violence they could choose in this world.
The image must have been absurdâthe two of you completely naked in front of each other, yet instead of continuing, you weep over him. But now that youâve seen itâthose scars etched so cruelly and eternally upon his fleshâhow do you look away?
"Why... why would anyone want to hurt you?â Your voice trembled, tracing that scar near his ribs that had caught your attention since you first saw it. It stood out, raised and knotted in a way that spoke of a cruel bladeâmaking you wince at the thought of the pain. âIs⊠is this from your time in the military too?â
âYeah,â
âWhat happened?â
Without any real weight, he said, âGot meself âanged by the ribs once,â in a light intonation as if it were some kind of joke.
But it wasnât. My God, you wished it was, but it wasnât, judging by the scars.
Despite his effort, it couldnât mask the horror heâd experienced. Your breath hitches in a sob, your hand trying to cover your mouth. Your airway constricts as you imagine how it must have felt for him then. Hanged by the ribs, feeling your skin tear from holding your weight, flesh on display like they do in a slaughterhouse.
And he still manages to shush you, drawing your head to his chest in a tight hug like youâre the one whoâs been through it all.
âTwernât nothinâ â doesnât even âurt no more.â
Pressed against his skin, you seek the usual solace that his heartbeat brings. But your heart remains unsettled, a lingering question nagging at your mind and tongue, refusing to let you find peace until it's voiced.
Raising your head slightly, chin resting upon his chest, you meet his gaze with red-rimmed eyes. "And... and the burn scars?â
âHouse fire during a mission.â
You know thatâs not the full truth, but you donât dare to press it, choosing to spare your heart from more details of his agonies.
âI donât like seeing you hurt.â You said.
Simon gave a small hum in response. Reaching up, he wiped away your tears with his thumb. âThen stop cryin', love. 'Urts more to see yer pretty face all red and puffy.â
The hands around your jaw bring you closer. This time, he's the first to initiate this new kiss, closing his lips around yours with almost hesitant caution. And you want to cryâyou want to cry from how gentle his touch is, and yet someone has handled him in the cruelest way possible.
[sneak peek of chapter 10 of "A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING."]
#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#simon riley x fem reader#x reader#reader insert#cod men x reader#cod x reader#call of duty men x reader#call of duty x reader#simon riley angst#simon ghost riley angst#simon riley x reader angst#simon riley x reader fluff#simon riley smut
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Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure youâre on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.
If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!
TW: attempted baby trapping, detailed writing about burns and scars.
Mother says she was the first witness to your very first steps.Â
Surrounded by four newly renovated nursery wallsâpainted her favorite pink and adorned with decorations Dad hung for a pop of color. Stuffed animals everywhere, even a 43-inch-tall dollhouse waiting to be discovered.
But, of all the toys, that chubby baby girl determinedly balanced herself on her awkward legs. Mother said you smiled widely, showing a toothless grin and extending your tiny hands forward. Eyes wide open when you almost fell, yet the stubborn baby refused to give up until you reached your mother's arms.
Maybe you simply saw something you wanted. Your mother.
How odd. The thought that you ever wanted your mother is an absurd notion. Because as Simon's car sped off, leaving the manor behind you, all you felt was a sense of relief that you had once again escaped her.
Maybe you wanted your mother only when she wanted you too. Latelyâfor the past few years after you were tenâshe acted like she hated you, and children are truly just mirrors of their parents, incapable of hating before being hated first.
Or maybeâso many maybes when it comes to herâMother didnât want to hurt you, didnât intend to instill this distorted image of yourself with every drop of poison she poured on you. Maybe she simply lacked the knowledge and skills to be a mother, lacking a positive role model from the start.
But intentions mean nothing compared to the outcome, the fed-up rational voice asserts. It doesn't matter if she didn't mean it, because in the end she hurt you. The difference between love and hate becomes this fine line that eventually fades and mixes the two together.
It doesn't matter if she didn't mean it this way at first, because the first time turned into the second time, then the third and suddenly now it's the thousandth time. She breeds her pattern and uses it to make you suffocate. And when you try to break free, she looks at you like a disobedient child full of rebellion.
The sickening optimists will tell you to look on the bright sideâthat it shaped you, made you the woman you are today. But back then, you were a childâyou would have grown up inevitably, so going through all that was just an unjust burden.
(All adults do is cause pain, the little girl said.)
Some crackling radio tune played softly as Simon drove in silence through the dark, winding country roads. No questions cameâwhich you were thankful for; you werenât ready to unpack all that long history just yet. His brown eyes were locked in focus as he steered the car around the turns as if heâd been through this before.
The car slowed and rolled to a stop outside a sprawling two-story building. A pubâfrom the weathered sign carved on its old stone. Different from the ones in London, of course, this one's cozier and more inviting. Gazing out the rain-spattered window, you squint and see another sign above the door: âThe Fox and Hounds Inn.â So they also offer rooms, it seemed.
Simon turned off the engine and twisted in his seat. Reaching behind, he snatched up the suit jacket he had thrown back there earlier. Turning to you, he held it out, signaling you to take it.
âCover yer âead.â He nods towards the pouring rain outside.
You took it, breathing in Simonâs scentâa hint of his cologne mixed with cigarette smokeâas you draped it over your head as a hood. The sound of the door being opened roughly is heard. Simon has rushed out into the downpour and retrieved your bags from the trunk. Slipping from the car, you hurry to take shelter under the pubâs roof, waiting for Simon before going through the door.
The inside of the pub was surrounded by warm hues. Old wooden shelves stood displaying a variety of bottles of spirits, with low lights casting a dim glow. Worn leather booths were occupied by a few locals who had settled in with their pints, while two others shot pool in the back corner. Behind the bar, the bartender paused from wiping glasses; a questioning look flashed across his face before smoothing it once more.
He set his glass down and asked, "What can I get ya?â
âBourbon. Kentucky, if yâve got it.â Simon said.
The bartender cocked his head, checking his stock. âAye, weâve a bottle or two left.â Turning back to him, he asked again, âAnythâ else?â
Simon turned to you. âYou want anything?â
âI'm alright, thanks.â You answered in a husky voice.
âJust the bourbon then, and a room for the night.â
At that, the bartender just nodded, reaching beneath the bar to produce an iron key, its number as a keychain. âRoom six, up the stairs and to your left. Let me know if youâll be wantinâ breakfast in the morn.â He explained with efficiency, all business, saving more time from nonsense.
The heavy wooden stairs creaked underfoot as you climbed to the room. Reaching the door carved with the number six, Simon twisted the key and pushed the door open. He set the bags on the old table by the window, leaving your suitcase beside it.
Glancing around, you took in the faded floral wallpaper, lumpy bed, and worn armchairânot fancy, but it would do for a nightâs rest. You wandered around the room, stopping when you passed a mirrorâyour own reflection with mascara tracks smeared across your cheeks, lipstick smudging past your lip line.
âDid I just walk around like this all afternoon?â You wiped away the dark trails, hoping to lighten the heavy atmosphere for exactly the reason why. That or it was just you and your guilt for dragging Simon into this unplanned mess.
The effort fell flat, much like your numb heart. Simon was still wound tight as a spring, with the venomous words of that woman replaying in his mind. However, your own perspective perceived his distant attitude as anger. Mother would often give you two days of silent treatment whenever she was upset, so you presumed it was the same case with Simon.
You nearly jumped from his grunt. Out of the corner of your eye, Simon took out his cigarette and lit it, always paying no attention to where he was smoking. Taking a deep drag, he let the smoke curl slowly as he exhaled towards the ceiling.
The bathroom door creaked open at his touch; Simon gave it a sweep of his eyes to access the condition of itânothing but the basics; thankfully, the shower worked. He turned then, coming over to where you were sitting on the lumpy mattress.
âShower,â he rumbled, jerking his head towards the bath. âGet that rainwater off ya.â
(Youâre angry, arenât you?)
The conclusion was drawn after his tone sounded colder than normalâhis words were curt, as if he didn't wish to waste breath on you. While a part of you argued this was just the way he spoke all the time, another louder voice suggested there was more going on. His brown eyes held a deeper stirring, a visible frown etched into his features. Simon would likely extend the silence if not for the concern that you would trouble him more if you fell ill.
It hurls you into this desperate need to win him over, despite being uncertain if there's an actual competition to be won. You struggle to contain the age-old, desperate question, but you are known to be a failure at everything.
"Are... are you angry with me?â The question leaves you, hanging awkwardly in the air.
At that, Simon's blonde eyebrows furrowed. "What?" he asked, sharp. Like he's offended.
Your heart thudded against your ribs as you struggled to lift your gaze, meeting his stare. âI just⊠are you angry with me?â
A scoff, thenâ
âNo.â Simon replied curtly. âWhy the bloody âell would I be angry with you?â he added, then chastised himself when the words came out harsher than intended.
But the prejudice had seeped into your pores, causing your shoulders to tense and your head to hang low. You hated thisâhated feeling like an over-sensitive child, upset over nothing, easily hurt by everything. Lifting your head, you tried to blink away the pricking tears pooling in your eyes.
Simon lets out a hushed sigh before squeezing out his cigarette and sitting down next to you, the bed creaking under the new weight. Outside, the leaves rustle in the cold night breeze. Within these four walls, you both sit side by side in silence.
âI ain't... that is... Iâm not angry. Not with you, at least.â He tries to sort out his words. Something kinder but ends awkwardlyânonetheless, acceptable.
A few tears escaped and rolled hot down your cheeks before the blurry world came back into focus. You raised your eyes to his.
âI'm sorry,â you say, almost a whisper. âI'm such a crybaby, I know.â
âNone oâ that now,â Simon soothed you, timbre as soft as talcum powder. âAin't got nothin' to apologize for.â
As he said that, he used his thumb to catch your tears, wiping them away gently, almost as if he didn't want another to stain your cheeks. And under his touch, you became still, like obedient clay waiting to be molded by him. You existed solely for him, willingly presenting your skin as a canvas in case he wanted to brand his name on you. Make me yours, your cheap little heart begged; make me yours until I forget who I am.
(Grant me an identity that isn't me.)
I will shed the pieces of myself now like outgrown armor. The nights are prone to the pastânever quietâand I don't like that.
(Give birth to a new me. Someone who isn't what remains left of that little girl.)
The universe explodes another big bang, and your new world is created as you settle on his lap. So sudden you don't even remember crawling towards him. But as your lips crash into his, devouring his moist flesh with your own in an effort to mold it into one, it no longer matters how. Your teeth clamp down on his lower lip, drawing out a grunt as you bite down lightly and feel the taste of his iron against your tongue. Blood-eater woman.
Your hands cup his jaw, tracing the strong, defined bones beneath the blanket of skin. Then, you drag them down to his thundering neck, following the faint pillars, the curve of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of scar tissue from over-healed wounds.
Simon gasps into your mouth as your hips grind against his, stoking his lust even higher and swelling his cock. He grips your sides, guiding your movements as you seek balance with your grip on his broad shoulders. You moan, pressing your upper body against his face, and he inhales all your scent like he's been deprived of oxygen for ages.
Your desire drips so easily onto your tongue.
Practiced in the efficiency you learned from him, your fingers unbutton his shirt one by one, watching more and more of his skin exposed to you as you unwrap the white fabric off his body.
Simon trailed his tongue down the satin of your dress, tasting it against his gustatory system like a mindless dog. He closes his lips around your erect nipple. Blindly, his digits reached for the laces on your back, tugging it with one unsuccessful pull and two successful ones. The dress undone, your chest completely exposed to his hungry eyes. Simon wasted no time in latching his mouth onto your breasts.
âAh-! Simon, Simon⊠slow down.â
You attempted to accommodate his face in your small hands, urging him to meet your gaze. When did you grow accustomed to searchingâto decipher the meaning behind his every look, searching for a reflection of your own feelings in his eyes? Hoping to find evidence that he wanted you just as deeply as you yearned for him.
From the moment we first met, Simon had been a confounding puzzle, a conundrum without any clues or leads. An enigma, the deep forest at dusk. He revealed so little, yet, that very scarcity only piqued your curiosity furtherâinviting the solver girl within you to unravel each layer, to explore every wrinkle in the intricate tapestry that was him.
âI⊠I want to lead. If thatâs all right.â You whispered, looking for disagreement in his gaze.
None, just a gentle squeeze on your hip. He nodded, then, âAlright, love.â
At that, your eyes sparkled, you gave him a smile in return. Biting your lip, you pondered your next move. âLay down for me.â
Without hesitation, he did as you asked, settling back against the pillows. The roughness of his form was a stark contrast to the linen, muscles rippling beneath inked skin. Eyes as dark as oak never left yours, silently urging you to continue.
Nerves danced inside you, but you chuckled, âI was gonna take this dress off all sexy-like; maybe spin around slow. But you ruined that plan.â
âShouldâve been more patient then, eh?â He said, wetting his lips then.
You sighed, half-shrugging. âWell, I donât know what sexy moves I can do now.â
âDonât matter none. Youâre always a sight for sore eyes.â
The boldness of his words causes you to throw your head back in laughter. âAre you saying all this just to get laid quicker?"
Simon lets out a raspy chuckle. âNah,â he watches his own hand travel up your thigh, giving it a squeeze and rubbing slow circles with his thumb. Looking back up at you, you feel your heart skip a beat. âIâm sayinâ it cause itâs the truth. You are the most fuckinâ gorgeous creature I ever did lay eyes on.â
The plum of your lips is pulled into a shy smile. You replay his words in your mind like a wrinkled tape, your soul made to sparkle and float on clouds. He called me gorgeous, you thought.
Simon called you gorgeousâdespite everything your mother led you to believe. Despite her words that left you feeling like an hideous being, a flawed and misshapen creature crafted by the hands of an unforgiving God. But he said I was gorgeous, Mother. Most fucking gorgeous.
"Well, you're rather handsome yourself." In truth, this is all amusingâthis sudden exchange of compliments between the two of you, with you still sitting right on top of his groin, in your loose dress and Simon shirtless.
But, like an opportunist, you place your finger on the sloping hill of his chest. You feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathingâthe stuttering of air in his lungs as you make circular motions on his bare skin. âToo bad that you always hide it under a mask.â
The diaphragm beneath his thick skin contracted faintly as he chuckled. Taking your index finger, Simon then held it between his teeth. He sucked the tip slowly and watched you through hooded eyes.
âThe maskâs for another reason, darlinâ,â he rumbled once he released it.
There it is again. The invisible veil now made visible, taunting you with the reminder that there's always a part of him that remains unknown, no matter how deep you try to dig or how many layers you think youâve shed. Lately, you'd pushed the limits further than necessary, testing unseen boundariesâjust how far were you willing to go, or how far would he allow before growing weary of it?
âAnd why is that, your mask?â
He gave your thigh another squeeze, his fingers drumming a random rhythm as he considered his response. âThatâs a story for another day.â He replied.
It sounded like a promise, felt like an oath. Apparently, your heart found solace in thatâin the future and the exact day that story would arrive. You smiled down at him, nodding in agreement.
âOkay, then I suppose thatâs a promise, Mr. SimonâŠâ
âRiley,â he fills in the blank space behind. âSimon Riley.â
The heart in the confines of your rib cage throbs with thrill. You smile brightly, testing the full name on your tongue. âSimon RileyâŠâ
After a pause, your hands returned to their task, drifting down his firm torso until they reached his jeans. You made quick work of the buttons, pulling them down and tossing them carelessly to the floor, leaving him in only his gray boxers. Trying to match, you let your gown pool on the floor, leaving you in your black lacy panties.
Here you are, both bare chested, one cloth away from being completely naked. Two imperfect mirror reflections, similar yet distinct in their differences.
You glance back at him, biting your lip to hold back a giggle. His grin greets you in return, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth as his eyes roam approvingly over your form. You stand still, waiting, observing his growing impatience until he finally lets out a raspy chuckle, beckoning you closer with a casual crook of his finger.
âCome âere.â
At his call, you obey like a good obedient girl dedicating her whole life to him.
Crawling onto the bed, your breasts hanging freely with each step your knees take. You stop right above his face, gazing into his warm chocolate with your cheeks blooming red.
Leaning in, you flicked your tongue out to taste the seam of his lips, drawing a soft groan from deep in his chest. Your back stretched to its maximum, arching like a harp as you became greedier and greedier and claimed his mouth completely. Your fond tongue traced his teeth, stroking the velvety softness of his inner cheeks, the contours of his palate. The pricking sensation of his stubble against your chin intertwined with the sweet wetness of your mingled saliva.
Your breasts pressed against his broad chest, the fat melting like popsicles in the hot sun. Swinging one leg across, you sit on top of him with your thighs straddling his hips, feeling the thick mound beneath his boxers from his hardening cock against your soaked panties.
As you began to grind on top of him, Simon grunted into your mouth. He slid his big hands down to squeeze your ass, kneading the soft cheeks as he thrust up to meet your clothed cunt. You moaned at the sensation, breaking the kiss but not tearing your gaze away as you straightened your spine to rock your hips back and forth.
Look at that pair of dark eyesâso devoted in their witnessing of every sway of your tits, with the gaping mouth of a hungry man. He lies beneath you, broad shoulders and thick arms corded with muscle built from the hard days of the military. Blonde hair around his chest, trailing down to his stomach and hidden beneath the tempting waistband of his boxers.
And those scars, of course. Especially that goddamn mysterious scar near his ribs. Were they created by 'bad men' or did you deserve it for the bad deeds you had committed, Simon?
Taking one of his hands, you place it on one of your breasts. Simon closes his hand around it, his thumb and index finger curling into a twist at your nipple. You let out a moan, biting your lower lip in a poor effort to keep another one from escaping you.
"Simon,â you breathed, his length twitching against your cunt.
Rolling your hips, your clothed clit rubbed against his hardness. You closed your eyes, breathing out slowly through parted lips, feeling the friction. He placed his hands on your sides, guiding your movements into a steady rhythm.
âFuck, look at ya, darlinââŠâ
Bathed in the dim lighting of this inn, you were a sight he wanted to capture. Sitting on top of him like a long-gone queen reclaiming her placeâthe very reason for his convulsing cock, the numbing of his brain, his ears tuning out the noise of his old brain. As you continued to roll your hips, he watched every detail and seared it all in the back of his head.
The way sweat slicks and rests on the dip of your collarbone. Kiss-swollen sweet lips, tempting for him to bite or wrap around his throbbing length. Heavy eyelids and dark traces of your mascara.
Fuck, look at those puffy eyes.
Simon had endured his fair share of cuts and gunshot wounds. But nothing prepared him for the invisible grip on his heart when he realized what your cries left behindâpuffy and red-rimmed like bruised berries. Fuckinâ hellâŠ
Wanting more, you slide your lace aside. You restart your pace, gasping in pleasure at the new direct contact, the wetness of your building peak coloring the fabric of his boxer darker. The throbbing inside you begins, growing stronger the more you grind. You almost lose your paceâSimonâs large hands grip your hips to guide your movements toward climax.
The tight coil within you twists tighter. You breathe in short, ragged gasps; eyes squeezed shut as white flashes explode behind your lids. The cresting wave rises to a peak, making your thighs tremble.
When it hits, you throw your head back with a cry, Simon supporting your arched back with a strong palm behind you. The heat in your lower belly flushes as your release drips down to his boxers.
You slumped limp against his chest. He wrapped his strong arms around you, waiting for you to catch your breath while he inhaled his own. Christ, your scent is intoxicatingâthat sweet soap you were devoted to, the perfume he often saw on your dresser, and something natural about you that made his cock throb, begging to be released from the boxers beneath you. It took every ounce of willpower for him not to flip you over and take his fill.
A gentle giggle bubbled up. Simon furrowed his brows, meeting your eyes as you lifted your chin with a lazy smile.
âThat was⊠weird,â you said, confusion written all over your face.
âWhatâs weird?â
âWell, for startersâŠâ you glanced down between you, tracing a finger along the damp patch staining his boxers and chuckling again when he hissed. âI ruined these.â
Simon chuckled, shifting his hips. âDonât matter none though, does it? Youâre gonna âave them off me soon enough anyway.â
You laugh â the warm, carefree sound from deep within your chest. Cheeks flushed rosy, and youâre sure your eyes sparkled. âOkay, okay. Thatâs something I might do.â
Leaning down, you brushed your lips against his in almost a chaste kiss. Simon couldn't resist, prolonging it by deepening it gently. He hooked his fingers around the lace loops on your hips, giving a playful tug as your mouths moved slow and sweet.
Breaking away, he narrows his eyes at your black panties. âYou can still do them sexy moves takinâ this off, yâknowâŠâ
At his words, your smile stretches from ear to ear. Muttering an âokay,â you slip off him and the bed, standing in front of him. He fixes his dark eyes on you, melting the sudden shyness and encouraging you to continue the show. Slowly, teasingly, you begin to peel down your lace, small laughs escaping your throat.
âWell?â you ask, cheeks now rosy as you pose for his eyes. âHowâs this?â
âFucking perfect, darlinâ,â
You toss aside your last garment, showing off your fully naked form like some kind of high fashion model. âYour turn now,â you say, walking toward him.
Reaching for the waist of his boxers, you began easing them down as well, eager to harvest the fruits of your ministry for each other. But, as it slid off his ankle, your eyes landed on his skin, and your smile faded, realizing something you hadn't before.
Knotted, mottled skin stretched from his right hip and down the side of his shin. The scars were old, but the memory of the fire that had once caressed him was immortalized in their rugged, rough texture. You tried to avert your already teary eyes from it, but instead found more scars around his legsâsome nearly identical to the ones scattered across his upper body, some others resembled surgical scars long healed.
A lump rises in your throat, but you try to smile and crawl back into his lap, trying to lose yourself in whatever follows. But the façade crumbles, and you find yourself frozen, staring at him while fighting back tears pricking the backs of your eyes.
âWhatâs wrong?â And yet, Simon opens the door for you to broach the subject. Mustâve been something about your expression.
You briefly considered playing dumb, but your chance evaporated when a treacherous tear slipped freely. Hastily wiping it away, you took a shaky breath, focusing your gaze on the ceiling to prevent another from falling. You stared into his eyes again, and Simon saw the composure you had so carefully maintained on the edge of crumbling again.
âThose scarsâŠâ Your voice wavered, and you had to pause to steady it. âWere they from your time in the military?â
Watching those pretty lips tremble, tears marring your beautiful face, he felt a sickening clench in his chest. Part of him hated seeing you so sad, while another swelled with something akin to misplaced pride â that this angel was weeping over scars so old they had long since stopped hurting him.
Scars from battles the old Simon had fought years ago. Scars he had seen as part of his creation, marks he bore without feeling.
âSome from service, yeah. Others⊠more personal-like.â He said it nonchalantly. In his perspective, as proof that it didnât hurt anymore, didn't need to numb it with ice like he did in the pastâso, sweet thing, stop crying over him.
As if that were possible. He could tell you that it happened years ago, but it doesn't matter; it wouldn't lessen the pain even if your human life spanned a hundred centuries. Your tongue seared, heart slicedâsomeone touched the one you love with the most brutal violence they could choose in this world.
The image must have been absurdâthe two of you completely naked in front of each other, yet instead of continuing, you weep over him. But now that youâve seen itâthose scars etched so cruelly and eternally upon his fleshâhow do you look away?
"Why... why would anyone want to hurt you?â Your voice trembled, tracing that scar near his ribs that had caught your attention since you first saw it. It stood out, raised and knotted in a way that spoke of a cruel bladeâmaking you wince at the thought of the pain. âIs⊠is this from your time in the military too?â
âYeah,â
âWhat happened?â
Without any real weight, he said, âGot meself âanged by the ribs once,â in a light intonation as if it were some kind of joke.
But it wasnât. My God, you wished it was, but it wasnât, judging by the scars.
Despite his effort, it couldnât mask the horror heâd experienced. Your breath hitches in a sob, your hand trying to cover your mouth. Your airway constricts as you imagine how it must have felt for him then. Hanged by the ribs, feeling your skin tear from holding your weight, flesh on display like they do in a slaughterhouse.
And he still manages to shush you, drawing your head to his chest in a tight hug like youâre the one whoâs been through it all.
âTwernât nothinâ â doesnât even âurt no more.â
Pressed against his skin, you seek the usual solace that his heartbeat brings. But your heart remains unsettled, a lingering question nagging at your mind and tongue, refusing to let you find peace until it's voiced.
Raising your head slightly, chin resting upon his chest, you meet his gaze with red-rimmed eyes. "And... and the burn scars?â
âHouse fire during a mission.â
You know thatâs not the full truth, but you donât dare to press it, choosing to spare your heart from more details of his agonies.
âI donât like seeing you hurt.â You said.
Simon gave a small hum in response. Reaching up, he wiped away your tears with his thumb. âThen stop cryin', love. 'Urts more to see yer pretty face all red and puffy.â
The hands around your jaw bring you closer. This time, he's the first to initiate this new kiss, closing his lips around yours with almost hesitant caution. And you want to cryâyou want to cry from how gentle his touch is, and yet someone has handled him in the cruelest way possible.
Here you are, bodies pressed togetherâchest to chest, skin to skin. You let out a gasp as he grips your ass cheeks, spreading them until the chilly air touches your soaked folds. Simon would rather have those pretty eyes rolled back in pleasure than cry; he would rather have those plump lips parted to moan erotic sounds than sob. He bucks his hips and brushes the fat tip of his cock against your entrance.
Breaking the kiss, Simon gives a slow thrust upwards, grunting as he feels your warm labia. You straighten your back to sit on his pelvis, doing your own set of hip rolls as his hands guide you.
âNo more tears fâme, ye âear?â He meets your eyes before lowering it to the tantalizing view of your glistening body, causing another twitch of his impatient cock. âI ainât worth it.â
The tip of his cock brushes against your folds when he thrusts his hips once more. A small mewl escapes your moist lips, vertebrae drawn like a curve of a bow as his length slowly enters your hole.
âNoâno, donât say that. Youâreâmmh!â You stumble over your words, voice shaking both from emotion and physical overwhelm. âYouâre always worth it, Simon.â
Sweet thing, unaware of the effect her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheek have on a man as corrupt as him. Struggling to find words while he fills her up, trying to convince him that he's worth something.
âThat so?â
Biting your lip, you nod. âYes,â
âYeah?â
Without waiting for a reply, he grips your hips and slams you against him in one swift thrust. Your eyes fluttered shut on a gasp as he sank home. He groans at the blissful feeling, the remnants of your last orgasm completely coating him. But he has never been a man of gratitude; the gaping hole near his ribsâright where the scar he has shown you and told you aboutâseems to consume every fulfillment he might have, leaving him perpetually feeling unsatisfied and not enough.
Right now, he felt utterly insufficient. His old soul was always left wanting for more. That stupid, almost pathetic desire for proof that he would never truly believeâ
âProve it then, love.â
And well, he is a selfish man after all.
Slowly, you begin to move, hips rocking sensually against him, stretching your cunt to take his cock. Itâs sloppy at first, until you settle into a rhythm and set your pace. He takes in every beautiful detail of you â your kiss-swollen lips beneath the faint bite of your teeth, your skin shimmering with sweat, your bouncing tits as you ride him, and the way your walls tighten their embrace around his cock with each in and out.
âThaâs it love, ride me.â
Your cunt fluttered at the encouragement. He traced your curves before stopping at your breasts, twisting and pulling your nipples, eliciting a whimper from your throat. Rolling your hips, you grind your clit against his pelvis. He gives a low grunt.
âA-ah, Simon-!â
Listen to that, his name rolling off your tongue like liquid sin, a constant he never gets tired of. The room temperature rises, an invisible fire burning in his groin as you bounce on his cock. Your fingers dig half-moons on his naked thighs.
The room seemed to burn, almost like reminiscent of the flames that once scorched his lower right side. But this time, the sensation that swept through him was one of pure euphoria. The suffering that had gripped him was erased, replaced by a fierce hunger to shed more than just your clothes. The overwhelming need to be swallowed whole, to reside between your viscera and become the first to be embraced there.
Like a fish out of a tank, your lips formed a perfect 'O'âan invitation he accepted as he slipped his rough fingers into your mouth and tucked them beneath the blanket of your tongue. The brush of warm flesh made his cock throb, drawing a muffled sound from you.
Simon put his free hand to continue steering your hips, maintaining their steady rhythm as they started to falter. The angry crown of his cock pulled out before slamming back in and disappearing between your plump labia. He let his ears feast on your cry, watching your eyes squeeze shut as he reached that sweet spot inside. Saliva dripped, running down the curve of your chin and down between your swaying breasts.
The ah-ah! sound becomes the only thing you can produce after he liquifies your brain into a tangled mess, trapping your tongue under the weight of his calloused fingers.
Your inner walls fluttered and clenched around his length, your climax peeking and cresting, forming high waves. Simon growled through clenched teeth. Your back arched, head falling back as you surrendered to your second peak.
His grip on your hips tightened as a warning. âOff, loveâfuck, ye gotta get off, now.â
You did not heed him, continuing to bounce on his twitching cock. He groaned, trying to hold back the inevitable tide of his release.
âLove,â he tries again before calling your name, his own hips stuttering.
âNo, please- IâmâIâm on the pill,â you gaspedâ
And the lie slipped through your lips without thinking.
Even as a part of you knew this was wrongâthat you were trying to trap him and you were being recklessâyou kept going. Simon stopped trying to get you off him, letting you slam your hips one last time before he emptied thick ropes of seed into your womb.
Sex and your indifference to potential consequences permeated the air, screaming for your attention. A voice curses you in the back of your mind, full of snarls that you have gone too far; that you have hated Mother too much to dismiss everything she saysâeven the true onesâas nonsense. That you will only live to regret this.
But you have toâit's a necessity, driven by the roots that tell you to cement this bond between you. Sure, it may be born out of a desperate fantasy of your own insecurities, but you need this.
âNothing can make them stay, my dear. Not for love, not for sex, for all your years of devotion to them, not even for their own flesh and blood!â Your mother is screaming in your head.
(Nonsense. Nonsense, all of it.)
You watch his chest rise and fall; somewhere deep within the confines of his strong ribs is a heart that beats in almost the same rhythm as yours. The dim lighting of the room you only acknowledge when it reflects faintly on the slick of his scar-littered skin. Those brown eyes stare at you beneath a canopy of blond lashes, moist lips pulled into a slight smile under his strong noseâand you return it with a wider one.
Would a child make you stay, Simon?
âFucking âell, loveâŠâ he muttered, still trying to catch his breath.
Unable to resist, you grind against his still-sensitive cock, earning a hiss and a hand on your hip to still you, making you chuckle.
âDonât do that.â He mutters low and rough.
You nod, another giggle. Leaning forward, you press a quick kiss to his lips. âOkay, okay,â you say. âIâll be good.â
Settling your head on his chest, Simon then pulls the blanket up before draping it over your naked bodies. You sigh in relief as he wraps his arms tightly around your smaller frame. Pulling you close, he buries his nose in your hair, breathing in your scent.
You trace idle patterns on his skin, murmuring: âMy big performance is in a month. I got a special pass for you, so you better not even think about missing it.â
âThe swan play?â
âYeah,â you answered, lifting your head to gaze up at him. "Promise you'll be there?"
Promises are risky business, especially for someone like him. He's well-versed in the knowledge that when someone makes a promise, it means they're up for something that always comes along to fuck it up.
Even so, the words came out before he could stop them. âWouldnât miss it for the world, love.â
Hearing that, your smile threatened to widen, and you plopped your head back flat against his chest before he saw it. Wanting something to focus on, you settled your gaze on the old window at the end of the room. It was still raining outside, but it had softened. The pitter-patter of raindrops sounded more like a gentle, faint tap, reminding you of the squeaking of the bed when you were still making love earlier.
The steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulls you into a sense of peace. Then, there was a sudden urge to open up to him, created from a feeling of indebtedness to him. After all, he had been the one to step in earlier. There's still a lot Simon doesn't know about you, about Mother.
But just as you were about to part your lips, his arms tightened around you. The warmth of his touch made the courage to speak seep away, replaced by a crippling fear of ruining the moment. In the end, you clamped your mouth shut, squeezing your eyes closed as you forced yourself to let things be how they should beâunsaid.
The ghost of your mother's voice echoes in the back of your mind again. As you adjust your position, feeling the unfamiliar wetness on your thighs, you reassure yourself that this time is different; he is different. Heâs going to stay. You feel his fingers gently carding through your hair, magically burning away any lingering doubts in the corners of your soul.
After everything, he has to.
The morning sun streams through the thin leaves as you and Simon get out of the car to stop for breakfast at the quaint little restaurant you came across. The chilly air still lingers, urging you to pull your cardigan tighter around you as you wait for the food to be served.
Taking in your surroundings, you notice the worn wooden floors, the mismatched chairs and tables. An old-fashioned cash register and shelves that hang various kinds of souvenirs typical of this small town and character key chains.
When the waiterâwho also seemed to be the ownerâplaced two plates down, Simon ate without hesitation. You reached for your fork, but your eyes were drawn to the clock on the wall. Time was ticking fastâthe sand in the hourglass slipping through your fingers with each second. You could almost feel the ground beneath you shifting, the earth seeming to swallow you alive.
Breakfast is over. Simon paid the bill and slipped out first for a smoke while you waited for the change. The owner disappeared into the back, leaving you standing there alone. The ceiling fan whirred overhead, the only sound filling the silence.
Casting your gaze around, you search for a distraction, something to stare at. Your eyes eventually land on the souvenir rack. And there, among the keychains and trinkets, a skeleton charm catches your eye, black and white reminding you of the one Simon hangs in his car.
The sound of the door opening jolts you back to reality. The owner returns with a handful of bills in his outstretched hand. Instead of taking it, you point to the skeleton charm, waiting for the old man to follow your fingertip before asking, âHow much for that one?â
As the other door opens with the soft chimes of a bell overhead, you walk towards Simon with a barely suppressed smile. He smells of tobacco like he always does after a smoke. But, you hardly mind; all you care about is the delicate skeleton charm you hold in front of him.
âLook what I got you!â you exclaim, your smile bursting from your lips.
Simonâs eyebrows furrowed, dark eyes studying the little bone-white friend. You wait and wait for him to say something; your legs feel jittery as the small figure swings dangling between your thumb and forefinger.
âItâs..interestinâ,â he says, finally taking it from you, studying it closer. âWhere'd you get it?â
âThe owner had it on the shelf over there,â you say, nodding towards the display. âI.. well, I saw it and thought of you. I hope you like it.â
You watched as crow's feet formed at the corners of his eyes, his mouth twitching into a smile beneath his mask. Then, Simon let out a soundâa chuckle, a genuine one which then turned into a short laugh that spread sensations in your chest.
âThanks,â Simon said to the owner, who was standing behind the cashier with his own grin.
Then, he turns to you, his arms reaching out to wrap around your shoulders. âAnâ thanks to you, too,â he says, almost a whisper, meant for just the two of you. âItâs⊠perfect.â
Without another word, he pulls you close, tucking your head under his chin as you make your way out of the restaurant. The birds chirping, celebrating a sunny day in the countryside. But this warmth⊠itâs not from the sun, not from the kinder wind. He opens his car door as he always does, and you slide inside, still with the gentle rumble of his chuckle ringing in your head.
You hoped this would never end.
You hopedâ
The short trip to the English countryside was almost over; you had to go back to practice and rehearsals on Monday, and Simon had his agenda of disappearing to God knows where else. You didnât question it; you didnât ask anymore. You were comfortable enough with the many question marks that always seemed to surround him. He always came back in the endâthat's what matters.
As you neared London, Simon pulled into a petrol station to refuel. He unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car. The door closed, and you were left alone with your gray thoughts.
You watched Simon standing outside the car, focused on refueling the tank. Fumbling for your phone, you saw the time â well past midnight. After this, he would definitely drive you home, then disappear for weeks, leaving you to wait. He always came back in the end â thatâs what matters, you kept telling yourself.
(But a man who always comes back is a man who always leaves.)
Your eyes drifted to your purse at your feet, where the other phoneâthe newer one, the one you bought on impulseâlay hidden. Biting your lip, you snatched it up, unlocking it and quickly checking the âFind Myâ app, making sure the two devices were connected.
Taking a deep breath, you brace yourself, internal debate building but you know which side youâre leaning. This is wrong, probably will do more harm than good to Simon, to yourselfâbut, you have to, you need this. The same old justification ringing like the old ringtone youâve memorized by heart. You reach down and carefully drop the spare phone onto the car floor, kicking it to hide it under the seat. Out of sight, out of mind â for now, at least.
Simon slid back behind the wheel after he was done, groaning as his neck popped tensely. He turned to you, brows furrowed.
âAlright?â
Giving a faux smile, you said: âJust a little tired.â
He didnât question further, just nodded before turning the ignition and buckled his seatbelt. âNot far now,â he turned the wheel out of the gas station. âJust a bit further anâ weâll be âome.â
The car sped back down the long road. In the darkness outside, you barely made out the shadowy landscape rushing by outside the window, just your faint reflection staring back at you. Everything seemed almost lifeless, except for the soft strains of the radio playing a late-night playlist.
Home, he said. Simon said it as if âhomeâ were so close and existent.
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warning(s): MDNI. detailed description of violence, a man's way of thinking (lmao), manipulative behavior/thoughts, NPD mothers, toxic relationships.
Made to cry, his pretty girl, by the woman who brought her into the world.
In this world, there are many kinds of mothers. The ones like his, all smiles and kindness, baking good pies and forgiving, perhaps too forgiving. And then, there are the ones like yoursâall faux smiles, pretending to be an angel of a mother when he knows full well sheâs the reason you turned out the way you did.
Dependent, easy to manipulate, always trying to please everyone. You thought you could maintain a distance from others, but all it takes is a single act of kindness to dismantle them completelyâthe seemingly impenetrable walls were actually brittle.
A kitten masquerading as a lion, only to purr and melt at the slightest touch.
It annoyed him sometimes, because he knew you deserved better. But itâs also the reason he stayed, he thought. Because he loved playing the hero, especially to a woman who didnât know any better.
(Something, anything to hold between his teeth for him to chew and tear.)
As you wait in the car, he hurriedly gathers the last of his things, shoving them carelessly into his duffel bag. The embers of anger still simmer within him, but Simon chooses to be the wiserâgetting you out of here as soon as possible is a priority.
âI know men like you,â the devil behind him spits. âYou think youâre protecting herâyou think youâre saving her, but all you want is a girl to use and toss aside once youâve grown bored.â
And Simon stops. It strikes a chord within him, punches him right in the gut.
Though, he doesnât say anything. He wants to lash out, to defend himself and his intentions, but doesnât. Whatâs the point? He thinks it would be a waste of time, and youâve been waiting for him in the car for too long. It would just be a waste of breath.
Yet, another part of him knows the real reason.
That she might be right. That she might be right, and he did not like that.
It was always easy to turn away from reality. He pretended to be the wiser man, leaving pointless conversation for good reasons. But the voice in his rotten head always reminded him of what he was made of, what was left of him. He was a rotten man, selfish. Full of desire without the consistency to commitâ
Pretending to stay when he knows he is nothing more than a stray dog who loves to wander.
Simon slashes, rips, and kills men as sport; feasting on the raw hearts of women like his own personal dinner, collecting their teardrops like diamonds on his crown. And yet, he has the bloody nerve to think he can keep something as soft as you in his calloused hands without laying a wound.
(A predator wearing the skin of a man.)
[sneak peek of chapter 11 of "A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING.".]
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Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure youâre on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.
If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!
TW: detailed description of: violence, scars. mentions of: domestic violence, overdose, infant death, family death. a man's way of thinking.
[Please read while listening to this.]
âSimon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world.â
Once, a horrible man, with breath tainted by the acrid stench of tobacco mixed with the remnants of a newly drained liquor bottle, said to Simon. Bloody âell, the amount of shit that came out of that bastardâs mouth, acting like he was some kind of philosopher instead of a wife-beating alcoholic who made his sonsâ lives a living hell.
Young Simon didn't understand what it meant; he couldn't think much other than that his father was telling him to burn himself alive. Something he would do, something he would find temporary pleasure in until he stole the next alcohol money his wife earned during her 12-hour nursing shift.
Entering his teenage years, he didnât think much of those words anymore, thinking of them as just another addition to the incredible amount of shite that came outta that bastardâs mouth.
But it returned when he joined the military. He thought that's itâthat âburnâ his father spoke of was the passion to serve, to protect. To combat the injustices that had lingered since the dawn of time. He wanted to be the one to make at least one change, a difference. To be the best. It served him well, that fire, all through his rookie training.
Or was it fury?
That white-hot rage that burned his gut, driving him forward as the soil crumbled and leaked through the planks of his coffin. It was that very rage that kept him alive, even when he was condemned to suffocate in his own grave. The spark coursing through his red blood cells, filling his fingertips as he dug with someone elseâs jawbone for thirteen hours.
It was his unbridled fury that had stayed steadfast by him when he pledged his vengeance for the blood of his family. It was fury that had carried him out of Roba's burning mansionâanother one to add to his record of outwitting the Grim Reaper.
Simon went on with his life thinking that that was itâhe needed to stay angry to survive in this world. Nothing else matters but getting out, getting vengeance for every cut, every drop of crimson on the dirty tile beneath his combat boots. He had nothing left to fight forâno family, no home to protect anymore. So, fury had to be the answer. Simon just had to stay an angry man.
And he grew rotten. A stray dog always baring his canines. Ill-suited for domestic life, dropping in only when he needed sustenanceâsomething, anything to hold between his teeth to chew and tear.
Those fingers were corrosiveâfluoroantimonic acid in human form, but he did his job even better than he had when he was Simon Riley. Perhaps it was his identity that held him back. Now that he was just an old soul in miraculously intact flesh, there was nothing chaining his feet.
Simon is given three primary roles: hunter, judge, executioner.
Meeting his towering figure means never going home againâany poor bastard who has crossed paths with him is presumed dead. For he has grown rotten; sometimes more corrosive than fluoroantimonic acid, even. He gets the job done, quick and clean.
Simon Riley walks through this world in fury. He is fully conscious, with a dying heart that still beats, filled with deep, deep envy for those who don't have to be angry all the time. Because as much as he needs to keep burning, this is not something he does willingly. It leaves more harm than good. But men like him never have a choice.
Because the pain reminded him that he was alive.
With every blow of the gunstock to the back of his head, he was reminded again and again. As his fist swung at the other guy and the knuckles beneath his gloves connected with a jaw, he was reminded again and again that he was alive.
Simon still hadnât decided whether he was the luckiest or unluckiest bastard alive.
To be tortured, only to realize that he had survived worseâthat he would survive this one and would have to live through the aftermath. And so on until it created a never-ending loop of hell that felt like some twisted form of divine retribution.
âSimon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world.â
It was just one of the many bollocks his father spouted. The old man probably wanted to leave some grand, motivational wordsâto leave a mark. But the truth is, he didnât need to do that. Heâd left enough on him. Like all the times Simon stood in front of the mirror, shaving cream around his jawâalmost scared the shit out of his own mum, thinking he was his father.
And he despised thatâthe fact that he would be reminded of that pathetic excuse for a father for the rest of his life. That even after years since his father left home to lie in the hospital, counting his days from that bloody cancer, his mother still had the same fear every time she saw his father in him.
âSimon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world.â
He needs to burn.
He needs toâŠ
Burn.
The burning ember at the end of the cigar flares up as Price takes a deep drag of it, holding it in the cave of his mouth before exhaling the remaining smoke and mixing it with the alcoholic aroma of a London pub they visited to âcelebrateâ another successful mission.
As if this was anything close to a celebration. Though Gaz and Soap were indeed deep in their pints and laughing like a pair of drunken fools, the way the Captain and Kate Laswell bend close together tells him that they have already begun discussing some hints about the next op.
Simon massaged the bridge of his nose, feeling the unfamiliar emptiness where his hard-plate mask would usually dig, but instead he found wire beneath the polypropylene. He tapped his fingers boredly on the aged wood, feeling the itch to hold a cold glass in his grasp but having decided not to order anythingâthere was no point; he wasnât really planning on staying for too long anyway.
Instead, he tried to find a distraction by doing what he did best â people watching. He watched the bartender serve some fancy cocktail to two birds at the end of the bar, probably those fruity, overpriced drinks that made his throat sore.
Turning his gaze to the far corner, he saw a couple sitting in awkward silence. Looks like some first date gone wrongâjudging from the bloke's fidgeting and the lass staring down at her drink, not saying a word. Bloody painful to watch.
Simon glances out the window, watching the steady stream of more people passing by. London is always busy, no matter the time of the day. A city of millions, with each person having their own life, their own storiesâthe things they wake up to and go to sleep to.
Often, he compares it to old, half-dead Manchester for familiarities, something that might help him blend in with this city. But itâs always the same endingâthe differences far outweigh anything he recognizes. The bright lights, the bustling streets, the lifeâall of it foreign. Seems like the gritty, depressing streets of his youth still suit him after all.
For an hour, he sat there before feeling himself growing more and more restless. Finally, he pushed himself up, ready to make his escape. Soap and Gaz protested, which he ignored before he gave a nod to Price and Laswell, who didn't question him further, already knowing him well enough by now whenever he wasn't in the mood for socializing.
Simon made his way towards the door, stepping out into the soaked streets of London. The rain is coming down hard, and judging from the dark clouds hanging low, it's only going to get worse and more gloomy. Finally, something that reminded him of Manchester.
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he walked beneath the raging sky, trying his best to stay under the awnings and overhangs whenever he could. Droplets of water began to wet his leather jacket, but he kept walking, deliberately letting the rain soak him to the bone.
Self-preservation kicked in as he turned the corner onto another block; Simon was about to try to flag down a cab. However, his eyes landed on a lone figure, almost blending into the shadows, standing under the awning of some shop, trying to stay dry.
Simon knows he wasn't a good man, sure as hell not a gentleman. So is this sudden surge of concern some sort of sympathy, or is it because of all the times he's played the heroâsaving countries from missiles, taking down terrorists, all that stuffâthat now he canât turn it off? He walks, long strides stretched out without hesitation even when he knows heâs more likely to do her harm than goodâas evidenced by the growing fear in her eyes, her whole body tensing up like a frightened rabbit.
âNasty night.â He said, being first for the sake of a conversation. That's new.
âUh, y-yes, quite a storm,â she stammers out, those big doe eyes of hers flickering up to meet his for just a moment before darting away again.
And bloody hell, if that doesn't just about do him in. The way she tried so hard to act innocent, as if she hadnât just snuck a glance at him when she thought he wasnât looking. Sweet little thing. Itâs enough to set his blood on fire.
âSubway, yeah?â
âYes, the subway. Though it may be closed by now with the weather.â
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, taking one out and lighting it. The familiar burn and taste of nicotine soothed his nerves, though he couldnât quite put his finger on why he was so bloody on edge in the first place. He had planned to avoid any socializing tonightâthatâs why he left the lads so quickly, trying to get back to his blessed silence.
And yet, here he was, in the middle of a storm, talking to a strange bird he didn't even know.
It wasnât like he was looking for a quick fuck or anything like thatâhe really wasnât in the mood for any of that tonight. So why? He took a long, slow drag of his cigarette. Do you enjoy playing savior, Simon? To make sure she gets home safe and sound before a bad man comes?
And whoâs to say heâs not the bad man in question?
âSubway's closed, like you said. No sense waiting in the wet.â He threw his cigarette butt into the gutter. âCome on then. Pub's the best place for now.â
The woman shook her head, managing a small smile. âThank you for the kind offer, but I'll be right here. Best not to trouble you further on such a night.â
Smart girl, he admitted. Turning down offers from a sketchy-looking man like himselfâshe has a good head on her shoulders. But as he watched the rain pouring down and the wind howling louder, he couldn't help but wonder if her self-preservation only applied to men and not to the bloody storm and the fever she's definitely going to get if she keeps on insisting on staying here.
âReally, Iâll be fine,â she said, trying to force a laugh. âThe rain canât last forever.â
And he couldnât help but feel a little disappointed at her refusal. But there was a crack in her answerâthe way she wasnât entirely sure, the uncertainty clear as day. He knew the kind like her, the ones who needed someone to turn their back on them and walk away to make them think theyâd made the wrong choice.
Itâs just how some humans operate, and heâs eager to test that theory.
âSuit yourself, love,â he said, watching her eyes widen slightly. "But you'll catch your death waiting in the rain."
Simon started to take a few steps away, counting the seconds in his head. One, two, threeâŠ
âWait!â
When he heard it, he felt a victorious feeling swell up inside. Pausing like some considerate, concerned bloke, he turned to face her, waiting for her to speak.
And when she does, shame leaks from her voice. âI'm coming with you.â
On that stormy night, Simon ends up sitting opposite the skittish bird in a pub, her eyes sweeping around the room with a mixture of curiosity and unease. She looks like she doesn't belong here, probably the first time she's ever set foot in a place like this, judging from the way she keeps glancing at the shelves of liquor bottles behind the bar.
The stranger ordered âsomething light,â and while he gives in and orders bourbon, his drink of choice for as long as he can rememberâa therapist he once saw told him itâs some sort of control thing, the need to stick to the familiar, not the kind that appreciates changes.
As he took a sip of his bourbon, the woman started making small talk. She gave a name. Sweet girl asked about his job and apologized before getting an answer, saying she didn't mean to pry, that she was just making conversation.
Too sweet, he thought. Worrying about small things like that.. How do you manage to get any sleep at night?
Simon says heâs in the military, leaving out details about which part of the military heâs in. She feels obligated, then tells him sheâs a ballerinaâand he wonders if she sees the differences between them. The stark contrast between her delicate, graceful world and the dark, violent one heâs used to.
It's a shame that you have to cross paths with the likes of him â a man like Simon Riley, who's no better than a stray dog ââwith the need to hold something between his teeth.
Worse still, he's a sweet tooth, too.
And so, Simon managed to fuck you on the second meeting.
Fucking hell⊠His tongue flicked against your swollen clit, bringing you to climax, tasting your juices against his taste buds. But nothing could compare to when he was finally inside youâthe tightest cunt heâd ever had the pleasure of defiling. A virgin â the thought of being the first to breach that delicate, untouched fleshâthe faint crimson around his condom like lipstick stainsâset his blood on fire.
Tears in her eyes as her nails dug   on his naked back. Pretty girl tried to play tough, trying to hide the searing pain as the head of his cock continues to press into you, walls fluttering in surprise at the unexpected intrusion. Lips parted in a cry that turned into a moan. Then, his name is uttered in the most vulgar way.
âAh! O-oh, Simon! Simon!â
Something snapped inside his mindâbut Simon didnât have time to care, not when he was buried deep in your warm flesh, watching himself slide in and out of that wet hole like cinematography. Your smaller form flushed and glowing, hair spread in a halo above your head. He held back another growl as you pulsed around him, only to follow with a climax that burned through his entire body.
When it was over, he shouldn't even think about coming back. That's not how he operates; after all, he's the type to jump from one body to the next, never looking back, never a second time.
But the second time happens anyway.
Straight to London after deployment, driving his truck like he has an absolute purpose, like he doesnât hate the city. He parks in front of a grand Neoclassical building and leans against the door, pulling out a cigarette from his leather jacket pocket. He lights it up and waits. He doesnât know your exact schedule, doesnât know if youâre coming to work today, and doesnât know anything about your life outside those two nights. But still, he waits.
As the minutes ticked by, his cigarette began to shorten, the smoke swirling around it. Something wet touched the back of his palm.
âFuck.â He looked up at the sky, realizing it was starting to drizzle.
Then, out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a rushing shadow. Simon turned around just in time to see you emerging from the building, coat wrapped tight around you as you sneezed. He saw you walking, so rushed, like you got somewhere to be. What's got you so worked up, sweetheart?
You walk fast, as if on a single-minded purpose, eyes ahead but mind elsewhere. And thatâs when he sees itâa car barreling towards you at an alarming speed, and you still donât realize it until the blinding headlights catch the corners of your eyes.
Without a second thought, Simon rushed forward, pulling you out of the road before the red image in the back of his head became a reality. The car blares its horn, and the driver shouts a string of curses before speeding off again. He felt the cold air seep into his airways too quickly, painting him dry inside yet his body wet with a mixture of sweat and rainwater.
âChrist, pay attention will ya?â
At the sound of his voice, you finally look up, snapping out of whatever nearly cost you your life. Simon watches your eyes widen like youâve just seen a ghostâsome sort of apparition thatâs just materialized out of thin air.
Someone who shouldnât be here, and he canât help but think the same way.
In the second instance, Simon has you pressed up against the kitchen counter, his hands nomadic on your skin, feeling every rise and dip of your body. He groans as your warm, raw walls clamp down on his cock longingly. Once youâre both sated, he slings a wet towel around your inner thighs, and you return his gentleness with a bottle of bourbon you pour into two glasses.
Simon heads out in the morning, but not without letting you help him find his missing device. The damn thing was hiding in the cushions of your couch. He shoves it into the pocket of his jeans, and that nagging, controlling voice (the one that despises changes and relies on familiarity) keeps reminding him to leave no trace, just like he had done with every previous one-night stand.
Against the itch in his brain, he didn't even bother deleting his number from your log afterward. Instead, he let you save it in your contact list.
(The wandering stray dog ââfroze when the door of a house opened.)
âWill you at least call? Or text, if you can. You have my number now.â You say.
(Warm light seeps out from within, bathing his brown eyes in a goldish hue. That stray dog of his has stopped its roaming, has stopped its restless pacing. It loosens its jaw, saliva dripping down its chin. The tension in its body starts to mellow. Something delicious inside. He should have known better than to get carried awayâthe last time he did, someone kicked him in the shins and hung him by the ribs.
The last time he did, his house was transformed into a gruesome showcase of all he held dear, ending in a bloodbath. His olfactory receptors still remember the scent of iron. Little Josephâs socks soaked in crimson.
You're just a rotten mongrel, Simon.
But-
That sweet, intoxicating scent spreads like pollen carried by anemo. And before he could stop himself, his legs moved towards that warmthâ)
Simon ended promising a text, then disappeared behind your door.
(âlike a moth to a flame.)
The pretty girl takes him to a family eventâyour cousinâs wedding in the picturesque countryside of England. He finds himself surrounded by happy peopleâpeople who donât need to be angry to live. They simply love and are loved, their smiles, laughter, and kisses genuine, fueled by the bonds of affection and not by selfish pursuits.
You introduce him to your cousinâthe brideânamed Sabrina, then to your aunt, Joyce. For people you call a family, you look pretty wound up tight, sweetheart.
And then, just as he thinks that, your mother comes strolling into the conversation, all smiles and pleasantries. But, he doesnât miss how the tension in your body skyrockets, your smile turning into something more forced.
Simon knew that. Because heâd been there himself, growing up with a father who was more interested in the bottom of a bottle than he was in his family; the father who taught him to laugh at a dead prostitute because he thought she deserved itââSheâs jusâ some dumb whore, a drug addict. She was hell-bent on a bad end.â Nothing good in that man, and nothing good in your mother either when you throw up everything youâve eaten after a conversation with her.
Funny how he used to react the same way. Until something changed, that is. The fear and the shame morphed into something else. Fury. Rage.
âYe need to burn to survive in this world,â and maybe for once in his detrimental, too-long life, the bastard was right. And as much as Simon despised staying angry, he stayed angry because it saved him.
When the big day arrived, Simon stood in front of the mirror and stared at a reflection he didnât recognize. Dressed in that damn suit he hadnât worn since God knows when, the jacket clinging to him like a skin that just didnât fit right. He fidgeted with the cuffs, trying to loosen them a little.
It's like Tommy and Beth's wedding all over again, back when he was his brother's best man. Everything smells just as sweet and flowery as it did then, and it's making him sick to his stomach.
âAll set then?â
Simon turns his head at your voice, watching you walk out of the bathroom, your hair styled and your makeup done in a dark and smoky way that suits you so well. Christ, the way it makes him feel.
You spot his tie on the bed, then pick it up and approach him, closing the distance between the two of you. As you stand in front of him, so near that he can feel your breath on his skin, something begins to creep up his chest. It settles beneath his ribs, burning, spreading like a wildfire. But, it's unlike the fury and rage he's familiar with. This one leaves a warmth, a pull towards you that makes him ache to touch you, to hold you.
Simon couldn't take his eyes off you, watching the way your fingers worked in and out to tighten the knot. The way you bit your lip in concentration.
When you ask him to lean down a little so you can reach the back of his neck, heâs made even more intoxicatedâthe mix of shampoo and soap youâre devoted to, the delicate yet familiar fragrance of your favorite perfume that always trails after you. Sweet, but the kind of sweet that leaves him wanting more, like a wild animal who's just discovered a gourmet feast.
Itâs a hunger, a need, to plant kisses on the pillar of your neck and feel the thrumming pulse that lives beneath your soft and supple skin. The ache to hold you, to keep you within his orbit. Something grips his heartâand before Simon can register, heâs leaning in, brushing his lips against yours in a fervent, greedy kiss. He guides you towards the bed, his bulky frame poised to envelop your smaller form.
âSimon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world.â
Made to cry, his pretty girl, by the woman who brought her into the world.
In this world, there are many kinds of mothers. The ones like his, all smiles and kindness, baking good pies and forgiving, perhaps too forgiving. And then, there are the ones like yoursâall faux smiles, pretending to be an angel of a mother when he knows full well sheâs the reason you turned out the way you did.
Dependent, easy to manipulate, always trying to please everyone. You thought you could maintain a distance from others, but all it takes is a single act of kindness to dismantle them completelyâthe seemingly impenetrable walls were actually brittle.
A kitten masquerading as a lion, only to purr and melt at the slightest touch.
It annoyed him sometimes, because he knew you deserved better. But itâs also the reason he stayed, he thought. Because he loved playing the hero, especially to a woman who didnât know any better.
(Something, anything to hold between his teeth for him to chew and tear.)
As you wait in the car, he hurriedly gathers the last of his things, shoving them carelessly into his duffel bag. The embers of anger still simmer within him, but Simon chooses to be the wiserâgetting you out of here as soon as possible is a priority.
âI know men like you,â the devil behind him spits. âYou think youâre protecting herâyou think youâre saving her, but all you want is a girl to use and toss aside once youâve grown bored.â
And Simon stops. It strikes a chord within him, punches him right in the gut.
Though, he doesnât say anything. He wants to lash out, to defend himself and his intentions, but doesnât. Whatâs the point? He thinks it would be a waste of time, and youâve been waiting for him in the car for too long. It would just be a waste of breath.
Yet, another part of him knows the real reason.
That she might be right. That she might be right, and he did not like that.
It was always easy to turn away from reality. He pretended to be the wiser man, leaving pointless conversation for good reasons. But the voice in his tainted head always reminded him of what he was made of, what was left of him. He was a rotten man, selfish. Full of desire without the consistency to commitâ
Pretending to stay when he knows he is nothing more than a stray dog who loves to wander.
Simon slashes, rips, and kills men as sport; feasting on the raw hearts of women like his own personal dinner, collecting their teardrops like diamonds on his crown. And yet, he has the bloody nerve to think he can keep something as soft as you in his calloused hands without laying a wound.
(A predator wearing the skin of a man.)
A voice in the back of his head began to whisper, telling him to let you go, to walk away before his teeth sank in too deep and caused you even more pain. Before he became too ensnared, too intertwined.
But he couldn't. He just couldn't.
Not when you're sensually rolling your hips on top of him, your jaw slack as those pretty, plump lips make sounds that cause his cock to twitch in his boxers. The sight of your puffy eyes, the soft curve of your lashes, and the furrowed brows. He groans as you grip his thighs, anchoring yourself to him.
The moans you let outâoh, love, what is this? Why does it feel holy when they're sinning? Like some kind of ablution. He is reborn. He is being sent to heaven, and it is between the plush of your thighsâthe divine liquid dripping down your folds.
You drag your fingers across the raised tissue of his skin, and he is blessed. He observes as your eyes glide over every part of his body, recognizing the differences between the scars he bearsâguessing how they were created. Fire, knives, hooks.
And fuck, angel.
That sickening clench clutches his chest again as he gazes upon your tear-streaked face. This perfect creature is mourning his scarred flesh, once burned and healed, textured. Your lips quivering as you sob.
What are you grieving for, pretty?
Probably thought he was some sort of good guy who didn't deserve this. So consumed by her turmoil, she forgot that every cut and burn meant he survived; he won and survived. Can't say the same about the other guy, though. Not that Simon wouldâno.
He's too selfish to share your attention.
Because what if mentioning others who died in his hands makes you pity them instead? Something a sweet thing like you would do.
âWhy... why would anyone want to hurt you?â You ask, and Simon answers in his mind: Why wouldnât they? âIs⊠is this from your time in the military too?â
âYeah,â
âWhat happened?â
âGot meself âanged by the ribs once,â
Simon was given three primary roles: hunter, judge, and executioner, but you didnât know this. Nor did you know that the bastards who had caused these scars had long since died in the slowest and most gruesome way possible. That house fire he told you about didnât spare them like it spared him.
All of this was evidence that he had hurt and killedâa mortal sin, darlin'. But you let another fat tear slip, thin red roots spreading across your sclera.
Oh.
There was always the other side of the moon that Simon never realized until now, until you did. His Godâyouâare all-forgiving and shed tears because the other side of the story is that he has been hurt and almost killed. So far, Simon has only seen himself in three main roles: hunter, judge, and executioner. Never the other way around: prey, defendant, and victim.
And ohâoh.
The âGodâ on his pelvis rocked her hips, taking him to many pleasant placesâplaces a sinner would never have the luxury of visiting. The burn inside him twisted into something differentâsomething warm that pulsed in the chambers of his heart and spread and crawled across his chest.
This wasn't the old fury. So, Simon convinced himself this was lust.
The conclusion must have been made in a hurry, or more like in desperation to see past the truth. He tried to bury it in the depths of his mind where he wouldn't have to acknowledge it. But Simon knew lust shouldn't last this long, nor should it leave him feeling invigorated simply because you had smiled at him.
This wasâ
âGonna watch a ballet, LT.?â
Simon snaps out of his thoughts, blinking back to reality. Between his bare thumb and index finger is the special pass you gave him a week agoâthe same piece of paper Soap was questioning just now. He turns in his chair to face his sergeant, greeted with that infuriating grin of his.
âDidnât know you were the artsy type.â Soap added.
âYou shouldâve knocked, Sergeant.â
Soap laughed. âAye, I did. But you were too busy starinâ at that ticket to notice.â
The lieutenant didnât respond, just shoved the pass into his drawer, shutting it with a snap. Soap raised an eyebrow, a sign that he was still curious, but had no intention of voicing his questions, at least for now anyway.
âWhatâs this about?â
Soap's grin faded. âAh right. The Captainâs askinâ for ye.â
Johnny watched those brown eyes flicker to the flip phone and then to the skull glove on the table as Simon considered something. Unfortunately for him, that was allâthe damn balaclava prevented him from seeing the slightest glimpse of expression that might have been hidden behind it.
âIâll be there,â Simon said, dismissing Soap with a wave of his hand.
The sergeant narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips in that way he always did when he was trying to figure him out. Then, he walked toward the door, twisting the doorknob. Just when Simon thought he was finally gone, Soap stopped, pausing for a moment.
âYer obsession is gettinâ worse, sir,â he commented.
At first, Simon didn't understand what he was referring to until he followed Soapâs gaze, and his own brown eyes landed on his duffel bag. Where the skeleton charm you bought him was hanging.
Simon didn't say anything. The door closed with a click.
The voice of his old therapist echoed in the back of his head, saying how he had this need to always be in control, that he hated feeling like he was losing it, like there was something out there that he couldnât predict or manage. Thatâs why he clung to what he knew and hated changes.
But as he sat in his office, surrounded by the same four walls, the same desk, the same chair, the same bloody routine he had followed for years, he felt something twisted itself inside him, grafting itself into the tissue of his scars.
It triggered an itch in his skull.
Simon stood up from his chair, jaw clenched, as he strode over to where his duffel bag sat. That voice was louder, the words he had heard playing back like they were on a cassette tapeââthereâs gonna be things in life that are out of your control. Anâ thatâs okay. You donât have to be in charge of everythinâ.â
âAnâ when that happens, you just have to let it happen. You canât avoid it forever, Lieutenant. Avoidinâ it doesnât mean youâve solved itââ
Clenching his fists, he tried to deafen himself, only to end up inviting another sickening voice. âSimon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world,â at that time, he didnât understand what the hell his old man meant by that, searched the whole world for answers.
Now, after all this timeâafter mistaking it for passion, for fury, for lustâthe answer stared back at him, daring him to face it. He let out a scoff, thinking how that was the most uncharacteristic word to ever come out of that man's mouth. Fuck.
ââit just means youâre signing yourself up for more painââ
Simon yank the skeleton charm off his bag, the metal clinking against the zipper as he tears it free. He exhales, his chest empty after heâs done what heâs best known for.
ââanâ self-destruction.â The voice finishes.
@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull
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đđđđđđđđđ! đđ đĄđđđđđđ§đšđ§đŹ ::: đđđđđ "đđđđđ" đđđđđ
A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING MASTERLIST. CALL OF DUTY MASTERLIST.
Ballerina! reader, who focus too much on technical perfection rather than the artistic value of the performance.
Ballerina! reader, who was chosen to be the prima ballerina for Swan Lake.
And ballerina! reader, who is nicknamed a "robot-ballerina" from how she has no "soul". Whispers say you've sold it to the devil. So, how can a soulless ballerina play Odette and Odile well, then?
The director said, "Fall in love, my darling! That's your way to touch Odette! To stop being soulless."
But, little did he know, that ballerina! reader do not fall in love.
Ballerina! reader who meets Simon under the awnings of a bankrupt cafe, in the middle of the nasty storm of London.
Big, over-six-foot guy, in a black leather jacket that did little to hide the width of his shoulders. At first, you're pretty intimidated - is he going to kidnap you?
Ballerina! reader, who follows Simon to the pub to shelter from the rain. "No sense waiting in the wet," he said in his heavy accent.
Ballerina! reader, who is quite awkward with peopleâonly having one or two people she could consider friends - your mother counts. You end up giving out your real name and address in your attempt to create a topic, thinking he'll take advantage of the stupidity.
Simon didn't. Luckily, Simon didn't. He is a pretty quiet guy, doesn't use his big stature for bad things.
The night you met, you and him talked about small things. Your job, his job â turn out he's in the militaryâsomehow that wasn't surprising; Maybe you've long been judging by his slightly crooked nose (definitely has been broken several times), and the old scars around his jaws when he takes off his mask to take a sip of whatever he ordered.
Despite his height and build, Simon was anything but dangerous. It's natural for you to hope to see him again, right?
And when the second meeting comes, you invite him to your house. Something about it screams stupidity, vulnerability - danger.
But, how can he do all that when he holds you tightly like a good lover? As if full of love as he placed his lips on yours, tracing every inch of your skin as if in worship.
Laid bare, you are. With your pleading love-me eyesâthe gaping mouth of a virgin begging for someone to pour love into it until it hits the back of her throat, swallowed without a trace â âlet me wash my esophagus with this. So that my future lovers don't find out how unlovable I am.â
Ballerina! reader, who is starved for touch and love.
And when the third meeting arrived, you've gone too deep to pull away.
Ballerina! reader, who loosens her strings, only to sever them completely. Boundaries and lines begin to blur without you realizing it.
What started out as just giving him your phone numberââin case you or I need each other to⊠you know,ââthen a text or two more when he was âaway,â then a call, then a habit of receiving random texts and pictures (him feeding a cat on deployment, you and your calluses, Simon not understanding why you bought new pointe shoes just to break them, the scarecrow that reminds him of you and your tutu), and the new âwhy didnât you call me when you were away?â protest when he went completely radio silent in this new deployment.
Ballerina! reader, who has the determination to embody Odette - "Fall in love, my darling! That's your way to touch Odette! To stop being soulless" and chooses Simon, of all people, to fall in love with.
Ballerina! reader, who ends up falling in love with Simon-fucking-Riley, the owner of the most despicable heart a man has ever had.
Ballerina! reader who thought she could keep this casual (as Simon wanted), and ended up confessing her love in the end.
Ballerina! reader, who then realizes what a grave mistake that was. How stupid she was to put her heart first as if it were important, as if she hadn't spent her whole life ignoring it.
Ballerina! reader, who immediately noticed the difference in Simonâs expression and behavior. The man stretched his long legs in wide strides as he gathered his few belongings from her apartment, saying âthat wasnât our deal, love,â
Ballerina! reader, pathetically crying, begs Simon to keep her in his life, not to cut her offâto stay. She promises, vows, not to say she loves him; that Simon could come and go as he pleased as long as he wouldn't leave her forever.
But, he left anyway.
Ballerina! reader, who finds Simon leaving with another woman in his arms a few days after. Beautiful, confident, and not you.
And yes! Yes, you have succeeded in embodying Odette, Odile too! But, at what cost? Your defense: art is created from the blood of the artist. And yet, good God, how long will you have to bleed? He wasn't here to see this performance, to see the scars that he probably thought were some kind of tapestry.
Simon, who turned down Soap's invitation to go to the pub after the mission, says he has "some play about swans" ticket to use; the Scot scoffs, saying he never thought his big, bad, Lt. would be interested in ballet.
Simon came to your big performance. Straight from the airport after returning from a long deployment.
Swan Lake. That ballet he never understood, but he knew the story line and remembered how your eyes lit up when you told it over and over to him while being in his embrace.
You know those letters they force soldiers to write to people back home just in case they don't make it back?
Ballerina! reader, who thought she was worth nothing to Simon, but after years of not writing letters (because he had no one to receive them), the first letter he wrote was to you.
Simon who thinks you deserve better than him, doesn't know that despite everything, even the better one doesn't mean anything if it's not him.
Simon thought, all the love he had - no matter how big or deep, it was worth nothing.
But, unfortunately that doesn't change the fact that in his wild fantasies about a kinder world, you are the only one he wants. He doesn't believe in the Apocalypse, but sure as hell you'll be the one next to him as the Earth runs to the ground.
Perhaps, heâs too young to keep good love from going wrong.
What was it all for? A punishment? A penance? The need to always keep himself away from the good things in life, to continue to believe that he was created to be bitter and sour. Alone. Miserable.
He knows no end in desiring you, neither does his self-sabotage.
And when he saw you on that stage, his mind kept repeating "it's worth it, it's worth it" that he did this all for you, for the best. But, in fact, this is all just a sick tendency to remain rough, to suffer.
In the end, you and Simon are just two liars on display like show dogs.
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#simon ghost riley fic#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost riley fanfic#simon x reader#simon ghost riley fanfiction#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley angst#simon ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x you#simon riley x fem reader#simon riley x female reader#simon riley x y/n#simon riley fluff#simon riley hcs#simon riley hc#call of duty fic#call of duty fanfiction#call of duty x reader#call of duty men x reader#cod fic#cod hc#cod headcanons#ghost x reader#ghost riley x reader#ghost x female reader#ghost angst#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing
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warning(s): MDNI. sexual contents, detailed description of violence, a man's way of thinking.
A voice in the back of his head began to whisper, telling him to let you go, to walk away before his teeth sank in too deep and caused you even more pain. Before he became too ensnared, too intertwined.
But he couldn't. He just couldn't.
Not when you're sensually rolling your hips on top of him, your jaw slack as those pretty, plump lips make sounds that cause his cock to twitch in his boxers. The sight of your puffy eyes, the soft curve of your lashes, and the furrowed brows. He groans as you grip his thighs, anchoring yourself to him.
The moans you let outâoh, love, what is this? Why does it feel holy when they're sinning? Like some kind of ablution. He is reborn. He is being sent to heaven, and it is between the plush of your thighsâthe divine liquid dripping down your folds.
You drag your fingers across the raised tissue of his skin, and he is blessed. He observes as your eyes glide over every part of his body, recognizing the differences between the scars he bearsâguessing how they were created. Fire, knives, hooks.
And fuck, angel.
That sickening clench clutches his chest again as he gazes upon your tear-streaked face. This perfect creature is mourning his scarred flesh, once burned and healed, textured. Your lips quivering as you sob.
What are you grieving for, pretty?
Probably thought he was some sort of good guy who didn't deserve this. So consumed by her turmoil, she forgot that every cut and burn meant he survived; he won and survived. Can't say the same about the other guy, though. Not that Simon wouldâno.
He's too selfish to share your attention.
Because what if mentioning others who died in his hands makes you pity them instead? Something a sweet thing like you would do.
âWhy... why would anyone want to hurt you?â You ask, and Simon answers in his mind: Why wouldnât they? âIs⊠is this from your time in the military too?â
âYeah,â
âWhat happened?â
âGot meself âanged by the ribs once,â
Simon was given three primary roles: hunter, judge, and executioner, but you didnât know this. Nor did you know that the bastards who had caused these scars had long since died in the slowest and most gruesome way possible. That house fire he told you about didnât spare them like it spared him.
All of this was evidence that he had hurt and killedâa mortal sin, darlin'. But you let another fat tear slip, thin red roots spreading across your sclera.
Oh.
There was always the other side of the moon that Simon never realized until now, until you did. His Godâyouâare all-forgiving and shed tears because the other side of the story is that he has been hurt and almost killed. So far, Simon has only seen himself in three main roles: hunter, judge, and executioner. Never the other way around: prey, defendant, and victim.
And ohâoh.
The âGodâ on his pelvis rocked her hips, taking him to many pleasant placesâplaces a sinner would never have the luxury of visiting. The burn inside him twisted into something differentâsomething warm that pulsed in the chambers of his heart and spread and crawled across his chest.
This wasn't the old fury. So, Simon convinced himself this was lust.
The conclusion must have been made in a hurry, or more like in desperation to see past the truth. He tried to bury it in the depths of his mind where he wouldn't have to acknowledge it. But Simon knew lust shouldn't last this long, nor should it leave him feeling invigorated simply because you had smiled at him.
This wasâ
[part of chapter 11 of "A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING.".]
#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley angst#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley x oc#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley fanfiction#simon ghost riley fanfic#simon ghost riley fluff#simon riley x fem reader#simon riley x female reader#female reader#simon riley x you#simon ghost riley x you#simon riley angst#simon riley fluff#cod men x reader#cod men x you#reader insert#cod reader insert#cod fic#cod fanfiction#call of duty#call of duty fanfiction#call of duty ghost#ghost x reader#ghost x you#ghost x y/n#simon riley x y/n#simon ghost riley x y/n
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"there are teeth marks on everything he loves" simon riley and "everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it" reader.
#simon ghost riley x reader#the first one is from New and Collected Poems; âThe Thorn Merchantâ by Yusef Komunyakaa#if i'm not mistaken#the second one is by David Foster Wallace#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing
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ANOTHER SNEAK PEEK! Chapter 5 of X.
#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost riley fluff#simon ghost riley angst#simon riley#simon riley angst#simon riley fluff#simon riley fic#simon ghost riley fanfiction#simon ghost riley x fem reader#ghost x reader
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a sneak peek for chapter 9 of this fic. the way i keep using the first names that pops up for her aunt and uncles lmao. mc and simon slow dancing? yes. and the way we know this man gonna be saying that it's all "casual"? yes. (chappell roan's "casual" playing in the background.) still love him but he deserves hell for that.
AND IS THAT ANOTHER TEENY-TINY-BIT OF SIMON'S PERSPECTIVE??? hhhmmm.. biased omniscient narrator is doing something here.
#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley x fem reader#simon riley x you#simon riley fic#simon riley fanfiction#simon riley x reader#simon riley angst#simon ghost riley angst#simon ghost riley fluff#simon riley#ghost x reader#ghost angst#ghost x reader angst#ghost x reader fluff#cod men#cod men x reader#cod men x fem reader#cod men x female reader#simon ghost riley smut
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This may be a little too rushed, considering that đ đđđâđ đđđđđ đđ đđđđđ đ đđđđđđđđ, đđđđđđđđ đđđđđ is destined to have eleven (plus one) chapters, but after (re)watching Swan Lake, I got a question drilling my mind... It has been "analyzed" that there are two endings: a good one, where the prince kills the magician and "revives" Odette, or... the bad ending, where Odette's heart breaks when she sees her loved one with another woman, and she jumps off the cliff, drowning, and the prince does the same.
I would like to know... What ending do you plan to give to the "novel" and if this will be linked to the story(Ï)
!!!
if i gotta answer, then i'll be dropping the biggest spoiler of the series lol. but i've already discussed it in this headcanons, so i guess everyone kinda knows about it.
SO! we're going with the tragic ending. odette will be the reflection of the MC (despite MC's struggle to embody her in the beginning) - her naivety, her hope for a man to set her free; to fall in love and be loved. only to see everything taken away from her.
the realization that happy endings don't exist, that once again, her mother was right. god, i really want to write about the complexity of a mother-daughter relationship; about the love you have for her, but at the same time she's the person you hate the most.
however!! there will be some differences between the Swan Lake storyline and MC's reality. her story won't end exactly like odette's, but it's enough for you to know what kind of ending awaits.
>_< now, i imagine ending this fic on a cliffhanger. IDK THO! it's not really decided yet. but, if i end up writing it that way, i'll most likely write a sequel series. while a man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing focuses on the omniscient narrator who sides with the MC, the sequel will explain more details from omniscient narrator siding with Simon's perspective!!
thank u for sending this. i had a great time answering!! have a nice day babe!!
#ÊâÌŻÍĄâÊ â interacting!#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader
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MC's love language is not letting this man go home.
a sneak peek! chapter 4 of a man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing.
#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader
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what a way to start a chapter LMAO
chapter 4 sneak peek for a man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing !! i finished ch 3 but it's not proofread yet. let's hope i can post it soon!!!
#ÊâÌŻÍĄâÊ â interacting!#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader
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WIPs UPDATES!
okay,,, i'm just gonna give everyone a quick update on two main things i'm working on: EX PROBLEM and chapter 12 of A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING.
starting with EX PROBLEM...
currently working on chapter 3. and im stuck.
i imagine the fic would probably have around 5-7 chapters.
there's gonna be um,, some.. wriothesley x fem! reader stuff.
^ i honestly don't know how far should MC go for him actually, like.. are they just gonna kiss? or they're gonna do more? idk pls lemme know what u want. it's a possibility that they're gonna do more.
^ and idk if this is a good news or not cause i know there are people who strictly wants to just be with ajax and ajax only, but i swear guys it's gonna be fun. maybe
like, if you want some angry sex, u gotta make ajax so so fucking angry and he's not gonna be too angry just bcs you give another guy a kiss on the lips right...
i want to give him aneurysm of his life.
EX PROBLEM is probably gonna be released around december or january OR february. if everything is going good, and normal, and nothing happens to me.
so if you're religious, pls pray so i wont have writer's block or demotivated or some fanfic-author canon events happening irl.
love ya u extra mega patient people.
THEN, MOVING ON... A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING.
YAAYY, chapter 12 is... almost finished.
i got the outlines for the few last part ready so,, i just need some days to finally finish it and proofread it.
i thought about splitting it into parts, cause there's lots of things happening here but... hmmm, i just want to keep the series short and as much as i like to torture my readers with cliffhangers, i decided to be nice about it and just put it in one chapter. hope it wont overwhelm you all tho<3
^ another reason for this is so the next chapter will start with those heavy feelings that we've accumulated in the previous one.
and tbh, i'm really nervous abt this one cause i want it to be PERFECT, i want it to hit you in the right places.
to summarize everything happening in chapter 12, MC gonna be spiraling throughout the whole chapter.
still not sure when to post this tho. probably at the end of next week, or maybe after new year!!
OKAY, i think that's all. i'm open to any suggestions, open to any theory discussion n stuff. love ya. stay healthy n happy everyone<3
#ÊâÌŻÍĄâÊ â interacting!#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing#â â EX PROBLEM
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I have read 'a man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing' and when I tell you it leaves marks in me, it is. I still can feel the pain, each words, I still can feel it at all. It's been years I didn't read any CoD fanfic and I found you, It's like I've been searching for a mystic flower everyone is so sure it is a mystic but I found it lol, and I also love your writing style. And the funny thing is, I kinda relate to the reader lmaoo.
Idk what I want to write more about this, but I'm glad I found your blog hehe, and dont forget to take care of yourself đ©¶đ©¶
-đ
when i tell you i immediately smiled when i saw this!!! omg. made my day, made my whole week my whole june and my whole july. thank u for giving me my first feedback for my lil ghost ficđ„șđ youâre an angel
funny thing about me is that i rely on feedback so SO much when writing fanfiction, and usually the lack of it makes me feel like iâm doing smth wrong or that itâs not interesting (iâm TRYING to not do this tho). but when i saw this??? and i read the part where u relate?? THE MYSTIC FLOWER??? ILY ILY ILY FOREVER.
and this is gonna be long and random but GOD. iâm sorry that you relate to it but i hope you can find comfort in the story and the upcoming chapters. AND HEY! sometimes we cope by reading something that we relate to so itâs ok
here comes the long unasked explanationâŠ
the main reason why i came up with the plot is cause i need to get smth out of my system and maybe itâll help others to process whatever theyâre feeling too. and also, itâs the fact that i gotta pour my heart and thoughts that i gathered after making a playlist of it.
so like, the URGE to somehow write it all down, to explore simonâs character, my portrayal of him, and THESE TWO â this destructive duo with the MC and her anxious attachment style while simonâs more on the avoidant attachment side. the way he thinks heâs protecting her, not wanting to hurt herâbut in reality it was just some kind of justification for his self-sabotaging habits, his inability to accept that maybe he deserves smth good in his life.
canât say much about MC cause sheâs probably gonna be a more complex character (surprisingly) than him. mostly gonna be linked to her parental issues. my pathetic, sad, love-starved girl whoâs gonna learn that maybe mother was right all along â that a manâs heart is truly, a wretched, wretched thing.
canât wait to share more with u đ anon<33 have a great day lovieee. stay happy n healthy and TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF. xoxo!!!!
#đ â a man's heart is truly a wretched wretched thing#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley x fem reader
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