#Empty Spaces You Left Behind | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sai-int · 20 days ago

Text

RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]

✘ SEQUEL : ' IN CONTEMPT '

Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?

It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity.

You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.

The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place.

This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it.

Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.

In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.

But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it.

You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.

You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.

Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way.

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.

Not that it really mattered.

You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.

You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.

With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway. Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.

A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.

It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.

And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.

You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes.

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything.

So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.

You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness.

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention. The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure

His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark.

He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would.

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.

Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.

Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.

That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter?

…

You decide to send him a letter.

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness.

Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.

Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.

You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.

You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement.

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper.

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.

Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.

You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.

Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.

You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.

But still…

You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.

Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.

You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.

And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is.

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.

Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.

Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.

By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago.

You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE

The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.

The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

Your stomach tightens.

Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.

For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet.

After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.

Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.

Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.

You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.

The studio audience laughs on cue.

You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine.

It doesn’t.

When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot.

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.

You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.

You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.

After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.

Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.

You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it.

Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.

You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.

You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all.

Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.

The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.

You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.

But as you straighten, the air feels different.

Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating.

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you, arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.

You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you.

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.

You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.

You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

Oh.

Shit.

You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline.

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.

He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.

And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees.

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

“Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate.

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.

You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug.

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat.

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before. “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.

He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.

Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.

“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you.

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.”

“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.

Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him.

Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.

No underwear. A Right dog, he is.

Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.

How could he even fit inside of you?

You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.

He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.”

You could slap him.

He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts, “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.

He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.

“Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long.

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder, caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.

Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you.

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own.

A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.

“Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment.

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls..

You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.

He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.

His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.

He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.

You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.

Two cops.

Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.

You shut the door.

Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.

“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.

The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

14K notes · View notes

sadboiforlife · 6 months ago

Text

#having to fight back the tears every time i feel the empty space you left behind is tiring me out #gonna take a nap

0 notes

jiveyuncle · 1 year ago

Text

Keith keeps popping up in unexpected places.

He appears in the mirror as the scar on Lance's upper lip, acquired the time Keith shoved him down behind a barricade and the butt of his own rifle clocked him in the face. The move had saved Lance's ass, but it still hadn't stopped him from chewing Keith's ear off post-battle for “damaging one of the team's greatest assets.” What did stop him mid-rant, words grinding to a halt on his tongue, was the annoyed huff of, “Don't worry, you're still pretty.” For, like, half a second anyway, before Lance’s brain caught up and he realized Keith was being sarcastic and was definitely insulting him. Lance's hellraising started up with renewed vigor.

Keith appears in the boots that peek up at Lance from the squeaky cabinet of his wardrobe, left behind because Keith was too concerned about waking him the morning he headed out to pick up the Blade member that would eventually kill him.

He lingers in the seventh plate that sits empty at the set dinner table, the one placed there out of habit, then left there as they ate because getting up to put it away felt wrong.

He's in the long dark hairs Lance rolls over in the morning to find stuck to the bedsheets.

He's in the scuff marks on the training deck floor and the sweat that drips down Lance's temple as he increases the bot's fighting difficulty.

He's in the face of the Red Lion - the ship that solidified Keith's place on the team, the place it ended, the spot Lance has to fill.

And when Lance finally makes his way to Red’s cockpit out of his own volition, for Red’s sake, closing his eyes and reaching out to her to offer support in their mutual grief, he finds Keith, again, in the familiarity of the mind link. As Lance’s bond tugs Red’s consciousness to him, he feels her ghost over him. He lets out a shuddering breath. The connection allows the lions and their pilots to communicate and understand one another while also granting them the ability to sense their teammates when they’re bonded in their respective cockpits. It’s welcome - the shared connections are comforting during long flights and necessary in battle. Lance dreams of it when he’s asleep, launches himself from his covers when he feels Keith’s energy flow over him and twine with his, wonders why he never felt the connection break when a blade was dragged across his throat.

Then, Lance’s lungs constrict, freezing the breath halfway into his chest, and his fingers curl tighter around Red’s control arms. A phantom connection whispers along the hairs at the nape of his neck, a specific hum of energy he never anticipated feeling brush against his own ever again.

Blue eyes snap open to take in familiar grey ones staring back, heart seizing at the sight of a mouth set in that stubborn, concentrated frown that says less about its wearer’s emotional state and everything about the intensity of his focus. Slowly, the frown softens, and then turns up gently at the corners.

Keith sighs and leans back against the viewing monitors. “Hey.”

Dead Keith/Red Paladin Lance AU (Part 3/?)

So much of this story is not going to be told linearly and is mostly just a bunch of scenes that are fun for me, but this part felt necessary to share before I start bouncing around.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

You can now read this on AO3 as:

Empty Spaces You Left Behind

#klance #keith kogane #lance mcclain #voltron legendary defender #voltron #vld #fanart #fanfic #red paladin lance #dead keith red paladin lance au #major character death #closing my eyes and hitting post #Empty Spaces You Left Behind #long post

231 notes · View notes

sukunasweetheart · 1 month ago

Text

hear me out on bully!sukuna okay...

warnings; highschool setting, DUBCON, dry humping, thigh fucking, unprotected sex, sex in a confined space, semi-public sex, breeding, sukuna is kinda mean but is a simp at the same time, groping, cum in panties, just lots and lots of cum, "just the tip" he lied, mentions of pregnancy risk, ?cheating, sukuna the toxic tsundere but is horrendously down bad and perverted, eventual or mildly submissive sukuna?, this isn't gonna be the healthiest relationship - but its to be expected tho bc its a bully fic so..

Word count; 5.5k

bully!sukuna bothers you because he has a weird complex with you - preferring to be outright hated by you rather than deal with indifference or facing possible rejection.

it's often teetering on the edge of actual bullying; his existence is more of a nuisance than a serious distress to you.

he often loves getting on your nerves by tripping you up with his foot, only to catch you himself, or he purposefully bumps into you in the hallways making you almost topple over - like the fucking asshole he is. and you'll never forget the time you happened to get paired up with him on an assignment and the bastard had the audacity to try and take you both down by not doing his part. in exchange for his participation, he had you carry his bag for him around school for a week...

and he only gets more thrilled the more you fight back or retaliate.

sukuna likes to call you names, often using very condescending and colourful insults against you. and he likes to harass and chase off any potential boyfriends that come your way. that last one pisses you off the most. you want a boyfriend so bad, and that bastard is being such a huge cockblock. god forbid a girl wants to get laid. all your friends have had their first times already - why can't you?!

and he's back at it again too, after finding out that another guy confessed to you at school today. you accepted it. obviously when he wasn't watching. for a damn reason.

he finds out your last class was P.E today and you find yourself cornered in the locker room, empty of girls except for you. you ended up lagging behind as you were texting your new boyfriend over your phone after class. you try to walk past him to go home, but he traps you against your own locker.

you end up snapping back at him, having had enough of it.

"what is wrong with you? you know what? i think you're obsessed with me!" you shout back, shoving at his chest.

"who do you think you are, to stop me from getting a boyfriend... what, do you like me or something?" you speak without thinking, in a fit of anger.

"i bet you do! i bet you go home every night and jerk off to daydreams of me. is that right?" you go off, pushing every button you can.

sukuna falls silent. you expect him to argue back, to deny all your claims fiercely, and then go storming off, having heard enough of your nonsense.

but he's glaring at you, tight lipped, ears and cheeks turning bright red.

"...why're you silent all of a sudden? say something..." you continue awkwardly. "don't tell me... you actually...?"

"shut up," he hisses at you. "just shut up, for a second."

he wears an expression you've never seen on him before, and seems to be thinking about what to say next. he looks as though he wants to say something.

you open your mouth to tell him 'nevermind', but the sound of a small group of girls approaching the locker room is audible, which interrupts the both of you, and you panic. just what kind of rumours would spur on if they caught you and sukuna like this in here? you only just got your first boyfriend, there's no way you're gonna let this bastard ruin that for you!

thinking quickly, you open up your locker and roughly push sukuna inside, and then jump in after him. you shut the locker door quietly and peek outside through the little gaps at the top. the girls come in, having come back to get something that they left behind. what terrible timing.

one of the girls walk up a little close to your liking and you end up moving your body back as far as you can, your back pressing up against sukuna without thinking. and then you're startled by the low and quiet groan you hear behind you.

whipping around, you see sukuna with clouded eyes and a tightened jaw, barely able to fit inside this narrow locker. but he doesn't find it in himself to feel uncomfortable or annoyed at the situation.

after all, your ass is pressed up tightly against his growing bulge right then and there.

you were right about what you'd said earlier. he'd always daydreamed of a moment like this, pumping his cock at the thought of doing lewd things with you...

you turn back to the front, panicked. what the fuck? why does he look... like that?

kinda hot...

shaking your head, you try to ignore your beating heart, praying that the girls exit the locker room soon so that you can quickly escape from this situation.

meanwhile, sukuna's hands struggle to keep away from you as his brain begins to short circuit, dick helplessly twitching in his pants, chest heaving but it being of no help - as the locker fills with the scent of you in it, the sweetness of your shampoo and perfume, making his heart pump harder.

you slowly shuffle forward a little, trying not to lean against him so much. when are these girls leaving... you think to yourself. they've started gossiping amongst themselves, sitting on the bench. goddamn it!

large hands fall onto your hips and pull you back toward him. you feel him grinding his crotch against your ass, and you know that whatever is poking you is definitely his fucking boner.

"what the fuck, sukuna? s-stop," you whisper to him as quietly as you can.

sukuna has stopped his thinking in itself entirely. whatever's making him act right now is nothing but his pure and selfish desires. there's no way he can resist you when you're the one who climbed inside your own locker with him. he needs to relieve his ache somehow.

he gets more and more handsy with you as each minute passes. his large hand snakes up to fondle your clothed tits as he continues to discreetly dry hump your ass.

you should be disgusted. you should jump out right now and snitch on him and call him a molester right in front of these girls.

but good god, this feels like... nothing you've felt before. his wandering hands. his immense horniness. this tight enclosed space. the size of his boner. it's all making you excited in a weird way, and you're starting to feel aroused at your core.

sukuna is doing his best to get some pleasure from this minimal friction he's getting inside his tight space, but it's not enough. the desperation and arousal claws at him, his dick hurting from how tightly it's sitting in his pants. he swallows on nothing.

fuck it. he's already started. why hold back now?

you feel a shift behind you and the sound of fabric and a zipper being undone. is he...?

you gasp softly when something hot and hard gets pushed between your thighs. it's... it's pulsing. you can't believe this is happening. with sukuna, out of all people? should you be mortified or intrigued? you fear that the latter might be truer.

there's ringing in his ears. not a single logical thought is occupying his brain as he thinks purely with his dick at the moment, having waited so long for a moment like this. fuck, he's so hard. and it only excites him more that you haven't leapt out of this locker yet, running away from him. even though you could. his heart is on the verge of beating it's way up to his throat.

small, shallow thrusts. you feel his heavy cock rub up against your inner thighs, and both of his large hands are now groping your clothed breasts lewdly. he unbuttons your blouse, and then messily pulls down your bra, as he's desperate to feel the real thing, and you can't muster the strength to swat him away. when his fingertips tease your nipples, you have to stop yourself from making any noise. you've always wanted someone to touch you there...

never did you know that someone would be sukuna. you grab his wrist in a fit of desperation.

"you're a fucking pervert... what the hell are you doing?" you tell him a tad bit loudly, trying to deny the heat in your cunt.

"... did you guys hear something?" one of the girls suddenly ask outside.

your heart drops to your stomach as this sets off a panic inside you again. a big, warm hand clasps over your mouth, shushing you effectively.

"quiet..." he mumbles into the shell of your ear, and it weakens your knees. it never occurred to you that he's always had an attractive voice. a wave of goosebumps wash over your skin.

you look down. you can get a tiny peek of his tip whenever he thrusts in... it's so fucking big. you can't possibly fit that inside you, could you? when you catch that it's glistening with precum, your pussy squeezes around nothing.

one hand still over your mouth and the other teasing your tits, sukuna is busy slowly chasing an orgasm, regardless of the girls that have gotten a little wary outside. they soon forget about it and continue their pointless chatter.

fuck... his cock is so close to your cunt. the thought of it makes him shudder. he's almost there.

your hands are semi-clawing at his hand that's still against your mouth, when you suddenly feel him cease the incessant groping at your breasts. instead, it goes under your skirt - a finger loosening your panties up to fit his fat cock beneath the flimsy fabric.

there it is. your bareback fuckin' pussy. he has to bite his own lip to hold off groaning out loud. he does his best to slide his dick in and out against your slit - being restricted in movement due to the tight space, but make doing somehow.

you're actually thankful for his hand covering your mouth up, as you would've definitely moaned out loud if it weren't for him. it's unreal how turned on you are right now. does he feel it? all the slick pouring out of you? it's so, so strange. you were so sure that you didn't want this with him before, but not anymore...

it grazes over your clit over and over, painfully teasing, and you need to orgasm so badly.

sukuna jolts his hips against you, giving a final short thrust as his tip catches the fabric of your panties - he presses his own face against your neck to effectively silence himself as he reaches his first high.

you shudder as his dick pulsates between your thighs so strongly, making a hot mess in your underwear, cum spilling out in thick ropes - you feel the heat of it on your poor cunt, and you shiver as sukuna inhales deeply against your neck, his breathing wavering, dick aching for more even as it continues to spill heavily, creaming your panties. his tongue licks a stripe up your neck, causing you to shiver.

it's a pleasure that's greater than he could've ever given himself alone. but he wants more. he needs more.

you're in the middle of trying to gather yourself again, but you again, feel him moving his hips. just what is he up to now...?

your eyes widen when you catch onto how he's trying to thrust himself inside you now. there's no way... you struggle against him but he holds you still - mouth still firmly silenced by his palm.

the best he can do is have the tip inside. but for now, it's enough. he doesn't care - as long as he can get whatever pleasure that's available...

"j-just the tip..." he whispers with the smallest voice he can manage, against your ear again. it turns you on so good.

you can't help but enjoy when he gropes at your chest again, his tip bullying it's way in your desperate and wet hole, popping in and out, in and out, in and out.

even with just the tip, you're about to lose your mind. you want more, but at the same time you're scared what'll happen to your mind if he shoves that whole thing inside you.

sukuna's brain is yet again short circuiting as he dips the tip of his cock into your hot and slippery cunt - making him feral and desperate to get deeper. yet, what's stopping him is this confined space that suffocates him. there isn't enough oxygen for both of you here, and he wonders whether it's you or the lack of oxygen that's making him endlessly breathless.

oh, he's close again.

he's going to cum again, but this time inside. you want to protest, but you've always wondered... does it feel good to have it spill inside? regardless, you still try to struggle against him purely because you don't like the thought of sukuna knowing that you're enjoying this. even though it's already too late.

he holds you so tightly against him - before letting himself loose once again - tip poking into your pussy as he pumps inside, balls clenching. your hole is welcoming, and it puckers around him mind numbingly, milking his heavy cock for everything he has. you feel the warmth of his seed reaching inside you but not very deep - most of it trickles back out onto your panties. he twitches against you harder and more intensely, hips shoving into you messily.

you're both out of breath...

...and that's when both of you hear the girls leaving the locker room with muffled laughter, successfully avoided noticing you and him inside.

they turn the lights off before they leave, and the locker room turns dark and silent. you're now sweating against sukuna - and the moment you feel his hands loosen against you, you push the locker door open and step outside, unsure of what exactly you're trying to run from. sukuna himself? or the fact that you might be forming some kind of attraction to him? to the way he treats you?

but alas, no matter how fast you think you are, you could never beat sukuna's reflexes. in that quick momentum, he's pursued you outside and grabbed your arm - before pulling you back and shoving you against the now closed locker door.

"where do you think you're going?" he asks with a deep and low voice, vein popping on his forehead and looking desperate and an intense blush being permeated on his face. why is it that it's always made you feel so squirmy, whenever he cornered you like this? the size difference, the strength difference... the pervert here is not only him, it seems.

your needy gaze flutters from his eyes down to his exposed cock. it's veiny, throbbing, and leaking messily. it looks heavy and most importantly... it's so fucking big.

in the blink of an eye, sukuna has hiked your legs up, holding you up against the lockers, making it so that you cannot run from him again. it's game over.

"having the nerve to try and run after seducing me with your ass..." sukuna mutters angrily, lining his dick above your cunt and tummy, showing off how deep it'll reach if he slid it inside.

"no- i didn't..." you protest weakly, heart hammering with excitement. "idiot... let me down."

you tell him, despite your arms that loop around his neck.

"your voice is lacking it's usual sharpness," sukuna tells you breathlessly, flipping your skirt up and pushing your panties aside. it's still wet with his previous loads. oh- he can't think straight.

"wait-! something that big won't fucking fit!" you tell him, only now the fear beginning to hit you. moreover, you're afraid he'll end up breaking you and stop all rational thinking - this is dangerous.

"it will. i'll mould the shape of your insides to my fuckin' cock," sukuna insists, eyes focused on your wet glistening pussy. so pretty.

he pushes it in. but he doesn't stop there. he pushes it in all the way. balls fucking deep.

your eyes widen and when he thrusts the whole thing in one go, you well and truly break. legs trembling, pleasure washes over you and you cry out a moan.

"fuck-! did you just cum? are you cumming?" sukuna asks, panting, slowly sliding himself in and out as your cunt spasms around him. soon enough, he speeds it up and makes sure his tip is bullying your cervix with each deep thrust, eyes rolling back as your walls welcome him so warmly and clamp down on him.

"haah- haah- mm, fuck! you're so fuckin' tight! ugh, 'm gonna bust again," he slurs messily, hips moving non-stop. the unkempt bush of his pubic hair gives friction against you adding onto your strange sensations of pleasure. drool begins to roll out from the corner of your mouth.

his balls have never felt heavier as they slap against your wet ass each time he slams his cock inside, slick pooling out of you and creating droplets on the floor. he has a lot to give you... and your cunt is being so agreeable, the way it sucks on him, warm and wet. it's turning him animalistic, no thoughts running inside his brain except to fucking breed this hole. breed you.

not inside... not inside... you think, not realising that you're not saying it out loud.

"i'm gonna do it inside. i'm gonna-!" he hisses, hips stuttering at the last second.

"ugh- shit! 'm c-cumming... fuuck... fuck!" sukuna cusses deeply, thighs trembling as he continues giving tiny, but sharp thrusts even as he's spilling into you while buried to the hilt.

it's hot. you can feel that it's thick. there's so much. even more than his two previous loads. sukuna's face being twisted in pleasure puts you in awe - and you unknowingly tighten your pussy around him as he orgasms inside, joined to you hip-to-hip.

he's never felt such a deep seated pleasure in him before. he continues to gasp and shudder with every stringy spurt that he knows is reaching your womb. what if he actually knocks you up? what if his seed takes? it's a scary but thrilling thought. the thought of you swollen with his baby... all rational thinking has been thrown out the window due to this pleasure.

sounds that you never could've imagined coming out of sukuna continue to spill from his lips... he slides his cock in and out and squeezes every last drop out of himself, and he suddenly brings his lips to yours, kissing you feverishly. both of you pant over each other while making out messily as he slowly begins to thrust into you over and over again. he's going to get addicted to this. he's going to crave your pussy everyday from now on.

sukuna sucks on your tongue like he wants to swallow it. your arms hold onto him for dear life.

all too suddenly, he brings you off the locker, arms hooked under your legs and palms supporting you by holding onto your ass cheeks.

the kiss breaks, and catch sight of sukuna's lust-filled eyes as he moves you up and down his cock using his monster-like strength. and you're held up by him like this, you can't do anything to stop him. just cling onto him and take what he gives you.

"f-fuck, sukuna... ooh-! t-too deep," you mumble with tears in your eyes, gasping from the way his tip kisses your womb effortlessly. he's seriously too big for his own good.

"keep saying my name like that- it'll only make my dick harder," he pants, continuing to use your pussy like a fleshlight. his thick load has made it even wetter. he can feel your slick beginning to cream up around the base of his cock now, and it makes his chest well up with something like pride. does he turn you on that good? this hole of yours refuses to run out of lube.

the absurdly obscene plap plap plap sound of flesh against flesh, makes for the lewdest echo in the locker room. that, paired with the mild darkness, and the possibility of being seen by someone coming in during after-school hours, makes for the perfect thrilling atmosphere for such feral sex.

it's driving you mad. the echoing, the subtle anxiety, the smell of his sweat.

it's marvelous...

another orgasm hits you like a bullet train. gasping, you whimper as he continues fucking you through it this time, relentlessly thrusting into you regardless of your pulsing walls.

"shit... your cunt's clinging to me," sukuna groans, feeling blessed to see you get undone by him, by his cock. the fingertips of his large hands against your ass sink deeper, the pleasurable knot in his stomach getting tighter once again.

"you and your uselessly big dick... fuck you," you chide breathlessly, doing your best to keep your sentences clear even as he plunges into you with an unforgiving pace.

"clearly not useless when it's made you cum twice now, right?"

"shut up-"

you get cut off when he begins to thrust faster, as you witness the very moment sukuna's eyes become blank with pleasure, getting ready to empty his balls again.

"slutty fuckin' cunt. latching onto me so greedily... can't stop- thrusting-" he mumbles, gripping onto your ass tighter.

you can't help but sigh with pleasure when he begins to fill you up again, twitching and pulsing like crazy inside you as he spills so much seed like he's peeing.

"ohh, shit... cumming s-so hard..." he breathes out shakily.

you're starting to feel full. but you get the feeling that this still isn't the last one. desperate kisses are pressed against the side of your neck as he takes some time to relax a little again, thoroughly finishing deep into you, hips jolting every now and then.

he carries you over to the bench in the middle of the room, where he lies you down and brings your knees closer to your chest, fully exposing your cunt to him, whole. his dick still squeezed into you.

with a hoarse shaky groan, he slowly drags his thick cock in and out of you in this position, with only the heavens knowing how he is still hard after so many orgasms.

you give a small yelp as he speeds up - your plush walls embracing him warmly and filling up his balls once more. god, he doesn't think he'll ever have enough of this pussy. of you.

"idiot! e-enough.. take it out... i'll get- pregnant-" you warn him not-so-convincingly, with gasping moans between each word.

"c-can't... you're... sucking me in so good... can't stop-" sukuna replies with no thoughts in his brain other than to relieve the throb in his erection again. it's driving him up a wall, too. the flesh of your ass that softens the impact everytime he drives his hips into you. your squeals and whines of euphoria. your exposed breasts and glistening clit. he burns every detail into his brain, to make sure he remembers forever...

he doesn't even know what number round this is, but it amazes even him how he feels like he's already edging close to another climax. it's pathetic and ridiculous of him. but he can't help the fact that you push him over so easily.

the number of tissues he'd run through just from jerking off every time he thought about you all night... you have no clue.

recalling those moments makes him feel even more determined to chase this final orgasm even more rigorously. it won't be difficult, not with how your cunt swallows him up so nice.

"fuck.... i- i like you. i've always liked you..." sukuna mumbles out the sudden confession slowly.

"stupid... bastard... you say this now...?" you say as you sigh in pleasure, almost being close to your own climax as well, this position setting off yet another deep arousal in you. after all that bickering and tormenting - he has the audacity to confess to you? only after cumming inside multiple times?

"can't give any excuses can i?" he voices with a curt laugh - finding himself to be pitiful in this moment as well.

"but it's true... i- fuck- i like you so much..." he groans, hips getting faster.

your eyes begin to blur with tears again... sukuna thumbs your clit gently... and then you arch your back with a gasping squeal. sukuna too, hisses as he pumps you full for a final time, letting his dick drain itself in your fluttering hole, hips and thighs jerking uncontrollably while his tip leaks spurt after spurt through your cervix, overflowing you to the maximum.

after dumping his final load, he slowly drags his large, twitching cock out of you with a pop and lets it rest against your gaping cunt, pulsing weakly against your clit. his thumb pushes your panty lining aside to keep your pussy exposed for him to see. your hole is still gaping and thrumming, as if missing him already and he's watching with awe as big globs of his spend trickle out of you thickly. if he wasn't so exhausted, the sight of this would've made him hard again.

sukuna lets go of you and lets your legs rest on the bench, as you're still panting from the exertion, mind numb from that last orgasm. he seems to loom over you for a second, before leaning down, arms caging you against the bench, knee between your legs, to kiss you on your glossy lips. it feels good, but you wouldn't want to admit that out loud to him.

"i like you." he repeats again, after breaking away from you. he wonders why it had taken him so long to admit this fact. once he got it out, it became an easy thing to say. you look at his face and he looks so pathetic in your eyes, the usual look of cockiness and mischief being wiped away. he says it as if he's pleading you, and you know what he's asking for, what he's unable to say out loud. he probably wants to be your boyfriend.

it's strange to see the puppy eyes of your literal arch nemesis, and it's also strange to hear his voice give you a love confession. it makes you mad. it makes you angry. not because you hate it, but because you don't hate it.

he sees it. he sees the instant your eyes glint with anger, and he very swiftly dodges the head butt you try to give him at the very last second.

"move, idiot," you say sharply, glaring at him.

alright, he probably deserved that one.

you stand up and fix your bra and blouse before gathering your things from the locker before leaving without another word - sukuna follows you outside in a fit of mild anxiousness.

"hey-"

"you. take responsibility and buy me some plan b pills. and a pregnancy test kit," you interrupt, looking back at him.

"...alright," he responds rather obediently, after a nervous swallow.

after you turn back around to continue walking, the tiniest smile grows on your face... sukuna looking nervous is something you never thought you'd see. maybe you can use this to your advantage.

your phone vibrates in your hand. it's from your new 'boyfriend'. a sweet message saying he's excited to see you again tomorrow. you delete the notification with a little bit of guilt on your mind. you'll leave tomorrow's issues for tomorrow.

in front of the chemist, you languidly stand around outside waiting as sukuna does as you'd asked him. truth be told, it was because you didn't want to buy them yourself, out of embarrassment. you know he doesn't care about how people sees him, so no harm done there.

when he comes back out with the bag, he holds it out to hand it over to you. but when you try to grab it, he lifts it away.

"you're gonna break up with him, right?" he suddenly asks, with a rather serious expression on his face.

you ignore the question and try to grab the bag, but he avoids you again.

"...right?" he emphasises. he doesn't intimidate you at all anymore, not after knowing about his feelings for you.

"it's none of your business?" you tell him, finally snatching the bag. he doesn't look too pleased about that answer. you take the pills quietly and shove the rest into your bag.

"okay. now go home," you shoo at him. "i'm tired."

"you haven't answered me yet," he says firmly, holding onto your wrist.

"you'll have your answer tomorrow," you reply in an exasperated tone, shaking off his grip.

"and just letting you know. if it turns out positive, i'm never speaking to you again," you warn him with a deadpan face. in the back of your mind, you're pretty anxious about it, but you know according to your cycle, today wasn't a fertile day. that, and with the pill... it should be alright.

sukuna stiffens up and opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it again.

"and don't follow me. if you do, i'll also never speak to you again."

you're not that serious about not talking to him ever again, but you believe he deserves to feel as anxious as you do.

"... i wasn't planning on stalking you anyway. jesus," sukuna mutters, kicking at the dirt on the ground.

you narrow your eyes at him, and then continue your way home.

he scratches the back of his head in frustration. it's like he's skipped a lot of steps towards you and it's coming back to bite him in the ass. ah, well. nothing he can do about it now.

sukuna starts praying that the test comes out as negative.

in the end, you decided to become the asshole and just break up with the guy over text. what was there to even really 'break up' anyway? it was for less than a day...

regardless, the news seems to run across the entire school and your friends begin to pester you about why. you can't tell them the truth. what could you even say? 'oh, i got railed good by the one guy i despised in school and it made me end up changing my mind'? fuck that.

he walks towards you after school with seemingly high spirits.

"so... i heard you broke it off after all," he approaches you after hearing the good news. you'd been ignoring him all day, but he's hoping you'll stop once the day was over and there was no one else around to watch them.

you continue to give him the silent treatment, walking along without sparing him a glance.

"hey," he grabs your forearm to stop you from walking.

"stop ignoring me. please."

you only spare him a glance because he added 'please'.

"...i don't see how that changes anything between us," you finally respond.

"right. surely not," he responds, voice thick with sarcasm.

"is that the correct attitude you should be taking? i broke up with him because i felt bad i fucked someone else while we were together. not because i like you back," you shoot at him, crossing your arms.

"oh, give me a break. you were barely with him for one day-"

"sukuna. do you want me to like you back?"

sukuna falls silent, looking at you with annoyance yet also simultaneous desire.

"if you want me to like you... then you need to work for it. make up for all the mean things you've said and done to me."

"...how? what should i do?" he asks, daringly, stepping forward towards you.

you wordlessly take your bag and shove it against his chest with an aloof expression on your features. it startles him for a moment, but looking at your face, he understands what you're asking of him. he slowly smirks and slings your bag over his shoulder, on top of his own.

"easy. anything else?"

"...i'm kinda hungry. take me somewhere good to eat. you pay."

"so... a date?" sukuna hums teasingly, trying to hold your hand.

"nope. you're gonna act as my lackey for a few weeks. it's payback. after that... well, we'll see," you say as you dodge his hand.

he can't wipe the smile off his face. you're clearly playing around with him, but he doesn't hate it. it's another form of attention, is it not? he'll have plenty of chances to make you his from now.

little does he know... he's the one that will become yours in the end.

you know the drill! dot points bc im lazy as fuck!!

okay well, first off the test does turn out negative, lucky for him... from then on you make him wear condoms whenever you have sex

but before that, he spends a few weeks running around to try and appease you

everybody shocked to see the big bad bully is being so obedient, and little do they know...

mmmaybe you give him little rewards every now and then, some sneaky kisses or so, just to keep him afloat... and then you withhold your body from him again

still carries your bag for you everywhere

has to deal with the frustration of not having boyfriend privileges yet... always itching to touch you but you wont allow it until you think he deserves it

sitting between his legs but not letting him be handsy with you is torture. maybe he'll break the rules a bit and hug your waist anyway

love the thought of him borderline begging for your touch because he's so hard from spending so much time being so close with you and it's been well over three weeks since he's done anything remotely sexual with you

maybe you'll feel a little turned on by his pleading that you cave in a bit, and take him to the public restrooms for a few handjobs

he will take anything he can, the opportunist...

and you'll have plenty of fun edging and toying with sukuna until he's shaped nicely into being a good obedient boyfriend for you

bully sukuna trope was inspired and set alight by @gojos-thot-patrol btw, link to his fic here... mine took a completely different path but it was a similar concept in the end ✨️👌

Masterlist

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #sukuna

7K notes · View notes

ozzgin · 1 year ago

Text

Yandere! House Monster x Reader (II)

It’s officially a smutty sitcom: you, the oblivious gamer boyfriend, and the tentacle monster lurking in dark corners.

[First part]

Content: gender neutral reader, monster smut

Do monsters have a sense of humor? This creature seems to be greatly amused by the little "game" you've devised behind your boyfriend's back. Although you don't have much input in the affair, and most of the time you're merely a witness to the events unfolding before you (or in you).

First, there's the mild, inoffensive annoyances. "Babe, did you see my controller? I swear I left it on the couch". Some pranks are harder to swallow than others, such as the occasional lack of Internet. You know exactly when it happens, because you can hear your boyfriend's enraged shouts and rattles. It's always during important matches. No one knows why it happens. The repairmen who cross your threshold can only scratch their heads in confusion, confessing that nothing is out of the ordinary.

Then, the unfortunate coincidences. "How about we have some fun after my game?", the boyfriend will suggest with an anticipative grin. Alas, moments after he stands up, he is overwhelmed by a nauseous feeling. His stomach twirls and throbs, and he curses under his breath. "Some other time, perhaps", he concludes begrudgingly. You see, the creature is very possessive. The only thing that has saved your beloved partner from being torn to shreds already is his crassly comical obliviousness.

The mischief aimed towards the boyfriend is, however, a secondary source of entertainment. Nothing could ever come close to spending time with you. Yet another irony to this ridiculous situation: you haven't been caught yet, despite the rabid clinginess of the tentacled monster.

It just loves surprising you. For example, when you exhale dramatically at the end of the day, relaxing in the bathtub and enjoying your peace. Just as you hear an impatient knock on the door, you notice a familiar dark tendril slithering its way out of the water. You won't be leaving the bathroom anytime soon. "Did you steam yourself over there? You look like a lobster", the boyfriend will remark with a raised eyebrow upon seeing your panting, feverish face. "Y-yeah, I guess so." You limp outside, struggling to hold the towel around your body. Or more specifically, around the many marks left on your skin by hundreds of suckers.

In fact, its shamelessness reminds you of a poorly written erotic scenario, the likes you'd see on some adult website with a clickbait title. How would you name this current setup? You grip the edge of the table, pursing your lips to prevent any moans escaping your mouth. Your boyfriend is, once again, scrolling on his phone, indifferent to your presence. The water boiling on the stove drowns the wet, slippery sounds of the appendages pumping in and out of you underneath the table. “You might want to give it a stir in a moment, or it’ll overflow”, the boyfriend remarks without lifting his gaze. You mumble in agreement, slapping a hand over your mouth. You’re at your limit.

One may be tempted to ask, is this entity bound to its house? You pondered the same question until your recent IKEA visit. You and your boyfriend had been looking for a new wardrobe. "What do you think of this one?", you asked, closing the door and turning around. Your eyes scanned the empty model-bedroom. The jackass had wandered ahead without you. You sighed and were about to go find him, when a cold grip suddenly tightened around your wrist. You winced and snapped your head back. Thick tendrils had made their way out of the closet, tugging you to join them inside. So it can follow you around, you thought, climbing into the cramped space. Between the silent whines and breathy begging, an idea emerges from your dazed mind. New hypothetical video title: mercilessly molested in the IKEA store by monster partner.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere monster #yandere monster x reader #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #monster x reader #monster x human #monster boyfriend #tentacle monster #monster smut #terato #teratophillia #monster fucker

16K notes · View notes

ddejavvu · 7 months ago

Note

this is depraved, but grinding on logan’s happy trail to get off 🫢

Hands Free - Logan Howlett x Reader

send me logan requests!

contents/warnings: smut, minors dni, mean!logan, drinking, don't like don't read.

You've caught Logan at a bad time. The surly mutant is a complicated man, and one with less psychological damage than him might be eager to whip it out whenever, but Logan isn't. He's busy brooding, and he's not to be interrupted when he's got a bottle in one hand and a cigar in the other.

But you need him. There's a pit in your belly that's only made worse by the scowl on his face, and your cunt aches beneath your now-slick panties for something to envelop. You're desperate for Logan to fuck you, but there's no way you'll convince him if he's not in the mood.

"I can feel you staring," He grumbles, eyes still cast to the floor as he takes another swig of burning liquor, "What do you want?"

There's no polite way to say you.

"Uhm," You shift on your feet, thighs clenched, "I'm just feeling- I'm a little, um, I-"

"Spit it out."

"I need you." You breathe, ashamed by the sentence, but Logan's face remains untouched, nothing moving but the lingering smoke from his smoldering cigar.

"I'm not in the mood." He grunts, like it isn't obvious.

"I- I know." You fall awkwardly silent again, rising onto your tiptoes and falling back to your heels. Up, down. Up, down. Up, down. Up-

"Don't make a mess." He shifts in the chair, lowering his hips until they're level with his abdomen, offering you the best seat in the house.

He's shirtless, which means that if you can't have his cock, or his fingers, you can get the next best thing. A combination of the friction from the waistband of his jeans, and his toned abs, blanketed with coarse, wiry hair.

You mount him eagerly, which isn't hard to do seeing as his chair has no arms. It's got a back so that he can lean against it, but your support system is his chest, where you firmly plant your hands in preparation to get yourself off.

There's a dark line of hair that trails from the bottom of his navel and disappears beneath his waistband, flanked on either side with a sharp line of muscle that tapers down towards his cock in a V. His body is a work of art, and you only wish his equally gorgeous face was pointed your direction.

No matter- you won't push. You're lucky he's letting you get off on his lap, you'll take what you can get.

"Easy," He grumbles, rocked by the sudden jerk of your hips. As you settle into a steady rhythm you realize you've already failed his one directive of not making a mess, but there's no way to stop or slow the steady stream of slick that's pouring from your weeping cunt. It's sobbing, slobbering, begging for a cock, but you drag it flush against Logan's abs and mat his happy trail down with your translucent arousal.

"One fuckin' job," He gripes, reaching down to swipe two fingers through the slick that's glistening on his stomach as you find better friction near the waistband of his jeans. The texture of the denim is rough, and you realize with giddy desperation that he's getting hard in his pants despite his insistence that he wasn't in the mood.

He sticks his fingers in his mouth for a taste, his cigar left behind in its ashtray on the side table. He doesn't relinquish the bottle, but he takes equal sips of that and of the mess you're making on his abs.

Finally, thanks to the sizeable bulge in Logan's jeans, you're able to hump your way to completion on his stomach. It's not hard, considering you'd been achingly horny before, but without something inside of you your release feels empty and wasted. You'd use your fingers if you could, but you can't move your hands or you'd faceplant on Logan's chest, and you don't want to invade his space any further in case he decides your privileges have been revoked.

"Poor thing." He murmurs when your hips slow and you're panting against his chest. You glance at his face but he's staring at your cunt, not at you, "She's so hungry."

It takes him one, two, three seconds to reach for his belt, "Well, c'mon. Up now, there y'go." As you shimmy up his abdomen, slicking his happy trail up with your release once more. As soon as he's able to free his cock he slides a hand under your ass, boosting you up so that you're finally able to sink down onto his red-tipped, leaking cock.

"Jesus, she's sucking me in," He grunts, his voice gruff and ragged, "How long were you waiting to ask me?"

"Too long." You whine, pussy already sensitive from your first orgasm, and now in utter bliss from finally being penetrated after all that teasing, "I- hnngh! My toys don't work anymore. They're- they're nothing like you, I can't use them. I can't ever finish."

Logan scoffs, still in a mood as sour as the liquor on his breath, but his hands find their place on your waist as he helps bounce you on his cock, "Shame. Those were supposed to keep you busy. Guess I'll have to do it then, hm?"

You nod vigorously against the crook of Logan's neck, your nose buried where his neck meets his shoulder, and where sweat accumulates sticky on his skin. You lick it up, and Logan hisses against the mouth of his bottle as he takes another swig.

"Fine." He grumbles, butting the bottle up to your head and forcing it against your lips, "Take this, take a nice big- there you go. That'll make you sleepy," He vows, and the head rush comes just like he'd warned. His hips begin shifting, circling slightly in gyrations that only add to the pleasure of bouncing on his dick, "And this'll knock you out, crazy."

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x you #logan howlett blurb #logan howlett drabble #logan howlett oneshot #wolverine x reader #wolverine imagine #wolverine smut

5K notes · View notes

kpop-reactions-povs · 28 days ago

Text

Stray kids- Their S/O sleeping on the couch after an argument

Bang Chan

The argument had been tense—words sharper than usual, frustration lingering in the air. Chan had been stressed, and instead of talking it out, he’d snapped, saying something he instantly regretted. “Maybe you should stop expecting me to fix everything.” The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back, but you had already turned away, choosing silence over another fight.

Hours later, when he finally cooled down and went to find you, his heart clenched painfully at the sight of you curled up on the couch, your arms wrapped around yourself instead of him. Guilt sat heavy on his chest as he crouched beside you, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Jagi… I was wrong,” he whispered, his voice thick with regret. “I didn’t mean what I said. I hate seeing you like this.” His fingers ghosted over your cheek before he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Come to bed? Please?” If you hesitated, he’d gently pull you into his arms, refusing to let go until you knew just how sorry he was.

Lee Know

“Fine. Do whatever you want.” Minho’s voice had been cold, distant, and it hurt more than if he had shouted. The argument had been over something small, but the way he brushed you off like you didn’t matter made your chest ache. You had stormed out of the bedroom, unwilling to stay where you weren’t wanted.

Minho sat alone, staring at the empty space beside him in bed, but the longer he waited, the more his heart ached. When he finally peeked out, his throat tightened at the sight of you asleep on the couch. You looked so small, your face still slightly damp from frustrated tears. He hated himself in that moment. With a deep sigh, he grabbed a blanket and draped it over you before kneeling beside the couch. “I was an ass,” he admitted quietly, his fingers hesitating before brushing against yours. “I didn’t mean to push you away.” He’d sit there until you woke up, waiting for the moment you’d let him hold you again.

Changbin

The fight had been bad—worse than usual. Changbin had been so caught up in his emotions that he blurted out, “I don’t need you hovering over me all the time!” The second he saw the hurt flash across your face, he knew he had messed up. But by the time he tried to take it back, you had already walked out, leaving him standing in the empty bedroom, fists clenched.

The guilt weighed on him, making it impossible to sleep. When he finally worked up the courage to check on you, his heart dropped. Seeing you curled up on the couch, your back turned toward him, made something inside him break. Without a word, he walked over and carefully lifted you into his arms. Even if you stirred, he held on tighter. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, voice laced with regret. “I always need you.” He carried you back to bed, pressing soft kisses to your hair until you relaxed in his hold.

Hyunjin

Hyunjin had stormed off after the argument, tears threatening to spill, frustration bubbling in his chest. He had said something cruel in the heat of the moment—“Maybe if you actually listened to me for once, we wouldn’t be fighting!” The second it left his lips, he knew he had hurt you. But instead of apologizing, he let his pride get in the way, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

Hours passed, and his anger melted into guilt. When he stepped into the living room and saw you asleep on the couch, a sharp pain pierced through his chest. You looked exhausted, as if the argument had drained everything from you. Without a second thought, he knelt beside you, his fingers tracing soft circles against your wrist. “I didn’t mean it,” he murmured, his voice thick with regret. “You always listen to me. I was just being a jerk.” He hesitated before pressing a kiss to your hand. “Please come to bed. I hate sleeping without you.”

Han

Jisung had never wanted to argue with you. But stress and exhaustion had made him say something he instantly regretted—“Maybe I just need some space from you right now.” The moment he saw how your expression fell, he wanted to take it back. But instead of fixing it, he let you walk away.

Now, seeing you asleep on the couch, his heart ached so badly it felt unbearable. He walked over slowly, hovering beside you, debating whether to wake you. Instead, he sighed and grabbed a pillow, lying down on the floor beside you. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his fingers barely brushing against your arm. “I didn’t mean it. I never want space from you.” He laid there until you woke up, his eyes soft with guilt, silently pleading for forgiveness.

Felix

Felix hated fighting with you. He hated the way he had raised his voice, hated the way you had looked at him before turning away. The fight had been over something small, but the words he said—“It’s not like you understand what I’m going through.”—stung in a way he couldn’t take back.

When he walked out and saw you asleep on the couch, his heart shattered. He immediately dropped to his knees beside you, his fingers trembling as he brushed against your hand. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You’re the only one who understands me.” His eyes burned with tears as he pressed his forehead against your arm. “Please come back to bed. I don’t want to spend another second apart.”

Seungmin

Seungmin had been sharp with his words—“Not everything is about you.” The second he saw the way your face fell, he regretted it, but his pride kept him from apologizing. Hours passed, but the guilt only grew heavier, eating away at him.

When he finally stepped out and saw you asleep on the couch, he hesitated. But after a moment, he grabbed a blanket and tucked it around you. Instead of going back to the bedroom, he sat on the floor beside you, staring at the ceiling. “I was wrong,” he admitted quietly. “You deserve better than that.” If you stirred, he’d gently take your hand, his fingers lacing through yours. “Can I make it up to you?”

Jeongin

Jeongin had never meant to let the argument get that bad. But his frustration got the best of him, and before he could stop himself, he said, “Sometimes, you make things harder than they need to be.” The hurt in your eyes was immediate, and it made his stomach drop.

When he finally walked out and saw you asleep on the couch, he felt like the worst person in the world. Carefully, he sat down beside you, his hand hovering above yours before finally intertwining his fingers with yours. “I was an idiot,” he whispered, squeezing your hand gently. “You make my life better, not harder. I don’t know why I said that.” He leaned in closer, his lips barely brushing your knuckles. “Can we start over?”

#skz #skz imagines #skz reactions #skz x reader #stray kids #stray kids imagines

1K notes · View notes

berrryparfait · 2 days ago

Text

why is he in my bed ?! ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅

— ༉‧₊ᐟ featuring: caleb, zayne, xavier, sylus, rafayel x fem-afab!reader

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: you're woken up in the middle of the night by something hard and warm between your legs... what on earth is going on? 「i must still be dreaming, for this is an overwhelming ecstasy.」

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: [nsfw] pure smut, dubcon on reader's part, dry humping, creampie, needy af, sleep (and p*ssy)-drunk, "good girl" affirmations

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: morning sex – ralph castelli

✧ a/n: i promise i'm not horny i'm just deeply interested in the science and academia behind dry humping and sleepy sex like istg i'm doing this for research purposes... okie thank u for reading enjoy this scientific report :>

When you dream, you’re in your happy place. A place full of sunshine and rainbows and unicorns and undisrupted peace. Your slumbers are deep, quiet, and tranquil, with no one around to—

Wait, what’s that pressing up against my ass?

Large, calloused hands cup around your breasts as you feel it—hard and imposing behind you. “Caleb?” You whisper in surprise, your question left unanswered as he breathes in your scent and snuggles up closer behind you. Before you can clear your mind enough to react, he grinds against your ass and you notice for the first time that he’s completely naked. The act sends a shock wave of pleasure down your spine, and he lets out a groan as he rolls into you once more. “A-Are you alright? What’s gotten into you?” He pays your words no mind, dry humping you in a steady rhythm as he grunts and whispers “Shh shh shh…” into your ear. His thumb hooks around the waistband of your panties and roughly pulls them down to your knees. He doesn’t even bother to pull them all the way down. He needs you now, and desperately. With your ass exposed to him, he instantly pushes the tip of his cock between your folds, and you moan in shock as he squeezes himself all the way in. The covers are still around you. It’s hot, sticky, and suffocating, but you don’t care. He thrusts into you with such speed that you wonder how long he’s been waiting for this. How much he needed this. With one final move of his hips, he fills you with his thick seed, and your eyes roll all the way to the back of your head. Panting, he pulls his cock out from deep within you and falls asleep, exhaustion and satisfaction overcoming him. “Just what will I do with you…”

Zayne is inside you before you even wake up. Your eyes blink open as you feel a heavy arm holding you down by the waist, the space between your legs feeling strangely full. “What in the—” You turn around and come face to face with a groggy, lust-drunk Zayne, his face flushed pink and his body hot to the touch. “What? What are you—” He pushes all the way into you, effectively silencing your feeble questions. “Ah, fuck—” he gasps, his hands trembling with the feeling of dragging his cock along your walls, your pussy so tight it steals the air from his lungs. He pounds into you from behind as you call out his name, eyes squeezing shut from the sheer size of him. Your mind has been fucked empty, no other thoughts capable of being formed save for the graphic image of the two of you in this stuffy bed with nothing but sweat between your bodies. In the blink of an eye, he pulls you upright and pushes your shoulders down, fucking you doggy style as he grabs your hips and rocks deep into you, a relentless repetition of thrusts that drives you crazy. “Good girl…” Your panties are resting helplessly at your ankles, your tight shirt pushed up above your tits. He cums without warning, hot ropes of cum leaking out of your pussy as he backs away and falls onto the bed, spent. “Out cold just like that. Aftercare my ass.”

You feel your blankets readjust themselves as a weight settles to your left, though you can’t quite see what it is in the darkness. A soft hand on your waist tells you it’s Xavier, and you cuddle up next to him as you doze off once more… But Xavier doesn’t seem to stay still. You hear the sound of a zipper being pulled down and frown in confusion, wondering why he’s stripping on your bed in the middle of the night. He flips you over to face him so you’re both lying face to face. You realize he’s breathing heavily, his hands restless and reaching to pull your pajama pants down with haste. “Xavier, it’s 3 in the morning…” But your words fall on deaf ears. You feel his hard length press into you, slowly, tentatively—as if he’s using his last ounce of control to ensure you don’t get hurt in the process of accommodating his cock. That control quickly dies. He’s pumping in and out of you before you know it, shallow and in quick succession like a man starved. His shirt is still on and so is yours, pants and underwear still around his and your legs—he’s in such urgent need of release that he doesn’t even care. You moan and grab the fabric of his shirt as he plows into your pussy, your forehead touching his and your lungs inhaling his air. “You’re…so…good…” he whines as he slams into you harder, his eyes shut tight against his rapidly arriving climax. With a delicious moan, white streaks of cum erupt from his cock, coating your pussy and staining the sheets beneath you. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear before collapsing from exertion, and he’s fast asleep in an instant. You tut at him, amused. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

Something big and warm is touching your inner thigh. You can feel it through the fabric of your nightgown. “Sylus? Is that you?” A rough hand glides over your bare arm in a caress that could only mean one thing: he’s incredibly horny right now. Still cloudy with sleep, you distantly realize that you’re about to get railed. One of his hands wraps around the base of your neck—not forcefully, but hard enough to assure you your suspicions were correct—while the other reaches down to pull his pants and boxers free. Your nightgown is white silk and very much easy-access, so it doesn’t take him long to push the smooth fabric up to your waist. “Sylus—” Your voice is cut off by the torturous glide of his cock up the length of your pussy, a small warming before he shoves it in all the way. He lets out a low grown as the friction begins to intensify, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he fucks you from behind. He’s going so fast that you have to make a conscious effort to catch your breath, the ecstasy of his length sliding against your walls turning your brain into mindless mush. You’ve never heard him make sounds this loud before. He uses his right hand to lift your leg up, giving himself a better angle to pound into your pussy as you bounce your ass against his groin. “Good girl… You’re so wet for me…” he hums as you arch your back and somehow make him even bigger than before. At last, he pulls you in with such force that his tip rubs against your deepest spot, and it’s enough for both of you to come undone. He shudders as his warm, sticky cum fills you, forming a puddle on the bed that you’ll have to clean up in the morning. He sure as hell wouldn’t be able to. Not even an earthquake could wake him from the sleep he just seamlessly fell into. “I’m going to kill you tomorrow, you hear me?”

You’re being pushed. Repeatedly. Something or someone is slamming against you in your sleep. “Hey, stop that—” You turn to see Rafayel naked in your bed, his erection so obvious that you can see it in the pitch black room. He’s dry humping you with a pathetic eagerness that almost makes you feel bad for him. “Woah there, I just woke up, Raf…” But the pleasure spiking in your core was undeniable. Why was the sight of Rafayel panting like a dog in heat so…hot? He roughly yanks your pants down to your knees and gets on top of you, forearms braced on either side of you. Precum glistens on the tip of his dick as he quickly inserts himself between your folds, and it isn’t long before he begins thrusting into you with no intentions of stopping. You grip the bed sheets as his crotch rubs against your clit, his labored moans and whispers in your ear sending you into overdrive. “Fuck, you’re so tight…” You bite your bottom lip and arch your back, the new angle allowing him to hit your g-spot and making you see stars. So many dirty, sinful thoughts come to mind with his cock between your legs, but you can’t quite grasp any one of them—not while he’s mercilessly fucking you. “Raf… I’m going to—” He grabs your ass with both hands and lifts your hips up, his cock driving into you with full force as you cry out and beg for him to go faster. Finally, with one last powerful thrust, he cums deep into your pussy, thick pools of white dripping down your thighs as he twitches and writhes in pleasure. He smiles down at you rather ridiculously before slumping into a tired heap on top of you, and you have to hold back a smile of your own as you roll your eyes. “Never know what to expect with this one.”

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

2K notes · View notes

sloaneispunk · 3 months ago

Text

“friend or foe”

soft!frontman (hwang in-ho) x you

when frontman joined the games, he thought it was solely to see gihun fail, but his intentions shifted when a certain player number 455 caught his attention…

⋆♱✮♱⋆ ──── 〇 △ □ ──── ⋆♱✮♱⋆

part one

after the first round of voting, half of the room was left speechless, how could majority have voted to stay? the games were inhumane and above the top, was the money worth it anymore?

you headed up back to your bed where you could see everything clearer. the ‘o’s cheering loudly while the ‘x’s stood still as the air hung heavily upon them. then, you saw the player that had caused the majority to overule the ‘x’s… player 001.

he was a tall middle aged man with astonishing features. his hair somehow still styled neatly on his head, leaving only a few strands out of place. his lips curled into a small smirk as he walked past the crowd and seemingly back towards the bunk beds.

you must have been staring for too long because 001 suddenly halted, causing you to lean further down to see what had caused him to stop in his tracks. suddenly, his head snapped up, looking right up at you with that same expression on his face.

‘shit’ you cursed as you threw yourself back onto the bed, back hitting the cold mattress within seconds.

suddenly, a face appeared at the side of your bed, causing you to let out a scream as your hands flew to your mouth, shufflig towards the other end of the bed.

“hi there.”

there he stood, right there at the other end of your bed. player 001’s brown eyes looked so innocently into your own, he now had a bigger, more geniune smile on his face as he waited for a reply.

“you scared me.” you breathed out, still not moving from the edge.

“i’m sorry i didn’t mean to. i noticed you were alone earlier, i hope you don’t mind if i join you since we’re both by ourselves in here.” 001 said with a calm and gentle voice.

“uh.. yeah-”

“i apologise if i’m being too pushy, i just thought a young, pretty girl like you being here alone could be risky. i wanted to make sure that you were alright.” he interrupted. “my name is young-il.”

he stretched out his hand towards you, waiting for your hand in to shake his.

“i’m y/n, nice to meet you.” you replied, still skeptical, but nevertheless you showed your appreciation with a handshake.

oh, right then and there. with your hand in his, the frontman in disguise was heating up. he craved so much more then merely your hand in his. he wanted to touch every part of you, leaving nothing that he had not savoured.

he was brought back into reality when you pulled your hand back, staring at him, waiting for the charismatic man to say yet another inviting sentence to draw you in more.

“i’m afraid i didn’t notice you during the first game.” young-il said.

you shifted on the bed, moving towards the headrest as you beckoned him to the empty space in front of you which he gladly complied.

“during red light, green light?” you asked and he nodded. “i was at the front, guess i didn’t want to take the risk of lagging behind.”

“you must have completed the game pretty fast then.” he stated.

“i had a few minutes left, i spent it trying to help those who were falling behind.” you shrugged.

there it was. that kindess, that compassion. it was exactly what he was looking for. right now he was the big bad wolf licking his lips as he sat watching his prey.

“you have a kind heart, y/n. how did a girl like you end up in this place?”

“just mixed around with the wrong people i guess, i plan to start a new when i get out of here.” you said, full of hope, making him grin.

the two of you spent the night talking, getting closer with every hour that passed. the more young-il talked to you, the more he felt the need to dive deeper, there was so much he wanted, no, needed to know about you. all he needed was time to earn your trust and he would have everything in his control. when you had fallen asleep, young-il checked the surroundings, ensuring that everyone was fast asleep before he walked up towards the masked guards.

“make sure every single one of you nutjobs get this message. whatever you do, do not hurt player 455. if i find a single scratch on her, i will kill you all myself. is that clear?” young-il whispered but was still somehow stern enough for the guards to be taken aback with fear.

things were starting to change with the frontman’s plan, but he could adapt to change right?

⋆♱✮♱⋆ ──── 〇 △ □ ──── ⋆♱✮♱⋆

part two

the next day you were awoken by the cheerful song being played on the speakers.

“good sleep? you dosed off halfway during our talk last night.” young-il, chuckled, sitting on the edge of your bed, extending his hand out for you to take.

“were you here all night? my god, you should’ve went back to your bed! you didn’t sleep?!” you scolded as you took his hand.

he let out a laugh and helped you onto your feet.

“it’s no worries, y/n, i wasn’t tired.”

“so you watched me like a creep while i slept?”

“i- y-yeah, no! i mean n-no-”

“i’m kidding.” you cut the poor man off, “thank you.”

“yeah, of course.” he replied. “c’mon, let’s see what game we’re playing today.”

“ladies and gentleman, please follow in an orderly fashion to your next game.”

as you and young-il followed the crowd into the colorful, long, windy staircase.

“what if the next game is difficult, young-il?” you asked, following behind as he kept you close even when walking.

“hey, it’s okay, nothing will happen to us. i’ll make sure of it.” he smiled, pausing in his steps momentarily for you to walk beside him.

⋆♱✮♱⋆ ──── 〇 △ □ ──── ⋆♱✮♱⋆

part three

when you entered the room, you realised it was much smaller than the room for ‘red light, green light’. this one however, had two large rainbow circles on the floor and 5 tables spaced equally around.

“this game will be played in groups of 5, the game will commence in 10 minutes.”

your eyes shot to young-il. before you could say anything, 3 men came up to you and young-il. “hey man, would you want to join our group?”

3 men stood behind young-il, player 390, player 388 and player 456.

“why not? me and y/n can-”

“oh… we were looking for a team of men.. i’m sorry but your friend can’t join us.” player 390 interrupted.

“no.” young-il said sternly. he wasted no time arguing and instead took your hand and walked away.

after searching for other groups that would take you both in, you realised it was useless. no one really wanted a girl in their group and you couldn’t blame them. you stopped and sighed, causing young-il to turn around.

“young-il, it’s useless. you should join them. i’ll find others, we don’t have time.” you sighed, beckoning him to leave before time ran out for the both of you.

“no. i can’t garuntee your safety that way.”

“you don’t have to. it’ll be fine i’ll see you when the game is over.”

“c’mon, y/n i-”

“miss?” a voice said from behind you. “we need one more person for our team, would you want to join us?”

it was a sweet old lady, behind her stood 2 girls, player 120 and player 095.

“mom did you find someone?” a man jogged towards the old woman. “oh great, okay just in time.”

“come dear, who says women can’t win this stupid game.” she grumbled, taking your hand and leading you towards her group.

“i’ll be fine.” you smiled, leaving young-il standing alone with worry in his eyes. with much hesistation, young-il let you go, joining the team of men without you.

“you, hey! come join us! let’s win this!” player 456 cheered, inviting young-il back into the group.

“time is up, please sit down in your groups… this is a six legged race where you will have to complete 5 mini games individually while being chained to each other. the games played will be ddakji, flying stone, gonggi, spinning top and jegi. please order yourself in which you will be playing the games in.”

a sense of unease set in in young-il. he searched the room to find you. even if he was worried, he couldn’t show it on the outside, it would be too risky for you and for him. he remained calm as he scanned the room for you, eyes eventually landing on your face from across the room.

⋆♱✮♱⋆ ──── 〇 △ □ ──── ⋆♱✮♱⋆

part four

“we’re lucky we have many girls in this team! which games are you familiar with?” the old lady asked, looking at you.

“oh i’m not really sure, why don’t you guys pick first?” you replied embarrassed, an awkward smile plastered on your face.

as the others discussed which game they were going to play you looked around, searching for young-il once more. when you finally spotted him at the far end, you gave him a small smile and a wave, seeing how he was already looking at you.

“so i’ll play ddakji, your son will play flying stone, ma’am you’ll play gongi, ms 455 will play spinning top and ms 120 you will play jengi. is that alright?” player 095 said, looking around for approval from the group.

when the game started, your team was the first. you took your place on the rainbow with your team, all equally as nervous as you were.

“hey we’re gonna be okay, we’ll win easily.” you said offering a smile to the team.

“yes! we can do it ladies! oh and you too son.” the old lady said.

a gunshot fired in the air, indicating the start of the game.

“hana dul! hana dul! hana dul! hana dul!” every grunted in synchronicity, moving rather quickly to the first station.

the other players were up on their feet, following around the circle as they cheered.

1. ddakji

player 095 closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

piak!

the sound of the paper slapping on the ground echoed through the room, she opened her eyes and looked down. it flipped.

“first try! let’s go!” player 120 cheered.

“pass”

“hana dul! hana dul! hana dul! hana dul!”

2. flying stone

“son, just imagine. that rock is the face of the dealer that screwed you over.” the old lady said to her son making the rest of you snicker.

“you son of a bitch! give me my money back!” the man yelled as he threw the rock. without even trying, he managed to hit the other rock down.

“pass”

“holy shit! you did it!” you exclaimed. “let’s go! quick!” you exclaimed practically jumping in place.

hana dul! hana dul! hana dul! hana dul!

3. gonggi

“come, come! sit down everyone, i need to concentrate.” the old lady said.

she picked up the first few pieces with ease, but couldn’t catch the last one causing her to start over.

that must have struck a nerve because every try after that was not a sucess.

“mom. you said you played gonggi with bullets in the korean war, you can do it.” her son said. “picture it as dad’s face-”

“you imbecile!” she yelled as she picked all the pieces up again, putting them down and picking them up once more with ease.

“pass”

4. spinning top

young-il cheered like the rest, maybe even more. he was holding his breath with every step you took. even as the frontman, he wasn’t sure why he was anxious for a player like you to win. it was very unlike him but he had to admit it felt good.

he watched as you coiled the rope around the spinning top. he could see your hands shaking as everyone’s eyes burned holes into you.

with two minutes left on the clock you trusted your instincts and drew your hand back, carefully flicking your wrist. the spinning top flew through the air, with a soft bang it landed on the ground, spinning perfectly.

“pass”

“she did it!” young-il shouted, causing a roar of cheers to erupt as your team moved towards the last and final game.

hana dul! hana dul! hana dul! hana dul!

5. jegi

“can everyone look away? i just need some concentration.” player 120 asked. everyone including your team turned to look away, even with the time left, you were shaking with fear. one wrong move and you could leave this game as easy as you came in.

everyone remained quiet as you listened for the sound of the shoe and jegi coming into contact.

“one.”

“two.”

“three.”

“four.”

“five.”

“oh! we did it! that was five!” the old woman shouted.

you looked up seeing the guard makinga circle up with his arms.

“pass”

“let’s go! let’s go!”

with that, your team was let go. relief overwhelmed you as you passed the finish line. as the guards unchained your legs, you turned to the crowd finding young-il easily.

you offered him a smile and a little wave, making him do the same.

⋆♱✮♱⋆ ──── 〇 △ □ ──── ⋆♱✮♱⋆

part five

when it was young-il’s turn his team took place at the start of the line.

“well, it’s a little sad that we don’t have an audience.” player 390 sighed.

“no, it’s good. we don’t have distractions.” player 388 replied.

throughout the game, there was one thing on young-il’s mind, getting back to you. he couldn’t wait for another of your late night conversations. the stupid smile you had when he cracked a horrible joke.

he knew that the game was designed so that there couldn’t be many mistakes made each round. when he joined it was merely for the thrill of it, also the fact that he wanted to see player 456 suffer. but now he knew he had to play the games thoroughly and right, he knew he had to do this to keep his promise to endure your safety.

⋆♱✮♱⋆ ──── 〇 △ □ ──── ⋆♱✮♱⋆

part six

you waited anxiously on your bed as more groups came in, but not young-il. it was nerve wrecking, with every group that came in, somehow the number of player became lesser. it was made clear that not everyone was made to pass.

a few minutes later, the metal door swung open again.

the final group walked in, player 456, player 388, player 390, another player you hadn’t seen before player 222 and young-il.

young-il didn’t waste any time, he jogged back to your bed, seeing your smile widen as he came close. before he had the chance to say anything, you pulled him into a hug, wrapping your hands around his neck tightly as he bent down onto your bed.

“oh my god, you did it! i was so scared, i-i was so worried-”

“hey, it’s okay. it’s okay, i was worried sick too.” he chuckled, taking a seat beside you on the bed.

“i thought the team didn’t want a girl? how did she manage to get in?” you asked, pointing to player 222 who was now with the rest, talking and laughing.

“she was heavily pregnant. we didn’t have a choice, i’m so sorry they didn’t take you in.” he apologised as you shook your head.

“it’s okay, i understand. don’t worry. i’m just glad you made it.” you said, leaning so close that you could feel his bodyheat.

“you know… when i was playing the spinningtop, i couldn’t for the life of me figure out how you did it in one try!”

“of course, an old man like you comparing yourself to me?” you gasped sarcastically, making him laugh.

“yea right, come on says the one who’s almost lying on me.”

you jerked back, you hadn’t even noticed.

“i’m so sorry, are you uncomfortable? i can mov-”

“hey, i’m playing around. come back, you can do whatever you want. i’m just a makeshift pillow for you.”

you sneered and laid your head on his shoulder, legs tangled together on the bed as you could feel the rhythm of his breathing match yours.

“thank you, young-il.” you whispered, your hand finding his, squeezing it to show your appreciation.

young-il looked down to your hand in his and raised it to his lips, giving it a gentle peck. “anytime, y/n.”

whethere he liked it or not, the game had hit a big obstacle. as the frontman he needed to balance between running the games and keeping it safe for you, and preventing player 456 from infiltrating.

even so, he knew the dangers of the next game. ‘mingle’ was one set out to kill, his plans were all falling apart. frontman realised that keeping you came with a cost, and it was one he was willing to pay.

#squid game #hwang inho #in ho x reader #in ho #inho x you #inho x reader #frontman #frontman x you #frontman x reader #squidman frontman #lee byung hun #lee byun hun x you #lee byun hun x reader #squidgame season 2

2K notes · View notes

sunni-stuff · 1 month ago

Text

All they could give you was a symbol—a medal, small yet unbearably heavy in your palm, its weight nothing compared to the grief settling in your chest. It was meant to be an honor, a token of his sacrifice.

There was no uniform, no familiar scent of oak and Ives lingering on fabric, not even remnants of his mask worn and frayed from years of use. Nothing tangible to hold onto, nothing that felt like him. Just this medal, cold and unyielding, a poor replacement for the man who had once filled your world with warmth.

The air felt thick, suffocating. Price stood before you, his head bowed, hands clenched at his sides, unable to meet your eyes. Maybe because he knew—knew that this wasn’t enough, knew that no medal, no folded letter of condolences, no words could ever replace the life that had been stolen from you.

Your fingers tightened around the medal, nails digging into your palm as if holding onto it tightly enough could somehow bridge the impossible gap between the past and now. As if it could bring him back. But it couldn’t. Nothing could.

The questions flowed before your tears. How? When? Where? Was he absolutely sure that Ghost—no—Simon, your Simon, was truly gone?

There’s a loud silence, the kind that bounces off the walls with its intensity. Gaz stares at your weeping form, or more accurately, stares through you, steeling his gaze upon you as he says—

"Confidential."

Gaz's voice was steady, but the weight of that single word shattered everything. It rendered your questions useless, left an empty void where answers should have been. There would be no closure, no understanding of why—just a truth you weren’t ready to accept.

Johnny shifted uncomfortably beside you, his fingers tapping restlessly against his knee before he spoke. “His pension… it’s there for you.” His voice was gentler than usual, words carefully chosen, but they felt hollow.

As if money could ever fill the gaping wound Simon left behind.

Your gaze flickered toward the stairs, toward the only piece of him that remained—the little one asleep upstairs, curled beneath a starry blanket, blissfully unaware. Too young to understand that his father would never be coming home. Too innocent to know that the world had just taken something irreplaceable from him before he even had the chance to hold onto it.

Loss had never felt so deafening.

He was gone. Just like that.

The one who had carved his name onto your heart with stupid jokes that always made you roll your eyes, with brown eyes that saw through every guarded piece of you—vanished. No warning. No final words. Just a pebble sinking into still water, disappearing beneath the surface while the ripples of his absence spread endlessly outward, touching everything, unraveling everything.

His absence wasn’t just an empty space—it was something alive, something that pressed against you from every direction, filling in the cracks he left behind. It clung to the air, heavy and unshakable, an echo of him that refused to fade. And it was everywhere.

The house still smelled like him. Coffee and cedarwood, the faint trace of his cologne that had seeped into the fabric of the couch, the sheets, the very walls. His mug sat abandoned in the sink, a ghost of a morning that would never come again. His jacket hung by the door, his shoes still beside yours, untouched. As if he had only just stepped out, as if he might walk back in at any moment.

It was absurd, really, how the world dared to keep spinning when yours had come to a violent halt.

Grief wasn’t loud, not like they made it seem in movies. It wasn’t a storm of screaming and crying, not always. Sometimes, it was the unbearable silence that pressed against your chest in the middle of the night, where his warmth used to be. It was waking up and, for one blissful second, forgetting—only to remember again with a force so brutal it stole the breath from your lungs.

And what were you supposed to do now? Go on? Move forward? How, when every step away from this moment felt like a betrayal? Like you were leaving him behind in a past that no longer existed, while you were forced to exist in a future he would never see?

For the first few months, you put one foot ahead of the other, treading through grief as if carrying a wounded soldier through combat. Each step was heavy, weighted with loss, but you took them anyway—because what else was there to do? Grief wrapped itself around you, clinging like a second skin, suffocating yet familiar, a constant presence in the quiet spaces he used to fill.

But so did hope.

Faint at first, like a flicker in the dark, barely there. It lived in the steady rise and fall of your son’s chest as he slept, in the way his tiny fingers curled instinctively around yours. It was in the mornings you forced yourself to wake up, in the days that stretched forward even when you wanted time to stop. In the darkest nights, when the weight of loneliness pressed down on you like a suffocating fog, you held onto his words, the ones he whispered against your skin, against your lips, when he was still here—I’ll always come back to you.

You'll stay waiting.

Every night, every morning. Through birthdays and quiet moments at the dinner table, through the scraped knees and bedtime stories. You told Leo his father was out there, fighting his way home, that one day he’d walk through that door like no time had passed. You painted a picture so vivid, so real, that sometimes—just sometimes—you could almost believe it yourself.

And Leo, with his father’s sharp eyes and your steady heart, listened. He never questioned. He never doubted. He simply *believed*, because you did.

Even as the years passed, as his baby fat melted away into the angular features of a young man, as his voice deepened and his stance mirrored the quiet strength of a man he never met, you held fast and he never once asked you to stop telling those stories.

Simon would return.

He had to.

And until he does, you'll wait, even if your skin begins to wrinkles and your memory begins to fade.

You were told to let go, that your endless waiting would be for naught, that the man you called your husband wouldn’t be stepping through the front door anymore. Some were gentle in their suggestions, others blunt, but they all carried the same message—move on. Remarry. Start over.

They didn’t understand.

No man could ever be Simon Riley.

You shut it down swiftly, time and time again. To every well-meaning friend, every hopeful stranger, every persistent suitor—you made it clear. You were not interested. You were still happily married. The ring on your finger was proof of that, a quiet testament to a love that neither death nor time could erase. Your beating heart, steady and unyielding, was an extension of the hope you carried deep inside, the belief that somehow, somewhere, Simon was still with you.

The years pressed heavy on your shoulders. Doubt crept in like a shadow, whispering cruel what-ifs in the dead of night. But you refused to acknowledge it. Instead, you clung to his words, the ones he left behind, spoken in the deep rasp that had once been your home. Words of love, of promises made, of a future you had built together.

And so, you waited. Not because you were lost in grief, not because you were afraid to move forward, but because love—real, true love—did not simply fade.

Because he never lied.

And if he wasn’t back yet, it only meant one thing.

He was still trying to find his way home.

Your endless rejections stirred whispers in the neighborhood. Boys—never men in your eyes, not with their arrogance—took turns trying to woo the widow who remained steadfast in her belief that her dead husband would return. They called you insane for waiting on a ghost, convinced that one of them should rightfully claim the hand of someone as beautiful as you. But if your cold no wasn’t enough to deter them, Leo was.

Your son stood tall, a quiet force of nature. His glare alone was enough to send would-be suitors scurrying, the cold glint in his eyes promising consequences for anyone foolish enough to try and take his father’s place. Yet, for you, his mother, that steel melted into something soft. Devotion ran deep in his veins. Whether by your side or not, he was always protecting you.

That much was clear when, on his way home from school, he was stopped by Anthony—the worst of them all. Ruthless, persistent, always flanked by lackeys who clung to his every word. Leo tried to sidestep him, choosing to ignore the man who had been a thorn in your side for years. But then, Anthony’s voice cut through the air, crude and dripping with mockery.

"When is your tramp of a mother gonna find a new husband?”

Leo froze mid-step. The words, crude and venomous, burned into his mind, igniting something primal deep in his chest. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he slowly turned to face Anthony.

The older man smirked, arms crossed over his chest, flanked by his usual lackeys who snickered behind him like hyenas waiting for a kill. They had always been vultures, circling, waiting for you to break under the weight of grief and loneliness. But you hadn’t. And neither had Leo.

He met Anthony’s gaze head-on, eyes sharp and unyielding. “Say that again,” Leo challenged, his voice eerily calm, the kind of calm that sent a chill through the air.

Anthony scoffed, stepping forward, puffing up his chest as if his age alone would be enough to intimidate Leo. “You heard me, kid. Everyone’s sick of watching her waste away, waiting on a dead man. She needs someone real.” His lips curled, voice dipping into something cruel. “You need a father.”

The crack of Leo’s fist connecting with Anthony’s jaw echoed down the street. The man stumbled, caught off guard, his cronies recoiling in shock. Leo didn’t stop. His knuckles struck again, again, fury pouring out in sharp, brutal movements. Years of biting his tongue, of standing guard while men like Anthony circled like wolves, all of it exploded in that moment.

Leo was outnumbered, but that didn’t stop him. He threw every ounce of his strength into his punches, his breath ragged, his body shaking—not just with rage, but with something deeper. Something that had been buried since the day his father disappeared. The bruises blooming across his skin were nothing compared to the weight he carried on his shoulders.

Then, suddenly, he was yanked backward. A strong grip seized his collar, wrenching him away from the fight. Leo's head snapped back, his teeth bared, ready to snarl at whoever dared to interfere—until he saw him.

Uncle Price.

The older man's weathered eyes were dark with anger as they took in the scene before him. He didn’t need to raise his voice; the look he shot at Anthony and his crew was enough to make them hesitate, stepping back just enough to feign innocence.

"Come on, son," Price said, voice firm but steady.

Leo exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted his bag. He cast one last glare at the group, knuckles still throbbing, heart still pounding. But it didn’t matter.

He had a home to get back to. A mother to protect.

You were devastated when Leo came home, his face a bloody mess. The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs. Without thinking, you rushed to him, a damp cloth in hand, gently cradling his face as you pressed it against his bruises.

Your lips parted, ready to demand what had happened—but the look in his eyes told you everything.

This was the consequence of your refusal. Of your unwavering devotion to a ghost. They wouldn’t come for you. No, they would take their anger out on your son—the boy who had done nothing wrong, who only wanted to protect you. The thought turned your stomach.

You couldn't allow this to continue.

So, in the days that followed, you devised a plan. A challenge.

If the men wanted to prove themselves worthy, they would have to earn it. Earn being your husband. Bring back game—the largest boar they could find. But there were conditions. It had to be taken down with a single shot, clean and precise. And it had to be done using the same model as your husband’s prized hunting rifle. No knives. No second chances. Just one bullet.

However, you knew—none of them had a shot that clean. Not these half-men who could barely hold a rifle, let alone wield it with precision. Their hands were too soft, untouched by real work, never having held anything heavier than their own egos.

They would try, of course. Driven by pride, by the foolish belief that brute force could replace skill. But you had no doubt—each one would fail.

Maybe then, they would finally understand.

Much to your surprise, over the course of weeks, some of them actually tried. And, as expected, they failed spectacularly.

One managed to hit himself in the nose from the recoil, clearly never having held a rifle in his life. Another showed up at your door grinning ear to ear, proudly presenting a pig instead of a boar. You slammed the door in his face without a word.

Anthony was the one who nearly had you convinced—his boar was of fair size, impressive even. But one look at the wound told you everything you needed to know. The bullet hole was too wide. A different rifle. A different shot.

The door slammed in his face, too.

This little game of yours went on for some time, keeping them preoccupied and keeping them far away from you and your son. That's what mattered.

Days after his rejection, Anthony grew restless, his anger festering like an open wound. He was a storm barely contained, his temper so volatile that even those who usually followed him began to keep their distance.

Seated at the bar, he gripped his drink so tightly it was a wonder the glass didn’t shatter in his hands. Around him, the air was thick with frustration—every man in this room had either failed in their attempts to win your hand or was still trying. Their collective agitation simmered beneath the weight of another humiliating failure.

Anthony’s voice slithered through the murmurs of the bar, wrapping around the ears of every man who had tasted rejection at your hands. His knuckles flexed, still white from how tightly he had gripped his drink moments ago.

"Can't you guys see we're being played?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the murmur of the room like a blade. He sneered, his lip curling. "How she holds us down while her bed gets colder. Holds us down while that boy gets bolder?"

The flickering candlelight caught the edge of his grin as he leaned forward, watching their faces twist with realization.

"Here and now, there's a chance for action."

That was the hook. He had them now. A shared glint of hunger flashed in their eyes, their minds shifting in unison. Some sat up straighter, others exhaled slow and deep, as if steeling themselves for the promise of something wicked.

Anthony pushed himself up onto the table, boots thudding against the wood. He stood tall, eyes dark and wild, his tone dropping to a low whisper despite the fact that every soul in the bar was already watching him.

"I say, we deal with the kid first. When he walks back from school tomorrow, we hold him down."

A pause, letting the weight of those words settle over them like a shroud. His grin widened, teeth flashing in the dim light.

"We hold him down while I break his pride, his trust, his faith—" his fingers flexed, miming a snap, "—and his bones."

A slow, creeping murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. The men weren’t just listening anymore. They were envisioning it.

"We cut him down into tiny pieces," he continued, voice thick with malice, "then throw him where she'll never know."

A few heads nodded. Some sipped their drinks, lips curling with a sick sort of anticipation.

"And when she wonders where her dear son has gone, only the earth and the trees will know."

A hush fell over them, as if nature itself was listening, horrified.

"When the deed is done, she'll have no one to stop us from breaking her door. No one to stop us from taking her love..." He let the last words drip from his lips, dragging them out like poison.

"And more."

If any of these men had an ounce of sense—if they had learned from the old tales whispered by their grandfathers about watching the dark, about never turning their backs on the unknown—they would have known to be afraid. They would have felt the weight of something beyond their understanding, lurking just outside the glow of the dim lights.

But none of them did.

None of them noticed the figure standing in the corner, veiled in shadow, unmoving, listening. None of them realized that the dark had teeth, nor that it had been waiting.

Anthony barked out a laugh, a cruel, vile thing that reeked of arrogance. The devil inside him knew no limits, no fear. "Tomorrow, my frien—"

The words barely left his tongue before the gunshot cracked through the air, a sharp and deafening roar.

The bullet found its mark with merciless precision, punching straight through his throat. His body jolted, hands flying up as if to claw at the gaping wound before his knees buckled, sending him collapsing onto the table. Blood gushed, dark and pooling fast, soaking into the wood.

The bar plunged into silence.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

They all stared, wide-eyed and frozen, at the lifeless husk of the man who had been standing, laughing, just moments ago. His glass, still half-full, teetered on the edge of the table before toppling over, the liquid spilling into the growing crimson.

Then—movement.

Eyes flicked toward the corner, toward the place where something had lurked unseen. A figure moved, gliding toward the light switch, silent as death itself.

The room plunged into darkness.

Gunfire.

It erupted like a storm, a relentless barrage that tore through the heavy air, each shot finding its home in flesh and bone. The men barely had time to scream. Shadows danced with the flashes of gunshots, their shapes twisting and writhing like specters, like the very vengeance that had come to claim them.

Retribution had arrived. And it showed no mercy.

Bodies lay sprawled across the floor in twisted, unnatural positions, men crumpled in their final moments, their faces frozen in shock and agony. Those still alive—those still breathing—scrambled in the chaos, tripping over their fallen comrades, their movements frantic, uncoordinated.

One of Anthony’s right-hand men, a stocky figure with a buzzed head, his eyes wide with panic, reached for a pocket knife. His fingers fumbled in desperation, clumsy as the adrenaline surged through his veins, his body bracing for a fight he knew he was never going to win. His hand was shaking, but he gripped the hilt with a last-ditch hope, his stance poised for the slash—except it never came.

A blade—cold, precise—pressed against his neck, the tip sinking into the flesh just below his ear. The faintest shift of pressure, and it would be over. The edge of the blade kissed his carotid artery, the promise of death within a breath.

He froze, eyes wide, unable to even speak as the weight of the situation crushed him. His body trembled as the reality hit—there was no escape, no hope of survival. Not anymore.

"I’m sorry!" he gasped, his voice trembling with desperation.

His hands shot up in surrender, palms facing out, a desperate plea for life. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. The blade remained at his throat, unwavering, a constant reminder of his impending fate.

A scoff brushed against his ear, low and humorless. The sound alone sent ice down his spine. Slowly, with the caution of a man facing the reaper himself, he turned his head just enough to see—

Those eyes.

Weathered, sharp as broken glass, burning with a vengeance too deep to be mortal.

A ghost.

A man they had long thought dead.

The knife against his throat pressed just a little harder, just enough to let him feel the edge of death. His pulse pounded beneath the steel, his breath coming in frantic, uneven gasps.

He swallowed hard, sweat beading at his temple. He had been so sure Simon was dead. They all were. It had been years—too many years. The man they had spoken of in past tense, the man whose wife they had planned to take like a prize, was supposed to be gone.

But here he was.

And the look in his eyes…

Those were not the eyes of a man who had merely returned. They were the eyes of something risen from the grave, something that had crawled its way out of hell itself.

“Please,” the man whimpered again, his hands trembling in the air. “Please, have mercy.”

A scoff. Low. Cold.

"Mercy?" Riley's voice was rough, hoarse from years of silence, of waiting, of watching from the shadows. "You want mercy?"

The man could only nod, his throat too tight for words.

Riley leaned in, just enough for the stench of blood and sweat to mix between them. His grip on the knife never wavered.

"You were gonna take my boy from me," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, yet it carried more weight than any gunshot. "Hold him down. Cut him into pieces. Make his mother beg."

The man's lips quivered. He tried to speak, but the words refused to come.

Riley exhaled slowly, the sound eerily steady, controlled. "You prayed on a widow. Plotted against a child. And now you’re askin’ me for mercy?"

The man's whole body shook. He opened his mouth to beg, to say anything—

But the blade slit his throat before he ever got the chance.

A wet gurgle bubbled from his lips as his knees buckled, and he hit the floor, his hands grasping at the wound in a desperate, useless attempt to hold in what was already lost.

Simon stepped back, his expression unreadable, watching as the life drained from the man's eyes.

Then, silence.

The only thing left in that bar was death.

The rain was a heavy, persistent downpour that splattered against the windows, casting an eerie, wavering glow across the room. The knock came again, soft but insistent, like a warning or a plea. It tugged at you, pulling you from the safety of your quiet home, the stillness of the night broken by this unexpected disturbance.

The rain pounded relentlessly against the windows, its rhythmic assault filling the silence of the house like a constant whisper. The storm outside was a living thing, roaring in the night as though it, too, were trying to get your attention. And then that knock. Soft at first, almost imperceptible under the storm's roar, but then again, louder, more urgent, as if something—or someone—knew you were inside, knew you were awake even though the rest of the world seemed to be asleep.

You hesitated, standing at the base of the stairs, your eyes glancing at Leo, curled up on the couch, oblivious to the world around him. He looked so peaceful, his steady breathing a stark contrast to the storm. You could feel your chest tighten as a wave of protectiveness washed over you. Quietly, you crossed the room and covered him with a blanket, smoothing the fabric over his slouched form as you whispered a prayer under your breath for his peace, for his safety. You didn’t want to leave him, didn’t want to risk something happening to him while you were gone.

But that knock—it pulled at you. It felt like a summons, a call from somewhere deep within your soul, urging you forward, pushing you away from the comfort of your quiet home. With a soft sigh, you moved toward the door, the floor beneath your feet creaking with each step. The coldness of the wood seemed to bite into your skin as you walked past Leo, your steps careful and measured, as if the house itself was trying to hold you back, to keep you safe.

When you reached the door, it stood like a shadow before you, dark and looming. The doorknob was cool in your hand, as though it had been waiting for you to open it. You paused, your heart hammering in your chest, a knot of unease twisting in your stomach. It was an unnatural feeling, a sense that something was not right, that this moment was different from all the others before it. Another knock came, more forceful, more demanding.

Something inside you stirred, and with a shaky breath, you turned the knob. The door opened slowly, the creak of the hinges loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Standing before you, drenched to the bone, was a man—a shadow of a person. His clothes were stained in dark red, the blood soaking through the fabric in patches, his hair matted and wild, blown in odd directions by the wind. His face was pale, a look of exhaustion and pain etched across it, yet there was something eerily familiar about the figure in front of you. His body swayed slightly, as though he didn’t have the strength to stand on his own.

But it wasn’t the blood, nor the state of him that caught your attention. No, it was the nose. That crooked nose, bent in a way that only one person in your life had—one person you hadn’t seen in years. A person you’d thought lost to time, to memory.

The tears welled up in your eyes before you could stop them, the sobs catching in your throat. The man’s eyes—wide, filled with a pain you couldn’t quite place—met yours, and in that moment, your body went cold, then warm, then cold again.

It was him.

The man you've been waiting for.

Your arms wrapped around him without a second thought, the years of waiting, of hoping, of believing that Simon would somehow return, crashing into you all at once. The blood staining his clothes, the heavy scent of sweat, dirt, and blood—none of it mattered. He was here, in front of you, breathing, alive.

“Simon,” you whispered his name like a prayer, clutching him tighter as though he might slip away if you let go. Your fingers dug into his back, feeling the cold chill of his skin beneath the wet fabric. It wasn’t real, you told yourself. This couldn’t be real, could it? But the steady beat of his heart, the warmth radiating from his chest, told you it was.

He was home.

The words barely formed on your lips, your throat tight with emotion as you lifted your face to meet his. His eyes were distant, clouded with confusion and pain, but there was recognition there—faint, but it was enough. His arms, weak and trembling, slid around you, holding you with a sense of desperation that mirrored your own.

“I—I never stopped waiting for you,” you whispered, voice shaking. Tears ran down your face, unbidden, falling into the rain-soaked fabric of his shirt, but you didn’t care. The only thing that mattered in that moment was that Simon was here. He had come back to you, to the family he had left behind. Your heart, which had once ached with the loss, now soared with the joy of his return.

He didn’t say anything at first. There was a beat of silence where all you could hear was the heavy rain, the sound of his shallow breathing, and the thudding of your heart. He was here, alive, but something was off. He wasn’t the Simon you remembered. He was different—haunted, broken. His fingers gripped your arms, his touch gentle yet firm, as if afraid to let you slip from his grasp.

“I never… I thought you were gone. I thought you were dead,” you murmured, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “I never gave up on you, Simon. I knew you were out there.”

The way he stiffened in your arms made you pull back slightly, your hands still on his chest, your eyes searching his face. The blood, the grime, the weathered look of him—he was a far cry from the man you had kissed goodbye all those years ago. The memory of his mission, the last time you had seen him before the war had swallowed him whole, gnawed at your mind.

“I—I didn’t want you to wait for me,” Simon finally rasped, his voice raw, broken. His words trembled in the air, caught between a confession and regret. “I never meant to come back like this…”

You shook your head, brushing his hair from his face gently, as if touching him could somehow undo all the pain of the years you’d spent apart.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm that raged inside you. “You’re here. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

But even as you spoke, something in his eyes flickered, a shadow passing over them, making you wonder if this was truly the Simon you had known. Had the years away from you broken him too? Had they taken away more of him than just his body?

But before you could ask, his hands reached up, cupping your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as though he were memorizing your features, like you might disappear at any moment.

“I won’t leave you again,” he whispered his promise hoarsely, his voice full of something too raw to name.

“Good,” you murmured, leaning into his touch, your own hands trembling as they cradled his face, pulling him closer. "Because I’ll never let you go again."

For the first time in years, you felt whole. Simon was home, and despite the blood, the rain, and the years apart, nothing else mattered and when Leo awoke, the unfinished chapter in their lives for so long would finally close.

-- Dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #happy valentine's day #anyone who can tell what this is based off of gets a kiss

1K notes · View notes