#simon-writes

[thelostmagicians]

Say my name | Steve Harrington

Summary: Steve hated his name, until he heard you say it [2.5k]

Fluff, comfort, slight angst, kind of smut

♡

Steve Harrington was never fond of his name. It felt plain and boring, blending into the background of everyday life. Yet, it carried an immense significance. Named after his great grandfather - a man everyone revered - Steve bore the weight of the Harrington legacy. Perhaps that’s why his posture was never perfect; the invisible load of expectations and history bore down on him, a constant reminder of the greatness he was expected to live up to.

Maybe that’s why Steve always tried to be recognized as something other than himself, his father’s son, Nancy’s (ex) boyfriend, or the highschool King turned loser. But no one really knew Steve. Beneath the labels and legacy, there was a person who felt unseen, lost in the shadows of who he was supposed to be.

Every time his name left someone’s mouth, he would wince, almost forgetting it belonged to him, hating the way their lips formed around the rough noise of the “v” and how they would draw out the “e,” as if speaking his name was a chore.

–

The first time you said his name, it was like unlocking something buried deep inside him. You didn’t even notice how your voice softened, how the word Steve seemed to linger in the air, hanging between you. It wasn’t just a name—it was a recognition, a moment of something real, raw, and quietly powerful. He had been called “Steve” a thousand times before, but this was different. The way you said it felt like the beginning of something, and it made him feel seen in a way he never had before. Steve didn’t sound plain or burdensome—it felt like a truth you were just discovering together.

It started so simply. He’d introduced himself with an easy smile, his hand extended toward you. “Hi, I’m Steve,” he’d said, his voice steady but laced with a hint of something you couldn’t quite place—nervousness, maybe? Hope?

You smiled back, slipping your hand into his, and without thinking, you said, “Hi, Steve.” The sound of his name on your lips was unassuming, almost casual, but it did something to him. The way you said it felt warm, like the sun breaking through a cloudy sky. Your voice carried a quiet sincerity that lingered in the space between you, and for the first time, Steve didn’t feel like just a name. It felt like it belonged to him in a way it never had before—personal, meaningful, significant.

He held onto that moment longer than he meant to, replaying the way your voice pitch changed and the way you dragged out the e a perfect amount to keep him longing. It wasn’t just the first time you’d said his name—it was the first time it had ever truly meant something.

_

The moment leading up to your first kiss was a quiet symphony of stolen glances and charged silence, where every movement seemed deliberate and every breath felt heavier. You were standing close—closer than you ever had before—your shoulders almost brushing as the night wrapped around you like a cocoon. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of leaves and distant rain, but all Steve could focus on was you. The way your eyes flickered to his lips for the briefest second before darting back to his, the way your breath quickened ever so slightly, and how your fingers fidgeted nervously at your sides as if they were itching to reach for him.

Steve felt like the world had narrowed down to just this moment, this heartbeat where he could lean in or step back, caught between the fear of messing it up and the overwhelming pull of you. His heart thundered in his chest, loud and unruly, as if it were urging him forward. He searched your face for a sign, a hint, anything that might tell him this wasn’t just him, that you felt it too—that invisible string tugging the two of you together.

Then, you tilted your head ever so slightly, your lips parting just enough to breathe his name softly, “Steve…” It was barely above a whisper, but it was all the permission he needed. He leaned in slowly, his hand brushing against yours as he moved, tentative yet desperate to close the gap. The world seemed to hold its breath, the seconds stretching out as his lips finally met yours.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like a question being asked. But then, as if some dam had broken, it deepened, filled with all the unspoken feelings that had been building between you. It was everything and more—sweet, electric, and full of possibility. And when you pulled back, breathless and glowing, your eyes met his, and you whispered his name again.

“Steve…” you breathed, and it was like the world held its breath for a moment. You spoke his name with the same sweetness and stickiness found in honey, each syllable melting into the quiet night air, tasting like something sweet and familiar. It was a sound that wrapped itself around him, settling deep inside his chest, and he couldn’t help but shiver at the weight of it. He realized, for the first time, how his name could sound when it was spoken with love, with tenderness, with a kind of intimacy that had been absent all his life. His name had never sounded so soft, so intimate, as if your lips were tasting the very essence of him, drawing out everything unspoken.

_

The lead-up to that night unfolded naturally, like the quiet turning of pages in a story you had both been writing for months. Every shared glance, every lingering touch, seemed to hold a question neither of you had dared to voice yet. The air between you was charged but unhurried, a quiet intensity building with every stolen moment.

It started as it always did—a night spent together, lost in conversation, the kind that made time slip away unnoticed. You were sitting close, your legs brushing against his, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm halo around you both. There was nothing particularly unusual about the moment, and yet, something had shifted. You could feel it in the way he looked at you, his gaze lingering a second longer than usual, his thumb absently tracing circles against the back of your hand.

His touch felt different that night—more intentional, though he still hesitated, as if waiting for you to meet him halfway. He laughed at something you said, but his voice wavered just enough to give him away. You could sense the nervousness behind his easy smile, the way he was holding back, testing the waters.

You weren’t immune to the nerves either. Your heart raced every time his fingers brushed against your skin, every time his gaze lingered on your lips just a little too long. You could feel the questions hanging in the air, unspoken but loud enough to drown out the quiet hum of the night. Would this change things? Would it be everything you’d both dreamed it could be?

When his fingers finally laced with yours, it wasn’t a grand gesture, just a simple, quiet moment that felt heavier than it should have. Your heart raced as his eyes met yours, his expression soft, almost reverent, as if he was memorizing every detail of your face. Then, as if by some silent agreement, you leaned into him, and he met you halfway. His lips found yours, soft and searching, as if he was trying to pour all of his feelings into that one kiss. It started slow, hesitant, but quickly deepened, the nervousness giving way to something more sure, more consuming. His hands found your waist, tentative at first, like he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t—you stayed, leaning into him, your hands sliding up to rest on his chest.

It wasn’t planned; it didn’t feel rehearsed. It felt real, like the natural culmination of everything that had been building between you. The world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you, and when his lips finally met yours, it was tentative at first—soft, searching, full of questions neither of you needed to ask aloud.

And yet, even then, there was a quiet hesitancy, a moment of pause where the weight of what was about to happen settled between you. “Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice low and steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes.

“Yes,” you said, the word carrying more certainty than you thought you could muster. In that moment, the space between you disappeared, and the unspoken tension finally gave way to something deeper, something that felt like it had been written into the very fabric of who you both were. The nervousness was still there, but it was joined by a sense of trust, of connection, that made everything feel right.

When the two of you finally gave in to the pull that had been building between you, tangled in a haze of desire, your voice broke the quiet with his name, and everything seemed to fade except the feeling of him, the sensation of your bodies moving in unison. “Steve,” you moaned, and it was like a spark, a rawness that ignited in him.

His name, slick with need and desire, slipped from your lips and hit him like a wave. It was as if every syllable of his name was drawn out by the rhythm of your breath, hanging in the air like a fire that kept burning, fueled by the need between you. Each time it left your mouth, he felt it in his chest, in his bones, the way it shifted from something ordinary to something undeniably his.

The sound of his name now was everything—urgent, desperate, and filled with so much connection. It wasn’t just a name—it was a thread that tied you together in that moment, every syllable carrying the weight of the desire that you both shared. And in that moment, all of the nerves, all of the fears, melted away, leaving only the two of you, completely and irrevocably intertwined.

_

Steve was barely conscious when he heard the sound of your voice, soft yet filled with a tremor he couldn’t ignore. The pain was sharp, every breath a struggle, but your voice cut through it, like a lifeline pulling him from the edges of everything dark and dizzying.

“I love you, Steve,” you choked out, the words trembling with raw emotion. It wasn’t a confession made in some grand, orchestrated moment—it was born out of desperation, of the fear of losing him. Those three words carried everything you couldn’t say, every ounce of love and fear and hope tangled together.

His eyes widened, softening as they met yours, and for a moment, he forgot about the pain, focused only on the sound of your voice. He wished he could gather the strength to hold you, to pull you close and reassure you, but all he could do was listen, feeling the weight of your words in the marrow of his bones. You spoke his name with the same quiet reverence as someone would speak of a cherished memory, tender and unhurried, yet desperate enough to feel like a plea. The way you said it made him feel like he was more than the hurt, more than the moment—like he was yours, and that was all that mattered.

He never expected it to be so simple, so pure, but the way you said his name made him feel like he belonged in your world. You spoke his name with the same quiet reverence as someone would speak of a cherished memory, tender and unhurried, with an understanding that transcended words.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, his voice weak but filled with something unshakable, as if the weight of your love was enough to hold him steady. But you only shook your head, tears spilling over as you said it again, quieter this time, softer, “I love you, Steve,” as if repeating it would make him believe it more, make him understand the depth of what you felt. And in that moment, he did. Every word, every breath of yours seemed to fill the cracks in him, stitching him together with something stronger than anything he’d ever known.

_

Years passed, each moment with you stitching together a life he never imagined he could have. There were quiet evenings, shared laughter, and moments of tenderness that wove themselves into the fabric of his world. The milestones came in small, beautiful bursts—there were birthdays, each one a marker of how far you had come, from the first one where you celebrated together as a couple. Then came the day you packed up your past in boxes, willingly unpacking it in the new solace, with Steve by your side—the simple act of combining your lives into one space, where every corner felt like home because it was with you. And then, the wedding day—a small, intimate moment at the courthouse, just the two of you standing together, hand in hand. In that quiet, unassuming space, he saw his future stretched out in front of him, brighter than he'd ever dared to dream. The anticipation was palpable, the air thick with the weight of the moment. There was a quiet nervousness, but also a profound sense of peace, as if everything that had brought you both here—every laugh, every tear, every shared glance—had been leading to this single, perfect instant. It wasn’t a grand ceremony or extravagant celebration—just a simple vow, a promise made in the presence of each other, where the world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you and the love that had quietly woven itself into your lives. When you spoke your vows, it wasn’t just words—it was a reflection of every moment you’d shared and all the moments yet to come. And when you sealed it with a kiss, it felt like the universe paused, holding its breath for a brief moment, before gently exhaling with the realization that this was just the beginning.

This moment, in the quiet of the delivery room, marked the culmination of everything that had come before. It was there, amid the exhaustion and the flurry of new beginnings, that he realized just how much had been building between the two of you all along.

The air was thick with anticipation. You were both exhausted, caught in a haze of nervous energy as you prepared to meet your son for the first time. The weight of the moment pressed in on him, but when your eyes locked, time seemed to stop. In that moment, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you, waiting together to give your child a name—a name that would carry the love and the journey you’d shared, and the life yet to be written.

You looked up at him then, a soft smile playing on your lips. With a tenderness that made his heart ache, you whispered, “Steve.”

The name hung in the air like a promise, a future unfolding in the space between you. It was more than just a word—it was everything.

He stared at you, his heart swelling, feeling the weight of your words, of the moment. “Steve?” he asked, his voice filled with disbelief and awe, as if trying to understand why you would want to name your son after him.

You met his gaze, a soft laugh escaping your lips. You shrugged slightly, the smile never leaving your face. “It’s simple,” you said. “Steve is my favorite thing to say.”

And in that moment, it hit him all over again—this name, his name, wasn’t just his anymore. It had become something more, something that felt right in a way he had never imagined. It was the name of a legacy, a symbol of your love. His smile softened as he shook his head, overwhelmed by the significance. “I’ve never loved my name until I heard you say it.”

You spoke his name with a reverence that made it feel timeless, making it something bigger than just the two of you. It wasn’t just a name anymore—it was the thread that would forever connect you, a bond that would last for all time. And it was his.

[sai-int]

RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

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

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that it really mattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But still…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The studio audience laughs on cue.

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

It doesn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But as you straighten,  the air feels different.

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

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

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

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

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flick back to him.

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

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

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

Just silen—

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

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

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

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

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

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

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

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

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

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

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s addicting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. You were that desperate. 

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

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

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

“Go fuck yourself.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No underwear. A Right dog, he is. 

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

“What’d y’want?”

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

How could he even fit inside of you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

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

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

You could slap him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“for a first-timer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “No.”

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

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

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

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

Two cops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shut the door.

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

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

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

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

[soapcloth]

neighbour!Ghost x reader

Consistently tossing a polite little ‘good morning’ to your scary neighbour when you cross paths on your way out of the house, and every single time you’re rewarded with no more than a noncommittal grunt passing his notched lips or a level stare and a flick of his cigarette, something making it clear he’s not all too pleased with the social interaction.

One day, you decide you’re pestering him too much and just stop. 

Walking past him with your head low, he has the audacity to whistle at you like he's calling for a pet- and it works. 

He looks inconvenienced, his gaze accusing you of something along the lines of ‘-how dare you disturb the morning routine you've gotten me accustomed to.’ and indeed you did, making him feel surprisingly unsettled- another one of the tethering anchor points he relies on snapping and flying away within seconds, regardless of how inconsequential a gesture it had seemed to you. 

“You forgetting something?” he grumbled in a tone that would surely leave someone else wondering if you owe the dubious-looking man with a balaclava hitched up over his nose an unresolved debt.

you don't skip the greeting next time.

[mournfulroses]

Simone de Beauvoir, from "Inseraparable: A Never Before Published Novel,"

[bunnibombz]

The thought I was having...

"She can take it, don't let her whining fool you Ghost" John said, taking a drag off his freshly lit cigar as he sits back in his chair.

"Can't be runnin' away from me now," Simon gruffed, gripping your hips to hold you in place as he sank in deeper.

What had started out as a little joke between you and John after a drunken comment you made one night about wanting Simon to "stretch you out" had quickly evolved into John bringing his soldier into your bedroom on one condition. He got to watch.

Your fingers pulled at the sheets as Simon bottomed out, a rough groan dragged from his chest as you squeezed around him.

Fucking his thick, throbbing cock into your tight pussy had been no easy task despite how wet you were, and now that you were pulsing all snug around him and crying his name as you clawed the bed he didn't think he could ever pull out.

"That's it lovie, take a deep breath" He praised, pressing a warm hand against your spine to sink your chest lower to the bed as you moaned at the absolutely sinful angle he had you held in, "such a pretty bird Price, wanna keep her for myself".

"No can do Ghost," John replied with a chuckle as he adjusted himself through his pants. The sounds of your pleasure bringing a hot flush to his face, "she's got a ring on her finger for a reason".

[quarterlifekitty]

Lately I’ve been getting a kick outta the idea of Ghost having a girlfriend that Johnny is painfully interested in (tale as old as time). But she a lil neurodivergent and selectively mute (edit; I originally labeled reader as non-verbal, but I was made aware mutism more accurately describes this!). She’s comfortable enough with Simon that she’ll talk to him when they’re alone, but she won’t say a word to Soap (she doesn’t talk to the other guys either, but you know that Johnny chooses to take it so damned personally).

The worst part is that Soap will say shit to her, and she’ll give Simon her little signal so he can bend down and she can talk to him so fucking quietly. It’s like they speak a different language and Simon is the interpreter. And it’s so infuriating to him because shit like this will happen.

“Ain’t you looking a right picture, bonnie— that dress new? Fits ye like a damned glove, sweetheart.”

You tug on Simon’s sleeve so he can lean down. Soap is rocking back and forth on his heels, anticipating an answer. He’s down so bad, he doesn’t even care that he’ll hear it from Simon’s lips and not yours. You whisper for what feels like minutes on end.

“She says thanks.”

“God damn, L.T.— you know she fuckin’ ‘ad to ‘ave said more than that!” He whines indignantly, Simon smirking. Simon knows all about his little crush, and chooses to let the lad suffer. His time will come when you’re ready.

This goes on and on for months on end— and you know what? It’s hard for Johnny to jerk off to the image of you wedged between him and Ghost when he has no idea what you sound like, moaning or otherwise. You can probably see him half hard in his jeans every time he heads home from a movie night with you and Simon.

“G’night, L.T. Night, hen.” Soap’s almost all the way down the walkway when he hears something almost inaudible over the ambient sounds of the night.

“Goodnight, Johnny.”

Now that’s gonna keep his fantasies fed for weeks.

[the-raindeer-king]

You're in bed with Simon, who's on leave after some long, exhausting mission. It's your day off, and you've finally gotten home after running errands. You barely get the groceries into the fridge before Simon's dragging you to the bedroom, insisting it's time for a nap.

Both of you are asleep in record time, snuggled up together.

It's sometime later, that you're somewhere between awake and asleep, aware that there's no longer sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window. You're ready to drift off back to sleep, and then something hard hits you in the mouth.

You've just barely registered that Simon elbowed you in the face, when he's pulling you closer, his hands cupping your cheeks.

"I'm sorry. 'm sorry. 'm sorry," he rushes out.

"You hit me," you whine in response.

"I know, love. 'm so sorry."

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, your head tucked underneath his. It's not like you were really upset to begin with, but it's hard to even pretend to be, with the way he's holding you. And you happily let yourself drift back to sleep.

[miryum]

does anyone else get, like, jealous when a fictional character dates or has a crush on another character?

... no? just me?

[machveil]

Roommate!Simon Riley that kisses you. no, not on the lips, but nearly everywhere else. some days it’s small, walking up behind you in the kitchen and resting his hands on your hips - not fully, just ghosting his palms over you like you might shatter if he fully held you. he does it when it’s early, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he dips down, lips pressing to the nape of your neck. he mumbles a ‘good mornin’’, mutters something about what you’re making and how he wants some

Roommate!Simon Riley who kisses the crown of your head when you’re cuddled on the couch together. from dawn to dusk, if you’re cozied up with Simon his lips are stuck to you. nose nudging your hair, he’s not really paying attention to what’s on - Simon’s more focused on breathing you in, eyes closed and appreciating the scent of your shampoo. his lips drift, head tilting to kiss behind your ear when you comment on your show, “Mm, tha’ right?”, he murmurs, gravely voice whispering to you

Roommate!Simon Riley who kisses you from your knees to your ankles. a shit day, after you’ve come in through the front door Simon is leading you to bed. you can’t put up a fight when he makes you lay down, sitting on the edge of your bed. you can’t argue when he drapes your legs over his lap, mumbling something about your boss being a prick. all you can do is close your eyes and relax when he rubs at your legs, massaging the meat of your thighs and calf, working his way to your feet. you don’t say a word when lifts your leg up slightly, peppering featherlight kisses down it, “Should let me ‘ave a word with ‘em.”, he mumbles, smiling when you chuckle

Roommate!Simon Riley that all but tackles you to the floor when he comes home from a deployment. he’s roughed up, aching and sore, a mess of a man - but he’s alive. he moves on autopilot, strong arms pulling you against his frame, a bear hug, a death squeeze, his embrace secure. before you can ask him if he’s okay, if he’s hurt, his lips are pressed to your forehead. chapped and dry, but Simon’s. his chest rising and falling into a steady rhythm knowing you’re safe and sound. he’s moving on autopilot when he slumps down, lips pressing a sloppy kiss to your cheek, “Missed you, sweet’art.”

[elysianightsss]

Something something becoming an accidental prostitute for Simon lol.

Hear me out though, you’re at a bar. You’re making out, you’ve had a little too much to drink. Not enough to be completely gone like you’re sure Simon is but enough to be making out with a stranger.

Then you’re back in his truck, he’s practically begging for you to let him fuck you and you say no. You ‘don’t do that type of shit, one night stands and all that’ you say. Simon’s next thing is to beg for a blowjob, you again say no. ‘Part of the boyfriend package’ blah blah blah.

Then Simon delivers his final offer. He is so desperate he offers to pay for a handjob, he cringes after the words come out of his mouth thinking you’d be offended. But to his surprise you say yes. You need the money, and want him to feel good so why the heck not.

And it’s the best damn handjob he’s had in his life.

He drives you home and soon enough after a few days he’s at your door offering more money for another handjob. You feel a little dirty but when his calloused hand slides up your thigh and his hot breath is fluttering on your neck, the feeling fizzles away into something else.

Seeing him come undone with just your touch drives you wild, it becomes increasingly difficult not to do more for him. So when Simon comes over again, this time you kneel in front of him watching as his dark eyes widen when your knees hit the ground.

And just like your handjobs, it’s the best damn blowjob he’s ever had in his life. All sloppy and filthy, not like he imagined but so much better.

You don’t ask for anything but after Simon has kissed you goodbye -(after he’s done begging to let him make you cum)- you turn to find a stack of cash on the coffee table, almost double the amount he’d given for the handjob.

It’s not long after that, that you give in and let him spend hours between your thighs. He even pays you for that, mumbles into your cunt that it’s just as good as your lips around his cock as he ruts his hips into the mattress. You don’t see it until later, long after he’s left, but there is a triple stack of cash on your nightstand.

A day later you receive a text from him saying he’ll be gone for a couple of weeks on work but he can’t wait to see you when he’s back. You feel a strange fluttering sensation in your tummy that makes you feel sick. You thought Simon was the type to hide his feelings and be more stoic and blunt so seeing that message from the hulking giant has your stomach in knots.

It stays that way, you can’t rid the feeling so much so that when he finally shows up at your door you tell him whatever it is between you had to end. It was certainly not the welcome Simon was expecting after dealing with a gruelling mission with nothing but men for weeks on end. He feels something snap in his mind and suddenly he’s throwing you on the bed, gripping your jaw, brown eyes glaring into yours as he speaks, “I’m not goin nowhere sweet’art.”

You ‘fight’ with him blah blah blah but let’s get real you let him finger fuck your pussy until you go cross eyed. You let him fuck you into the mattress until you can barely remember your own name. You let him kiss your neck until the sun starts to rise. And you let him pull your body into his as you both drift off to sleep together.

In the morning you hear the envelope, heavy with weight to it, placed down on your nightstand. Then Simon kisses your forehead and whispers he’ll be back later to take care of you.

Then, the money stops appearing but he’s still fucking you. Soon the rent is paid in cash by an anonymous ‘good samaritan’. And before you know it, you’re waking up with a glittering diamond on your wedding finger and a swollen belly that moves when Simon says I love you.

[thelostmagicians]

Sunshine and the Shadowed Heart | Spencer Reid Part : I

Shadows of the Past

Series Masterlist

Summary: Spencer hasn't been the same since prison, and you're just the rookie

Fluff, comfort, angsty, mean spencer, post-prison spencer [6.3k]

♡

He looked like the same Spencer you’d seen in a guest lecture seven years ago—the legend you’d heard about—sharp, legendary, and unmistakably handsome—but something was different. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. His sharp wit had been replaced with silence. Emily had warned you it would be tough—being imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit was bound to leave a mark. But you hadn’t expected him to be so… cold.

At first, you didn’t know what it was. The Spencer you’d heard about had been animated, full of life and quirky jokes. Now, he was quiet, distant, almost like a ghost. Everyone couldn’t help but feel the weight of his absence. It wasn’t that he wasn’t physically present—he was right there, in the bullpen, behind his desk, his eyes glued to the screen. But mentally? Emotionally? He was miles away.

You weren’t around for the events that led to his imprisonment, but you were here when he came back. You were hired just a month into Spencer’s absence, after a twist of fate turned your world upside down. Fresh out of college, you had no idea that a random visit to a crime scene would lead you to the BAU. You’d stumbled across a clue—a small, seemingly insignificant detail—that no one had seen. A clue that broke the case wide open and connected the dots in a way no one had even considered.

It was Emily who saw something in you that no one else did. You’d never expected to hear from her, but one evening, as you were packing up to leave, her card had arrived in the mail. You never expected it to lead to an interview—especially not one that would end with you joining the BAU.

You were still trying to find your place in the chaos of the BAU. The team feels like a new family, but it’s hard to truly fit in when you’re still the "new kid." Every day felt like a new challenge. You’d expected the job to be like the textbook cases you’d studied in college—neat, clean, solvable. But the BAU was messy. Real lives were at stake, and sometimes, there were no perfect solutions. The pressure was constant. Every case felt like it could be the one that would break you, the one that would make you realize you didn’t belong. Every day felt like a mountain to climb, and you, fresh out of college, were still learning how to scale it. There was so much to absorb—procedures, protocols, personalities—and sometimes, it felt like you were drowning in it all. The days blurred into nights, the cases piling up, each one more complicated than the last.

The dynamic between the team was established, years in the making. They had a rhythm, an understanding that came with time and trust. You hadn’t earned that yet. You were still trying to find your place, to carve out your spot in the chaos. But there were the moments of levity—Luke’s jokes that never failed to make you laugh, Penelope’s infectious energy that seemed to brighten even the darkest days. It was their way of reminding you that, despite the darkness that came with the job, there was still room for humanity. Still room for laughter, for connection.

Still room for you to grow.

But then there was Spencer.

Spencer Reid, someone you thought you had an idea of who he was when you first saw him—the genius with the messy hair. But now, five weeks in, he’s become something different: a shadow. Brilliant, tortured, and untouchable. He barely spoke, kept to himself in a way that made him seem even more unreachable than the walls he’d built around himself. He hardly acknowledged you unless it was for work, and even then, it was a quiet exchange, all business. It wasn’t that he was rude—it was that he wasn’t… there. It was like talking to a shadow of the person everyone had described to you. The legend of Spencer Reid remained just that now, a folktale that once was.

—

You kept trying though—maybe not all at once, but little by little. You'd try to make small talk while working on the latest case, commenting on a theory, or discussing a strategy. You'd caught a glimpse of Spencer looking at something on his computer once and, with a smile, asked if he wanted to grab coffee after finishing the report. He had nodded curtly, but his response wasn’t an invitation. It was a polite rejection that you couldn’t quite place at first, until you realized it wasn’t just the work. He just didn’t want to engage.

On another occasion, when the team had gathered around the conference table for a case briefing, you shared a funny memory from a training session at the academy. It was a small anecdote, one that usually drew a laugh from Luke or JJ, but Spencer only offered a barely noticeable grunt of acknowledgement, his eyes still fixed on the file in front of him. The briefest of glances, and then he was back to his usual space, mentally miles away from the conversation. It stung more than you’d expected.

Even simple gestures didn’t seem to reach him. One day, after a long stretch of overtime, you left a fresh cup of coffee on his desk, knowing he’d be up all night. When you came by later to check in, the coffee was still there, untouched, as if he hadn’t even seen it.

It wasn’t that he was cruel—he was never outwardly dismissive or rude. But his silence spoke volumes. Every attempt to connect felt like it fell short. You’d find yourself lingering by his desk, hoping for a spark of warmth, but he remained like a stone statue, absorbed in his world of facts and logic, leaving no room for small talk, no room for you.

You knew it was because of what he’d been through—the years on the job, seeing the darkest corners of humanity, and the months he’d spent in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. You didn’t expect him to open up immediately, but you couldn’t help feeling like you were being shut out, as if you didn’t even exist in his world.

One afternoon, after another grueling case, Emily pulled Spencer aside. You watched from a distance as they spoke quietly in the hallway outside the bullpen. It wasn’t unusual for them to have private conversations, but this time, you could tell it was different. The tension in Emily’s posture spoke volumes, her usual calm demeanor strained as she spoke to him in a low, controlled voice.

"Spencer," Emily said, her tone gentle but firm. "Go easy on her. She’s still learning the ropes."

Spencer didn’t respond immediately, but you could see the furrow in his brow. He crossed his arms, a familiar sign of resistance. "I don’t know why she’s here in the first place," he muttered, his voice tight. "You brought her in like she’s going to replace me."

Emily sighed, her patience palpable. "Spencer, that’s not what’s happening. She’s here because she’s talented. She solved that case when none of us could get close. There’s something in her that we don’t have. This job has toughened us all, but she’s in tune with emotions in a way that lets her read people better. She thinks outside the box and picks up on things we miss. That’s a skill we need."

"She’s just a rookie," Spencer shot back, almost as if to dismiss her entirely.

"Rookies can make a difference," Emily replied, her voice softening. "You were a rookie once, give her a chance. She’s not here to replace you. No one ever could." She patted his shoulder before walking away, Spencer’s frown now morphing into a glare as he caught your eyes through the halfway open blinds.

—

The case was already making waves back at Quantico—a chilling pattern that left even the most seasoned agents unsettled. Young women, all in their early twenties, had been disappearing without a trace, only to be found days later in isolated, hauntingly serene locations. Each scene felt deliberate, almost ceremonial, with the victims bound and posed in ways that suggested some twisted form of reverence or ritual.

The killer’s signature was unmistakable: he wasn’t just abducting and murdering these women—he was creating a spectacle. At each scene, small tokens were left behind, items that seemed personal to the victims but whose significance the team had yet to decipher. There was no discernible link between the women—no shared acquaintances, no overlapping routines—but the precision and consistency of the unsub’s methods made it clear he was following a meticulously thought-out plan.

What pushed the case into even darker territory were the videos. Hours before each body was found, the unsub would send footage to the victim's family—a harrowing glimpse of their loved one in her final moments. The videos were devoid of color, the black and white feed only amplifying the horror. The unsub would taunt the families by delivering the footage in person, leaving USB drives on doorsteps or mailing them with cryptic, handwritten notes. It was a psychological attack as much as a physical one, designed to shatter the survivors and leave them with a burden of unanswered questions.

—

After the team wrapped up the debriefing on the jet, Emily turned to you and Spencer. “I want the two of you to work together on interviewing people associated with this case,” she said, her tone firm and leaving no room for argument.

Your eyes lit up with a flicker of hope. This was your first real assignment—no shadowing, no taking notes in the background—actual fieldwork where you’d be directly contributing to the case.

Spencer Reid—the prodigy, the one with a photographic memory and an endless well of knowledge—was someone you admired since before you joined the BAU. You smiled faintly, eager but trying to hide just how much this opportunity meant to you.

Spencer, however, didn’t share your enthusiasm. He glanced at Emily, then at you, and though he didn’t say anything, the faint tightening of his jaw and his unreadable gaze told you everything. He wasn’t thrilled about the pairing.

Still, you told yourself it didn’t matter. This was your chance—to learn from him, to prove to him and the rest of the team that you had what it took to contribute. Spencer’s reluctance might have stung, but you weren’t going to let it deter you.

—

The first stop was to interview the family of a missing woman, a college student who’d been found dead three days after her disappearance. The parents were devastated—shocked, grieving, and desperately trying to piece together anything that could help them understand who had taken their daughter. You listened intently, jotting down notes, but there was something off about one of the alibis given by a neighbor—the last person to see the girl alive. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but something felt wrong.

You brought it up to Spencer, speaking carefully but with conviction. “I don’t think he’s telling us the whole truth. Something about his story doesn’t add up.”

Spencer barely glanced at you, his tone sharp. “His alibi checks out. There’s no reason to think he’s lying.”

You shook your head, the feeling in your gut growing stronger. “But something is off, I can’t really explain it but I just feel it.”

Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “You feel it? We’re not here for feelings. This isn’t some sort of instinct game. You have to trust the evidence.”

“But something’s not adding up,” you pressed, feeling the frustration rise in your chest.

Spencer’s tone grew colder. “This isn’t a job where everything works out because you think you have some sort of spidey sense. You can’t go around guessing. You need to understand what it really takes to solve a case.”

You let the conversation drop, trying to focus on other details, but his dismissiveness was starting to sting. Spencer wasn’t just disagreeing with your instincts—he was questioning your competence, as though your opinion didn’t matter at all.

The day dragged on, with Spencer continuously shutting down your ideas. Every time you tried to offer a new perspective or suggest a potential lead, he dismissed you with a harsh, dismissive comment.

“This isn’t the job you think it is. It’s not about theories, it’s about hard work and experience,” he snapped at one point.

The more you tried, the more it felt like Spencer was deliberately undermining you. Every suggestion, no matter how thoughtful, was met with a cold refusal.

When you finally presented another lead from a witness, Spencer’s frustration exploded. “You’re inexperienced. Everyone here earned their place through hard work. You? You got in because you were in the right place at the right time. Nothing more. Maybe you wanted to experience the darkness, to see what it’s like, but you don’t really understand what it costs to live in it every day. One day, your luck is going to run out, and when it does, no instinct or gut feeling is going to save you. You don’t think like a profiler, you just react. You walk into things blind, hoping the answer will just come to you. But in the real world, there’s no safety net. No one’s going to follow some gut feeling into the dark and magically find their way out."

The words hit you like a slap to the face. You stood there, trying to hold yourself together, but his words tore into you. Spencer wasn’t just dismissing your ideas; he was attacking you personally, questioning your entire existence.

You kept your composure, nodding absently as though agreeing, though inside, you were cracking under the weight of his accusations.

—

When the day finally ended, you excused yourself, telling Spencer you needed to clear your head. As you stepped outside into the crisp evening air, the weight of the day pressed on your shoulders. You needed a moment to breathe, to process everything Spencer had said.

That’s when you saw him—the neighbor you’d interviewed earlier, the one you were convinced was lying. He was standing by his car, watching you. Something about his posture, the way he loomed in the shadows, sent a chill down your spine.

“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice steady.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said, stepping closer. “I wasn’t completely honest earlier. Can we talk privately?”

Every instinct in your body screamed for you to leave. “Actually, I need to get back—”

Before you could finish, he lunged. You fought back, kicking and clawing, screaming as loudly as you could, but he was stronger. His hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your cries.

He wrestled you into a car, duct-taping your mouth and wrists as he muttered to himself. You could see the gleam of excitement in his eyes, the satisfaction he got from the struggle.

You forced yourself to breathe deeply, shutting out the pounding of your heart. Stay calm, you told yourself. Panic wasn’t an option. You had been trained for situations like this, and you knew fear was his weapon.

As the car sped away, you focused on observing everything around you. The unsub kept glancing at you in the rearview mirror, his lips twitching into a twisted grin. You realized then—Fear gave him power. That was his fuel. He didn’t just want to hurt his victims; he wanted to break them emotionally, to revel in their terror.

Don’t give him that power, you thought, straightening your posture and meeting his gaze with an icy calmness. His smirk faltered for a split second before returning, but you saw the flicker of frustration.

You started piecing together his personality. He wasn’t impulsive; this was calculated. He had planned every detail, which meant he was confident, methodical, and most likely familiar with his hunting ground. His muttering gave you a glimpse into his psyche—fragments of sentences about being “misunderstood” and “showing them” painted the picture of someone who felt wronged by the world and used his crimes as a way to reclaim control.

The car took a sharp left turn, and you counted silently. One left turn. You pressed your bound hands against the door for stability, straining to catch the noises outside. Gravel crunched under the tires as they left the pavement. Two right turns. The road sounds uneven now—it’s gravel, maybe leading to a more isolated area.

You kept your eyes sharp, scanning for anything that could give away your location. A small victory came when you caught a glimpse of a weathered sign as they passed under a flickering streetlight. The sign was faded, but you managed to make out “Thornhill Dr.”

Thornhill Dr, two right turns off the main street, and we’re heading north, you calculated.

The sound of an approaching train caught your attention, and you noted the rhythm of the horn. You mentally mapped where train tracks were in proximity to Thornhill Dr—another clue you could use later.

Your mind sharpened as adrenaline coursed through you, heightening every detail. A slight creak in the car’s suspension suggested the vehicle was older, poorly maintained. The air grew colder, hinting that you were moving into a less urban area, away from the warmth of the city’s dense buildings.

Every observation mattered. Every detail was a potential key to your survival. You couldn’t scream for help, but you could think, analyze, and stay one step ahead.

The unsub’s voice interrupted your thoughts. “You’re too calm. You think you’re brave, huh? Acting like you’re not scared.”

You met his eyes through the mirror again, your face expressionless. He leaned back in his seat slightly, as though unnerved by your lack of reaction.

The car began to slow, and you braced yourself. We’ve arrived, you thought. You made a mental note of the landmarks—a rusty mailbox near a dirt driveway, the faint outline of a barn in the distance. The weathered boards of the barn seemed to match the descriptions from the case files.

I know where I am, you realized, a small surge of hope igniting within you. Now I just have to stay alive long enough for them to find me.

Your heart pounded, but your mind stayed sharp. You had everything you needed to leave a trail for your team—now it was just a matter of time

You sat stoically bound to the chair, your eyes cold and unwavering as the unsub stood before you. His anticipation was palpable, as if he expected you to break, to cry, to beg. But you didn’t. You simply met his eyes with calm indifference.

“So your dad left and your mother doesn’t love you,” you said, your voice steady. “That doesn’t give you a right to do this.”

His grin faltered for a moment, the words hitting him harder than he anticipated. There was a brief flash of anger in his eyes, but you could see the confusion behind it. He wasn’t used to being challenged, especially not with the emotional weight of his own troubled past.

“Where’s your family?” he asked, his voice low and taunting. “Don’t you have anyone who cares about you? Anyone who’s going to watch this and cry for you?” You held his gaze, emotionless. There was a chill in the air, but it wasn’t fear—it was control. “I have no one,” you said quietly, your words landing with deliberate weight. “The only ones who would care about seeing this... are my team.”

He seemed to hesitate, his fingers hovering over the phone as if unsure how to respond to your calm. But soon, his frustration took over, and he hit the ‘record’ button, turning the camera on you. The feed blinked to life, broadcasting your image across the screens of the BAU.

—

Back at the base, chaos reigned. Penelope, usually confident in her skills, was visibly breaking down. Her fingers trembled as they flew over the keyboard, trying to track the signal. Her mind raced as the seconds dragged on, but the pressure was beginning to get to her. “He’s jumping between different servers. This isn’t random. It’s deliberate,” she muttered under her breath, her voice shaky. She wiped a tear away, fighting the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. The desperation was palpable in her voice as she typed furiously, willing herself to focus.

Emily, standing beside Penelope, shot her a supportive glance, though the worry in her eyes was unmistakable. She was all business, trying to calm the team down and make sense of the situation. “We’re going to find her,” she said, voice steady but tight with the weight of leadership. Her mind was already formulating the next steps, calculating the possibilities with quick efficiency.

JJ, still pacing back and forth, shot a glance at the screen. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her gaze flicking from the monitor to the team. “We’re not losing her. We’re not,” she repeated, more to herself than to anyone else. The anxiety was evident, but so was her determination to stay focused.

Rossi stood nearby, scanning the screen. His brows furrowed as he muttered to himself, trying to make sense of the livestream. His calm, composed demeanor was cracking, and frustration bubbled to the surface.

Luke’s chest tightened as he watched the screen, unable to look away. The helplessness gnawed at him, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Matt grabbed at his hair, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t shake the fear that gripped him, the uncertainty of the situation weighing on him.

Spencer, who usually remained calm in the face of danger, was visibly shaken. His mind kept returning to his own experience, the terror he’d felt when Tobias Hankel had taken him. The helplessness, the fear—he remembered it all too vividly. Now, seeing you in the same position, his heart raced with a familiar dread.

But what gnawed at him even more was the guilt. The last conversation you had kept replaying in his mind. He had dismissed your concerns about the neighbor. If he had listened, if he had trusted your instincts like others had done for him when he first joined the BAU, you wouldn’t be in this position. The guilt ate at him. He silently begged for another chance, wishing he could take back his words and make things right.

—

As the live stream continued, the unsub’s taunting voice cut through the tension in the room. He kept his camera trained on you, trying to get a rise out of you, his twisted satisfaction evident in his every movement. But you didn’t break. You stayed calm, your mind working at full speed, calculating, analyzing. You had to focus, remain steady, and find a way to give the team the clues they needed—subtle enough for the unsub not to catch on.

“Do you think they’ll come for me?” you asked softly, eyes fixed on the camera, keeping your tone even. “Do you think they'll find me before the next train comes?”

The unsub scoffed, amused by your apparent defiance. “They won’t find you,” he spat, looking away, clearly oblivious to the significance of your words. But Spencer wasn’t. His eyes snapped to the screen, and his mind began to piece together the details. The mention of the train, the faint rhythm of the horn in the background. He knew exactly what you were doing. You were giving them a hint, telling them you were near the tracks.

The unsub didn’t respond, busy with his phone, and you knew he had his attention fully on the camera now. It was the perfect moment for you to speak in code—something only Spencer would understand.

You paused and added, almost casually, “The sky’s still gray, like it’s waiting to rain. Makes you want to drive a little farther into the hills, doesn’t it? Somewhere the roads are too narrow for anyone to follow.”

Then, as if you couldn’t keep it inside any longer, you looked straight into the camera and addressed Spencer directly. “Spencer, I don’t know why you’re so mean to me sometimes. You told me my luck was going to run out. That I walk into things blind, hoping the answer will just come to me. But you need to start trusting me, I promise I won’t lead you astray. I may be a thorn in your side, but thorns are there for a reason."

The moment you spoke those words, Spencer’s eyes widened at the base. He had caught it—the final clue. Thorn. It wasn’t just the pain of those words—it was the road. Thorn Hill Drive. It all clicked for him.

Without hesitation, he turned to Penelope. “Thorn Hill Drive. Check the train routes, the roads, everything. We need to know exactly where she is.”

Penelope worked furiously at her computer, cross-referencing the details Spencer had given her. Within moments, she found the location.

—

The team rushed into action, each agent moving with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Emily was the first to stand, her voice clear and commanding. “Penelope, pull up the map of Thorn Hill Drive. Luke, Matt, Reid you’re on the ground—get ready to go. Rossi, JJ, stay here to monitor the live stream. We need to move fast, people.”

Luke and Matt didn’t hesitate. They grabbed their gear, ready to head out the door, their determination etched across their faces. The urgency in Emily’s tone pushed them forward with a sense of purpose that only years of experience could cultivate.

As the team dispersed into their assigned tasks, Penelope’s fingers flew across her keyboard. “I’ve got it! Thorn Hill Drive is in the outskirts of the city, about twenty miles north. There’s a set of train tracks that run parallel to the road.”

Spencer’s mind raced as he watched the details unfold on the screen. He was no stranger to the chaos that followed a kidnapping, but this time, it felt personal. He couldn’t shake the guilt gnawing at him. He should’ve listened to you. Your instincts had been right, and now you were paying the price.

“She’ll be okay, Reid,” Emily’s voice broke through his thoughts. “We’re going to bring her home.”

He snapped his attention back to the task at hand, shaking off the guilt and focusing on the case. “I know, the unsub underestimated her. I underestimated her.”

Penelope’s voice was strained but full of determination. “I’ve got eyes on the location. There’s a barn near a dirt road—looks like the area she described. There’s only one way in and out.

“Perfect,” Emily said, her voice all business. “Everyone, gear up. Luke, Matt—take the lead. The rest of us will follow. Let’s move.”

The team was in motion within seconds. They moved with urgency, knowing that every second counted. Spencer was out the door before anyone else, his legs pushing him faster than he thought possible, the guilt and fear weighing heavily on his chest. He couldn’t bear the thought of you being out there, alone, in the hands of a killer who was savoring your terror.

—

You had been tied to a chair for what felt like hours, though time seemed to stretch and warp in the silence. The unsub had retreated into the shadows, likely hoping you’d break under the pressure, but you refused to give him the satisfaction. Your mind kept racing, cataloging every detail you could—every sound, every movement. You weren’t about to give up. Not when you were so close.

The sound of a car engine revving in the distance made you stiffen, but you forced yourself to remain calm. It could be him preparing to leave, or it could be the team. You’d left them all the clues you could; now, you had to trust that they were on their way.

The unsub returned, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he approached. “You think they’re coming for you?” His voice was dark, twisted with amusement. “I’m not stupid. I know they’re out there looking for you. But you know what? They’ll be too late. They always are.”

You didn’t respond, keeping your face expressionless, focusing on your breathing.

He seemed to enjoy your silence more than anything, pacing around you. “Do you want to know why I picked you?” he asked suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Because you’re just like me. Alone. Abandoned.”

You blinked, your pulse quickening. “You’re not alone,” you said softly, meeting his gaze. “You have your family. You have your victims.”

His eyes flashed with anger at your words. “No,” he snapped. “I don’t have anyone. Not anymore. I’m the one who’s been forgotten. I’m the one who’s been ignored. But this? This is my revenge. I’ll make them remember me. I’ll make them know what it’s like to feel powerless.”

You inhaled sharply, feeling the tension between you grow. But something in his words clicked in your mind—a piece of the puzzle fitting into place. His desperation, his need to show the world his pain—it wasn’t just about power. It was about feeling seen. He wasn’t just hunting women. He was hunting validation.

As if reading your thoughts, the unsub smirked. “You’ll be the one to show them. You’ll be the one to remind them that they can’t forget.”

You didn’t have time to entertain his twisted philosophy. You needed to focus on the one thing that mattered—surviving.

The car engine noise grew louder, a flicker of hope rising in your chest. You were running out of time. You needed to find a way to break free, to survive.

Matt and Luke leapt out of the vehicle, their weapons drawn, ready for action. “We’ve got to move fast,” Luke said, his voice low and urgent. “He’ll be expecting us. Let’s breach the barn from both sides.”

They flanked the barn, eyes scanning every inch for movement.

Spencer’s heart was pounding in his chest as he finally caught up with the others. Emily’s words replayed in his mind: “You were a rookie once, give her a chance.”

The team moved with precision, no longer just a group of agents but a family, united by the mission to save you. Spencer’s chest tightened, a storm of emotions warring within him. He had to make things right. He had to.

Inside the barn, you could hear the footsteps approaching. Your heartbeat quickened.

This was it. The moment you’d been waiting for.

You closed your eyes and whispered, “Spencer.”

And then everything went black.

—

the first thing you noticed was the sterile scent of the hospital room and the steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor beside you. Your body felt heavy, every inch of you sore, but there was a deeper ache—a lingering exhaustion that settled in your bones. You groaned, and it was the sound of discomfort that made Spencer stir beside you.

His head jerked up from the uncomfortable chair he was slouched in, eyes wide and clouded with sleep. The exhaustion on his face hit you all at once. He'd been there for a while. His hair was tousled, his clothes wrinkled, and his posture was stiff, as if he hadn’t moved in hours.

“Hey,” you croaked, your voice raw.

Spencer blinked at you, clearly startled by your groaning. His gaze softened as he pushed himself up from the chair, stretching his stiff neck. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes scanning you for any signs of distress.

You nodded slowly, trying to push yourself up in bed but wincing at the ache in your muscles. Spencer immediately moved to help you, his hand gently pressing against your shoulder to keep you steady.

“Don’t try to move too fast,” he warned softly. “You’ve been through a lot.”

You sank back into the pillows, feeling the weight of everything that had happened crashing down on you. “How long…?”

He didn’t answer immediately, instead running a hand through his hair and exhaling sharply. “A while,” he said quietly. “I’ve been here all night. I didn’t want to leave.”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the exhaustion and worry etched deep into his features. It was clear he hadn't left for hours—maybe longer. You felt a pang of guilt but pushed it away.

“Spencer,” you whispered, your throat tight. “You didn’t have to stay here.”

“I wanted to,” he said firmly, his gaze intense. He took a breath, eyes flickering with hesitation. “You did good back there. How did you stay so calm? The whole time… with everything he was doing, the livestream, the situation… you never cracked.”

You hesitated for a moment, the question hitting too close to home, but you knew it was time to be honest.

“It’s not about being calm, Spencer,” you said quietly, voice trembling. “It’s about survival.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed, and he leaned in a bit closer. “What do you mean?”

You inhaled shakily, struggling to find the right words. “The reason the unsub livestreamed my abduction… the reason he didn’t send the footage to my family... it’s because I don’t have anyone, Spencer. Not really.”

His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but you held up your hand to stop him.

“I know it sounds crazy,” you continued, voice trembling, “but he knew. He knew there was no one waiting for me, no one to watch the screen and beg for my return.” You looked down at your hands, unable to meet his gaze. “My parents were negligent. They were never there. My whole life… it was like I didn’t exist to them. And when they did pay attention, it wasn’t in the way a parent should. I wasn’t loved, Spencer. I wasn’t protected.”

The words felt heavy, a weight that had been buried deep inside you for so long. Spencer was silent, his expression unreadable as he watched you.

“And that’s why I’m good at this,” you said, the words coming out almost automatically. “Why I’m so focused, so good at picking up on things that others miss.” You swallowed, struggling against the lump in your throat. “I had to survive. I had to learn how to read people, to hone my instincts. It was the only way to stay safe in my own home. I lived like that for so long, always waiting for something to happen. Always trying to figure out the next move before it happened.”

Spencer’s face softened as he listened to you, his eyes filled with empathy and a sorrow that you hadn’t expected. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. “It’s not about deserving it, Spencer. It’s just what happened. And I had to learn to live with it. But that’s why… that’s why I reacted the way I did. I couldn’t just let him control me. Not like that. I had to stay calm. I had to keep fighting.”

Spencer reached out, his hand gently brushing yours, a gesture of reassurance. “You’re strong,” he whispered. You’ve earned my respect.”

You looked at him, not sure how to respond at first. You were still feeling the sting of his earlier words, the harshness that he’d used to shut you down. “I don’t need your respect, Spencer,” you said quietly, your voice tinged with frustration. “But I do need you to stop taking advantage of my kindness. You’ve been so cold, so dismissive. And all I’ve tried to do is help—especially with this case. Every time I tried to contribute, you brushed me off. It’s like you think I don’t belong here.”

Spencer’s eyes widened, the guilt flooding back. He opened his mouth to say something, but you raised your hand to stop him.

“You can’t keep doing that,” you continued, your voice steadier now, though the anger still burned in your chest. “You can’t keep treating me like I’m just the ‘rookie.’ You’re better than that.”

Spencer nodded slowly, his throat tight. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve been an ass. I… I don’t know why I’ve been so hard on you. Maybe it’s because I’ve been shutting everyone out, and it felt easier to push you away too. But that’s not your fault, and you don’t deserve it. I’m sorry for not listening to you when I should’ve.”

You stared at him for a long moment, considering his words. The apology didn’t undo the hurt, but you saw the sincerity in his eyes.

“Just… try to trust me next time,” you said quietly, your voice softening. “I know I’m new, but I’m not stupid. I’m not here by accident, Spencer. I’ve earned my place just like everyone else.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze steady but still guarded. “I’ll try to do better,” he said, his voice quieter this time, less defensive. “I’ll listen more, take you seriously. I won’t shut you out like I did before.”

There was a pause, and you could sense the effort it took for him to even say that much. It wasn’t a perfect apology, but it was a start—one that made you wonder if there could be more to this than just the professional walls he’d built around himself.

The silence lingered, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You both seemed to understand, without saying it, that this wasn’t the end of the conversation. It was only the beginning. And though Spencer’s walls were still up, there was something different in the air—a shift, a subtle change in how he was letting you in, even if just a little. Maybe, just maybe, you were both ready for whatever came next.

For now, though, you let the quiet settle between you. The weight of the case, the uncertainty of the future—it all still hung in the air. But somehow, you felt like you weren’t carrying it alone anymore. And that was enough—for now.

[sai-int]

TICKET TO PLAY | john price

Sheriff Price has a habit of pulling you over, and you have a habit of seeing how far you can push him. It’s a game you've been playing for years—a harmless one, until he gives you exactly what you’ve been asking for.

⤿ based on this | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, fem!reader, small town vibes, porn with minimal plot, smut, oral (m receiving), dom!john (back and forth between hard and soft), bratty—sort of pathetic reader, fingering, squirting, public sex, smidge of voyeurism, size kink if you really read the fine print, implied slight age gap [ 6.6k words ]

You weren’t going that fast.

Maybe nudging 35 in a 25, but the road was empty—just you and the soft, golden light of a July evening slipping into dusk. The cicadas hummed their lazy symphony, crickets chirping in harmony, while the air carried the scent of fresh-cut grass and summer warmth. It was the kind of night that wrapped around you like a blanket, slow and sweet, the kind that made you want to roll the windows down and let the world drift by.

But then the sirens sliced through the calm, sharp and jarring, shattering the stillness. Red and blue lights flashed in your rearview, splashing the road ahead in a chaotic swirl of color. Your hands tightened on the wheel, that familiar knot twisting in your gut. You didn’t even need to check the mirror to know who it was.

Sheriff John Price.

The small-town Sheriff (asshole) that had a sixth sense for catching you when you weren’t even doing anything wrong. The guy who’d written you up for a rolling stop at an empty intersection, or a right on red at 2 a.m. when the streets were dead silent. Sure, maybe you were five over on a straight stretch of road, but come on—did he really have nothing better to do than hassle you over that? It was starting to feel like he was just looking for excuses to pull you over.

At this point, you figured you were practically on a first-name basis. Hell, you were probably the most frequent flyer on his ticket roster. But that was the trade-off for living in a town where the sheriff knew everyone’s business—and apparently, yours most of all.

You eased the rickety old Nissan Skyline to a crawl, tires screeching softly as you pulled onto the shoulder and shifted into park. Your fingers moved on autopilot, fishing the registration out of the center console before he even asked. If John Price had one talent, it was knowing where you were before you did—and you’d learned the hard way to keep things within arm’s reach.

The music blared for a second longer before you killed the volume, the sudden silence pressing down on the summer night like a weight. You rolled down the window, letting the warm, sticky air flood the cabin, thick with the scent of grass and distant rain. Leaning back in your seat, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, you waited. Same old song and dance.

First came the slam of his cruiser door, sharp and final, like he was already annoyed at the prospect of dealing with you. Then the crunch of his boots on the asphalt—slow, deliberate, each step dragging out the inevitable. It was almost comical, the way he took his time, like he wasn’t the one who’d flipped on the lights and sirens.

The window hissed as it rolled down, the sound jarring in the quiet, and before you could stop yourself, a smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth. You didn’t bother hiding it this time. If you were walking away thirty dollars lighter, you might as well make it entertaining.

"Evenin’, John," you drawl, letting the words hang in the air with a playful edge that makes his jaw tighten.

He leans in, his arms braced against the window frame like he owns the whole damn road. His face is all sharp lines and shadows in the fading light, the faint scent of cigarettes and worn leather wrapping around you, mingling with the heavy, humid air of the summer night.

“Don’t call me John,” he grumbles, his voice rougher than usual, like gravel under tires.

You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a grin. “Why not?” you tease, letting your fingers trail lazily along the steering wheel. “Thought we were friends, John.” You bat your lashes, adding a pout for good measure, laying it on thick just to see how far you can push him this time

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. His eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he leans in closer, his presence crowding you. “We aren’t ‘friends,’” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. “You know why I pulled you over?”

It’s not really a question—it’s a challenge, and you can’t help but rise to it. You tilt your head, letting your gaze linger on him, your smirk widening. “Hmm… maybe ‘cause you’re a sucker for a pretty car?” you suggest, your tone dripping with sarcasm, sweet enough to sting.

John’s lips press into a thin line, but the subtle shift in his posture tells you everything you need to know. His gaze is unrelenting, sharp enough to cut through the cool facade you’re trying so hard to maintain. Internally, he’s fighting not to laugh—you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, like he’s holding back a cackle.

“If this—” he steps back, his eyes sweeping over the exterior of your car with deliberate slowness before landing back on you, “—is your idea of a ‘pretty car,’ I might have to issue you a ticket for driving without glasses.”

You lean back in your seat, arms crossing over your chest, your mouth hanging open in mock offense. Just because Fergie was old didn’t mean she was ugly. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an ass?”

He stands there for a moment, just watching you, his expression unreadable. It’s like he’s weighing how much more of this he’s willing to put up with. Finally, he tilts his head, his voice dry as dust. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a brat?”

“Touché.”

You two had been here before. Over and over again. Ever since you’d come back home from college, he’d been hot on your trail—always showing up at the worst possible moments, right when you thought you might’ve gotten away with it.

This was your town. You’d grown up here, knew every road, every corner, every face. It was small, sure, but it was yours. And then John Price showed up. Sparkling, brand new hot-shot sheriff, fresh off the Mayflower. Sworn in by all the touch-starved wives and swooned over by every teenage girl in a fifty-mile radius. Ever since he’d arrived, it was like Elvis all over again

You figured he didn’t have the right to boss the locals around like he owned the place. No shiny badge or gun on his hip was going to earn him any respect from you. This wasn’t some big city where the badge meant everything. Out here? You could be just as stubborn as he was.

Still, he had a knack for showing up when you least expected it, always lurking in the background, keeping an eye on you for reasons you couldn’t quite figure out. No one could explain it, but there he was, always hovering like you were some kind of problem. But you never did anything wrong. Not really.

“I bet you 50 bucks there’s about five disgruntled teens smoking pot under the high school bleachers as we speak,” you say, leaning back in your seat with a grin tugging at your lips. “Surely, they deserve your devotion and attention more than little ol’ me.”

He pauses, clearly weighing your words, and you can see the flicker of recognition in his eyes. “I don’t want your money,” he mutters, his tone dry but with a hint of amusement—and something else you can’t quite place. “Besides, I doubt you’ve got 50 dollars to spare, considering how often you’re in the precinct paying off tickets.” He leans in just a little, his gaze sharp, like he’s daring you to argue.

You shrug, playing the part, even though you know he’s right. “Hey, I’m just saying. You’re wasting your time with me. I’m practically a model citizen. Those kids under the bleachers, though? They could be causing all kinds of trouble.”

You give him a sidelong glance, letting the playful challenge hang in the air between you. “I’m just trying to help you out here, Sheriff.”

Your tone is sweet—too sweet—and you can almost see the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out whether you’re messing with him or just being your usual self.

He takes a slow breath, clearly trying to keep his composure. His hand pinches the bridge of his nose before he exhales, the sound heavy with exasperation. “Oh, I’m sure you are,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Big help, givin’ me that advice.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward just enough to close the distance between you, your voice dripping with mock sincerity. “What can I say, Sheriff? Someone’s gotta make your job worthwhile.”

For a moment, the world seems to narrow to just the two of you. The air grows heavy, charged with something you can’t quite name, and the silence stretches taut between you. But then the faint hum of a car engine cuts through the stillness, tires rolling past on the asphalt—a sharp reminder that you’re not alone out here.

“Step out of the car.” His voice is calm, steady, but there’s a flicker of something darker beneath the surface, a low undercurrent that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your jaw tightens, anger flaring hot and sudden in your chest. He’s never asked you to step out of the car before, and the demand catches you off guard. You can’t afford to be arrested—not with a shift at the diner at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning, not with the way your life is already balanced on a knife’s edge. The thought of cuffs, of being hauled into the precinct, makes your stomach churn.

But you don’t move. Not yet. Instead, you meet his gaze, your own sharp and defiant, and for a heartbeat, the two of you are locked in a silent standoff.

You don’t say a word, just reach down to unclick your seatbelt with an indignant sigh, movements slow—like dragging out the inevitable might change the outcome. The latch pops, the sound too loud in the quiet, and you open the door, letting the evening air rush in, cool against the heat prickling at your skin.

You step out, tugging your shorts down where they’ve ridden up, keeping your gaze on the ground, on the cracks in the pavement, anywhere but at him. You try to keep your breathing steady, try to act like this is just another bullshit stop, just another way for him to waste your time and break your wallet. But your heart’s already racing, faster than you want it to.

Then his hand is on your hip.

Firm. Unmoving. Not quite guiding, not quite restraining. Just there. A weight that lingers, like a silent reminder that he’s the one in control here, no matter how much you want to believe otherwise.

For a second, you freeze.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, charged with something you don’t want to name.

You swallow, still refusing to look at him. “Gonna write me a bullshit ticket, John?” Your voice is casual, flippant—too much so. You know it, and so does he.

He doesn’t answer right away, and that makes it worse.

Because the truth is, you’d rather he just do it. Write the damn ticket, hand you the fine, and send you on your merry way. That would be easy. It’d be normal.

But nothing about him has ever been easy. And this? Whatever this is? It sure as hell isn’t normal.

His fingers tighten—just slightly—but it’s enough. Enough for you to catch it, that flicker of something dark and barely restrained. His jaw tightens, his nostrils flare, and you realize he’s at his limit.

Like he’s weighing his options. Like he’s wondering if he should just give you the damn ticket and walk away. 

You tilt your chin up, finally meeting his gaze, like a challenge. Would he?

His voice is tight when he finally speaks, low and strained, every word biting through the air.

"You think this is a game?"

You pause, letting the question linger as you ponder. Is it a game? Is that what this has always been? This back-and-forth, this constant chase—where you go about your life, minding your business, and he shows up, lurking, watching, like he’s got nothing better to do than make you his personal problem.

Would he really arrest you? Pin you against his cruiser and throw you in the back? Take you downtown like you’re some criminal? The thought sends a slow, involuntary shiver down your spine, but the more you think about it, the more ridiculous it sounds. If he was going to do it, it would’ve happened already.

He’s just a big softie. A stubborn, gruff, self-righteous pain in the ass who acts like he’s got the whole town in a chokehold but has spent too many years shadowing you for it to be a coincidence.

And deep down, you reckon he must have some sick, weird crush if the only way he can muster up the courage to see you is by stuffing a white slip of paper under your windshield wiper, like he can’t even be bothered to have a conversation without the safety of bureaucracy to hide behind.

You don’t even have to think about it anymore. 

This is a game.

You keep your gaze steady, watching him. Watching the way he’s fighting to maintain that authority, to keep control. And through the harsh headlights from his car, it’s almost cute—the way his jaw tightens, the way his nostrils flare ever so slightly, the way his fingers twitch against your hip like he’s waging a war with himself. Like he thinks he can win.

But he can’t.

Not really.

His grip on you tightens, fingers pressing deeper, slipping beneath soft flesh to squeeze the bone. Like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he thinks if he just holds on tight enough, he can remind himself who’s in charge here.

But you see it—the shift in his expression, the cracks forming right in front of you. His eyes are darker now, narrowed with something he’s still pretending isn’t there, and his teeth grit like it physically pains him to keep standing here.

You just can’t resist.

You lean in just enough, close enough that your breath tickles his cheek, and with a slow, knowing smirk, you whisper, “You’ve been dying to get your hands on me, haven’t you, John?”

The words hang between you, sharp and saccharine, and for a moment, it’s like the world holds its breath.

His eyes go dark, that flicker of anger flashing through them like a warning. But it’s not just anger anymore. It’s something else, something raw. For a split second, you’re certain he’s off the deep end.

Before you can even blink, his hand moves. It’s fast, and suddenly, he’s grabbing you by the arm, yanking you toward him with a force that steals the breath from your lungs.

“Get over here,” he growls.

The words are rough, guttural, scraping against his throat like he’s been holding them back for too long.

The next thing you know, he’s dragging you to the hood of his cruiser, his grip tight and bruising as his fingers wrap around your wrist, effortlessly dwarfing it. The cold metal of the hood bites against your skin as he shoves you down, bending you over the car.

And then he’s on you.

His chest is solid heat against your back, his weight pressing you into the hood like he’s making sure you stay there. Your breath catches, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven movements as you try to process just how quickly the shift between you has turned into this.

“Talk so fuckin’ much,” he mutters through clenched teeth, his voice a growl of frustration and something deeper, something rougher. His breath fans against your ear, hot and unsteady, sending a shiver down your spine.

One hand clamps over your wrists, holding them firm against the small of your back, while the other tangles in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose the vulnerable line of your throat.

The grip is possessive. Unforgiving, like he’s staking a claim.

“You think you can just keep pushing me? Keep fuckin’ with me like this, hmm?”

A soft whimper tumbles from your lips, and you bite down hard on your bottom lip, the rest of the sound dying in your throat. His hand pulls on your hair, making your neck arch back, and the sharp tug sends a jolt straight to your cunt. You try to choke back the reaction, but it’s impossible—the way he’s holding you, the way he’s pressing into you with every word, every move.

His body presses into yours, the intensity of it all making your pulse race. Despite everything, despite the situation, a shiver runs down your spine. You can tell he’s holding back by the way his teeth grit, the sharpness in his voice. 

You smirk, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze from the side. “By the way John Jr’s more sprung than a rainy day in April, I’d say you like it,” he groans and you chuckle, “You do like it, don’t you, John?”

The words slip from your lips, taunting him, and you can feel the shift in his posture before he even moves. His grip on your hair tightens, pulling you back further, forcing you to arch your neck more as he leans in, his breath hot and heavy against your skin, each exhale brushing over you like a warning.

“Think you’ve got me figured out?” he growls, teeth grazing the curve of your ear, his words a promise and a threat all at once. “Since you’re so fuckin’ knowledgeable, tell me something…”

Your pulse quickens, the anticipation like the loaded gun in his waistband. “Tell you what?” you ask, your voice quiet, almost breathless, but your eyes never leave his.

“Tell me what I do t’dumb girls that don’t know how t’speak only when spoken to,” he murmurs, his grip shifting, pulling you in closer, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes it impossible to ignore the growing bulge in his pants. 

You can feel his cock twitch with interest in his jeans, and instinctively, you roll your hips back into his. The firm bulge presses against your pulsating cunt, offering just the smallest bit of reprieve from the ache in your clit and you can’t help but whimper. “You give them a ticket and send them on their way?”

“Nice try, love,” he says, the words dripping with disappointment, like he’s genuinely let down by your guess.

Before you can even react, his hand leaves your hair, and you hear the cold click of the cuffs snapping around your wrists.

You jerk against the restraint, but it’s useless. You turn to look up at him, but the look on his face—hands on his hips, blue eyes locked on you—makes you stop.

No smirk, no joke. Just intensity.

“Get on your knees,” he says, voice low, rough, without hesitation.

You bite your lip, the urge to snap back hitting you. But instead, you swallow it down and push yourself up, kneeling before him on the pavement. The roughness of it bites into your skin, the cuffs digging into your wrists, each pull reminding you of just how much control he has in this situation.

His boot taps lightly against your thigh, the sound sharp in the quiet air, a silent demand for your attention. You glance up, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s a look that makes your pulse quicken, as if he can see right through you, into everything you’re trying to shovel deep..

“Sit,” he commands, the word simple, authoritative.

It takes you a second to realize what he means, but when his boot nudges against your clothed cunt, you get it. 

You lift your hips slow, like you’re not sure but can’t help it, settling atop his boot. The sensation makes a shiver run up your spine. His fingers find your hair again, firm, enough to tilt your head back and make you look up at him.

“This’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it, dove?” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, like he’s savoring the sight of you—knees to the ground, wrists bound, eyes wide as you stare up at him. He can’t help but palm himself at the sight.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, heat simmering in your cheeks with anticipation. “I’m not gonna beg,” you sneer, defiant like your cunt isn’t already drooling for him. The lie sits thick on your tongue, heavy enough to choke on.

He smirks—slow like he’s amused, but there’s something else there, like he’s already decided how he’ll play with you.

“That’s cute,” his fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back just a little further. Your lips part on instinct, a quiet, pained mewl slipping out before you can stop it.

“but you will,” he hums with a smile so saccharine, it makes you want to smack it off his face. His free hand reaches for his belt, fumbling with the leather as he pulls it out of the buckle. You can feel your body buzzing with anticipation, the tension building in every nerve of your body. Everything in your mind is screaming at you, telling you how wrong this is, how this can’t happen. But deep down, you know he’s right. This has been a long time coming.

But fuck, he’s a literal cop, the Sheriff. This has to fall under some public indecency law.

But despite everything, despite all the warnings your mind throws at you, the pull is stronger, too real to ignore. And you can’t stop yourself from leaning into it.

He peels down the zipper of his blue slacks and the sound echoes in your ears. You’re on your knees on the shoulder of a road, the last vestiges of daylight fading, and God help you, your mouth waters when you see the outline of his solid cock through his boxers.

He doesn't break eye contact, his other hand still tight in your hair, daring you to even try to look away. The recklessness, the sheer audacity of him whipping out his cock in the middle of a traffic stop. It’s all so palpable, like a stack of weights on your chest. He tugs down his boxers in one fluid movement, his cock springing free, and you can’t help but try to back away at the sight. 

He's massive in every sense of the word. Dark curls trail from his navel to the base of him, thick but neatly kept. His cock hangs low and heavy between his legs, thick and long with a few veins and just the softest blush of pink at his tip. There’s no way you can take him all, let alone in your mouth. 

He could see the shift in your eyes, the sudden apprehension in your demeanor, and the hand in your hair loosened. He trailed his fingers from your scalp to your cheek, his thumb wandering to the plump flesh of your parted lips.

“You can say no, dove. I won’t hold it against you,” he says softly, giving you an out. His blue eyes soften as they meet yours, and you know he wouldn’t force you. But the way the hard leather of his boot presses through your shorts, firm against your clit, has you fighting the urge to grind against him. You want—No, need him. Badly.

You bow your head to meet his cock, tongue darting out, hungrily swiping up the drop of precum dangling from his tip. He automatically groans and his hands find their way back to your scalp, feeding his cock into your mouth. Your lips tighten around him immediately, suckling as he presses in and stretches you out. 

“Fuck— that’s it, love, so fuckin’ tight,” he babbles as he watches his length disappear in your mouth over and over. His eyes flutter shut as he tips his head back—he knew if he looked at you any longer he’d blow his load too soon. Your tongue is just so hot. He hadn’t expected it to be ice, but God you were sweltering. He nestled himself in the back of your throat so nicely, tickling and toying with your gag reflex each time you bobbed your head. You coat his length with slick spit, the sounds of your gags subconsciously making him push your head down even further. 

You focus on steady breaths through your nose as his grip tightens. Your hands strain against the cuffs, aching to touch, to feel, to at least stroke where your mouth can’t reach. So pretty like this, he thinks. The way you look up at him, defiant yet desperate. The way your breath catches and your throat flutters around his mushroomed tip.

It drives him crazy—how much he wants to break that control, to make you lose it completely. His groans only spur you on further, your tongue moving with purpose, tracing the prominent vein along his underside.

Your hips jerk against his boot as spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, knees grinding into the asphalt, but you barely notice the sting. All you can think about is the way it makes heat pool in your cunt—sends sparks up your spine. 

You can’t help it—your hips keep moving, grinding against his boot, the rough leather driving you wild, and you’re sure you’re leaving a wet spot. The friction is delicious, and you’re so lost in it that you almost miss when he speaks.

 “Look at you,” he says, smirking despite how badly he needs to cum. “Can’t even help yourself, can you? Just a needy little mutt, humpin’ my boot.”

His hand tugs your strands, not rough but firm, just enough to make you gasp. “Just need your pretty pussy touched, that right?” he tuts softly, pulling you off him, a thin strand of saliva connecting your glistening lips to the tip of his cock.  “On your feet, come on.” He guides you up, your legs shaky and chest heaving but his grip steadies you. “There you go, sweetheart.”

The sky’s a deep blue now, the sun long gone, the cruiser’s headlights casting faint shadows. He shoves you back against the hood, the metal cool against the backs of your thighs. His hands are on you immediately, rough and demanding, squeezing your thighs, your tits, like he’s marking his territory. 

You bite your lip, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s useless. His fingers dig into your flesh, and your hips jerk instinctively, craving more. “So quiet now, hm?” he hums, his face centimeters from yours. “What happened to that smart little mouth of yours?”

The way he switches from caring to being so dominant, it makes your head spin. You glare at him, but he doesn’t care. His hand slides under the waistband of your shorts, fingers dancing over your soaked panties, and you can’t stop the way your hips roll into his hand, desperate for any touch he’ll give. “All this for me, sweet girl?” he mutters, middle finger slowly circling your sensitive clit, “All wound up, yeah? Need me to set you straight?”

“Fuck—,” you whine, your hips bucking into his hand, you can feel his breath against your lips as he chuckles. He deftly pulls your panties to the side, groaning when his fingers slide through your folds. His lips find your neck and he mouths at the sensitive patch of skin above your pulse, sucking a dark, red splotch into your skin as if you’re his. 

You instinctively toss your head back, letting him lick hot, wet stripes from your clavicle to your jaw. He slips a single finger into you and your cunt squelches embarrassingly. 

“Feels so good, John—,” you whine into the evening breeze as he pumps his finger in you, curling to hit your g-spot with precision you’ve never experienced. He smiles against your skin before enveloping your lips with his.

It’s hungry, messy, and desperate. His tongue crowds your mouth trying to drink you whole, like he’s been parched, waiting for you to quench his thirst since he first met you. He swallows your whines and pleas for more as he works you open, grinning when he slips in his ring finger alongside the middle and you gasp.

It’s a pathetic attempt, really, to kiss him back—to try to match his fervor. He has you at his mercy and you’re near collapsing into him as he finger fucks you, low heat pooling in your belly as the coil tightens, as you claw at the hood of the car, wishing the cuffs weren’t there—wishing you could claw at him instead.

“Feel you gettin’ all tight ‘round me, dove. Gonna cum? Gonna soak my fingers, doll?” He questions against your lips. Your walls are squeezing him so tight, sucking him in and keeping them there. So greedy, he thinks.

You nod vehemently, biting your lip so you don’t scream—or sob, you aren’t sure how to feel—into the air. He grinds the heel of his palm against your clit, and that’s all you need to finally break. You near black out when you cum, sparks shooting up your spine and making your vision go black for a moment, his fingers lazily working you through your orgasm as your legs shake and your walls damn near break his fingers. 

“That’s my girl, knew you could do it,” he hums against your temple, wiping away tears you hadn’t known fallen. 

You hadn’t cum that hard in your life. Not by yourself, and most certainly not by any of the lame frat boys you fucked in your college days.

But John isn’t in a frat.

And he certainly isn’t just a boy.

He gently slips  his hand out of your pants, bringing his fingers up to his lips before popping them into his mouth. The way his eyes flutter shut, eyebrows pulling together softly as he groans at the taste of you on his tongue, it’s all fucking sinful. You watch him, mesmerized as he pulls the glistening digits out of his mouth with a pop. 

He dips his head to yours, kissing you again, but much softer this time, less hungry, more savoring. You can taste the subtle tang of your own juices on his tongue, and you’d be a liar if you said it didn’t turn you on further. 

John subtly tugs your shorts and panties down, the fabric whispering against your skin. He fishes for a small key in his pocket, before using them on the cuffs. They open, releasing your raw wrists with a near-silent snick. You feel the moment the cuffs fall away, and your hands move as if drawn by an invisible force, reaching for him, clutching at his jaw, pulling him closer with urgency. Your fingers roam his shoulders, his neck, tracing the hard lines of his body as he spreads your legs, tossing your discarded shorts aside. He settles between them, lazily pumping his cock with his free hand. 

“You want this, love?” he whispers against your lips.

You nod almost imperceptibly before crashing your lips back to his, like you just can’t get enough. 

He kisses you back like a magnet, but just as quickly, he pulls away again.

“Words,” he says sternly.

You huff, ever the impatient brat. “Put your fucking cock in me or I swear to God, I'll get in my car and drive right out of here.”

“That right?” he scoffs, "You gonna drive off?" He brings his angry red tip to your sodden folds, teasing your sensitive clit with each brush, making you jolt, “You want t’act like a brat,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Then we can do this the hard way.” He leans in, his lips brushing against yours. “Unless,” he murmurs, ghosting the head of his cock into your hole, “you'd like to ask nicely.”

You bite your lip as you watch him tease you, fighting a groan at the way your cunt squelches and stretches around just his tip. 

“She’s so greedy, already tryin’ to suck me in,” he coos, “don’t want to deprive her, now do we?”

You whine as he notches just the head in. He pauses, waiting for you to speak before he moves any further. ​You open your mouth and your voice just breaks as you leak and drip around him and onto the hood of the car. 

“Please, John, Please, I need you—Please, I’ll be so good,” You break and claw at his shoulders and back, desperate to pull him closer to you, to have you flush against him, chest to chest and full of his cock.

“See how gorgeous you sound when you’re nice? See where that gets you, love?” He coos as he inches his cock into you. Your walls are already fluttering, still all worked up from your last orgasm. He has to fight the urge to cum right then and there, gritting his teeth as his grip tightens on your thighs, fingers dimpling the fat as he spears you open. 

You’re slack jawed, eyes glassy as he bottoms out. You’ve never been so full and stretched in your life. You can feel him in every orifice of your body, you feel him in the pits of your stomach, in the hollows of your lungs, in the cavern of your throat. His tip nudges against your cervix and all you can manage is a strangled sob. 

“Oh none of that, lovie, none of that,” he hums, pecking your lips and wiping the tears from your eyes with the pads of his thumbs.

 “Gonna fuck you real nice,” the thumb he used to wipe your tears away travels south, finding your clit and drawing soft, slow circles that have you gushing and relaxing around him, “Just be a good pet and take it.”

You nod as he cradles your head in his hand. He gently moves his hips, inching his cock out of your cunt before sliding back in, squeezing the air out of you like a fucking balloon. 

Gasps fall from your lips with each stroke, not entirely from discomfort, but from the sheer intensity of the feeling. He repeats the motion, a slow, deliberate push and pull that sends shivers down your spine. He keeps his thumb on your clit steady, making your legs shake, a burning heat already blossoming low in your belly. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his clothed frame as you try to anchor yourself against the rising tide of sensation.

He continues, his movements becoming more insistent, more demanding. Each thrust is deeper, faster, steady plaps from where his hips repeatedly meet yours. He knocks the breath out of you, each stroke forcing a soft mewl from your lips, your body trembling with anticipation. The world narrows, focusing on the rhythmic movements of his hips, the feel of his skin against yours, the sound of your ragged breaths mingling with his.

He leans, his lips brushing against your own. “That's it, doll,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “Take it all.”

His words ignite a fire within you, a raw, primal need that surges through your veins. You arch your back, meeting his thrusts with a ferocity that surprises even yourself. His pace quickens, his movements becoming more urgent, more erratic, and you know he’s getting close. The burning in your abdomen intensifies, spreading outwards, and throughout your body.

His name falls from your lips in a litany—John, John, John, john—a prayer, both a plea and a demand as his cock plows into you with staggering precision. Your cunt clenches around him, milking every ounce of pleasure from each stroke. He groans, cursing as his grip tightens on your hips, until you wail, toes curling and clawing at his back, your voice hoarse as you squirt all over him. He continues to move, his rhythm relentless, until he too reaches his peak, groaning as his body shudders, as he spurts hot ropes of cum deep inside your cunt.

You’re breathless, spent, your limbs heavy and relaxed. The dampness of sweat cooled on your skin, a pleasant contrast to the lingering heat between your legs. The world slowly comes back into focus and a soft smile plays on your lips as you trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips.

“That was…” you murmur, your voice still rough.

He nuzzles your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “A lot,” he finishes for you, his voice low.

You hum in agreement, tightening your grip on his jaw just slightly. You don't need to say more. The silence that settles between you is comfortable. He shifts slightly, and it reminds you he's still there, sheathed inside you.

You close your eyes, savoring the warmth of his body against yours, a comforting heat that seeps into your skin. Every nerve ending still fires, buzzing with aftershocks.

Slowly, he inches out of you. It feels weird to not be full of him, a sudden emptiness that makes you instinctively clench. He's out, and the cool air against your skin is a stark reminder of the reality of the situation. Of the fact that you’re literally on the side of the road. John reaches for your discarded clothes, picking them up with a casualness that borders on audacious. 

He starts with your panties, briefly bending down in front of you as you step into them. He pulls them up your legs, snapping the elastic against your hip. “Sheriff’s discretion,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with amusement as he fastens your shorts too. “Wouldn't want you getting a ticket for indecent exposure.” Fucking knew it.

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing on your lips. “You were just as indecent as I was, if I recall.”

He shrugs as he tugs up his own pants, a picture of nonchalant authority. “Evidence suggests otherwise, doll,” he counters, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Besides,” he adds, his voice dropping to a low rumble, “I'm the one writing the tickets.” He finishes buttoning your shorts, his fingers lingering against your skin. 

The world sways for a moment, your legs still a little shaky. He steadies you, his arm around your waist. He walks you back to your car, the silence between you comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. He stops just short of the driver's side door, his hand resting comfortably on your back.

“Drive safe,” he says, his voice softer than you've ever heard it.

You nod, your eyes meeting his. You stand on your tip toes and kiss him, a soft, lingering peck on his lips that’s got him feeling like a teenager again.. He responds in kind, other hand moving to cup your cheek. Judging by how he holds you close, he’s reluctant to pull away.

But he does, and he turns and walks back to his cruiser. Eventually, You watch his car fade away, a strange mix of emotions swirling within you. Then, with a deep breath, you turn and get into your car. The door shuts and you just exhale, replaying everything that just happened. 

You reach to crank the keys sitting in the ignition and your eyes fall on a small white rectangle tucked under the windshield wiper. You get back out of the car and pull it free. 

It's a ticket. For speeding.

Asshole. 

[kurogxrix]

me when the READER in the X READER has a name:

like babe the fic ate but i do NOT look like an Aurora🙁

[omgitstatertot]

@bitterrfruit art gave me this idea

Simon Riley with a "Do Not Resuscitate" tattoo across his chest, big and in bold, who put it there in hopes that it would be followed, though the tattoo holds no legal binding and unless you have a written DNR your doctors are required to ignore it

Simon Riley, who spent those years with the tattoo, thinking that no one would truly miss him, were the occasion to arise

Simon Riley, who gets a partner, becomes quite comfortable and content with said partner, to the point he's taking off his clothes.

Simon Riley, who doesn't even get to reach for his belt to finish changing when his partner gasps, and begins anxiously fretting over the tattoo, fingers tracing the bold letters, doe-like eyes staring into his damn soul and a lip worried between their teeth.

Simon Riley, who can't seem to close his eyes as his partner insists on clinging to him that night, their hand resting over his heart as it finally sinks in that he would be, in fact, missed were the occasion to arise.

Simon Riley anxiously googling how expensive and how much time a tattoo removal takes.

[bunny-jpeg]

packing my husband's lunch

simon "ghost" riley - inspired by this

tags: smut & fluff, domestic, established relationship (marriage), housewife!reader, butcher!simon, food, body worship & praise, missionary,

a/n: changed a little bit of it for the fic, i hope that's okay! i hope everyone loves it!!

it wasn't supposed to be a big deal, these were little videos that you made when simon was at work. people did a lot worse on the internet! you were mostly in sweet aprons with your username embroidered onto them and occasionally one of the dresses that your loving husband bought you!

you wanted to keep yourself busy now that you were a stay-at-home wife and the income from being part of the creator's program was a nice bonus.

"thank you for the banana bread recipe, mrs. riley!"

"where did you get that dress?"

"i wonder what mister riley looks like! i bet she totally lucked out!!"

you built up a sweet little community that was mostly sharing recipes that you've aquired over the years. viewers were impressed of how well you could handle spice despite your gentle demeanour, but you once said in a video that you had been eating spicy food your whole life!

"plus, my husband loves it too!" that was the big mystery of the account, who was mrs. riley's husband? viewers knew he existed and that videos occasionally were about making his lunches. but he had never showed his face in any video.

you thought the comments were cute, you'd often show them to simon while you were in his lap on the couch.

"they think that you're like christian grey."

"who the hell is that?" simon chuckled as he rested his head on top of your head so he could look down at your phone, "sounds like a real prick with a name like that."

another day, another video. you worked within the kitchen explaining the recipe. "you have to remmeber to add the spices before it all comes together or else it won't have time to mingle with the potatoes or the carrots. the taste will be all off!" you tone was like a bird's chirp as you had one hand on yourhip and the other stirring the pot with a spoon.

"my husband loves this! and i think who ever you make this for, wife, husband, boyfriend, partner, family member, friend, they'll love it too! but i suggest if you're making it for your nana that you tone down the spices a little!" you talked away as you continued to cook.

it filled the near silence in the kitchen and allowed you to keep viewers engaged!

but this video ended a little different. while you showed off finished stew in a pastel pink bowl, viewers caught the sight of him. hulking mass of man in a white t-shirt with a suspicious amount of red stained across it.

"girl, are you okay?"

"who is that?!"

"pack him a sandwich in the next video if you need help!"

"hey girlie, close your fist with your thumb inside if you're not safe!"

you were confused by the comments, simon wasn't a bad guy? he had never hurt a hair on your head. you've been trying to get him into more experimental kinky play in the bedroom!

you heard the door unlock and peeked out of the kitchen to see your husband coming home. you were use to grime he brought home, you met at the butcher shop his long time friend price owned. so a t-shirt stained with blood was nothing new. but then it clicked in your head.

oh they thought that simon was some kind of serial killer.

before you could say anything to your husband, he pulled you in for tight kiss and held you by the back of the head with his strong hand. you smiled against his lips and giggled when he picked you up. you wrapped your legs around his waist and held onto his shoulders.

you weren't the lightest thing in the world, but simon had spent most of his life hauling things (meat) heavier than you could ever be. he eyed you from top to bottom and smiled. his smiles were rare to others but frequent with you.

"how's my love bug today? makin' more videos for the fans." he asked as he carried you to the couch and put you down gently. he then leaned in to kiss you on the lips.

"yeah, they think you're a serial killer though."

his blond brows raised, "serial killer?"

you looked at him in return, "you were in the back of one of my latest videos, i didn't notice anything until i realized that you were in a work shirt and it looked like you were a serial killer."

"i see, i see." he said as he sat next to you and laced your fingers with his, "tell them i'm not, i don't need rumours to start." simon didn't like being the center of attention.

he once told you that he married the brightest woman he could find so she could be the center of attention and he could be supportive from the sidelines. it was why people gravitated towards you while being a little afraid of you towering husband.

you pulled him closer to you and kissed at his scarred face. he was an active service member before he became a butcher, so much history on his body and you loved every molecule of him. when you kissed him, he deepened the kiss and held both your hands.

"simon."

"let me take you to bed." he replied softly before he pulled you to your feet and then pulled you up into his arms bridal style. it took you a while to get used to him carrying you. not that you were worried about him not having a good hold on you, but rather you not having a good hold on him!

he brought you to your shared bedroom and placed you on the bed delicately. he then got his shirt up and over his head, exposing his strong body to you. he wasn't model trimmed, he was built with proper strength.

i ain't no pretty boy, dove.

but you thought your husband was the prettiest of them all. slowly you started to take off your dress, you could feel your husband's hungry eyes on you as you undressed for him. your viewers saw a sweet little wife, bu simon saw that sweet little wife totally nude.

when the mis-matched pair of bra and panties ended up on the floor with the dress, simon felt like a new man. he worked hard to provide for your family of two and would continue to work hard every day. you were his wife, his everything. and he loved you more than he could ever articulate.

so he expressed his love by getting undressed and into bed with you. laid out on top of the covers, your head in the pillows with simon between your legs.

"look at mrs. riley." he cooed as he rubbed his rough hands up and down your bare thighs, "prettier than those little cookies you make.' he chuckled a little, "boy at work watch your videos all the time, you've been a big help to them, finally able to cook for themselves." he went in to kiss you on the lips.

"glad i could help." you replied as you held onto one of the pillows under your head. you arched your back a little when he lined his cock up with slick entrance and pressed himself in.

he leaned forward and braced a hand up against the headboard as he got his cock inside of you. the issue with a size difference like yours, it made it a little hard to have sex in certain positions. usually you were on top, but since you got married you've been able to figure out missionary.

"honey."

"i got ya, dove. you feel so good as always." he said lowly, "everything i have ya, it's a complete treat. you take good care of me, you know that. you are a good wife. happy you're making your little videos, and i'm happier i get to come home to you."

you blushed a little bit and wanted to hide your face but he stopped you by pinning your hand to the bed.

"don't hide from me, dove. i want to see my wife's face." he said with his voice tinged with affection. he loved the sight of you, you were beautiful under him, he couldn't help but lick his lips at the sight of you.

"you make me blush too much." you said as he moved against you. your loving, caring husband moved his hips in a steady pace as he held onto your hand and the headboard. his thrusts were easy on you, not too rough but just enough to make you excited all over. you loved the feeling of him, there was just something about it that made you feel a twinge of excitement in your core.

he was a perfect lover and you loved him so much.

"all mine." he purred as he continued his movements. he watched your videos daily during his lunch break, happily eating the food you made for a video that morning or the day prior. the stews, baked goods and pasta dishes that you were known for.

your emphasis on couponing and how to store foods to make them last longer. it was an honour for simon to be with such a lovely woman. you encouraged food as a form of love. and you showed that love ten times over with simon.

he captured your lips and continued to move against you. he devoured the feeling of his lover up against him. you felt amazing, you felt like heaven. he couldn't help himself. he moved against you and continued to kiss you.

"work so hard every day, you work your ass off beautiful. and i love it, all of you. you know that. i can't get enough of you, how you feel against me. how i feel like our souls are connected."

you giggled, "no need to butter me up, handsome." you smiled when he placed another kiss on your lips. you moaned into the kiss, you eventually held onto his strong shoulders. you two moved against each other, husband and wife. quite the pair you were, and simon wouldn't want it any other way.

"baby." he cooed.

"shh, shh." you said, you opened your eyes and stared into his brown ones, he was so handsome. even when he tried to deny it, you knew the truth. he was quite the handsome man. the kind of man that made your toes curl with each hardy thrust of his hips.

the pleasure ran through both of you, the intensity of it made you kiss one another once more. he continued to work himself inside of you. live in each of this thrusts, affection in every movement. simon loved you and you loved him, hence why you held onto him so closely.

"oh, dove. look at ya. perfect for your husband." he cooed as he felt closer to his climax, it was an intense feeling. the kind of feeling that excited him greatly. he loved you and when he watched your pleasure reach its peak, he felt a swell of pride when you clutched onto him tighter.

"fuck, honey." you moaned as pleasure crushed down on you. you tensed up then relax, enjoying the feeling as it moved through you. you shared another kiss.

simon continued to work his body up against yours, and soon he finished inside of you. he rocked against you through his climax and then only broke the kiss when he stopped. he looked you in the eyes, those beautiful brown eyes.

you giggled lightly and pulled him in once more before he laid out on the bed beside you and held you in his arms.

"not too bad for a serial killer."

"yeah, i bet they'd never know that you're such a teddy bear." you dragged a finger across his strong chest and let out a small giggle. he felt so good against you. you soon sat up and said, "i have something i want you to try, i am working on a new recipe."

before you could get too far, he pulled you back into bed with him and wrapped his arms around you. he held you close and said, "whatever it is, dove. i bet it's amazing, but right now i just wanna hold ya."

-

the following day, on one of simon's days off. you set up the camera and stood beside your much taller husband. you were all smiles as you were ready to bake a nice spring treat.

"hello, love bugs! it's mrs. riley again, and today i have a guest!" you gestured to your husband. you whispered, "you'll need to crouch down a little." and simon bent his knees, "this is my husband, mister riley!"

you hoped that this would quell any concerns your fans might have. and while the comments were positive one made you blush.

"i used to think i had a crush on mrs. riley, but now i have a crush on mr. riley too!"

i hope you love this fic! if you have any suggestions, my open! till next time <3

[quarterlifekitty]

One thing that makes me go feral is when in the middle of fucking, one person gets overstimulated and tries to crawl and squirm away from the overstimulation, and the other person drags them back by the hips like "Where do you think you're going?" 😩 which of the guys do you think is most likely to do this?

(Can you tell I'm ovulating... 🫣)

ALL

cw: daddy kink adjacent stuff for Nik, as per usual. Just a hint of aggression, and marking dubcon just in case

Gaz is literally so sweet about it. Like you’re a little kitten about to walk off the edge of a table and he’s just redirecting you. “No, no, love— this way,” he coos as he puts his hand beneath your hips to cup you and pull you back.

Soap is about to lose his mind, it’s so hot to him— “Ah’m just givin’ it tae ye so good, huh, bonnie? Cannae take it anymore? Too bad,” he tuts, his fingers sunken into your soft flesh as he pins your kicking legs and tugs hard.

Ghost reacts with some real aggression. He’s not mad at you— he’s mad at the idea. The concept of you being separated from him. He’s bruising and yanking your body, manhandling you under his weight. “Don’t fuckin’ run from me, birdie— don’ wanna know what’ll happen if’m pulled outta this cunt—“

Price can’t help but smile. Such a sensitive little thing. “If you’re already in this state— doesn’t bode well for the rest of your night, darl’— cause I ain’t near finished with you.” He’s prepared to wait upon you like you’re his ailing, bedridden queen suffering from the consumption tomorrow, cause you’ll have about as much energy left when he’s done.

König is holding you too tight to let you even begin to squirm away— he can just feel the tense and strain of your muscles against his hands. It makes him kiss you as deep as he can manage— he just thinks it’s so cute, like you’re a little moth with wings beating against his cupped palms.

Nikolai laughs. He laughs at you. You’re just so silly— thinking papochka will show you mercy. He’s not a merciful man, malýshka. He’d best remind you of that— not that you’ll ever really learn. He wouldn’t want you to, really. He likes playing this little game with you. It’s like ballroom dancing to him— very romantic and sweet.