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j0kers-light · 1 day ago

Note

My work here is done then 👩🏽‍💻

Chaos, I beg you, for my mental health, you NEED to write something about J with a suit like this

https://www.tumblr.com/dollshobby/756250101826142208?source=share

It's not a whim, it's a necessity

His Lighthouse: Friendly Fire (LedgerJoker x f!reader)

Friendly Fire - Oneshot

KEEP IN MIND THIS IS NOT A CHAPTER UPDATE!

Hey hi my beloved anon!!! I heard your cries, albeit was several months too late. Your patience is impeccable because JULY? 😫😫 ma’am. You can sue me at this point.

Anyhoo...

I NEEDED TO WRITE THIS or risk being haunted for the rest of my days *activates my inner slut* Here's the action figure in question. I would fall to the floor with my legs spread open if J came home in this suit. Like, look at him. He’s a slut! How dare he put this on!? How do I take it off? 🤔 I indulged wayyy too much writing this. 🖤✨

Let me know if you wish to be added to the official His Lighthouse taglist! Be alerted with any oneshots and the main story updates!

The entire purpose of living on the top floor was the added layer of security it created. No one could suddenly pop in and disrupt your peace without you knowing about it beforehand.

You kept the balcony doors locked this late at night and no one knew about the secret access point in your storage room. The only logical way into your apartment was through the front door. You didn’t want to jinx yourself; this was Gotham City after all.

If a criminal wanted to scale the steep twelve stories up to your apartment, you couldn’t stop them per se. Perhaps just question if they were superhuman and look at them sideways.

As it stood, you were relatively safe in your glass tower just the way you liked it.

Joker left earlier in the day, gushing about some special shipment being delivered that he needed to sign off on, so you had the penthouse to yourself for a change. You didn’t mind whenever your lover was around, (there was never a dull moment with Joker), but nothing beat solitude.

Solitude helped shape you into the woman you were today. You thrived in it. With your favorite snacks and drinks in hand, you snuggled up on the couch to catch up on some reality tv.

And that’s how your day turned into night lasted.

Halfway through the evening, you got up to fix dinner for yourself, and despite being alone, you instinctively made double servings. Old habits truly die hard it seemed. You sighed and put Joker’s portion up for him to eat whenever he came home.

Who knows when that would be.

The news didn’t report anything alarming to raise your anxiety levels nor did they give any hints to his whereabouts. It must’ve been a relatively quiet night of crime and you hoped that Joker didn’t cause too much chaos while he was out. He didn’t mention any big plans of his—not like he ever would.

The less you knew, the better Joker always said. Sometimes you wished to knew something so you weren’t completely blind to his world.

If he got arrested and sent back to Arkham, you’d be the last to know and that left a sour taste in your mouth. Your anxiety wouldn’t quell so you left the tv on the news channel should any breaking news segment regarding Joker come on.

You were fighting back sleep when you spotted a shadow moving on your glass roof. You rubbed your eyes, thinking you were seeing things from being drowsy but no... you definitely saw a silhouette of a man crawling on your roof, headed towards your spacious balcony.

You weren’t expecting Joker till sunrise, and no one had any business on your roof, so you automatically went in survival mode.

Every single last safety precaution Joker drilled into your brain kicked in—starting with some common sense.

“Nope nope nopeity nope. I am not dying tonight.” you mumbled. You flung the couch blanket off of you to stand. “Not today, Satan.”

You remembered where Joker hid the nearest weapon cache in the room and quickly pulled out a gun, double checking that it was loaded.

You were glad that Joker was so paranoid about your safety and set up necessary countermeasures all over the penthouse. At first you were against all the gag clown booby themed traps concealed in your home but J ultimately won you over with a single glare.

He did not play about his Bunny’s safety. The weapons stayed.

Since he wasn’t home, you had to protect yourself until you were able to sound an alarm. Joker promised that he would rush back no matter how far to protect you, but you knew it would take him a while to get here, and that meant you were on your own.

With an unknown stranger crawling on your roof. This information did little to calm your bundle of nerves.

You could still see the figure spider crawling on the roof, getting closer and closer to landing on the balcony.

A horrid sight for your quiet night home alone and right when you were thinking of starting a new season of your favorite show. Why did weird stuff always happen to you? The city you moved to...

The soft glow from the tv was the only light in the apartment and you wanted to use that darkness to your advantage.

This intruder (fingers crossed) didn’t know the layout of your home. Unfortunately, they were male and able to overpower you. That was all fine and dandy. The loaded gun in your hand would even the score on your behalf.

You watched in trepidation as the shadow toppled over the glass sunroof, landing headfirst onto the balcony. It was not a soft landing if their audible curses floating in the air was any indication. A shame they didn’t knock themselves unconscious with the fall. That could’ve saved you a world of trouble.

You watched from your hiding spot behind the couch as they picked (or did they use a key?) open both the outdoor balcony and the indoor sunroom’s sliding doors.

Their footsteps were light as they walked through your living room with ease. Okay, maybe they did know your home’s layout. This wasn’t good. Was this a planned hit?

Of all the nights Joker decided to step out, you have a home invasion. Why didn’t you grab your phone before you hid?!

You held your breath, counting down for the right moment to open fire.

You still had the element of surprise, especially when the intruder tripped up on your colorful ottoman—the same one that Joker always bumped into when coming home late… The similarities didn’t register in your panic induced brain. You just stood up and unloaded the clip.

The sharp crackle of gunfire echoed off the vaulted ceilings yet you still heard that familiar sound over the din. It made you immediately stop firing and gasp, “J-Joker?!”

Your annoying clown was doubled over laughing.

Never mind the fact you shot him at point blank range, why he was laughing? You knew he was insane, but this was a new level of concern.

You tossed the gun onto the couch and rushed over to check on J. “Oh my God, Joker! Are you alright?! I didn’t know it was you!!! Please don’t die!”

He wasn’t helping you in your search for his wounds. J was still rolling on the floor, laughing at something you currently didn’t have the patience to find amusing.

Joker and his low tolerance for pain probably didn’t acknowledge the bullets. That didn’t ignore the fact you literally opened fire on him. That is, until your hands brushed over something metal where his formal suit and tie should have been.

You jerked back and scrambled to flick on the nearest lamp.

Joker was perfectly fine but you weren’t. Your brain flew south for the winter at the sight of Joker.

He had no business looking so good in a mock Batsuit. Joker’s was green in color with purple splotched accents and what suspiciously looked like blood splatter. You seriously hoped it wasn’t. Either way, J’s sleeper build was encased in full armor with a shiny gold belt to finish off the look. He looked good enough to eat.

You were biting your lip in horny silence when Joker finally lifted himself off the floor.

He flicked his tattered cape behind his back and struck a pose. “Well, well doll! I uhh didn’t know you were a straight shot! I would have pre-ferrred a welcome home kiss, not.. ya know..” he gestured to the bullet holes you placed in his armor.

A shame he just got this suit today and it was already ruined. But the way you were staring at him; his suit wouldn’t be the only thing ruined tonight.

Joker stalked his way closer to you, “Whatcha thinkin’—”

“Take it off.” you spoke over Joker.

You huffed when he didn’t comply so you set about doing it yourself. He blinked in shock as you fumbled with his utility belt, acting like a kid tearing into a Christmas present.

“Woah! Easy Bunny!” Joker blushed at your eager hands practically groping his cock. “Heh, slow down doll.”

You didn’t. You whined the longer it took you to fail at removing his armor.

When you broke a nail scratching at his chest plate, you caved. “Don’t just stand there, J! Take it off!” you shoved him, knowing that acting up would get his attention quicker.

“Y/n? What’s gotten into ya?”

“Preferably you if you would cooperate..” you snapped back. Oh. He knew that tone of yours all too well.

“Ahhhhh. I see.” Joker chuckled and pressed a button to release the hinges that covered his crotch. You didn’t waste another second. You shoved a surprised Joker back onto the couch and sank to your knees in the same motion.

Joker was speechless with the way you manhandled him although he didn’t say anything to see where you would take things. Your hands traced his hips, like a sculptor would their final work of art. You’d seen Joker way too many times to know there were no imperfections.

How was he so perfect, like your own personal Michelangelo?

“Look at this slutty little waist. How dare you walk around Gotham like a whore?!” You shook your head in disbelief until you eyed his dick standing at attention.

Without warning, you took Joker’s cock into your hands and gave it a nice long lick, from base to tip that you kissed gently.

“F__k Bunny!” Joker shouted. You peppered kisses all over J’s dick and you were rewarded with a bead of precum spurting from his reddening tip.

“Aww ya got a nice lit-le treat, why don’tcha...”

You groaned, “shut up, J” right before you swallowed inch after inch of his dick.

Your throat burned at the stretch, but it was oh so worth it. You didn’t stop until your nose bumped into his armor. Then you rested for a count of five before pulled up to take gulps of precious air and to lock eyes with J.

He was breathing heavily too—and parting his lips to speak. You did not want that.

You pushed his chest and started bobbing your head at a rapid pace. Very soon, the sound of you gagging and the obscene wet plops of your mouth around Joker’s dick was the only noise in the room, save for Joker’s groans drowning out the tv.

GCN could be broadcasting the zombie apocalypse and neither of you would care.

You felt like amazing sucking him off. He needed this after the wild night he had. Coming home to his Bunny in this bizarre horny mood, it was the perfect nightcap.

You were perfect and Joker whispered your name to try and let you know that, but you squeezed his shaft in warning and quickened your pace. He got the message. No talking. Just feel.

He could do that especially when you took him balls deep and hummed so prettily. The vibrations went straight to his brain, unplugging all vital systems.

You did need to breath so you regrettably pulled away, moaning like a slut. “I can’t believe you h-hid this from me.” you panted.

“Heh, I knew ya act like—awww fuu.. M’sorry! I ngh, n-no talkin’.. I knooow but it’s so warm Bun!”

You rolled your eyes. Joker just couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his life.

You grabbed his gloved hands fisting your upholstery and moved them to tangle in your hair. That got his attention. “Huh? Ohhhhh I couldn’t. Messin’ up my pretty girl’s hair? She’d kill me for sureee.”

He toyed with a wayward curl knowing deep down he loved wrecking your hair.

Joker respected your tedious hair routine and the strict no-touching policy to maintain its upkeep, but during sex, he just couldn’t resist. He’d pay however much for you to fix it back, he really wanted to bury his fingers into your luscious strands and tug.

You squeezed his hand. It was the green light for what he’d been dying to do. Joker grabbed a handful of your curls when you did that thing with your tongue he liked and his hips bucked up to chase after the feeling. You gagged at the unexpected thrust and it got J to thinking.

Joker caught your teary eyes staring up at him as well as your subtle nod. He loved how you were always on the same wavelength as him.

He groaned as he spread his legs wider. “Oh, thank ya Princess! Ahhh thank ya. Soooo. Very. Much!” He emphasized each word with thrust into your throat as his strong hands held your head still.

Your poor curls were Joker’s handlebars as he throat f__ked you.

A mixture of cum and spit dripped down your chin and landed on Joker’s armored thighs making the splatter painted surface shiny. You could always clean it up later.

Right now, you relaxed and let Joker use your throat for his pleasure.

It was sloppy and messy, just the way he liked it, although your pussy throbbed with neglect. She would just have to wait. You needed this and so did J.

He was talking gibberish with his head thrown back on the couch. Ugh, he looked so fine even with his greasy hair hiding his handsome features. You saw his Adam’s Apple move as he choked back a moan. Almost as if he felt your gaze, intense jade pierced your soul.

You were caught under his spell or was it the other way round?

Whether your name was uttered as a prayer or more as a warning, it didn’t matter.

Joker’s feral groan bounced off the walls as he filled your mouth with his thick load. He’d been backed up for days working on a big heist and now all of his stress was being emptied down your throat. You blinked back the ache in your jaw; your discomfort was irreverent. You would rest after Joker was satisfied.

J hissed when his dick slipped out your mouth and he was quick to bark out a “Swallow.”

You already had and was sticking your tongue out obediently for him to inspect.

Joker hummed his approval as his thumb rubbed your sore jaw. “Goooo~ooood girl.” He knew you could take it all. You hadn’t failed him yet.

You smiled and crawled your way up onto Joker’s lap.

It was a bit uncomfortable with his suit still on but he cradled you like fine China in his arms. You always felt the safest in his hold. He rubbed your back while you traced the red ha ha ha painted on his chest.

A local commercial aired on the tv as the intense moment idled back down to tranquil levels. It was Joker who broke the silence with his raspy voice.

“Mind uhh, telling me what broughT that on?” he asked.

You glanced up at Joker’s closed eyelids. You sucked the soul out of him and it was taking him longer than usual to float back down to Earth. Times like this when the moonlight poured in through the windows and hit him just right, it made you wonder.

How did you get so lucky to have this man in your life?

He cracked an eye open with a knowing gleam swirling in the green hue. Caught ya.

It made your ears bloom red in embarrassment. You genuinely did not know what came over you just now. You saw Joker in an imposter Batman suit and became feral. There was no further explanation needed.

Your mind completely forgot that you shot Joker multiple times in self defense, that’s how powerful the whore in you jumped out. Mo’Nique would be ashamed.

You buried your face in J’s chest, whining. “I dunno. You ain’t complaining.”

He loved when you got nervous; your proper grammar became non-existent. Your nose bumped against a bullet hole and it caused your guilt to come flooding back. “You sure you’re okay?” you asked.

You tapped the small indentation on his chest for context.

“Hm? Oh yeah. Didn’t even feel 'em, Light. I guess.. I should uhh a-polo-gize for scaring ya. I didn’t mean to.” He kissed your forehead before snuggling you closer to his chest.

It probably wasn’t the smartest idea to come home by crawling on the roof and whatnot, but Joker wanted to test out all the cool features his new suit had. So far, it was a sound purchase and bonus points, his Light love it. Perhaps a bit too much.

You were just full of surprises. Nothing like friendly fire between lovers and a blowjob for a Friday night in.

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bi-writes · 5 months ago

Text

there's trouble in paradise. but lucky for you, your other half would do anything for you. anything. (arranged-husband!simon x fem!reader)

previous part (recommended read, but not required)

cw: reader is described as plus-sized/curvier, dark!reader, dark!simon, unhealthy relationship dynamics (both of you are so fucked up inside), horror movie vibes, themes of obsession + possessiveness + psychopathic behavior, military criticism, mature language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, mentions of simon's canon trauma, voyeurism, smut, piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), breeding kink 18+ (this piece is very dark and includes the encouraged murder of someone innocent -> read at your own discretion)

if simon is anything, it is that he's...unpredictable. except for how he spends his mornings.

you close your eyes when you feel his warm hand on your jaw. your head tilts back, and you part your lips, knowing what will come. your hear the shuffle of fabric, and then you're kissed, a sloppy kind of kiss, a harsh tongue slipping into your mouth and tracing your teeth.

it's aggressive, his kiss. he doesn't try to savor the taste, he just takes. his teeth hit yours sometimes, but he doesn't apologize. just cradles your head in a different direction and continues to shove his greedy tongue down your throat.

you chase him when he pulls away. he chuckles, the bastard, and when you open your eyes, he stands tall behind where you sit. you smile up at him, opening your mouth obediently, and you take two of his fingers and suck. the pads of his fingers press against your tongue, and you lap at the callouses. it feels good to be full of him, in any way he will give.

you like having some part of him inside of you, always. it makes you feel whole. complete. incredibly satisfied, a cup full of liquid, blood touching your tongue.

"good morning," simon murmurs, glaring down at you almost. if you didn't know him, you'd take his expression for ire, but you know it's just the intensity of whatever sits in his chest. "worried when y'weren't in bed."

you flutter your lashes, and simon palms at your throat, bending lower. you want to nibble on his scarred bottom lip, but he holds you at such a length to keep you away. you pout a little.

"don't do tha' again," he tells you. it is a warning. someone else might take this too literally, too harshly. as if he was commanding you, and he is, sort of, but they wouldn't understand. no one would understand. "y'hear?"

you nod.

"sorry," you whisper, letting his fingers go and kissing them softly. "couldn't sleep...didn't wanna wake you."

he sniffs. he doesn't like what he hears.

"and wot do i always say?" he asks. "hmm?"

you smile a little, looking away, bashful. "that...that i can have whatever i want."

"tha's right."

you giggle, standing from your seat, turning and wrapping your arms around his neck. he picks you up from the fat of your hips, hoisting you onto the kitchen table with ease. he knocks your knees apart, stepping between them, and you cup his cheeks to kiss him easily.

"tell me," he commands. "tell me wot's on y'r mind."

you sniffle, dragging your knuckles down his masked cheek. you nuzzle your nose into his, closing your eyes, and he leans into you, wanting more. he reads you well. there isn't a flicker in your eyes that he wouldn't catch. he's too perceptive, too observant, too in-tune with what you are, which is his. it relieves you, in a way. you don't have to lie because he will always catch your dishonesty.

"how come..." you bite your lip. "y-you told me i shouldn't call you. when you're away. s-so...so i send letters to base. but...you never respond."

he tilts his head to the side, cupping the back of your neck. when he finds your eyes, he keeps them, steadying you with a firm grip.

"wot letters?"

you pull back a little, blinking up at him.

"i...i send you a letter. e-every day that you're gone. i-i...i send it to you."

he shakes his head, "swee'eart, i've never gotten a letter."

you swallow, smoothing your hands down his chest. you frown a little, looking down.

"oh..." your heart eases a little. "i...i thought you were ignoring me."

"probably just some bloke tha' doesn't know m'name," simon soothes you. "would never ignore ya. and y'know the number to call in an emergency, but i suppose 'm glad tha' you've never had ta call."

you meet his eyes. dark. purposeful. focused.

"i can take care of myself."

the letters never arrive, even after you double check their address. you show it to him the next time he comes home, the back of the envelope with the address scribbled onto it, and all he does is shrug.

"tha's me, luv," he mutters, pushing the letter aside, hoisting you up against the wall as he kisses you hungrily. "now open up," he growls, shredding your panties with a tight fist as he fucks into you eagerly. "oll f'me, missed y'r cunt..."

simon is nothing if he isn't an insatiable animal. every time he comes home, he fucks you until your vision is nearly permanently blurred with tears and your brain is defiantly turned off. he fucks you dumb, in every sense, and you think he enjoys the way he swipes your drool with a big thumb and sucks it into his mouth with a groan. maybe it tastes different, when you're brainless from another orgasm and saying things that aren't coherent, hips canted up as he continues to pound into you from behind.

but you adore it. you love it. you love him.

it's visceral, what you feel inside. it tears at something delicate. whenever you look at him, you can't help the smile, even if it's small. the way he makes you feel when you look into his eyes--it nearly chokes you. neither of you ever last long. someone always breaks the moment, moving until you are near so that you can kiss feverishly.

you both scramble to be together. when he comes home, he always attacks you as soon as the front door smacks against the wall. you've fucked numerous times on the floor in the foyer, too eager to welcome him back when he goes for weeks on end to even make it to the couch. you love when he practically tackles you to the floor, throwing you down as he gets between your legs, big hand cradled into your hair so it doesn't smack against the hardwood floor. the gesture is so sweet that it makes your eyes tear, even if he's biting at your tits so hard they nearly draw blood.

simon would do anything for you. there is nothing that crosses a boundary, no request that he would not fulfill, no crime he wouldn't commit. he's disgusting, a right prick bastard that you know would enjoy skinning the backs of someone's hands just for your very own amusement. you wouldn't call him a dog--a proper dog respects authority, acts loyal and good and cowers when they have done something wrong.

simon doesn't always listen to you, not really, you don't think he really listens to anyone. but everything he does, he does knowing it is what's best for you. he takes care of you, especially when you're too cock-dumb to make any right-minded decision. he's the center of gravity, and you are his, bringing each other back into balance when you get knocked off kilter. sometimes, this balance requires a sacrifice.

simon is all too willing to give one.

you don't blame him for that. the wiring in his head, it's a little fried, a little frayed. it isn't his fault. he's seen torture. been through it. watched comrades die, tasted his own blood and that of someone else's. he's seen the insides of someone, watched it protrude from the holes in their bodies, sometimes from his own hand. he's just a little rough around the edges, just a little scarred.

no one likes to talk about the fact that servicemen like simon are glorified serial killers. you understand this fact, and you know that if you explained it to simon, he would probably agree with you. but instead of acknowledging the reality of it, you think he might smile. he is given permission by his country, by his king, to kill under the guise of international security, for the common good.

what would we not do to protect our homeland from terrorism and warfare? what necks would we not snap? what blood would we not shed? what would we not do to protect the places where our wives lay their heads and our children play their games?

that is how he would justify it to you. he'd tell you not to worry, that heaven is an idea made up by weak men who don't have the strength to do something about their foe.

you would believe him, if he said that to you. you would smile back at him, kiss him soft, and let him fuck a baby into you just to shut you up.

but this wouldn't change a thing. it wouldn't change what he is. it wouldn't make him any less a murderer, any less a man that takes what he wants. he has a heavy hand, not just in combat, but with you. he does not ask permission, but it wouldn't matter; fortunately, you have the same disgusting urge inside of you, and you practically beg him to take from you.

although, there is one thing that separates you from him. you might carry the disease--the one that makes you indifferent to his violence, his past, his trauma, his crimes. but you don't carry the execution of it. you've never killed anyone. you've never held a gun. sometimes, when someone parks a little too close to your car, you think about what it would be like to put their head behind your tire and reverse over it, but nothing you ever do leaves the horror of your mind.

you are positively boring in that sense. lieutenant simon riley's picture-perfect good girl, his lovely wife. the one that lets him voice his horrendous crimes and sleeps just as peacefully as before because of it. no one would ever know that he's murmured in great detail about how he tortured his latest target, telling you about how he screamed quite loudly when he picked his fingernails off but was rather quiet when he carved tally marks into his forearm.

"was he, baby?" you whisper, sucking soft on the stubble around his jaw. he palms your ass gently, satisfied when he feels the way his cum drips between your folds and wets his hand. he nods, shrugging.

"fuckin' muppet. deserved wot he got."

"i know he did," you agree, nodding, reaching down and starting to pump his length, still wet from your cunt. you mewl when he starts to harden immediately, the blood rushing to his cock as you fondle his balls. "now tell me how much you missed me again..."

it isn't your fault that he gets you this wet just by talking about his aggression. it can't be. it's primal...instinct. ghost is a protector, and you are his wife--you like thinking about what he might do just to keep you safe.

you like thinking about what he might do just to keep you happy.

but you're not happy. he's gone for three weeks this time, a long stretch that leaves you a little lonely and a little on edge. you send him your letters, writing every day about how quiet it is at home, about how alone you feel and how much you miss the space he takes up in your bed. you even miss the amount of food he consumes--you're so used to cooking enough to feed four proper people just for him to scarf it all down and eat your cunt to tell you how grateful he is.

you haven't really been on base since you married; you spent a few weeks there right afterwards, in and out of his bed, practically attached to simon by the hip. it's been a long while since then. he bought you a little flat in london and gave you a nice sleek credit card, and that was that. simon doesn't care for you to spend much time on base. he thinks you too pretty and complains under his breath that you're a distraction, which you are. you're always so caught up with how hot he looks working that you end up underneath him more often than not; simon prefers you at home so he doesn't lose all his fucking energy trying to keep up with you.

you roll down your window, flashing your license at the officer there. he clicks a flashlight on, looking at it, and he swallows hard when he sees the last time there.

riley.

"afternoon, ma'am," he tells you with a nervous smile. "your husband, looks like he isn't here, he's--"

"i know where he is," you interrupt. "but he'll be back soon. just some housekeeping i need to do." you tilt your head to the side. "i don't have to call the lieutenant and tell him you're refusing me, do i?"

"n-no, ma'am."

you slam the door shut after you park, eyeing the motorcycle a few parking spots away. you sigh, clenching your jaw, before swinging your purse over your shoulder and straightening out the front of your jeans. you told him not to ride that fucking thing, the big dummy.

you pass through the offices first, and when you get nearer to where captain price and your husband sit, you stop in your tracks when you see a new little desk set up there.

there's a woman sitting there.

she's got a corded phone held between her ear and her shoulder, and she's writing on a sticky note rapidly, nodding her head as she talks to someone quietly. you tilt your head to the side, watching her, and your lip twitches just enough when she hangs up the phone and stands to put a few files away in a cabinet.

she's wearing a tiny little skirt and stockings, and you run your tongue over your teeth when you get a glimpse at the garter belt she's wearing underneath. you follow the line of her long legs to her kitten heels, and then back up to the blouse and blazer she wears. she turns around, adjusting her sleeves, and you straighten your back when you can see the lace of her black bra underneath the white blouse.

cause who the fuck wears a black bra under white at work?

you adjust your purse over your shoulder and make your way down the hallway, ignoring her as you stop in front of simon's office and look for the key on your key ring.

"oh! excuse me--excuse me!"

you stop looking for the key, turning over your shoulder. the woman is getting up from her seat, hurrying over. she's a tiny little thing, bouncing over to you with an exacerbated face.

"hey--excuse me," she puts a hand on the door. "you can't go in there."

you raise a brow.

"oh, really? why's that?" you ask. she looks you up and down a little, her smile fading a little.

"well...lieutenant riley doesn't like it when people are in his private space. and there's classified material in there, so i'll need to verify if you have the right security clearance."

she twirls a soft curl around one of her fingers, and you flash her an irritated smile.

"oh, well, i'm sure he won't mind if i go inside," you tell her, turning back. you finally find the right key, fitting it into the lock.

"hey--hey! you can't go in there! i'm serious, i'll call security," she huffs. you laugh, turning to face her as you push the door open.

"oh, go ahead," you murmur, stepping closer. you're about the same height, but her eyes are no match for your own. she's alive inside, and you are not. there are places that you can go that she would never come back from, and she flinches a little when she meets your eyes intensely. "in fact, i dare you to call security."

you drop your purse on simon's desk, rounding it and taking a seat in his chair. you open one of the drawers, rummaging through it, and you roll your eyes a little when you find a pack of cigarettes that simon had said he'd thrown out. strike two already.

lying bastard.

you're still rifling through the drawer when the office door bursts open. you recognize one of simon's sergeants, kyle, huffing his chest as he looks around the room with a glare. the woman is behind him, her arms crossed over her chest and making her breasts comically pushed up towards her chin, her eyes narrowed at you. when kyle sees you, he immediately snatches his cap off his head and takes a step back. his posture changes, his back straightening up as he assumes a near soldier-stance.

"fuck, sorry, ma'am," he murmurs. "i didn't mean to barge in that way, i--"

"it's alright, kyle," you say softly, smiling a little. "something i can help you with? simon isn't here right now."

the woman steps back, confusion on her face, and she hides doorway now, out of your sight.

"no," kyle gives you a polite, nervous smile. "apologies again."

you shake your head and shrug, standing up to go close the door. you poke your head out, and she's sitting at her desk again, her expression a little wobbly as she looks up at kyle and uses her hands as she speaks, looking utterly mortified.

"--how was i supposed to know that? she didn't introduce herself--"

"look, you just better hope she doesn't tell him about this. fuckin' kiss her arse or somethin', for fuck's sake," kyle mutters, shaking his head, and you smile to yourself as you close the door completely.

it's a few hours later, while you're smoothing a hand over a report simon has written, when the door opens. you look up from the desk, smiling immediately.

there he is.

simon cocks his head to the side, and you eye the flex of his fists in his gloves. he clicks his tongue, pushing his hood off, and you giggle when he narrows his eyes at you. he's being playful, and you stand, rounding the desk as you hurry towards him.

"well wot's this 'ere?" he chuckles, and you squeal when you jump up, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing kisses to his masked mouth, over and over again. he catches you easily.

"simon--" you thumb at his cheeks, letting out a shaky breath, and you laugh when he fists both sides of your ass, squeezing your arse in the nice denim jeans you're wearing. he hums lowly, nosing at your jaw.

"wot are y'doin' 'ere?" he murmurs, reaching up to cradle the back of your head gently with one hand. you kiss him again, feeling how warm his breath is through the mask. you close your eyes, sniffling a little.

"missed you," you whisper, massaging the nape of his neck and pressing your face into the chest of his tact vest. simon rubs at your scalp gently, soothing you.

"y'know i don't like when y'r 'ere," he mutters, and you squeeze him tighter.

"i know," you sigh. "i know...i know, i just...i-i..." you pull back to look up at him. "i-i know, i just...i--"

"'s olright," he quiets you. "not mad." he presses his mouth to your forehead, kissing it gently, and you close your eyes again. "fancy a cuppa while i debrief, swee'eart?"

"...better hope she doesn't tell him about this..."

you lean up on your toes to get closer to him, fitting your thumbs under his mask and pushing it up so you can get a good kiss. he smirks before your lips meet his, and you sigh with relief when he slips his tongue into your mouth. he tastes like cigarettes, and normally you'd tell him off for it, but instead you keen when he squeezes the back of your neck, and you open your mouth wider for him. he takes full advantage, sliding his tongue over yours before sucking on it briefly. his hand palms at the plush space between your thighs, but he knows better than to touch you right away since he's still at work. if he goes any further, he'll have some explaining to do about his punctuality.

"i love you," you whisper when he pulls away. he kisses you again, just beside your mouth, and then he grins wide.

"sit, luvvie," he mutters, nodding to his desk. "won't be long."

it doesn't bother you that he never says it back. he does love you, in his own way. he never says it, but you know it's true.

you know it.

he takes your hand, guiding you over to his desk, not letting go of you until you're sitting. he winks, catching a few fingers under your chin before making his way out. you sigh, watching him from behind, your eyes raking over his broad shoulders to his waist, the thickness of his thighs and his incredible ass. you're no better than a man in that sense, but it's your husband, and you'll ogle him all you like.

it's your privilege. and your right.

but then you catch someone else's gaze, looking at the same thing. it's her--and she's got her eyes on your man.

you suck in a breath, sinking into simon's chair, and you meet her eyes once simon is gone. you smile at her, knowingly, and she swallows hard visibly, clutching the papers she's holding to her chest and making her way to the door.

"i am...so sorry about earlier," she says timidly. "i-i...had no idea that...i didn't know--"

"it's fine," you say, your voice monotone and unyielding. "glad to know this country's secrets are kept...under great care." you stand, and she comes in, holding out her hand.

"i'll get that cuppa for you, mrs. riley, no need," she laughs nervously.

"oh, so you were eavesdropping?" you ask, and she sputters.

"oh...god, n-no, i--"

"i'm just kidding," you smile again, but it doesn't reach your eyes. "tea would be nice."

she scurries off after that, and you follow her to the door, laughing to yourself as she hurries off towards the break room. you notice the cart she was sitting next to. it's stopped at her desk, and you peek over, seeing that it's the mail. she's got the envelopes on her desk, and it looks as if she was just organizing it all to hand out.

but there's a drawer open at her desk, and your eyes narrow when you see your handwriting on the envelope stashed there.

you round the desk, grabbing the stack that you see, and you let out a shaky breath when you realize these are your letters. the ones that you write to simon, all of them, bound neatly with a rubber band. your lip trembles a little, and you hold them to your chest, blinking back angry tears as you slowly make your way back to simon's office. you shut the door, dropping the stack of letters onto simon's desk, and you think.

she's very pretty. not taller than you, but she's more...conventionally attractive. she doesn't have your plush hips, your soft tummy, but that doesn't make her a villain--but you're just aware of what she looks like, what you look like.

you've never been too insecure, especially not since marrying simon. he never fails to chub up as soon as he sees you; he's hungry whenever he sets his eyes on you, and you know he likes grabbing the extra fat around your hips and holding you. he's so gross about it, but you love it. you love the way he loves you.

but is that what he imagined when he was married? did he imagine a woman with a little more? did he imagine a woman not like you, but a little smaller, a little tinier, easier to carry?

but he can carry you. on more than one occasion, he's thrown you over his shoulder, lifted you onto a surface he then fucked you on, flipped you and manhandled you into various positions he wanted to try. he loves having you on top, loves picking you up from your hips and fucking up into you. he never strains, just grunts from the pleasure and smacks your ass. he's never given you any reason to believe you aren't the most beautiful woman, his prettiest girl, so why are you thinking this way?

no. it isn't you. it's her. it's all her fault; there is nothing wrong with you. a man like simon needs a woman like you--someone not so fragile, someone that has more.

she is without. and you are not.

the insecurity wanes. it turns into something else. not jealousy. it's anger. something hungry.

you fucking hate her.

simon comes in a few minutes later, holding a cup of tea in one hand and a manila folder in the other. he shuts the door with his boot, setting down the mug and folder before leaning over and giving your cheek a little kiss through the mask.

the way he greets you, the light touch he has on you, reminds you of what you are to him. no one else in the entire world is privy to this kind of affection. to simon's affection. it's yours, and yours alone, and if you just open your mouth and tell him what you want, you know that he will give it to you.

she is without. and you are not.

"was thinkin'--" simon stops short when he looks at your face, frowning. the recognition of something amiss is almost instant. "wot's wrong?"

you look up, meeting his eyes, and you think again.

you could say nothing. you could wipe your tears, tell him that you're just lonely and needy, and make him bend you over his desk to get the thoughts out of you. you aren't the violent kind. you're not confrontational. you have already established that you aren't the kind to lash out, to show your teeth. you have the nasty tick, but you aren't the kind to let it fester.

you blink, and simon snarls. you waited too long, and now he knows there is something else on your mind.

"oi," he snaps. "'m tolkin' t'ya."

"s-simon," you whisper, and he reaches over to grip you by the throat. he doesn't choke you, but he holds you firm, dragging you closer to him. "s-simon--"

but it's too late for her, because you're angry. the sickness has already spread.

you stand, forced to walk around the desk, coming closer. he's not happy; there's something bothering his wife, and that isn't allowed. his wife is not supposed to be upset or sad, she isn't supposed to cry unless it's tears of joy, unless her eyes are stinging and wet from how nice his cock feels. a lieutenant's wife is pampered, spoiled, nothing but pleasure and soft sheets and full tummies. it's unacceptable. it's awful, it's terrible, it's not right, and he needs to fix it.

"wot is it?"

"...better hope she doesn't tell him about this..."

"the letters--" you sniffle, leaning up on your toes, pressing your face against his. "the letters i sent you, t-the ones...you said you never got--"

"i know, luvvie," he murmurs. fuck, he can be kind when he wants to be, when it's for you. "i know, 'm sorry, 'm gonna sort it out for ya--"

"i-i found them," you interrupt, looking away. he follows your gaze to where they sit on his desk. he reaches over and picks up the neat stack, and he flips through them with a huff. he's confused, noting the dates you've written on them. it isn't even all the letter's you've sent, just a stack of the most recent ones.

"i don't--"

"they were in...they were in her desk," you hiccup. "she...she's keeping them from you, she wasn't--" you rest your head on his chest, closing your eyes, and he cradles the back of your head with a big hand. "she doesn't like me."

it's quiet for a long while. simon strokes the back of your neck, easing you into his chest. his touch is light, unbothered, but he's eerily silent as the moments pass. the rise and fall of his heavy breaths lull you, calm you, but then he wraps his fingers into your hair, gripping the strands tight. you swallow a bit from the force of his hand. the gravity of what he might feel, what it might mean, the switch you've flipped.

the thing you've unleashed.

it is the first time that you realize what simon can be for you. it is the first time that you think that it's very possible for you to use simon, to whisper soft in his ear and lick the flames of his need to bite back, his need to strike.

even if what you say is a lie, he'll believe you. maybe he'll even know it is a lie, and he'll convince himself it isn't one just to make things right again. love is blinding, and it is also forgiving. he can deal with the lie later, but not with your dissatisfaction.

"doesn't matter about how she feels about ya, y'r m'wife," he murmurs in your ear. his tone has lowered, something that makes you think this might be how he speaks to his men, the privates he can't stand and the ones that have trouble following orders. "fuckin' disrespectful--" he hisses, tipping your head back with a tug on your hair. he looks into your eyes, wild, cunning, angry. "'m gonna take care of this, swee'eart. y'hear me?"

oh, yeah. that's what you want to hear, that's what you need to hear. you flutter your lashes, mouthing at his jaw.

"i don't...i don't mean to make a fuss, simon, i--" but i do, i want it--

"oi," simon picks you up from under your thighs, dropping you onto his desk. he steps between your knees, pushing his mask up, and you mewl when he licks the tears off your face, kissing you with an open mouth. "y'listen to me..." he sucks on your bottom lip, bringing his mouth back to yours. "won't accept anyone treatin' m'wife this way. disrespectin' you is disrespectin' me. won't 'ave tha'. so look me 'n the eyes 'n tell me ya understand."

you sniffle, nodding, smoothing your hands down his forearms. he narrows his eyes, and you try not to look away from him. it isn't up for discussion. even if you ask him not to make a fuss, he won't roll over on this. there is a certain decorum simon expects anyone that reports to him to have, and if they don't grant it, he doesn't take to it lightly--not from his men, and not from pretty secretaries that didn't do their homework.

"i-i understand," you whisper, and you sputter a little when you stop yourself from saying anymore. he knocks your chin back up, keeping your eyes, and you continue with a wobble in your voice. "she...she tried to kick me out earlier, too." he tilts his head to the side, and you know not to keep a secret anymore. "when i...when i was opening your office, she...s-she didn't recognize me and...she tried to get kyle to make me leave."

he laughs a little, but there's nothing funny about it.

"'n wot did he do?"

"he said he was sorry."

"good. now lie back, swee'eart. 'm hungry, 'n my wife deserves to get her cunt eaten for being such a good girl."

you smile a little, wiping your face with the back of your hand, and he grins back at you. you giggle as he unbuttons your jeans, pulling down the zipper, and you laugh a little more when he picks you up and yanks them off your legs. he puts a hand on your chest and pushes you to lie flat, tossing your legs over his shoulders and sighing.

"missed y'r lil' pussy so much," he murmurs. "m'favorite place ta be."

just like that, the anger is gone. dissolved, sugar in warm water.

you giggle, rubbing a hand over the head of his mask. you arch your back as he mouths over the fabric of your panties, hooking a finger over it and pulling it aside to slurp at your wet folds. you let out a shaky breath, tugging on his mask a little.

"i missed you, too, simon," you whisper. "i-it's too quiet without you."

"i know, baby," he suckles at your clit, coaxing a moan out of you, and he chuckles. "mmm...want ya to cum in my mouth, luv."

you whimper, "i will, simon. anything for you."

"fuckin' hell," he hisses, "don't say shit like tha', makes me fuckin' hard."

"whatever you want, baby," you whisper, and he pushes his tongue into your little hole as punishment, making you squeal and giggle with delight. he smirks from between your thighs, dragging you just that much closer before he starts to bob his head and fuck you with his tongue. you grind against his mouth, locking your ankles behind his back and staring at the ceiling as you ride his face for your pleasure. he's so good, he's so hot, everything you want and more. he loves you, so much, and he will do anything for you.

anything.

"are you going t-to teach her a lesson?" you babble, panting, and simon hums.

"yeah, swee'eart."

"how?"

"hmm..." he smiles wide as he kisses your clit. "how do ya want me to?"

"want her gone, simon," you gasp, forcing his mouth back into your pussy, slick coating his chin. he follows your direction, smoothing his hands up your stomach, thumbing at your perky tits.

"mmm..." he's so pussy-drunk, his tongue flattening between your folds and teasing you warmly. you're so wet, slick coating your folds, and he''s starting get messy, his face glistening as he concentrates on the only task that matters. "woteva y'want, luv."

"r-really?"

"i asked ya to cum in my fuckin' mouth, and y'r about to," simon snaps. "when i say it's done, it's done. when my wife asks for somethin', she gets it, do you fuckin' understand me?"

"yes! yes--" you hiccup. you're so stupid. so dumb to think that simon would refuse a request that you make. pretty, dumb girl to think that whatever you say isn't his gospel.

you want her gone. you do. and you want simon to do it for you. you want him to stuff his fingers into your cunt with one hand and hold her at the wrong end of his gun with the other--

there's something wrong with you, right? right?

"why are y'still thinkin'?" simon growls, leaning up and over you until he can kiss you nasty. his face is soaked, and you moan when he slides his tongue over yours, practically spitting in your mouth as he slips two fingers into you with ease. "my wife isn't supposed ta think."

you let out a shaky breath, nodding, cupping his cheeks and kissing him back.

"yes--o-okay, 'm sorry--"

"stop thinkin'. nothin' ta think about when y'r mine."

and he's right. you always use your brain too much, you always end up thinking when you should just be listening, responding, letting him move your body this way and that way.

simon is always right. always.

you kiss him again, soft and shaky breaths. you reach down with one hand and wrap your fingers around his wrist, sighing as you guide his fingers until he's pressing on that little spot that makes your toes curl.

"ahhh...right there, yeah?" he smirks, and you nod, your fingers touching his lips.

"not enough," you whisper, and he tsks, shaking his head.

"never is," he mutters. "my mouth or my cock, baby?"

you giggle, and he kisses you, swallowing your laughter. you breathe into the kiss as you reach down and start to undo the button of his cargos and unzip him, palming at his bulge and squeezing it lovingly.

"not even a question," you purr between kisses, and he chuckles, deep and heavy, shoving down his pants just enough to pull himself out. you arch your back just at the sight, knowing how big he'll feel and how much he'll stretch you out. it's such a familiar feeling that you adore chasing, and you love the way your brain muddles whenever he sinks deep. your toes curl just thinking about how deep he'll get today with how wet you are. not that you aren't wet always when simon is around, but there's just something so sexy about your husband wearing all his gear and promising to rid the earth of vermin just for your contentment.

"'s alright, mama, i know 'ow much ya like bein' full o' me..." simon smooths a finger over your clit, licking his lips when he sees you clench around nothing. he slaps his tip there, watching you squirm, and he growls a little when you spread your fingers in a V and show off to him how wet you are.

"stop teasing and make me a real mama," you giggle, and simon tilts his head to the side, leaning over you.

"is tha' a challenge, m'dear wife?"

you meet his eyes, lovely and lingering, and you shake your head.

"no," you whisper, because fucking isn't a challenge, not for him. "a-a request."

he smiles, so wide, and you reach down and grip his forearms tight when he slips into you. you're dripping, a soft squelch sounding as his hips meet your thighs, and you cup his face as he settles his weight over you.

"y-you've never looked at her...have you?" you ask into his ear.

"at who, baby?"

"her," you whine. "you know w-who i'm talking about, don't play stupid, simon--"

"shh--" he clamps a hand over your mouth, hissing a little. he shakes his head, annoyed, and he shifts inside of you until he's hitting your cervix and making you cry into his palm. "'m a right bastard, baby, but tha', i'd never do." he chuckles. "got a tight arse, tha' one, but she's not you. she's not my girl."

tears prick your eyes. you're not sure if it's from the hint of jealousy that sears through your chest or the way you clench around him, but it's all too much suddenly.

he leans forward, sliding his hand off, gripping you by the throat now as he kisses you wet and hazy.

"'s y'r face i think about when 'm gone," he murmurs. "y'r cunt tha' gets me fuckin' hard. y'r fat tits that make me drool, swee'eart, ain't no one else 'n the world tha' makes me feel the way y'do, yeah?"

you hold onto him, digging your nails into his back, and he forces your eyes on his as he smiles again.

"ask the boys," simon hums. "ask 'em wot it sounds like when 'm wankin' off at night, ask 'em whose name 'm sayin'--"

"you think about me?" you whimper, and he laughs, cruel, biting his lip as he drags his cock out and then punches it back in, enjoying the way you cry, the look of your slick seeping out onto the desk and wetting his reports.

"got a nasty lil' photo 'f ya," simon smirks. "keep it right here--" he pats the spot over his heart, and your mouth opens when he squeezes your throat just a little tighter. "can finish in fuckin' seconds, baby."

"y-yeah?"

"boys like t'borrow it sometimes," he murmurs, slipping a hand down and pressing down on your lower stomach before giving you a nice roll of his lips. you squeal a little, his palm meeting the tip of his cock, and he chuckles. "ya just look so pretty, luv. johnny fancies y'r cunt, the good lad, but i think price is a fan of that fat arse--"

"s-simon--"

"gaz is such a sap--" he grits his teeth, gripping your hips with both hands, starting to give it to you a little faster, a little harder. the desk rattles a little under the force of him. "says your mouth is divine, but fuck, who can look at anythin' else when y'r cunt is out, aye?"

"t-they like me?"

simon grins, eyes bright and a little crazy. "course they do, luvvie," he runs his tongue over his teeth, tilting his head to the side as he looks down at you. "y'r a bloody sight for sore eyes. 'f ya think these boys want her, y'r mistaken--" you bite your bottom lip. you should be disgusted. you should be upset that your husband touches himself to your picture and lets his men peek over his shoulder, but you're not. you smile, eyes sparkling, and you widen your thighs to try and take him deeper. "--want you, swee'eart. want wot's mine, but they'll never 'ave it. never 'ave wot belongs ta me. can look, but they can't fuckin' touch, cos it's mine."

you moan, dragging your nails down his forearms, and he curses under his breath as he picks up the pace again. he's starving--it's been weeks without you, weeks fucking his fist to the same picture of you that barely does you any justice. he drools at night, practically choking on his spit as he thinks about you in every position, how easily he can bend you and fold you, how wet you get whenever he talks into your ear about the blood, the murder, the terrible things that stain his hands.

he knows what it does to you, when he confides in you. the truth of it all, the truth of what he really is, it makes you weak. it rattles you down to your bones, it makes your eyes roll back into your head, makes your legs squeeze together and your pretty pussy flutter. he thinks maybe you like knowing that simon is dangerous, but he'd never put a hand on you. or maybe you like just knowing that he can--that he's capable of terrible, awful things, and he chooses to come home to you.

every single time.

it's a vice. you're the vice, more than cigarettes, more than the thrill of getting onto his bike, more than the adrenaline he chases when he's outnumbered twenty to one with nothing but his throwing knives.

there's a thread between you. there's a line that connects him to you, something that has always been there, pulled taut as soon as he put that ring on your finger and gave you his name. it's the thing that always makes it hard to breathe when you're around him. it's what makes it impossible to look into his eyes and not see yourself looking right back at you. it's the terrible realization that your husband is black and blue on the inside--

and so am i.

this kind of love is different. it's not fleeting, it's not gentle. it's canine teeth tearing into skin. it's claws in something soft, ripping it apart. it's the joy in doing what isn't right, the benefit of yourself in favor of the benefit of all.

simon would burn the world for you. even if it meant you were all that was left--even if it meant that everyone in it burned, too.

the world should be grateful that simon is only taking one fucking secretary instead of them all.

when simon lifts your hips just that much, your head spins. he always fucks so good, but you're spiraling into a headspace that's making it hard to focus your eyes. you're arching your back to get closer to him, but you're at his mercy, his hands pressing on your thighs just that much to get you just a little more open, just that much more spread out, and you cry when he leans over you, the hair surrounding his cock rubbing against your clit just enough.

"ahhh--fuck, y'r so fuckin' tight, baby--" simon groans, shaking his head. "y'r gonna cum--can feel it, yeah--" he leans his head back. "y'know the rules, luvvie, know the fuckin' rules--"

you have to cum before him, he won't let you have it if you don't cum first--you're so close!

"let 'er hear ya," simon chuckles, all mean, all bite. "let 'er hear 'ow good y'r husband gives it t'ya, how well a riley takes it, let 'er hear--"

fuck, it hits you fast. you're seeing spots, floating for just long enough until you feel him fuck his cum back into you. he barely stops, quickening his pace to finish just to make it that much messier. you think he likes dirtying his desk, making it reek of sweat and musk and heat so he can bask in it later. or maybe he just wants to get back between your thighs, his favorite place in the world, the only quiet from the voices that taunt him in his head.

when he pulls out, he makes you eat it off his fingers. he pulls his gloves off, stuffs his fingers into you, and then puts them back between your lips. he hums as he stares down at you, lapping between his knuckles, and he leans down to murmur in your ear.

"gonna sort this out, luv. promise ya tha'."

he doesn't see acceptance in your eyes when he tells you this. he didn't expect to see that. there is no need to accept the things that you already know, what you already understand. simon doesn't speak in metaphors. he's not interested in riddles, and he doesn't like reading between the lines.

he sees the thrill. he sees your excitement, the joy, the warm rush of approval that washes over you, and he smiles when you lean in to kiss him, all soft, all tender, whispers of affection that make his cock hard all over again.

you want to pity the girl waiting outside. she would've lived longer if she had just shut her fucking mouth.

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