#Simon Cooper Imagine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeyinde · 4 months ago

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victory lap

“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day-old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch. “an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—” “Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. His hackles raise on instinct, everything inside of him hissing to back away. “Got something else in mind.” Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture— And all his for the night. or: John strikes a deal with young Simon Riley. his cooperation on a team they're putting together in exchange for a night with you. naturally, it goes awry.

18+ SMUT. implied noncon, dubcon. under-negotiated kink. bondage. overstimulation. size difference. size kink. messy, sweaty gross sex. rough sex. unsafe sex. mean Simon. smitten Simon. bullydom!Simon. spit kink. degradation and humiliation. young!Simon (pre-mw2019-2022 when he was still a Seargent; 25-28ish). manipulation. attempts at taming a stray dog that goes as well as you'd expect.

It's John who takes his muzzle off.

Dangles the key on his finger when he kicks open the door, letting his Lieutenant glimpse what lay behind it. Giving a gruff, like what you see? when his eyes finally adjust to the low light flooding in.

It takes him half a second. Enough time to commit the scene in front of him to memory.

It's you, of course.

good dogs get rewards, don't they, Simon?

Waiting for him. Pretty as a picture in sleek silk chiffon ribboned in intricate shibari around your chest, stomach, and thighs. Legs spread on the table; ankles tied down to the sides in nude jute rope. Hands clasped together, fingers laced; wrists tied above your head. The blindfold wrapped around your head is a pale pink ribbon, thicker than the silk on your body. Wrapped twice over your eyes, and tied in a pretty bow behind your head, he imagines.

In the split of your thighs, he finds you already slick. Wet. It drips down onto the table, puddling beneath your ass. The spread of your pussy, glistening in the flushed light; the small, pink vibrator taped to your clit makes his cock twitch.

"All for me?" He rasps, eyes fixed on your cunt. On how pretty it looks. How inviting. A soft, ripe peach offered in the heat of summer, and he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you. Her. "'ow sweet o'you."

And Price, he thinks, eyes slanting sideways as he glances at the man sliding into his chair. It stands to reason that this whole thing, you on a silver platter for a starving wolf, wouldn't have happened if he hadn't seen the look on Simon's face when you first met him. The hunger.

Simon's not stupid, of course. He knew you were off limits the moment Price put his paw on your nape, squeezing once. Owned, claimed. The intention, the message, clear. Mine.

Don't touch.

And the way you lit up, stammering out something about how good it was to meet him, told him everything he needed to know how your willingness to be shackled to his Captain.

But even so—

He couldn't take his eyes off of you.

(and in his intense cataloguing of everything you did, he couldn't help but notice how you kept touching your neck when Price was dragged away for a conversation leaving you all alone in a room rankled down his spine. almost as if you were reaching up to fix a collar—)

The memory alone makes him shudder.

"All yours, Simon," Price drawls from his perch on the throne. Between two fingers, a cigar sits, unlit. Ghost huffs.

The words are a vicious bite to the want pooling low in his belly. "That so?”

The room seems to shake when he steps inside. Floor creaking ominously under his weight. It makes your mouth drop, heavy breaths spilling out between dull teeth. Chest rising and sinking shallowly with a wild sort of nervousness that flits across the expanse of your cheeks, in the tremble of your lower lip.

Despite your unease, your legs stay open. Held aloft by the rope, he knows, but also—

A testament to how trained you are.

He prefers his pets wild. Unpolished. Vicious little things that he gets to bring to heel with a sharp bark and rough hand glued to the back of their skulls, pushing their head into the dirt, to the floor, where it belongs.

Fine china broken at his feet.

But you—

Manicured. Groomed to perfection. Save for the harsh breaths and the shake in your joints—both an indication of just how new you are at this. A novice. One slowly being crushed under the leather boot of a man who reeks of smoke and whiskey.

But knowing his captain and the furious need for control, he imagines you're better than some of the seasoned ones he'd come across in his lifetime. No room for errors.

And certainly no forgiveness for them, either.

His cock twitches again—a heavy, aching weight against his thigh—and he reaches down to cup the thickness of it, crushing the flesh in his palm to stave off the need burning in his loins. The urgency to sink inside of your pretty little cunt rewiring the part of him that likes to mess his pets up first. Ruin them before he takes them. Fucking them to the point of unconsciousness—and sometimes, beyond it.

But you—

You've been a phantom taste in the back of his throat for months now. A tease between his teeth. Sinking his jowls into you is the only thing on his mind.

And when you're offered up so enticingly—

Well.

Price can't blame him much for how badly he's going to ruin you.

He reaches out, fingers pressing cruelly into the slim, thumb-sized vibrator Price has locked against your clit. A mindless, incessant torture, he's sure. Pushing you over the edge on a constant, unrelenting loop.

“Messy girl,” he rasps, the starchy fabric of the mask glueing to his balmy skin.

The reprimand makes you flinch in shame, but the flutter of your cunt belies the contrition that drapes over your brow in a shallow mimicry of sorrow. He can see why Price latched onto you so quickly, and doesn't bother fighting the stab of envy that brims in his chest.

“Didn't your old man ever teach you any manners?” He mocks, dry and derisively. Quietly amused by the soft mewl you let out, one that only just eclipses the snort from Price. “Daddy's been slackin’, ‘asn’t he? Let his little girl turn into a messy fuckin’ slag.”

You try to close your legs to no avail, the rope keeping you spread. In part, he thinks, from shame—blistering, burning, and vibrant when it streaks across your face—but mostly from the slick gush that leaks out of your drenched pussy at his foul words. Trying to hide it from him. To keep him from knowing just how much the brassy roll of his ugly words makes your empty little cunt ache.

“Look’it you.” He rumbles, enjoying the shiver in your joints. The way your head rolls to the side, nose pressed tight to the skin of your arm. “Messy pussy just achin’ to be fucked.”

He adds more pressure until you choke. The scream lodged in your throat. Your toes curl. He hears the soft pop of your joints when you arch your back like a cat in heat yowling for attending.

“Want it bad, don't you?” He taunts. “Daddy must’a spoiled you too much—” another scoff from Price. The creak of leather. The clink of ice against glass. “Didn't teach you any manners—”

He wants you to beg. Wants to hear the peal of your voice—rough and ragged and begging him to sink inside you; fuck your little cunt until you can't walk anymore—but that's not what he's here for. Not why Price dragged him up to the room. Gave you to him.

And with the silk gag in your mouth, he knows he won't get it, anyway. Tied in a pretty bow behind your head. Wet with your spit already.

Simon's fingers slide down, dragging over the folds of your cunt. You're wet. Soaked. Drenched in a way he's never seen before; folds glistening. Thighs wet. Sticky. He licks his lips. Tastes the brine of his sweat. He wants to eat your pussy. Spread you wide on his tongue and make you beg Price to let Simon make you cum.

The thought roots in his head. Burrowing deep. He can already hear your sweet voice pleading with his captain—please, please let him make me cum—but he pushes it down when Price makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat.

He knows why he's here.

And wonders, then, when he steps back and drops his hands to the button on his trousers, how many times you've been punished like this. The thought is a sour smoulder in the back of his head. An ugly, foul thing unfurled over the soot-stained walls of his skull.

(he'll ask later. get the names of every man Price let see you like this, and pluck the memory of you right from their skull—)

“So needy,” he drawls, dragging his cock out of his slacks as they fall low on his thighs. “Even after this pussy’s been spoiled so much?”

It makes you keen, and the noise is a searing knife to his guts. He groans with it—low and rough, the noise scraping over the flesh of his throat until it hurts.

“Gonna have to punish you, ain't I? Needy fuckin' thing—” so he says, but his cock is just as sticky as your thighs, weeping a steady stream of pre-cum that pools in the tangle of hair at the base, dusting over his heavy, fat balls.

He shuffles closer, and reaches out to your knee, slipping his fingers behind your shin. The squeal of naked flesh against the metal tabletop shouldn't make him throb but it does. Cruel man, he thinks, and drinks in the way you wince.

He presses his cock against your slit, mouth dropping in a harsh pant when he takes in the hideous sight it makes. Your pussy is covered up by his girth. The tip of his cock bobbing over your belly button, dripping pre-cum into the divot.

Simon pulls his hips back, letting his cock glide over your silken flesh. The wet squelch it makes when he thrusts forward, cockhead tapping on your belly, has him grunting like an animal. It's obscene, this. The way he can't even see your folds over the wide spread of his cock. Pussy tucked neatly under him.

He can't even begin to imagine how you'll take the full length of him inside of you when his cock nudges past your belly button when he lets his balls rest on your molten slit. Poor thing.

He doesn't know if Price stretched you before this. Got you ready for him. But the man makes no move to intervene when Simon pulls back until his head slips down your seam, bracketed between your plush, swollen folds, tight against your entrance. All he has to do is—

Push

And the tip of his cock slips in.

You make another noise at the sting, and he thinks you might be crying but his eyes are riveted to the spot where you open for him. Pussy so small, so tiny, compared to his cock in a way that's sickening. Garish. But your little cunt drools on him. Rim fluttering like a heartbeat on his glands, pulling him deeper. Enticing him to sink inside. All the way. Until he can feel the hitch of your breath on his cock.

He leans back to get a better view, the motion forcing another inch inside of you. The noise is slick. Giving as your silken flesh parts around him, eagerly taking him in. But as wet as you are, as pliant, the stretch is unbearable. It chokes the air from his lungs when you tighten up around him—

“Fuckin' hell—” he snaps, his upper lip curling up beneath the mask. Your cunt makes him angry. Suddenly, viciously. The fury drips down his spine, pools at the base of his cock. His hand slips out from between your thighs, roughly grabbing your waist. Holding on tight as he jerks his hips harshly against you.

You feel good. Perfect. Wrapped snugly around him. A hot, wet embrace. And he huffs at the bitterness that clots in his lungs; the surge of pleasure so blisteringly intense, it nearly makes him gag. Makes him sick.

Price has this every night.

The thought alone is a poison. It needles in deep, lashing at him with foul, rabid teeth. Cruelly, he pushes deeper, sinking his cock in another inch, another, another—mindless in this pursuit to tear you apart well before you're ready for it.

He wants it to burn. To ache. Wants to be the worst fuck you've ever had; cock too big for you to take, but he feeds it to you in full. Gives you all of it. Every inch. Until your stomach churns with every press of his cockhead against your cervix, his glands sliding over that spot inside that makes your knee jerk and your eyes roll.

Wants you to remember him as a beast. To think of his cock and feel nauseous.

To sink deep inside of you—brutal and savage—until you can still feel him in your pussy for days. Each step causing a sharp pang in your lower belly.

It's awful, he knows. Terrible. But he forces himself into you anyway, feeling your flesh split around him. A blunt, unyielding pressure until his balls tap against your ass, pussy spasming around the fat length he punishes you with. He's sure he's deeper inside of you than anything—any man, cheap silicon—has ever dreamed of being. Kissing places in you that nothing has ever touched. Feels it in the nervous flit of your muscles pulsing around him—this foreign thing bludgeoning into uncharted territory, stretching you wide. Almost virginal all over again. It makes him groan.

Your pleasure is a muted ripple down his spine. The vibrator forcing you into enjoying the sharp sting of your rim pulled taut around the plug of his cock, skin blanching from the strain. He wants to stay just like this—grinding his hips into the backs of your spread thighs, cockhead chiselling into the molten seal of your womb with every gyration until the line between pleasure and pain begins to blur. Until you gag from how badly having your walls battered burns, hurts, but the bloom of pleasure deep inside your groin keeps you in place. Makes you arch your back, wanting more.

Desperate for it.

But this isn't what Price wants, is it?

No—

He voices his impatience with a muffled grunt. Get on with it, Simon is pinched out between the silver of space between his teeth, the butt of a burning cigar keeping his jaw unhinged. The heady, sour-sweet stench of smouldering tobacco, nicotine, staining the words.

You clench at the sound of Price's voice, pretty pussy drawing all tight around him. Perfectly trained. Sweet thing, he thinks, pulling out of you slowly. Just a few inches. Feeling your skin glue his; the glide of your walls over his shaft sickeningly good, nauseatingly so. He holds it for a moment, staring down at you through the eye holes of his mask, breathing heavily. Sweat drenches his skin. Tacky, hot. The starchy fabric clings to his flesh, peeling away each time he moves his head.

The exertion of fucking his cock into you shows through the muted pulse of his joints, muscles aching from the strain of pushing forward.

(Holding himself back.)

You blink at him blearily, eyes misted with tears. A smaller puddle sits on the table near your temples.

Up close, he can see the full detail of the intricate shibari binding you tight. The sleek pink ribbon weaving over your chest, your breast, stomach—hishi karada, Price said. At the base of your neck is more silk in a mockery of a collar. And he wonders if you miss it, then. The solid weight of leather on your skin. If your hands weren't tied up, he imagines they'd be there. Holding firm.

Just like the night he first met you.

The silk rope, the loss of your collar—

“Your dad's a cruel man, ain't he?” He mocks, sliding his fingers over the delicate trim of silk bound tight under your heaving breasts, peppering across your nipple, down the slope. Resting at the base of your throat. The thin slip of fabric is not enough to give you what you need. The pressure, the friction. The sense of being owned. “Didn't even give his little girl a collar.”

More of that tantalising shame rake over your expression. Tears dribble out in hot drops, spilling down the side of your face.

He hums, slips this fragility into his back pocket. “Want me to give it to you, little girl?”

He spits the words out like they're wrong. Awful. Takes in your flinch, the downward twist to your lips, and shoves that, too, into his pocket.

Simon has no intention of waiting for an answer, for permission—he reels back, hand still splayed wide over your sternum, and pulls his cock out more until only the flare of his glands peaks out. He's soaked—glistening with your slick. So wet that it drips out of your plugged hole, gliding down the cleft of your ass.

He wonders if you always get like this—

Bites that thought clean through with an angry groan, and pries his fingers out from the back of your knee, dragging them to the end of his mask. Rucking it up over his skin, bunched against the bridge of his nose.

If the mess of his mouth, chin, the crooked, angular slope of his nose horrifies you at all, you don't let it show. Content to quietly sob on the table, eyes flickering between the thick plug of his cock between your thighs and the Price.

He hates you, he thinks. And then he spits on your pretty pussy, right over your taut rim. Watches the foamy mess bubble, drip down to the skin behind his mushroomed head. When it pools there, he pulls back until the widened flare of his glands slips free. You whine—a noise of bright hot disgust, humiliation—and he lets it burrow under his skin, trickle down his spine. Then he pushes forward, popping the head back inside of you.

The spit—his spit, too.

And he does it again. The same thing. Pulling out, spitting. Feeding it to her. Letting it rub against the slick, wet (wetter now) walls of her cunt.

Price doesn't say anything about this claim. Schoolboy possession—childish and immature when you're used to fine leather gripping tight around the slope of your neck.

Still.

He pulls on your proverbial braids until it burns.

The hum of the vibrator takes some of the sting away when he shoves inside of you again, cockhead bullying into your cervix with an unmatched cruelty. Leaking slick, steady, over your seal. Drooling, thick and viscous, against your walls. Staining you.

Ruining you.

Each breath is punched out when he bottoms out. Forced from your lungs. Winded. He knows it hurts almost as much as the thick bludgeon of his cock pressing deep, but as he scrapes and claws at the rot concealing over his humanity, morality, he finds nothing inside of him left to care.

He stops looking. Stops searching.

Simon fucks into you with vigor instead, laughing mockingly at the lewd, sinful squelch of your cunt. “Think that's the sound of all my spit, birdie? Or is your sloppy little cunt always this fuckin’ messy?”

Each piston makes his pelvis slap into the vibrator; he can feel it through the tangle of coarse hair spooled above his cock. Buzzing incessantly against his skin. The spike of sharp pressure has you yowling beneath him, hips twisting, turning, trying to flee from the brutal onslaught. Pleasure and pain balancing on a knife's edge.

He holds you there. Dangles you above the precipice just because he can—

A lazy flick of his waist. The savage grind of his hips. The softened bulge of his lower belly tapping against the plastic toy—

And it breaks you. This careless, effortless attention he pays to you has you tightening up around him like a knot, a vice; cunt squeezing, squeezing, before you shatter. Wave against a cliff; you spasm on his cock in a series of shallow, tight throbs pulsing along to the rapid fire of your heartbeat.

His eyes are locked on your face. Pretty, lachrymal. Tears bleed down your temples, soaking into your hairline. Puddling underneath.

His own little sea of your miserable pleasure.

Eyes rolled into the back of your head. Toes curling. Hips jerking, twisting. Trying to run from the ugly, awful way he makes you cum. Makes you gorge yourself on pleasure. Force-feeding you pain with each sloppy, brutal thrust into your sopping, messy cunt—swollen, bruised; battered. And his—

—ice clinks against glass. A clicking swallow follows. The hollow thud of glass on wood. Scraping over the veneer as it's pushed back into place. Tobacco is chewed up by flames, popping and sizzling; smoldering with each inhale as the playwright watches the show he weaved together unfold—

—his.

The silk around your neck comes loose with each thrash of your head rolling from side to side, shaking with quick, successive no, no, no’s that go unheeded, ignored. Every animalistic rut of his hips makes you change your mind, anyway. Turning those devastating no’s to yeses so eager, your teeth clack with every thrust.

As it slips, sliding down the sweat-slicked column of your arched throat, he finds a stripe of red. A scab. Right at the knot where your collar would sit. A pretty gem in the middle. Your name, or maybe something that would amuse Price more than the perceived idea of your autonomy—bitch in glinting gold. His name and number etched into the back.

if found, return to John Price.

A foldhold, perhaps. Tailor-made for his boot.

He hunts, Simon knows. Walked in reeking of leather and smoke when they first met and casually mentioned how good he was at Big Game hunting. A threat, then—however thinly veiled and erring on the side of mordant humour it was. But he wonders if Price personally made the collar you mourned the night he swung you into Simon's path.

Your neck was bare, then. Blemishless.

A collar too small. Tightened too much. Punishment, he supposes, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction roll down from his nape to the bottom of his spine where it pools in his groin—hot, molten oil—as he wonders just how much convincing it took you to agree to this. To spread your pretty legs for the ugly brute Price dangled you in front of. Who watched you all night from the corner of the room, chest heaving and eyes wide, wild, and furious. Reeking of rot. Want. To let him rut you like an animal while Price watches from the corner of the room—

A bead of sweat follows the phantom trail.

“Fuck, birdie,” he's rasping, voice uttered wrecked. Mangled in his throat. “So fuckin’ tight f’me, ain't you? Must want me to cum inside this pretty cunt—”

You shiver. Knee jerking. There's a real sense of panic in your eyes when they dart over to Price, silently nursing another glass of scotch. He follows your gaze, catches Price glaring at him with his chin dipped low to his chest, peering out through his lashes. Brow furrowed. A flat line.

Simon doesn't stop thrusting. Keeps a steady pace despite the anger brimming inside of him as the pleasure grows. Festers.

Then—

Barely discernible: a nod.

Shadows fall over his cheeks. He brings the glass back to his mouth with a surly mm between the mouthful. An irrevocable fuckin' get on with it.

And Simon does.

The look he gives you pure predatory hunger. Victory in the potent stench of charred bones. He lifts his chin, stares down at you—all spread out like a gift to a god—and surges forward with a rabid hunger brimming in his guts. Unquenchable. Horrific.

—wants you to eat you alive. Consume you whole. Leave nothing for Price to pick at, to mourn over,

settles instead for ruining your pussy. For fucking you raw. Cumming deep inside of your quivering cunt even when he knows you don't want that. Are silently begging Price to reconsider. To get this ugly fucking mutt off of you—

It churns his guts. Makes him viciously excited over the image that brims in the back of his head, tears raining down your cheeks as you bring a shaky hand to your aching, swollen cunt, feeling the thick, viscous glob of his cum leaking out.

Or before that, when you have to lay there and take it. Feeling his cock throbbing, pulsing as it spits cum inside of you. When he pulls out, and a milky trail follows, dribbling down between your cheeks. At his mercy the whole time, too, because Price won't get up right away to untie you. You'll have to lay there in his filth, feeling it ooze out of you—

He wants it. Badly. Feels it scorching his hindbrain, burning him up from the inside out.

Later, he thinks, he'll fuck you with more finesse. Make you cum on his fingers—stuff them inside of your sore, aching cunt to the last knuckle; give you three of them to squeeze around, to cling to, and watch the ink on his bruised, scabbed skin disappear inside of you over and over again, pulling them out all slick, pearlescent with a mix of his cum and yours. On his tongue, too. Keep you in this pretty frogtie, unable to push him off—or pull him closer. Forced to take it. To let him lap at your pussy until he quenches this uneasy hunger festering inside of his stomach, growing bolder, greedier at the sight of you splayed out like this, exhausted already even though he's only just begun.

Fuck you again, too, just because he can.

all yours for a night, Price had said, sealing your fate with a sharp, decisive nod.

He plans on making the most of the twelve hours until sunrise that he has.

This, then, the appetizer—

It curls over his shoulders, tar-stained fingers digging into the tight coil of his muscles, easing the tension in increments. Soothing out the fear that still clings to him of missing out. Still, very much, that hungry little mutt on the side of the street, peering into the bakery at the family's milling about, smiling happily. Content to ignore the brat in rags glaring at them from an alcove with bruises on his chin, and a black split on his lip. Diving for scraps because the alternative is going to bed with an empty stomach in a house that reeks of flat beer and stale piss.

There's nothing to miss out on here, it reasons, when he has you all night. All his.

“Beg me,” he huffs, sniffing through the balmy, damp mask when it slips down his crooked nose. “Beg me not to cum inside you.”

All you can do is make a small, keening oomph behind the loose gag, words muffled by wet silk. His head rolls back, eyes narrowing down at you in mocking delight—catlike, leonine, in the dwindling glimmer of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains.

“C’mon,” he taunts, rolls his hips into you just to hear the loud, wet squelch of your pussy taking the full, fat length of his cock. Lets the noise box through his ears in a vicious, heavy punch. “Or I'll cum inside you—”

He's already there. Edging toward the precipice.

Simon grabs the tops of your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table until your ass lifts. It opens you up wider for him, knees notched wide, nearly level with your ears. The new position lets him push in deeper, fucking you in full now. Balls slapping against your ass with every brutal stroke.

He leans down, knee lifting to the table as he climbs on before dropping the full heft of his weight onto you. Forearm braced above your head, the other catching the column of your bare, scratched neck in the wide spread of his palm.

The size difference before was intoxicating. A rush that pooled in the back of his head before rocketing down to his spine, filling his cock, but this—your knees bracketing around his waist, spread so wide they're forced down flat to the table below in a split that lets his cock sink in deeper, head tucked against his collarbone, swallowed whole beneath him, is his undoing.

Arched over you like a beast, he grunts. Ruts into your sopping cunt and feels the whines that spill from your throat at the rough way he batters into you.

The softness of his lower belly grazes the vibrator humming on your clit. The pressure makes your eyes widen, and roll into the back of your head. Neck trapped in his hold as you thrash beneath him, sobbing in earnest. In dismay.

He's sure it hurts. The pleasure careening into overstimulation—the kind that burns, bellows too much, no more. He huffs out a derisive snort, and eats your misery from your parted lips, dipping his head down to catch the seam of your mouth in a mockery of a kiss. The silk wrapped around your head, tucked neatly into the corners of your mouth, keeps it from being anything more than a messy smear of his scarred, torn lips and your muffled gasps. The band prevents him from really tasting you, and he makes do with curling his tongue over your teeth, catching the drool running down your chin.

It's gross. Messy. He slurps you up, and hums in pleasure when he tastes the brine of your tears.

“Gonna cum,” he grunts into the silk before catching it between his crooked teeth, nibbling on the wet hem, sucking on your spit soaked into the fabric.

Your pussy spasms around him. Eager, he thinks—pulsing like a heartbeat and starving for it. It blooms under his skin, burning hot like a fever. His tongue slips under your gag. Eyes glued to yours, listed in quiet, merciless delight when you grimace as he slides it along yours, nearly gagging you on it.

It's almost sweet. A pastiche of loving making—as close to the real thing as he's ever come. The thought is a bludgeon to his head, making his ears ring—

And he runs from it. Rears back from the sloppy kiss, eyes creasing, brow furrowing, as you stare up at him with wet, glossy eyes, rheumy with tears. Silently pleading for something he can't discern. He feels that trail of anger coiling in his guts again, sitting low in his belly as his hips stutter to a slow, softer roll.

His finger lifts, settles on the corner of your unhinged jaw, holding your head steady. There are lines, he thinks. Walls, divides. Protective armour—

And some shouldn't be crossed.

Simon spits on your gag. Squeezes the huff of disgust from your throat when he feels your chest expand with it. Bullies himself closer, smothering you under his weight. Owned, then. Claimed.

You can't close your mouth around the gag, or fingers digging into the muscle of your jaw. He keeps you like that, degraded. Dehumanised. A vessel for him to use as he likes—

Nothing more, nothing less.

Sinks into your bruised cunt again, hips slapping meanly into yours in a way he knows must ache. Sets a choppy, deep pace; humps your pussy and grinds the weeping, swollen head of his cock into your battered cervix. Loses himself in the messy, plugging rolls of his hips; the wet, tight slide of your skin—flushed and clenching around the thick of himself he feeds to you, over and over again. Mindless in the pursuit to ruin you further. Stain you with his cum—

The problem is:

You feel like heaven. Pussy wrapped tight around him. Silken walls hugging his aching cock until it feels like he's melting into the hot, wet squeeze of it. So good it hums inside his head like a purr, rattles his thoughts around until the ugly, bitter anger is turned inside out. Flipped.

He thinks about lines again as his sticky, wet balls glue to the slick skin of your ass, peeling off in a way that has pleasure peppering along his spine, spooling in his lower back. He did that, caused it. Made you so fucking wet that his knees slide in the messy spill of it leaking all over the table. The loud squelch of him slamming into your cunt echoes in the room—shrill and bone-melting. Ego-feeding. Enough to gorge his pride on it until its belly threatens to burst at the seams. Overfull.

Simon grunts. His face is soaked. The damp fabric of his mask is too drenched to even mop it up, sticking to his skin as sweat rains down from his shorn hairline, misting over his eyes. His upper lip. The dip of his chin. He's more water than man. Liquid. Melting into you.

The heat is unbearable. “Gonna cum in this pussy,” he snarls, and it sounds like a threat. Is one. He's going to burst inside of you, molten and thick. Been a while, he thinks, and feels his balls draw up. Tightening in a promise as he fucks himself into a syrupy stupor above you.

The inside of his ears are wet, and he thinks it might be his fucking brain leaking out—

The tight coil of his body snaps before he does, giving out in a heavy groan. He catches himself before he crushes you beneath him, still mindlessly thrusting into your cunt, cock pulsing, throbbing. Growing thicker, thicker, as he heaves into your temple, breathing in the pine scent of your skin. Loam, sea. Sweat. You smell like Price beneath it all—leather and smoke; scotch and wood—and his lips curl into a vicious snarl, teeth bared at the man in the corner, silent observer to this blasphemous confessional where he spills his guts inside of you, and you eat them up like they're made of gold dust.

It rushes him. A kick to his soft stomach, a boot crushing his ribs. The force of it hurts when it hits, surging up from the base of his spine, too fast for him to brace for. Tensing, coiling. The pressure knocks the air from his lungs, makes his hips stutter. Joints whining, twinging with pain.

He moans low and brassy, mangled deep in the rot of his chest, and cums deep inside of you. Sloppy, mindlessly rutting into the spread bracket of your thighs as pleasure burns across the back of his neck, his spine. His hips roll, shaking. Melting as he spills, spits thick globs of cum out, cockhead bullied tight against your plug.

All you can do is heave beneath him, whining at the molten spend he pours into you. Poor fuckin’ thing—

His lips are sticky, slick with sweat. He rubs them against the tacky skin of your temple, your cheekbone, babbling nonsense out on a purr—

Breedin’ this tight little pussy right in front of your old man, birdie. Got ‘im watchin’ his little girl take my thick fuckin’ load inside o’her. Fuckin’ hell—

—things that leak out between the cracks in the armour. The thick veneer. Made worse, his personal hell, when he feels your hips bump into his, taking his cock deeper inside as you squirm under the heavy weight of him. With your thigh flexing, squeezing his hip, it almost feels like you want more. All of him. For him to crawl deep inside of you, cocooned in the bracket of your ribs—

“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he rasps, words slurring. Eliding into mush. Nonsense he'll come to crush between his teeth later when he buries himself back inside of you over and over again, feeding blood to this vicious seedling inside of him.

Through the pounding in his head, your gasping little hitches in his ear, the undeniable silence from Price weighs on him even as the aftershocks of his release mute the noise in his head. A dense, hazy fog clouding over all thoughts.

It doesn't feel angry. Jealous. If anything it reeks of victory—

He grasps through the blanket, the murk, with lazy hands until he finds what he's looking for, and—

Oh.

Right.

(“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts.

He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch.

“an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—”

“Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. “Got something else in mind—”)

Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture—

He stares down at you now. The base of his cock is soaked with your slick, flesh throbbing, pulsing, as he cums inside of you.

It's this—you, crying over the feeling of him spilling so deeply inside of you while your old man watches from the sidelines, unable to do anything but sit there as Simon fills his baby girl up—that he wanted. Wants. Needs, he thinks, more than the stale, humid air he breathes. A place of his own. Home. Even if it's made of paper mache, carved inside of someone else, someone who already has a collar. A brand—

But that's the point, isn't it?

A sick feeling curls over his shoulders as he thumbs the slim vibrator off of your clit, staring down at the swollen nub at the apex of your mound. Sore and sensitive and flushed bright. Bruised like an apple. Abused for hours. Poor thing, he thinks, even as he rubs the flat of his finger over it.

His cum seeps out around the softening plug of his cock. But it's still thicker than anything you'd ever taken before, he's sure. Sick with the deep sense of satisfaction that rolls over him at the thought.

It's worth it, then, even as the dawning realisation trickles over him like hot oil—

“What d’you like, Simon?”

A pretty bird in pale pink chiffon. Too good for the likes of him. Afraid of him, too. Cowerin’. Cryin’ somethin’ awful when he sinks his ugly, fat prick into them—

Price hummed. Curled his index finger over the top of his cigar, tapped the thick wrap twice with the tip of it, and then brought it to his lips. A flash of teeth beneath his beard—nicotine-stained; crooked in the low light—before they sunk into the butt.

There was something measured in his stare. Predatory.

Victorious.

And—

He gets it. You were a dangling lure in the deep, dark of the abyssal layer. A glimmer of light in thick murk. Iridescent. Dazzling. He was always meant to sink his teeth into you, wasn't he? Always meant to take a bite—

hook. line—

—sinker.

Or—

It would be if the fish Price caught wasn't a leviathan.

—in the scorching trail the oil leaves behind, something bestial, primordial, inside of his cocks its head in consideration. he can make a feast from this, it says; and so, he does—

“Need my help, Price?” Simon drawls, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at him, quietly amused, and John feels the pulse between his temples starting up again the same way it had all those years back when he bumped into the man with you on his arm.

He grunts. “Sendin’ you to Mexico.”

“Tha’ so? I might be busy.”

He sucks in a deep breath, reaches for his cigar. The itch claws behind his eyes, in his gums. There's a headache, too. One he knows won't be soothed over with the numbing bliss of nicotine or a shot of scotch. Not when he'll have to slink home afterwards, this massive behemoth nipping at his heel, and deal with the aftermath of what happens whenever he sets Simon loose on you:

an icepack pressed tight against your aching cunt, a glare fixed on your face as he dotes on you after you made him clean up the absolute mess Simon left behind with his fingers and tongue—

“never again,” you'll hiss, wincing with each pull of his knuckles on your sore, bruised walls. “I mean it—”

(you always say that but the look in your eye whenever he pulls out the silk—the new assortment that Simon bought for you himself—tells him otherwise—)

He presses the heel of his palm into the crease between his eye and bone, rubbing until he sees phosphenes spark behind his eyelids.

“She'll be in silk,” he grouses, sucking his teeth in irritation. “And you'll be on fuckin’ plane to Mexico the next morning, Riley. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” he draws lazily with a half-hearted shrug, but Price can see the mutt inside of him panting with glee. He pretends to huff. Then: “I want her in white this time.”

The fuckin' prick.

—Price’s gamble of using you to lure the big, bad dog in works. but maybe a little too well. because now his sergeant expects one every time he's sent on a mission. and they send him out a lot.

—he now has a key to his captain's house. lets himself in whenever he wants. finds you exactly how he asked for it. usually tied up in silk, crying, and struggling to get away when he stalks inside the room. on your knees, begging him so sweetly not to fuck your throat too hard. you have work tomorrow. or fighting him off as best as you can until he pins you down, works his cock inside of you.

—in full view of the cameras, of course. non-negotiable. Price gets to see everything his brutish sergeant does to his pretty bird. everything.

—Simon is the one who keeps you company when Price is sent off to work with the CIA. keeps you stuffed full of his cock in the bed you share with Price, his little girl sobbing into the pillow that reeks of smoke and leather and sex as Simon forces every inch of his stupid fat cock inside you

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #my first time writing baby Ghost lmao i headcanon him as unhinged and sloppier than his older counterpart #ghost x reader x price #kinda??#price x reader #john price x reader

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charliemwrites · 1 year ago

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Part 3 of charmed slasher Simon

(Part 2 here)

Your apartment is so cozy. Full of warm, soft things and cute little internet bobbles. It matches you.

Simon’s been watering your plants for you. Busy little bee that you are, he’s shocked they’ve survive this long without him. Same could be said for you.

How some other monster hasn’t lured you in and snapped their jaws closed around your throat is mystery. Good luck, maybe. Or there is a higher power out there after all, and it’s solely devoted to keeping you bouncing along, too friendly for your own good.

Even the death of all your friends hasn’t stripped that gracious way from you. All the cops on the case like you - so forthcoming and cooperative. The more chivalrous of them endeared by the brave face you put on.

Simon wants to carve their faces off when they smile at you.

His consolation is that you��re never more than courteous. You come back to your little flat and collapse on the couch - sometimes sleep there ‘til morning. He’s started pulling blankets over you before it gets too cold.

Your bed is too big for you. All that extra space taunts him, a perfect spot for him to shore up against your back. He could curl his arm around your waist, tuck you into his chest. Slide your panties down your plush thighs…

Too soon for that though. You still stir a bit when he brushes his fingers over your cheek. Have started leaning into it in your sleep, desperate for a kind touch when the world is suddenly so scary.

His favorite nights are the nightmares though. When you wake up gasping and shaking, wiping at watery eyes. When you gasp and shudder like that, it’s easy to imagine you making those noises for a different reason.

It’s those times that all the little inconsistencies start to nag at you. A water cup emptier than you left it. Your hairbrush in the drawer. A blanket on the back of the couch instead of the arm. Things you murmur to yourself is just your memory being off, that you’re being paranoid.

He loves the sound of you singing to yourself when the apartment gets too quiet. Chattering to the air when you’re trying to keep yourself on track with chores.

Your neighbor does too. A single guy, handsome but knows it. Not your type, but he’s the sort to think he’s everyone’s type. He mentions that he hears you singing sometimes, that you have a nice voice. You look utterly mortified; Simon’s teeth grind.

And the little asshole won’t stop chatting with you. Your schedules line up just so that he’s usually leaving for the gym as you’re coming home - giving him excuses to hold you up, try to entice you into feelings Simon has no intention of letting you develop.

Well, moving season is coming. You’re not planning to leave, but Simon’s looking for a new place. The one next to yours is about to open up.

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Masterlist

#thoughts™️#cod #my writing #fanfiction #dark fic #reader fic #slasher ghost #charmed ghost

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dontyouworrydaddy · 1 year ago

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Imagine 141 & Konig walking home late at night with their gf and as soon as they find themselves near an empty park or a more isolated street, some jerk with a knife / gun tries to rob them. Even worse, he threatens to hurt the SO in even worse ways if they don't comply. Will they avoid violence and cooperate or go Rambo mode on the man? Thank you very much.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝖾

Task Force 141 (+König) + fem! reader

Oh YES. I feel like Simon and König would go fully violence mode. Like, they wouldn’t even hesitate to jump this man because how dare he threaten you? Price would try to solve the problem but as soon as he sees it doesn’t get better he would literally break that man. They’re way too protective over you and would absolutely destroy anyone that dares to touch you or even threaten you.

Thank you for the ask I hope you enjoy lovelies 🩷

♫ ♪ ♪ ♫ ♩ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯

König

As the moon cast its gentle glow upon the darkened streets, you walked alongside König, feeling safe in his presence. The night air was cool and the sound of your footsteps echoed softly as you made your way home. But how were you supposed to know that you guys were being followed by someone with not so good intentions?

As you neared a secluded park or an empty street, a man emerged from the shadows, brandishing a knife or a gun with malicious intent. Panic surged through your veins and fear threatened to overwhelm your senses.

"Give me the woman. Now." the man‘s voice was deep and filled with danger

But in that moment, König's protective instincts surged forth like a tidal wave. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and without a moment's hesitation, he stepped in front of you, a shield against the impending danger.

"You" König's voice carried a steely determination, "will not harm her. Not while I'm here."

The man laughed in a maniac way and the tension in the air grew palpable as the assailant's gaze shifted from you to König. A battle of wills ensued, as the predator met the match in the form of a soldier who refused to back down. König's stance exuded confidence, a silent promise that he would not allow him to harm you.

With a swift motion, König moved, disarming the threat. His movements were precise, a testament to his training and unwavering dedication to protect those he cared for.

As the confrontation reached its climax, König's determination prevailed, overpowering that man. With a final blow, he incapacitated the threat, ensuring your safety and ending the ordeal.

Breathing heavily, König turned his attention to you, his eyes filled with concern. He reached out, gently cradling your face, his touch a balm to the frayed edges of your nerves.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice soft but laced with an underlying intensity.

You nodded, a mixture of relief and gratitude flooding your being. In that moment, you realized that he had risked his own safety to protect you, fighting with everything he had to protect you.

You wrapped yourself in his comforting embrace, as a thank you, since the shock didn’t leave your body. And with a soft sigh he patted your head, reassuring your safety.

Simon Riley

The night was dark and quiet as Simon walked alongside you, the two of you engrossed in conversation, unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows. Your laughter echoed through the empty streets, filling the air with a sense of warmth and joy.

But as fate would have it, you found yourselves near an empty park. And you guys didn’t see someone following you. Suddenly, a menacing figure emerged from the darkness, brandishing a weapon and pointing it at you specifically.

"Your bag. Now. And you little boyfriend, stay where you are. Or she gets it!" Fear gripped your heart, but Simon's protective instincts kicked in. His eyes narrowed, his muscles tensed. He didn’t move but he kept his cold gaze on the man who was in a very bad shape. He couldn’t stay still and was scratching the arm that is holding the gun and his head. His eyes were red and you could tell that he would immediately shoot you if Simon moved.

"You don’t want to do this mate. Leave now. Don’t tempt me" Simon‘s voice was filled with pure anger and hate. If he had the chance, he would jump him right now. But he couldn’t risk it. He knew that this man would pull the trigger at you. So he didn’t move.

"I‘m not your mate. Do as I say, bitch." the mans focus was on you now and Simon took the chance to push you to the ground. The mans reaction response was slow but he still pulled the trigger which left you in shock. You couldn’t move and Simon‘s heart was breaking into a million pieces at the sight of you being shocked and scared. But he had to protect you first. He would comfort you as soon as he took down the threat. He was too focused on you that he didn’t feel the bullet that pierced into his arm.

With swift and calculated movements, Simon ran towards him, using every skill he possessed to just knock out the man so the police could deal with him. He ignored the burning in his arm and with only one punch he send the man to a sweet slummer.

Breathing heavily, Simon turned to you, his eyes filled with a mix of relief and concern. He reached out, his hands gentle and steady, offering you a reassuring touch. In that simple gesture, you felt his unwavering support and knew that you were not alone. "You’re okay now, sweetheart. Look at me"

"Simon. Your arm" you whispered, still in shock. Your eyes were wide but his eyes were so soft.

“I‘m okay, love. Nothing I can’t handle. Come here" he took you in his arms and called the police and price to report what just happened. You couldn’t do anything but hug him tight and hold his bloody arm so he doesn’t lose any more blood. And that’s everything he needs right now. Now that you’re safe, he doesn’t care what happens next.

John MacTavish

You walked beside John and your steps echoing through the quiet streets. The world seemed serene, a peaceful respite from the chaos that defined your lives.

As you reached a desolate park, a sudden chill crept up your spine. Out of the darkness emerged a figure, a sinister glint in their eyes, accompanied by the chilling sound of a knife being unsheathed or the cold presence of a gun.

Panic seized your heart as the assailant's threats hung heavy in the air. Their intentions were clear…your possessions, your safety and even your life were at stake. But amidst the terror that threatened to consume you, John's presence remained steadfast, his gaze unyielding.

"Your bag. Now." The mans voice was loud and clear which left you paralyzed on the spot, next to John.

In that moment, John's cold gaze met the man's eyes, his voice firm and commanding. "You've made a grave mistake, lad," he said, his tone carrying an air of authority that sent shivers down the man’s spine.

With a steely resolve, John refused to back down, knowing that surrendering to fear would only empower the assailant further. He stood tall, his body radiating strength and determination.

"I suggest you leave" John continued, his voice carrying a weight that left no room for negotiation. "Or you'll find yourself in a position you don’t even want to imagine."

Fear crept into the man‘s eyes as they glimpsed the unwavering determination etched upon John's face. Their confidence wavered and doubt crept into their mind. In that moment, the man‘s weapon trembled in their grasp, his initial aggression diminished by the mere presence of John's unwavering resolve.

Sensing the retreat, John took a step forward, his voice a low growl. "Leave now, and count yourself lucky that you encountered me instead of someone with less restraint."

As if awoken from a trance, the man scrambled to escape the grip of fear that gripped his heart. With haste, he fled into the night, disappearing into the depths from which he had emerged.

As the adrenaline began to subside, John turned his attention to you, his expression softened by a mixture of concern and relief. He enveloped you in a protective embrace, his arms a fortress that offered solace and reassurance.

In the aftermath of the harrowing encounter, John's words washed over you, a soothing balm for your shaken spirit. "You're safe," he whispered, his voice filled with genuine care. "I won't let anyone harm you."

John Price

John walked alongside you, his protective presence a comforting shield against the darkness, and his mission now is getting you home safe. As you strolled through the quiet city, unaware of the impending danger lurking nearby, a sense of calm enveloped both of you.

However, fate had a different plan in store. As you neared an empty park a figure emerged from the shadows. Their face concealed, a glimmer of malice danced in their eyes, a knife held menacingly in his grasp. Fear gripped your heart as he spoke but your shock blocked every single word that came out of his mouth.

John, never one to back down in the face of danger, stepped forward, his eyes narrowing with resolve. He refused to allow anyone to harm you, to subject you to their wicked whims. With a voice dripping in authority, he tried to intimidate the assailant, hoping to scare them away. But as the seconds ticked by, it became evident that words were not enough to dissuade the desperate individual standing before you. The threat loomed, and John's protective instincts surged within him like a raging tempest.

Without hesitation, he sprang into action, his muscles with years of training and experience. With a fast strike, he delivered a powerful punch that connected with precision, rendering the man‘s unconscious. The danger swiftly subsided, but the adrenaline coursing through your veins refused to relent.

As the man lay unconscious, John turned his attention to you, his eyes filled with concern. He gathered you into his strong, reassuring embrace, offering solace and comfort amidst the chaos that had unfolded. His touch spoke volumes, silently conveying that you were safe now, that he would protect you with every fiber of his being.

Kyle Garrick

You walked alongside Kyle, the night sky casting a veil of darkness over the streets. The two of you were talking about his recent conversation he had with Price about how he sees life and the comforting weight of his arm around your shoulders makes you feel safe.

As you neared an empty park, Kyle saw a man coming out behind a tree and in his hand, he brandished a weapon, a stark reminder of the danger that loomed before you.

Fear coursed through your veins as the man‘s demands echoed in the night. "Both of you. Your wallets. Now!" Your heart was pounded in your chest and you instinctively hide behind Kyle.

"Fuck off, man. You think you can scare us like that?" Kyle tried to scare off the man but he clearly didn’t give a fuck. "I‘m serious man. Leave or I‘ll make you leave" Kyle‘s voice is getting colder and he clearly is getting impatient. The man stood still, not saying a single word.

In a split second, Kyle got too impatient and with a swift movement, he delivered a powerful punch, his fist connecting with the man‘s jaw, sending him falling backward. The man's grip on his weapon faltered, the threat momentarily subdued.

As the man crumpled to the ground, Kyle wasted no time in rushing to your side, his arms enveloping you in a protective embrace. The adrenaline still coursing through your veins, you clung to him, finding solace in the strength and love that radiated from his presence.

"It's okay, you're safe now," Kyle whispered, his voice a soothing balm against the turmoil in your mind. His touch was gentle, his fingers tracing soothing patterns along your back, grounding you in the reality that you were no longer in danger.

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kiwianacat · 9 months ago

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#crookedblue4lyfe

Feat. a concept I have for a medieval themed pmv to Simon & Garfunkel’s Scarborough Fair lol. It’s a bit out there, but I think it’ll be a lot of fun if I can scrape together some motivation.

Crookedblue feels so much more angsty than Oakblue; two friends turned lovers who become seperated by the ambition that once connected them. (explanation of au below)

In this au I imagine they have an initial litter of Misty/Stone/Moss, the two survivors being raised by Greypool and Oakheart.

- Crookedstar sires a litter for his friend Willowbreeze but ends up raising Silverkit after her death.

- Mistyfoot and Stonefur feel at odds that he reared his full-clan daughter but only stayed in their life as an uncle

- Oakheart still dies keeping their parentage a secret and Greypool dies revealing it.

- Bluestar assumes he moved on from their relationship, but he never does; he becomes more aggressive towards Thunderclan to hide his mixed loyalties.

- Fireheart and Graystripe rescuing his grandkits and offering charity encourages him to open Riverclan up more. Things are very tense when he shelters Thunderclan from the forest fire and I imagine he has his last one on one conversation with Bluestar at this point.

- I think it’d be very dramatic if Crookedstar was assasinated by Leopardfur as puppeted by Tigerstar. His increased cooperation with Thunderclan being a primary motivater for both.

#my art #warriors #warrior cats #warriorsart #warriorcats #crookedstar #bluestar #crookedblue #warriors au #warrior cats au

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kittykattropicanna · 11 months ago

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would you please be able to go into more detail about your prison penpal!simon? why is reader doing it, how did they choose simon (if they had a choice at all), the sorts of letters they exchange? and if they’re any sort of smutty bits for them too? your mechanic au has me absolutely feral beyond words so seeing this made me so excited.

Omg you’re my first asked AHHHHHH I want to scream thank you so much!!!!!

Absolutely I can go into detail about PrisonPenPal!Simon :3 I can't get out of my mind how deprived he is argh!!! >:( all this time alone, and now that you're here writing him pretty little letters, he can't imagine life without you :3

TW: mentions of murder, jail, corruption kink, breading kink, masterbation (Reader & Simon), public masterbation (kinda), smut, not sub!simon but he does cum in his pants, ahhh you're both just so obsessed with each other :3

PrisonPenPal!Simon masterlist

Regular masterlist

I’ll give you a little back story to why Si actually ended up in jail…

I feel like he retied, left SAS and tried to integrate back into civilian life but failed miserably. He started going out to bars and drinking pretty heavily. The alcohol made him angry, he never was outwardly violent, but everyone could tell he was just a very dark, tortured guy that sat in the back of the bar every night and drank himself stupid. It was like an unwritten rule that nobody bothered him. His a massive guy who’s ex military, if you had half a brain you would leave him alone.

One night he was leaving the pub and this stupid, stupid 18 year old kid thought it would be funny to try square up to him and impress his friends.

It didn’t matter how many times they told him to quit it and leave Simon alone, he still trudged up to him with his head held high and chest puffed.

This kid came up behind Si and punched him in that back of the head. It wasn’t a good punch by any means but it was more then enough to drive Simons drunk brain into utter rage.

He turned around and punched this kid straight in the head. He went down like a stack of bricks, head making direct impact with the concrete floor, killing him instantly.

The kid was only 18, he had so much life left to live…..

Of course Si felt absolutely disgusted in himself, he couldn’t believe what he had done. Killed a poor kid who made a stupid decision and ultimately ended his life as well.

He handed himself over the the police without hesitation. He went quietly and respectfully, cooperated with the police throughout the whole trial, never redirecting blame onto the kid or made it harder then it needed to be.

He pled guilty for involuntary manslaughter and assault. Gaz, Johnny and Price all pitched in to get him the best defence lawyer humanly possible……ultimately, it worked. Even though the general public was outraged at his light sentence.

Simons lawyer claimed the punch was in self defence. Someone attacking him from behind also trigged his PTSD resulting in Simon not being able to control his actions in that moment.

These defences along with him serving in the military for 15+ years and cooperating with the authorities got him 8 years in prison, his sentence was quickly reduced to 4 because of his good behaviour.

It wasn’t an ideal situation by any means, but it was the best case scenario with the cards he was dealt.

But lets fast forward to the present….. How did you decide to actually start writing to an inmate? How did you even find out about it?

I have this really cute idea that maybe you were walking through the shopping centre and there was one of those pop up markets that sit in the middle of everything, you know, with the really annoying people that flag you down and you have to awkwardly not make eye contact and walk past them while they’re try and sell you stuff?

Yeah, one of them. This specific stand kinda caught your eye though, It was called “Write An Inmate”

You talked to the guy at the stand about what exactly “Write An Inmate” was and he explained that he was part of the program when he was locked up, how much it helps inmates get through their sentence, helps connect them to the outside world and genuinely just keeps them hopeful.

First off you were a little hesitant…..speaking to someone who’s in jail because they broke the law sounded a little scary….

But hell, its a start of a new year and taking some time out of your day every once in a while to write a short letter to help keep someones hopes up is the least you can do.

Besides! One of your childhood best friends big brothers went to jail and he wasn’t a bad guy! One of your new years resolutions was to spread more kindness and this is just a perfect way to do so!

Once you got home, you look up the website on the brochure that was given to you and quickly start scrolling through inmates.

They all had profiles with information about them. You couldn’t see what they were in for, but you could see other information like their name, age, date they signed up for the program, time served/time until they get out, amount of letters they have received, a short description of who they are/what they like and a few photos showcasing what they look like.

You scrolled through a few but they all seemed to have gotten hundreds of letters, you wanted to write someone who wasn’t getting flooded every week with letters, maybe send a letter to someone who could use a pick me up.

Clicking on the last page you scrolled to the very bottom and click on the last inmate before it even had time to load.

Once the page opened the name “Simon Riley” appeared on your screen

After looking through his profile a wave of sadness rolled over you

Name: Simon Riley, most people call me Ghost Age: 36 Joined: December 26th, 2021 Letters Received: 0 Time served: 3 and a half years Sentence ends: Year and a half Description: ex military. I like dogs, big ones not small ones, the outdoors, playing cards and motorcycles. The first thing I want to do when I get out is to eat a steak.

Attached was three photos. I won’t even lie, they’re definitely dad selfies from different angles HAHAHA they’re such grainy photos too, like they’ve been taken on a 10 year old android.

Two of the selfies are him with a black balaclava on and the last one was of his face without anything covering it, but again it so grainy you can’t really make his facial features out.

Simon had joined the program two years ago and hadn't received one letter. You felt horrible, he joined the day after Christmas probably hoping to receive something, anything, but not one person took the time to write him…..

So obviously Simon was going to be your prisoner pen pal, how could he not be…..

I think the letters start off pretty innocently tbh, you don’t start writing to Simon with the intention of starting any sort of sexual or romantic relationship, it truly is out of the goodness of you’re heart, you sweet girl :(

Simon had totally forgotten about the program honestly, imagine his shock when the prison guard threw him a letter.

When he frowned and asked who its from the guard just shrugged and said “write an inmate program” and walked off completely unfazed.

But again, starts out super innocent, things like “I saw that you like big dogs, what’s your favourite breed?” and “what’s your favourite card game? I know how to play blackjack but I’m not very good haha”

I’d like to think you don’t even disclose your gender or name at the start. Keeping everything under lock and key.

Simon also answers back with pure intentions at first, he has an inkling you may be a women because the hand writing is wayyy to pretty and delicate to come from a man.

But again! He doesn’t get his hopes up, it could be an old granny for all he knows, but he can’t shake the idea that maybeeeee it could be someone a little more his type, ya know ;)

After a couple weeks of writing letters back and forth you feel like you’re getting to know him a little better. He asks you to call him Simon, not Ghost and he starts writing the cheesiest dad jokes at the bottom of every letter.

“Two fish are in a tank, one turns to the other and asks “do you know how to drive this thing?” a little army humour for ya’ :)”

His so charming in such a rough and rugged sort of way you know? It sounds silly to say, I mean, you’ve never met him! But the way his handwriting is complete chicken scratch and how he adds little “:)” “:(“ and “>:)” makes you giggle!

You end up telling him your name and how old you are, I mean, its only fair! You know his name! You definitely didn’t tell him because you wanted to get his mind racing, get him thinking about all the different possibilities, make him fantasize…

Its fair to say you have a little crush on him :( ahhhh its so humiliating! A city girl like you, good job, successful family and a bright future laying in bed every night fucking your pussy with a brand new dildo you bought just so you could imagine Simon, a felon, fucking your little cunt :(

When Simon sent his letter that week asking for a photo of you, your little crush just got bigger :(

“Its only fair don’t ya’ think? You know what I look like, why don’t ya’ return the favour sweetpea ;)”

And of course you did!! He asked so politely!

Putting on your pushup bra, doing your makeup and styling your hair all for him:(((

You get so frustrated because you don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard for him, argh! Its all so embarrassing!! Your such a needy girl >:(

You make sure to push up your tits, your bra helping them spill out over your cute little shirt and giving him a good view of your gorgeous body.

After an hour of taking photos you finally get the shot you were looking for

Eyes sparkling, cute little smile on your lips, light hitting your face just right, lacy bra slightly peaking out the top of your shirt just enough that it looks like an accident, beautiful tits sitting right in frame so he can get a good look and the slight curve of your waist visible.

Its perfect, it look so effortless…..in your eyes at least

When Si received your letter, his cock got hard the second he saw your picture :((((

Since his been locked up he hasn’t been able to jerk off properly >:(

His balls are so heavy as is, and now he has a photo of you

He could basically cum in his pants at the thought of holding your waist as you ride him. Using his big callused hands to fuck your pretty pussy onto his aching cock >>:((((((

You’re so put together! nice clothes, from the look of the background, nice apartment, clean bedroom. Just the thought of him corrupting you, fucking his baby into you, making you move into a shitty little apartment while he works and you look after his chubby baby makes his dick start to twitch :3

Before he can stop himself, he cums all in his pants :(

He hasn’t cum properly in years! yet a simple photo of you did it for him in seconds!!! You’re such a nasty minx, you know exactly what you’re doing you dirty girl >>:(

That night he lays under the covers, his cell mate fast asleep on the other side of the room as he slowly pumps his cock to the photo of you.

Eyes closed and head thrown back against the thin pillow, he bites his lip so he doesn’t make any noise.

You see, playboy magazines get passed around all the time, they’re not hard to find if you know the right people, but it just doesn’t do it for Si!!

Of course they’re beautiful women, there’s no doubt about it, but everything so photoshopped :(

Si likes his women natural. No skin smoothing filters or enhancements from photoshop, he likes his women real

His so deprived that he cums in record time, his hot load shooting all over your face, the once clean photo now sticky and stained….

He wished he had it in him to be embarrassed, but he just can’t! God, he needs to hear your voice, your picture just isn’t enough anymore….

In his next letter he asks if he could use his monthly call to speak to you……Johnnys just gonna have to wait, they can talk football another time >:(

Aghhhh, PrisonPenPal!Simon is so fucking cocky it hurtssss, PrisonPenPal!Simon is open for requests so feel free to send them throughhhhh, add to the AU, ask me expand on certain topics, whatever floats your boat >:)

!Disclaimer! - Above is NSFW content - MDNI - If you follow my blog without your age in your bio, you will be blocked - If you are under the age of 18, you are not welcome here, otherwise, enjoy :)

Cat divider sourced by @positively-mine from Pinterest - Pink line divider by @eloquentreverie - MDNI divider by @cafekitsune

Basic blog housekeeping - fic requests guidelines, boundaries and my rules for minors

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angelatsumu · 9 months ago

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allistic simon x autistic reader was just so heartwarming and relatable to read as i’m someone with the tism that often feels like a burden on others. it was so lovely, feeling like simon didn’t want to change the reader as a person or expect anything unreasonable of them, but rather accommodate them where he can. i also liked that he didn’t have to compromise himself and was able to do an activity he likes, but also care for reader! all around just really enjoyed the piece.

if i may, i’d love to request something where one of the reader’s safe foods/essential items is out of stock or being discontinued and how simon would help them navigate that situation. one of my fave essentials just got discontinued and i’m devastated lol ♥︎

hi there! i'm very happy that you enjoyed my first autistic reader piece. i'm sorry that your safe food is out of stock ): i get fairly frustrated when i can't have access to things that comfort me. i apologize in advanced for the subpar writing that will ensue this message.

allistic simon x autistic!reader: crisis averted

in which your lovely husband attempts to help you navigate the sudden unavailability of your safe food.

simon came back from his meeting on base a bit winded and more confused than when he'd originally left the home. the meeting was a cooperative planning session involving KorTac, and your husband failed to keep up with the newly-introduced objectives and profiles. his head hurt, frankly. the entire meeting he'd only been wondering what you'd been up to and if you missed him. when he finally entered your shared home, he was relieved to have the workday slide right off his broad, strong shoulders.

simon hummed as he heard the tapping of your PC keyboard, knowing you'd likely well into a deep dive of one of your special interests. he took off his boots by the door and calmly took steps toward the study, whistling as he walked. his eyes fell upon you in the throws of your own world of wonder, irises blown as you took in the information before you. Simon cleared his throat to grab your attention, and you peeled yourself away briefly to greet him. ,"hey Si," you hummed back distractedly, and your husband chuckled in response. "hi lovie," he grinned at you, moving to stand beside you and take in the media you were consuming. he stands there for a moment, enjoying your company, before he decides to trek to the kitchen for a snack.

simon peers around the area for signs of your appetite, signs that you had been feeding yourself and staying hydrated. he was met with an empty sink and dishwasher, and the items in the fridge looked untouched. the water filter was exactly as full as when he left this morning. he sighed, shaking his head before a lightbulb went off. maybe we're out of [food item]. that could do it, he thinks to himself, treking to the pantry to confirm the item was missing. he padded back into the study to greet you again, politely asking for your attention.

when you spin around to see a frowning Simon you instinctively feel puzzled, and of course Simon can tell by the way you stare at him blankly. "lovie, you didn't eat today?" he's soft when he speaks to you, ensuring that you don't feel scolded or punished. Your lover has been so understanding of your mannerisms, fully aware that your appetite was fickle and sometimes undetectable. you shook your head in response, words lost on you as you tried to recall your last meal. "there's no food item so I can't really eat right now," you responded cooly, and Simon nods his head in response. usually he'd kept up with the supply of your items, and he was honestly quite shocked that this wasn't upsetting you as much as he'd always imagined it would. he didn't want to press the issue, but he was mildly concerned that you may be pressing it down. "why didn't you say anything, are you not upset?" the question slides over your head, and you direct your attention back to the media in front of you. " 've been busy today," you respond as your eyes focus again on the screen. Simon sighs again, turning on his heels and heading to the bedroom for a change of clothes. he knew he'd be heading to the store now, or helping you through a meltdown later.

Simon had read up quite a bit on the fickle nature of meltdowns, and he was well versed in how unpredictable they may be. he'd listened to numerous autistic media creators mention their experience in reference to valves. when the 'special interest' tank was where you needed it, and your 'manual labor' valve was at a minimum, then that allowed for things like social interaction or emotional regulation. when you had no time to yourself and no time for the things that keep you happy, your mask began to slip and 'smaller' things that you normally coped with began to feel a lot heavier and less manageable. he knew that your special interest tank currently filled your cup to the brim, allowing you to ignore the constant discomfort of hunger and dehydration. he also knew that should this hunger persist it may heighten other, seemingly less significant, senses and experiences and he'd find himself well into meltdown territory. the longer he waited for you to notice your hunger, the more likely dysregulation would occur.

at the store, Simon's breath is stolen from him. the damned item was out of stock. he haggled a store employee, begging them to check their inventory again, but they'd been completely out of it. Simon found himself driving all over the city in search of this item, but he found nothing. at the fifth store he felt defeated, and he decided to search for the item online. to his dismay, it'd been discontinued. there was a pit in your husband's stomach at the information. to Simon's surprise, it seemed that his lovely spouse's support of this item hadn't been enough to singlehandedly keep the item in service. he scoffed as he thumbed through the list of items he knew you liked, all of which seeming a reach to coax you into eating.

Simon drives the 45 minutes back to the home, and you're pacing in the living room with your headphones on. Simon doesn't even have to ask, he knows you've overdone yourself with the screens and now your head hurts and your ears hurt; your ears always hurt when you're overstimulated. No matter how much you loved [special interest], you still found yourself overwhelmed if you indulged for too long.

you turn the music down at the sight of your husband in the doorway, waiting for him to speak. "Lovie, it seems that item has been discontinued." The words take a moment to be processed, but you fail to hide the disgust and frustration you feel about the information. you feel your chest getting tight, and the music doesn't feel loud enough. "i know this is difficult but-" 'How could we not notice it was discontinued? Why didn't i pay attention! It can't be! I don't want that. I don't want it." you began to cry, frustration coursing through you as your ears began to sting. You'd tried so hard to do better, to feel better for Simon, but now you felt helpless. Your brain began to eat away at you, blaming you for not keeping up with your own foods and snacks. Your pacing continues as you find yourself striking your chest repeatedly, trying to dull the pain of the situation. your mind felt like it was melting, and the tears continued.

Simon steps to you slowly, striking his own chest lightly and he nears your smaller frame. he slowly reaches his arms out beside him, allowing you to walk into his chest. his arms remain at his sides, and he allows the painful stimming to be transferred to his chest. your strikes feel nothing close to anything he'd truly suffered, and he hoped this would help you make it through this world-shattering time. he stands there for as long as you need him to, fully prepared for this to last several hours. the tears stain his shirt as you sniffle and sob, strikes getting lighter and lighter. you cry so much it leaves you dizzy, and your arms slowly reach out to simon's to wrap them around your frame. you give him two taps to let him know that you'd like to be squeezed, and he does so without complaint.

"You're safe, lovie. I'm sure this is very frustrating, so how about we order that Chinese food place you like. I know it's not safe food but it will feed you. I even have the exact order from last time, hm?" you offer him another two taps as confirmation, and he smiles.

Once you begin to come down from your meltdown, Simon is sure to help you change into your favorite pajamas and wraps you in your compression blanket. you two spend the evening in your bed watching your comfort show and eating takeout.

an: i hope this as comforting for you as it was for me while writing. simon would be such a loving and comforting partner, and I deeply believe he'd study you and learn you so well that he can help. if anyone you love is having a meltdown, try to remove any extra emotional or cognitive labor for them.

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elizabethwritesmen · 10 months ago

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The Devil Wears Lace

chapter 8: November 2, 2024

pairing: simon “ghost” riley x reader

summary: you meet soap at the bar and finally see simon. turns out, he’s missed you just as much as you’ve missed him. he takes you home and you find out just how much.

warnings: smutty smutty smut!!! beware!! p in v, fingering, all the good things. degradation and praise, size kink if you squint, probably a few more things but that’s all i can think of! let me know if i missed any!

series masterlist

November 2, 2024

It was cold outside, so I near sprinted from the cab to the bar, rushing in and hoping for some kind of warmth. I sighed in relief as the heat rushed around me, like a big hug.

I wasn’t accustomed to such cool temperatures, it never got super cold in my little beach town and if it did it was only in late January and lasted for about a day but London had been consistently chilly since I got there.

I looked around, noting that the place was a bit packed. I couldn’t see Soap or Simon or any of the guys anywhere, and I started to get discouraged, preparing to just leave with whatever pride I had left. Then I stopped myself. This was my only chance to see him. I wasn’t going to get another one, and if I blew it, who knew how if we’d ever cross paths again?

I steeled my resolve, making my way further into the pub and scooting past people as politely as I could. Finally, I saw him. They had a little booth in the corner, all of them with drinks in front of them.

I stood there for a second, nerves aflame and telling me to turn around for whatever it’s worth. I tried to push them away but the longer I stared at him the worse they got. Then, Gaz noticed me, his face lighting up as he nudged Simon on the arm and gestured in my direction.

Then, his eyes were on me. It was almost too much, the weight of them. The way they widened, he was clearly shocked. I took a deep breath in, telling myself to just walk over there but I couldn’t. My feet wouldn’t cooperate.

I must’ve stood there looking dumb for a whole minute before someone ran into me, knocking me right down onto the floor as they stepped past me, not even acknowledging what they’d done. Drunk off their ass, probably. I huffed, trying to pull myself up but someone else ran into me, knocking me down again.

“Here,” I looked up and it was him, offering me his hand. I took it carefully and he pulled me onto my feet, watching quietly as I brushed the dirt off my clothes.

“Thank you,” I offered shyly, unable to meet his eyes.

“You’re here,” he sounded like he didn’t even believe it, the words a whisper on his lips, a ghost of a thing that couldn’t possibly be true.

“I’m here,” I nodded, finally looking up with a smile and he visibly relaxed, pulling me into him and hugging me. I wound my arms around his neck, returning it tightly, relief flooding over me and healing all of the wounds that had formed since I last saw him.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, pulling away. He looked tired. He probably felt tired. I couldn’t imagine what he’d gone through.

“I got accepted to the law school at Cambridge.” He thought over my words for a second, eyes widening when the meaning of them sunk in. “I live here now, Simon.”

“I was gonna come back for you,” he rushed out the words like an apology, “I promised and I intended to keep it. I just got back from deployment but I was gonna go the second I got clearance.”

“I know. I never doubted you for a second. I just…. I just thought something had happened to you and I worried a lot. I don’t know how to contact you, I don’t know what you look like. All I have is a first name that may not even be real.”

“I promise, it’s real,” he chuckled, “Come on, sit down. I’ll order you a drink.”

He ushered me into the booth and then went to the bar, leaving me alone with the guys who were all giving me knowing looks.

“You didn’t tell him I was coming?” I asked Soap.

“I thought it’d be better as a surprise.”

“He told us, though,” Price pointed out and I narrowed my eyes.

“So you told everybody but him? That’s so mean!”

“Not really,” Soap shrugged, “Bet not knowing he was gonna see you made it a whole lot more special.”

I rolled my eyes, sinking into the cushion of the seat, chatting with them about what had been going on with me. Finally, Simon returned and handed me a glass.

“What’s this?”

“It’s sweet, you’ll like it,” he said, slipping in beside me. I shrugged, taking a sip and grinning when I realized he was right.

“You know me better than I give you credit for,” I giggled, sipping again.

“That I do.”

We spent the next few hours catching up. He seemed like he really wanted to know what I’d been up to. It seemed like he thought he wasn’t ever gonna see me again, just like I’d thought about him, and it made the night feel more loaded than it was. I’d come to London for him, whether I admitted it or not, and I wanted to be with him. I had no delusions that he felt the same way, only the tiniest bit of hope that had dwindled in the year he’d been gone. It sparked back to life, though, every time his eyes landed on me or his hand gently brushed my hair away from my face.

“You wanna get out of here soon?” he leaned in and asked me, and I nodded.

And a few minutes later, he stood, holding his hand out for me to take, and lead me outside to his vehicle. He helped me into it then got into the driver’s side and took off out of the parking lot.

“So.. you’re based here? In London?”

“For now, yes. I still go everywhere, though. It’s just… of all the places I am, I’m here the most.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me what you’re thinkin’. You got that look.”

“What look?”

“You get lost in your head and your nose scrunches.”

“No it doesn’t,” I defended, and he laughed.

“I’ve spent a lot of time looking at your face, I think I know better than you.”

“Whatever.”

“You gonna tell me what’s going on in that pretty head o’ yours or what?” he asked again, and I bit my lip, suddenly nervous.

“You think I’ll see you more?”

“Well I suppose so, since we live in the same place now.”

“But you said you’re gone a lot.”

“Yeah. But I always find my way back home.”

I grinned slightly, “So no more waiting a few months to see you for a few hours?”

“No more.”

My grin turned into a full on smile, heart pumping a little faster as that spark of hope grew even more.

He pulled up to my house a few minutes later and walked me to my front door, waiting patiently as I unlocked it. He didn’t ask if he could come in and I didn’t stop him, we just made our way inside together like it was second nature.

“Make yourself at home,” I hummed as I pulled my shoes off and tossed them into the basket beside the door. “I’m gonna get comfy.”

I walked into my room and found a pair of sweatpants and a cropped tank top, changing out of my cute clothes and into the soft and cozy ones. When I walked back into the living room, he was sitting on the couch waiting for me. I somewhat awkwardly plopped down on the other side of the couch, feeling the butterflies twenty fold, making me almost nauseous.

He raised a brow at me, eyeing me suspiciously before turning back away. It seem almost like he was nervous too.

I cleared my throat and spoke, “I know you probably have other girls here that you like more than me. Or anywhere, really. Maybe one in every country, I’d believe it. But…”

“But?” he urged me on after I paused, and I sighed, preparing to further embarrass myself.

“I just.. I don’t know. I don’t know what I want to say. I guess I want to know… if I’m different than them? I don’t have any misconceptions about us, I promise I know where I stand and I know you don’t want anything real but do you at least… do you at least want me here?”

He stared at me for a moment, thinking about his answer, then gave it to me bluntly. “There are no other girls.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Not even one?”

“Not even one. There were none before you and there won’t be any after you.” I looked at him like I was stupid for a moment, in a bit of disbelief.

“But you’re Ghost. I - I see the way women look at you, and on top of that you’re this badass super soldier with the coolest mask ever. I’m just… I’m just me. How could there not be anyone else?”

“You’re just you, huh?” he snorted, and I furrowed my brows at him. “You’re just the girl who dances on bars and jumps in pools half naked to prove she isn’t scared? Just the girl who moved to the other side of the world to find me?”

“I didn’t come here to find you.”

He raised an eyebrow, and I faltered under it. We both knew that was a lie. “You’re the best girl I’ve met. I want you here.”

My eyes met his and I couldn’t fight off the smile. “Really?”

“Really.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding and relaxed a bit, turning to face him.

“So we have all the time in the world now,” I mused.

“We do.”

We locked eyes, and my breath caught in my throat as the reality settled in my bones. We really did have all the time in the world. He’d still be there tomorrow. No sad goodbyes.

“Come here,” it was an order, low and rough, and I jumped straight into action, scooting closer to him until I was right beside him. He grabbed my thigh, pulling it over his lap until I was straddling him and I about choked on my own spit. “Such a good girl for me.”

Fuck, I forgot how good he was at turning me into a puddle. I let out a whine and he laughed, grabbing my hips and pulling them forward to rest right on his, pulling a gasp from me.

“Been too long, huh?” I nodded, my hair falling all over the place from the force of it, “I know, baby. It was so mean of me to leave you for so long.”

“So mean,” I whined, unable to stop the way my hips moved back and forth against his, my eyes almost rolling into the back of my head because he was already hard and the angle was hitting my clit just right.

“Breathe, baby,” he reminded me and I nodded, making an effort to inhale and exhale as I kept going. “Look at you, my little slut, cock drunk already.” I nodded, groaning as he held my hips still, eyes opening and peering into his. “You been with anybody else since I last saw you?”

“No.”

“You were waiting for me?”

“Yes,” I nodded, trying to move again but he didn’t let me.

“You been making yourself cum?” I looked down at my lap, shaking my head slightly and he grabbed my chin and yanked it back up, forcing me to keep eye contact. “Why?”

“Nothing works anymore now that… now that we…” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence, but he understood.

“Now that I wrecked you?”

“Yeah,” I bit my lip, squirming against his rough hands. “Hated you for leaving me like that, don’t think anything else will ever do.”

“Aww,” his voice was patronizing but it sent heat straight to my center, “I’m sorry, baby. Let me make up for it.”

“Please,” I asked, my voice a broken moan, barely audible.

His hands stayed tight on my hips but started rocking me slowly, an agonizing pace, and the noises I was making were obscene.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he was in awe staring down at the spot on my sweatpants, “Need it bad, huh?”

“Nnhgh, uh huh,” I was close to collapsing on him, a mess of nerves that felt like they were going to snap. I needed him and I needed him right that second.

“Take your pants off for me,” he pushed me gently off his lap and I did as asked, slipping them off and kicking them away. “Shirt, too.” So I pulled it over my head and it joined my pants. He leaned forward in his seat, his hands closing around the band of my underwear and ripping. I gasped as he threw them in the pile.

“Those were expensive!”

“I’ll buy you ten new pairs,” he shrugged, kissing my tummy and then pulling me back onto his lap.

He made a show of pulling off his belt and undoing his pants, pulling himself out of his boxers and he was just as huge as I remembered. I gawked for a moment and he laughed, pulling me closer.

I was all too eager to get to it, setting myself up but he stopped me.

“Gotta stretch you out some, baby, don’t wanna hurt you.” Before I could complain, his fingers found my entrance and began stroking back and forth before pushing in, fucking into my already very wet hole and making me come undone in seconds. I felt like I was on fire as I gripped his shoulders, barely able to keep myself up. He kept that pace going, bringing his thumb to my clit, and I about jumped out of my skin, grinding down on his hand pathetically. “Just like that, baby, such a filthy little slut for me,” he coaxed my orgasm out of me with his words and I leaned down to kiss him, lips rough on his as my hips spasmed and I finished on his fingers. He brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean and I gasped, his eyes locked on mine the entire time.

“Please fuck me, gonna die if you don’t fuck me Simon,” I begged and he nodded.

“Let’s go to bed.”

I grinned and stood up, eagerly sprinting to my room and he laughed, following me. He looked so good in the doorway, large and taking up what seemed like all the space in the room just by being there. I scooted back against my pillows, waiting patiently for him in the dark room only barely lit by light outside of the window.

He walked in slowly, climbing up my bed until he was propped up on his arms on top of me, leaning down to capture my lips in his own and it felt sweeter than the rest. Our tongues slid together in harmony as his hands wandered, touching everything they could reach and it was a lot.

Though it embarrassed me, I was past the point of caring as I started begging, my cries muffled by his mouth as he grabbed my thigh and pulled it around his waist. He lined himself up and I cursed the clothes he was wearing, wanting to feel more of him.

He slowly pressed himself in, but I was gone from the tip alone. I squeaked as he made it farther and farther, letting out a whimper of pain once it got too much. I hadn’t done anything like that in a while, so I was still a little tight even with him opening me up first, and he halted.

“Tell me when,” his words were simple but they were loaded and I nodded.

“Just give me a second, please,” I whispered into the dark, how sweet it was that he was waiting for me to tell him I was okay. “Okay,” I nodded a moment later, “Fuck me.”

He growled, pushing in the rest of the way until I could feel his pelvis pressing against me, brushing my clit tantalizingly. He pulled out after giving me time to adjust and pressed in again a little faster, until he was slamming inside of me and I was a moaning, whimpering mess under him. He seemed to like me that way, holding my face tight in his hands so I couldn’t look away from him, swallowing my sounds with his kisses as he went harder.

I was close, so close I was clenching around him, and he grabbed me under my waist and tipped us over so he was sitting against the headboard and I was on top. I let out a shaky breath as the new angle sent him even deeper inside of me and started greedily grinding on him.

“That’s it, take what you need baby, make yourself cum on my cock,” his words sent ripples of pleasure through me and I could feel that peak inside, ready to tip over it. “Gonna cum with you, you want that? Want it inside of you?” I nodded desperately at his words, clawing into the fabric of his shirt as I started bouncing, needing to go over the edge more than I’d needed anything else, ever. I needed everything about him more than I was accustomed to, and I already knew that I’d never be able to do what we were doing with anyone else. Nothing else would ever do.

“Fuck, come on baby, cum for me,” his hand wrapped around my throat and my vision went white, eyes rolling back as my hips stuttered and thrashed, my orgasm bubbling up and I could feel his close behind. I rode out the high, not giving him a second’s break from my screams as his hips jutted inside of me, filling me up with his own cum, fucking me full.

We took a second to breathe when it was over, just gazing at each other. He brushed my hair out of my face, wiping under my eyes.

“Let’s go get you cleaned up,” he smiled, and I nodded, climbing off of him and making my way to the bathroom with him close behind. “You wanna take a shower?” he asked me once we were inside and I nodded slowly, exhaustion settling in. “Okay baby, let me get it ready for you.” He turned on the spray, hand under it waiting for it to get hot before turning to me. “Wanna wash your hair?” I shook my head, and he nodded, grabbing a hair tie from the counter behind me and turning me around to face the mirror as he got to work, pulling all my locks into a messy bun on the top of my head. I giggled, it looked a little silly but it was nice to see he didn’t have much experience with women’s hair.

He still hadn’t pushed his mask down, so I turned around and kissed him once, doing it for him and smiling at him once it was back in place. Then, I stepped into the shower and washed all the grime of the day off, along with all the evidence of the things he’d just done to me, shivering when I thought about it too much, missing his warmth already.

I half expected him to be gone when I got out and the thought scared me, but there he was, laying down waiting for me. I grinned, relief settling in as I pulled on a T shirt and panties, slipping in beside him and letting me snuggle me close.

“You must be uncomfy,” I furrowed my brows, gesturing to his jeans and long sleeve shirt, and he shrugged.

“‘m fine.”

“Are you sure? I can-“

“‘m sure. Go to sleep.”

I nodded slowly, smiling as he pulled me in closer, feeling like I was where I was supposed to be. This felt so different from the time he brought me home drunk, that felt like longing and this felt like forever. I tried to push the stupid thoughts away, knowing he probably didn’t want that but at the same time he was there, and he wasn’t leaving, because he didn’t want to. That thought alone was enough to send me into a peaceful sleep.

#simon ghost x you #simon ghost smut #simon ghost riley x reader #simon x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon riley smut #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x you #ghost x reader smut #ghost smut #ghost x reader #cod smut

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queereads-bracket · 13 days ago

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Queer Adult SFF Books Bracket: Preliminary Round

Book summaries and submitted endorsements below:

The Spear Cuts Through Water by Simon Jimenez

The people suffer under the centuries-long rule of the Moon Throne. The royal family—the despotic emperor and his monstrous sons, the Three Terrors—hold the countryside in their choking grip. They bleed the land and oppress the citizens with the frightful powers they inherited from the god locked under their palace.

But that god cannot be contained forever.

With the aid of Jun, a guard broken by his guilt-stricken past, and Keema, an outcast fighting for his future, the god escapes from her royal captivity and flees from her own children, the triplet Terrors who would drag her back to her unholy prison. And so it is that she embarks with her young companions on a five-day pilgrimage in search of freedom—and a way to end the Moon Throne forever. The journey ahead will be more dangerous than any of them could have imagined.

Both a sweeping adventure story and an intimate exploration of identity, legacy, and belonging, The Spear Cuts Through Water is an ambitious and profound saga that will transport and transform you—and is like nothing you’ve ever read before.

Fantasy, epic fantasy, metanarrative, experimental, adult

Power to Yield and Other Stories by Bogi Takács

Endorsement from submitter: "A brilliant collection of speculative short stories, with a focus on gender identity"

Power to Yield is a collection of speculative tales exploring gender identity, neurodivergence, and religion from author Bogi Takács, who deftly blends sci-fi, fantasy, and weird fiction.

An AI child discovers Jewish mysticism. A student can give no more blood to their semi-sentient apartment and plans their escape. A candidate is rigorously evaluated for their ability to be a liaison to alien newcomers. A young magician gains perspective from her time as a plant. A neurodivergent woman tries to survive on a planetoid where thoughts shape reality . . .

These are stories about the depth and breadth of the human condition—and beyond—identifying future possibilities of conflict and cooperation, identity and community.

Short story collection, science fiction, fantasy, speculative fiction, adult

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shmaptainwrites · 3 months ago

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𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 [𝐀 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘]

PAIRINGS — Violet Bridgerton x fem!Reader [Modern!AU]

SUMMARY — The Bridgertons take some time to do things they enjoy among the media circus caused by Landon's statement.

WORD COUNT — 3.5K

WARNINGS — none

NOTE — Another Friday, another chapter! Thank again to flock for taking care of the beta read and editing :)

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐀𝐎𝟑

𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑷𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑽𝑰: 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑺 𝑰𝑵 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑳𝑳𝑬𝑳

The click of the camera shutters had become incessant since Landon’s statement broke the UK news. Unfortunately, it had not faded out, like they had hoped, after one cycle, due to the fact that it seemed like anyone who had ever had any qualms with the Bridgertons were now offering their opinions on the situation and keeping it in the front of everyone’s minds.

Violet’s lawyers had managed to convince the authorities to do their interviews at the firm in exchange for full cooperation, which the firm was willing to give because Violet was innocent (at least her lawyer had said even an idiot could see that, and you had emphatically agreed with him).

Stepping out from what felt like her thousandth interview, you followed closely behind with manila folders and a briefcase, the cameras were quick to come out and follow the two of you towards the car Violet had acquired the service of until things died down.

She could hear her name called at her from all directions, and she tried to hold her head high on Pat’s advice, knowing that if she hunched away the media might take her simple body language as an admission of guilt.

She was about to step into the car when she heard your voice behind her, but not addressing her.

“Hey, watch it!”

She turned around and saw you standing between her and someone who was trying to get a little too close.

“You know, while I’m at it, why don’t you all listen up?” you said, the frustration on behalf of Violet evident in your tone. “Keep your bloody cameras away from the Bridgertons or else I’m sure we can find a way to press charges for harassment. And while you’re at it, stop calling her Violet, it’s Lady Bridgerton, show some respect.”

Violet bit back a smile and finally opened the car door, stepping inside and sliding over the seats so you could place your things down and join her, closing the door, muffling the sounds of the press outside.

“You know, nobody calls me Lady Bridgerton,” she said while looking over at you.

“I know, but maybe they should,” you shrugged. “Maybe it will get them to remember all of the wonderful things your family has done with that title and that none of this is actually tied to you. Landon is just trying his last shot at bringing someone down with him.”

“At least the police said this should be cleared up and sorted soon, but I know the cameras are going to linger,” Violet sighed. “Daphne was telling me she saw someone following her while she was taking the children to the park with Simon the other day. She almost called the police; I had to arrange to get her a security detail.”

“Really?” you looked astonished and Violet nodded.

“They wanted information about me,” she added. “And were willing to take away my daughter’s, my son-in-law’s, and my grandchildren’s privacy to do so.”

You sighed and pressed your lips together.

“And Eloise has people following her around campus, Benedict has had his home vandalized, thank God Colin and Penelope left on another work assignment. I can’t imagine what they might have run into.”

You reached out your hand to take Violet’s and offer some comfort.

“I haven’t let Hyacinth or Gregory leave the house,” she looked over at you. “They’re going insane, but I can’t…” her voice trailed off. “They’re still so young, I can't have this happening to them as well.”

“I’m sure they understand,” you assured her. “This is no small thing. At this point, we’re talking about safety. You don’t even leave the house without security by your side anymore, that’s a clear difference from your circumstances before.”

“Yes, which is why I think we all need a break,” Violet sighed. “Benedict is coming to pick up Gregory and Hyacinth this afternoon and they’ll go to the country estate for a week or so, and Agatha and I have dinner planned at the house tonight.”

“That should be good,” you nodded. “Everyone gets a little change of pace, Benedict can be the one to make sure Hyacinth and Gregory don’t kill each other,” you teased, and Violet chuckled.

“When you put it that way, I might lose three children by the end of the week.”

You scoffed at her words and looked outside the window for a moment, your hands still interlocked.

“I know it’s hard, but we should focus on the positives. We still have the gala we need to think about. I know we were hoping for the fall, but with everything that is happening, I was wondering if it makes sense to do something over the holidays? It should add more time for us too, which frankly, we could use.”

“I was thinking that as well,” Violet agreed. “We haven’t sent out invitations so it wouldn’t be hard to shift dates as long as the venue is available. We’d just have to do some coordinating with all the logistical things, but I think that’s better than rushing it.”

“I’ll make sure the venue is available, you take a break and prepare for your dinner tonight. I hear Agatha is expecting you to cook.”

“She usually does, it’s a little deal we have,” Violet explained. “And she likes my cooking, so, I won’t turn down an opportunity to be complimented.”

“What’s your specialty?” you asked.

“Yorkshire pudding, but that’s not quite a meal on its own,” Violet chuckled. “I’ll figure something out to go with it.”

“I’m sure you will,” you squeezed her hand and let go, both of you feeling the immediate loss of warmth and comfort when the contact ceased.

When you arrived back at the house, Benedict had come to pick up Hyacinth and Gregory, neither of whom were ready to leave, much to his dismay.

“Mum, can you please get your children to bloody hurry up?” Benedict complained.

“Lovely way to greet your mother after she’s just come home from being interviewed by the police,” Violet teased and Benedict sighed with a chuckle, pulling his mother into a hug and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Hi Mum, how are you?” he changed his greeting, and Violet smiled.

“As good as I’ll be, given the circumstances. Let me go see what I can do about your siblings, and oh-have you two met yet?”

Violet looked between you and Benedict, and you nodded your head.

“Briefly, actually,” you said.

“Yes, you were at the gallery,” he noted and you confirmed with a nod.

“Pure coincidence. I realized who you were a few moments after we stopped talking,” you chuckled and gave him your name again.

“So, you’re working as the new financial manager?” Benedict asked, while Violet left you both to go find Hyacinth and Gregory.

“Yes, that would be me,” you nodded.

“And what was a financial district woman such as yourself doing in a small independent art gallery? Or working for my family, for that matter?”

“One, financial district women can have hobbies,” you started. “Two, I was looking for a change of pace and this is certainly that.”

“Getting bossed around by my mother? God give you strength.”

“Oh, come on,” you rolled your eyes and laughed. “It’s not that bad, we make a good team, I think.”

“If you’re saying that? Clearly you do,” Benedict teased. “No, but in all seriousness she’s a hard worker. Her nagging is out of love.”

“Benedict, did you just say I nag you?” Violet asked, stopping by the front door after overhearing the comment.

“No Mum, not at all,” he shook his head. “I said bagging, like when you pack us food to take places.”

Violet pressed her lips together. She seemed unconvinced and you laughed at Benedict’s terrible lie.

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to handle Greg and Hyacinth for a week?” you asked him, and he shrugged his shoulders quite exaggeratedly.

“I guess we’ll find out.”

“If they’re trying to kill each other, call me,” you told him. “I’ve learnt sibling crisis management 101 from those two.”

“Will do,” Benedict nodded and patted your back.

You heard your name called from the door and saw Hyacinth running outside.

“I thought I was going to miss you before we left,” she pulled you in for a hug which you accepted, one hand still occupied with full manila folders. “It’s going to be weird not seeing you every day.”

“Sure, but it’s only a week, and you have Benedict. You can make plans for the Beyoncé concert.”

“That is true,” Hyacinth nodded, still holding onto you.

“Hyacinth, goodness, you’re going to suffocate her,” Violet chuckled as she came outside with Gregory, seeing the tight grip her daughter had on you.

“I’m fine, I’m going to miss her hugs anyways,” you squeezed her back. “Okay, both of you should get your stuff in your brother’s car. He's been waiting patiently for you.”

The two youngest Bridgertons listened and threw their stuff in the trunk of Benedict’s car before saying their goodbyes and heading off with a final reminder from their mother not to kill each other.

You and Violet entered the house shortly thereafter, and she went on to prepare dinner while you did some work in the office.

After the day had ended, you were about halfway home when you realized you had forgotten your phone and had to turn back around to get it.

Security let you inside without a fuss, and you could hear chatter and laughter coming from the dining room, presumably from Violet’s dinner.

You tried to sneak in and out quietly, not wanting to interrupt, but Violet caught sight of you from afar and called out your name.

“What are you doing back here, is something wrong?” she asked.

“Just forgot my phone, I’ll be out of your hair in two minutes,” you assured her.

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” another voice chimed in, which you assumed was Agatha’s. “Violet wouldn't be able to cook for only two people, even if a gun was put to her head. It’s ten or nothing, there’s plenty of food to share, come eat with us.”

“I shouldn’t stay,” you shook your head.

“My dear, one does not turn down an invitation from Agatha,” Violet chuckled. “Just come sit with us.”

You pressed your lips together and began to walk towards the dining room, seeing the chair Violet had pulled out for you next to her and took a seat with them at the table.

“Christ, you were right. Violet, this is enough food for a small dinner party,” you said while looking at the spread in front of you.

“I, unfortunately, never unlearned how to portion for ten people,” she said while grabbing you a plate and some cutlery. “I will be sending you both home with leftovers.”

“And I will not be complaining,” Agatha smiled. “So,” she turned her attention to you. “Violet has been telling me how great of a help you’ve been the past few months.”

“Oh, it’s nothing really,” you shook your head. “Just doing my job.”

You knew as soon as you said it you didn’t believe it. Sure, a part of it was doing your job, but another part was always something a little extra. You had come to care very much for the family whose employ you were under and it meant a lot when you were able to help them through difficult situations.

“Have you and Violet known each other for a long time?”

You tried to divert the line of questioning from yourself.

“Since I was a teenager,” Violet answered. “Our families ran in the same circles, but we became more acquainted after my marriage, and even more so after Edmund’s passing.”

You could feel Agatha’s stare on you, and it made you a little nervous. It was almost as if she was very closely judging your character, but whether it was for your position with the family or something else, you were uncertain.

Violet offered you some wine, realizing you didn’t have a glass, and you accepted, watching her go back to the kitchen to fetch it for you, so you quickly filled the silence with another question for Agatha.

“What made you grow closer after Edmund’s passing?”

Agatha pressed her lips together and took a sip of her wine.

“My husband had also passed away when I was young,” she said and you nodded your head in understanding. “But that is not why I could relate to her.”

You paused, looking up from your food and making eye contact with Agatha whose gaze had seemingly softened.

“I had an arranged marriage,” she explained. “I did not love my husband. In fact, I loathed him, but due to my family, the only way out of that relationship was in death. My father passed shortly after he did and then, all of a sudden, I was free.”

You put your fork down, placing your hands in your lap, listening intently to her story.

“For years, I had been…close with Violet’s aunt, Lily, her father’s sister, and over time, that friendship turned into something…more than,” she said. “When she passed away, I felt like my world had been ripped in two and I couldn’t quite publicly grieve her loss, in part because I wasn’t yet ready to admit to the world that I loved her.”

You pressed your lips together, a surge of hurt in your chest at the story she shared.

“When Violet lost Edmund, I saw that same thing in her. She was still expecting and the world turned her grief into a spectacle.”

“I understand,” you nodded your head, it was implicit. Agatha was trying to protect Violet.

“I hope you do,” Agatha sipped her wine again. “Our stories often tend to draw on more parallels than we initially realize.”

Violet returned to the room with a glass of wine for you, and a bottle for the table, a bright smile on her face while she tucked her hair behind her ears and sat back down.

“Why the long faces, did something happen?” she asked, concerned.

“No, not at all,” Agatha shook her head. “We were just disappointed we can’t have your cooking every night, it really is quite exceptional.”

“Yes, I agree,” you said truthfully. “You were right when you said Yorkshire pudding is your specialty, I think this is the best one I’ve had in a long time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Violet smiled. “So, have you two spoken about art yet?”

“No, I don’t think we have,” you shook your head.

“A fellow appreciator of the finer things, I see,” Agatha smiled.

“Agatha has quite the collection at her home. I think you would love it, actually.”

“Really?” You looked at Agatha. “What era?”

“Mostly early 19th century, some late 18th,” she said. “Do you have much art in your home?”

“Not a lot, I can’t quite afford the things I enjoy,” you admitted. “But I frequent museums and galleries quite often which helps fill that void. I love being in this house in particular, there’s always a new piece in some corner that I haven’t seen before.”

“A lot of those are Benedict’s,” Violet said. “He refuses to pay for a storage space so he ends up giving them to me on loan until they sell.”

“I seem to recall some of the paintings around the house are yours,” Agatha noted.

“You didn’t tell me that,” you looked over at Violet. “Which ones?”

“Anything signed Ledger,” she admitted. “I did them all before I was married.”

You chuckled a little to yourself. There was one painting in Violet’s office, nothing too extravagant, just an assortment of plants in what looked like a wildflower bouquet resting on a table. If something was stumping you or your eyes needed a break from the many hours of staring at the computer, your default was to look at it. You had always meant to ask who the artist was; you just couldn’t seem to fathom that it was Violet.

“You didn’t think to mention it?” you chuckled, sipping your wine.

“I didn’t think it was relevant,” she shrugged innocently, and you laughed at the clearly coy comment.

Agatha watched the interaction between you both closely. There was a certain familiarity, an ease and comfort she hadn’t seen in Violet in a long time.

“So, I think we now know where Benedict gets his artistry from,” you said. “Does he know where he gets it from?”

“We’ve all made a point to make it very clear to him any talent he got was from me,” Violet teased, and you laughed again.

“Seriously though, once things settle again and you have more time on your hands, you should consider taking it up again,” you suggested. “It’s good to have a hobby.”

“I agree,” Agatha nodded. “Hobbies are a wonderful way to pass the time.”

“Agatha’s main hobby is hustling people in poker and pool,” Violet informed you.

“All the money goes to charity,” she assured.

“At the expense of the dignity of others,” Violet countered.

“She lost to me in both,” Agatha filled in the blanks and you snorted while lifting your wine glass to your lips and Violet’s ears became tinged with a soft pink colour. “And made the mistake of chalking it up to beginner's luck.”

“Oh, Violet,” you attempted to sound sympathetic, but it came off more like pity with the chuckle that was laced in your voice.

“No, I know I brought it on myself,” she nodded, picking up some vegetables with her fork. “I just don’t understand how I fell for it three times, and how you didn’t say anything,” she motioned to Agatha with her chin.

“You just seemed so determined, I didn’t want to burst your bubble.”

“Three times? Violet, that’s just…”

“Embarrassing? Demoralizing? Absolutely humiliating?” she filled in the blanks.

“No, I was going to say sweet,” you chuckled. “You didn’t give up, I mean, you never do. I admire that about you.”

“Oh,” Violet was visibly surprised by your response and you were too focused on her to notice Agatha’s knowing expression from across the table. “I-Well, thank you.”

“I would have gone with humiliating, too,” Agatha teased before eating another spoonful of food.

“Hush, you,” Violet frowned and sent her friend a playful piercing stare.

Dinner ended up being very enjoyable, but as soon as the dishes were cleared and you saw the time, you excused yourself from the group.

“Are you sure you can’t join us for another glass of wine?” Violet asked.

“I shouldn’t,” you shook your head. “My family’s coming to visit tomorrow, and I still have a few things to arrange around the apartment so I should get back to that before it’s too late.”

“Family? You didn’t mention your family was visiting. Do you need time off?” Violet asked.

“No, we’d run ourselves mad if we were together non-stop,” you shook your head. “If something comes up, I’ll ask.”

“Okay,” Violet smiled. “But before you go…” she slipped past Agatha and over to a pan that was by the stove, taking a container from one of the cupboards and placing what looked like a few slices of cake inside and grabbing some food she had packed away from dinner already. “For tonight. A cleaning pick-me-up,” she handed it to you.

“Thank you, Violet, really both of you for including me tonight,” you said. “I know I was the reason you got pulled away from your tea together in the first place, so I’m happy for the chance at redemption.”

“Consider yourself redeemed,” Agatha assured you. “I’m sure we will talk again soon.”

“I hope so,” you smiled. “Goodnight.”

Agatha and Violet returned your smile and wished you goodnight as you left the room, heading out the front door and going back to your car to head home.

“So,” Agatha began a moment after hearing the front door close. “She’s quite…”

She paused in hopes that Violet might fill in the blank, letting her in on what her feelings were towards you.

“Lovely?” Violet looked up at Agatha with a smile. “She really is.”

“You seem to have gotten closer over your time working together.”

“I think we have,” Violet agreed. “It’s odd. It’s almost as though I hired a financial manager and a friend, but it doesn’t feel forced.”

“It doesn't look forced,” Agatha agreed. “And she’s aware of your…long term financial plans?”

Violet nodded her head, serving Agatha a piece of cake.

“Yes, but we still have some time before that becomes a reality,” she said.

“And do you think your friendship will last past that?” she asked.

Violet paused for a moment, thinking about the question that was brought up before placing her hands flat on the counter in front of her, leaning on the support of her arms.

“I really do hope so.”

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