#tethers of fate
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alexanderlightweight · 21 days ago
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Greetings and loves lumine! I'm so happy you’re feeling better!
For writing wednesday: tethers of fate is my favourite, can you write more about Arawn and the unseelie court, please? Or anything about the mafia Au or possessive Magnus
Thank you!
thank you! Im so happy to be feeling better too that i'm writing even though I was supposed to try and sleep an hour ago, I had fun so it was worth it
this is for tethers of fate and a bit of a mix of things in that universe. kind of a tiered view of where things are at. I hope you enjoy and sending love back!
<3 lumine
tethers of fate
“Isn’t it getting more dangerous in the above?” 
“It’s more dangerous everywhere, tad.” Alec keeps his hands steady, carefully extracting the thin, delicate roots of the plant he’s digging up. His tad’s arrival is a surprise but not an unexpected or completely unwelcome one. “Magnus is powerful enough that I’m safer than most.”
“Most isn’t completely.” 
Arawn’s voice is snide and Alec can hear the rustle of leaves against his tad’s antlers, the way his hooves dig angrily into the ground.  Around him the plants surge in angry hunger and Alec sighs as roots and leaves cling to his fingers and wrist. 
“If I need sanctuary I’ll come here first. Always.  Even Magnus has agreed to such a pact.”  
“Oh, and here I thought he’d try to stash away in one of his dear warlock's lairs?”
Alec carefully digs his fingers into the earth again, feeling out to see which plant is most receptive to transplant.  
“Well he did suggest that, yes. I just pointed out that if he really wants me safe, a place that Valentine and his rogues have never heard of is far safer than the lair of someone he’s actively hunting.”  
“That easily? I’ve never known him to give in so easily.” His tad is testing now, seeing where the current coils and where the deep undisturbed waters lay.
“I leveraged it with sex, tad.  Just like you always tell us to.” While it's true enough that Alec used sex to convince Magnus, it didn’t happen quite the way he’s implying it.
However Arawn seems pleased, which was Alec’s goal and now that he’s reached it, Alec wonders yet again just how exactly he’s supposed to balance the two great extremes in his life.  
His family and his lover.
The moon is high when Alexander’s message arrives.  
Instead of fire it appears in a scattering of petals, a simple request for a portal that Magnus fulfills immediately.  The magic shimmers as Alexander steps through, arms filled with boxes of plants and for a moment images overlap — a bony hand with nails like talons clinging to his arm — before it blurs from existing as the portal erases.  
Alexander smiles at him, soft and sweet, as if nothing has happened and Magnus smiles back, fury flickering up his spine even as he welcomes a kiss to soothe his rage.  It’s over far quicker than he’d like and then Alexander is instead setting the plants down.  Realizing it will be a while before he can greet his lover properly, Magnus follows him, studying his bounty.
“You know darling, I’m surprised Arawn let you bring so many, these are rare even for a prince of the realm.” Magnus truly is surprised.  Arawn is petty and just knowing Magnus might benefit from these plants would normally be enough for him to revoke Alexander's permission to take them.
“Yes, well I distracted him by telling him I leveraged sex to get you to agree to my taking sanctuary if something goes wrong up here.” Alexander already has three of the plants in the ground, working quickly and efficiently as he keeps an eye on the height of the moon.
“He thinks you needed sex to get me to agree to something that keeps you from harm?” 
Magnus is outraged.
So what if he only agreed because against this particular enemy, Arawn’s kingdom is the safest for his love. There’s nothing wrong in being careful when protecting ones heart and Alexander is his heart.
“I did need to use sex to get you to agree.” Alexander is smiling up at him, smug as if assured of his own victory and Magnus can’t help but laugh as he runs his thumb over a streak of dirt on Alexander’s cheek.
 “I was always going to agree, darling.  I just wanted to see how far you’d go in your efforts to convince me.”
“He’s growing too close to him.” Arawn truly hates admitting that any of his children have fallen in love but it’s worse now that it’s Alec.  The only one of his children not born of his seed and blood — though claimed by his magic, word and deed — has fallen for someone outside of Arawn’s control.  
It would have been so much easier if Alexander had just fallen for one of Arawn’s steadfast guards or knights, or even one of the wild artists that perform for his court.  
“Magnus Bane isn’t a weed we can easily pluck, tad.” Auraline’s voice cuts through his daydreams of handpicking Alexander’s future faerie spouse and brings him back to dismal reality.   
“Even the seelie queen is leery of him.”Keiran takes a honeycake and breaks it in half, “and right now he has the upper hand.  He holds both Alec’s affection and interest.”
Arawn’s current youngest groans, Iolanthe’s riot of curls bouncing as she smacks her small fists into the table, “why isn’t he bored already?”
“Later, Iolanthe.” Keiran offers her half of his honeycake as the first of Arawn’s court join them. “Quietly watch the proceedings and I’ll let you ride my fastest warhorse at dawn.”
Arawn leans towards his youngest as the seats fill and murmurs, “neither are bored yet because your brother is immune to that kind of magic and Bane has protections against such things.” Arawn taps Iolanthe's nose fondly as her face falls, “I already attempted it at the beginning.”
-
Alec is politically neutral. He’s the safe zone in a game where there are no rules. His siblings are already very fond of him and the fact that there is no maternal family/faction behind/backing him up is a huge bonus because any debts incurred stay in arawn’s court which is what’s safest. He’s also great because he’s arawn’s favorite.  None of arawn’s kids want to be his favorite, not even alec. Mostly because the meddling happens and not just how he usually is it’s times 5000. So yeah, alec is the safest sibling and also the mediator etc.  he’s also the only one who doesn’t even have to give up his claim to the throne, he just doesn’t have one.  Alec meanwhile has a lot of siblings. thankfully all he needs to do for these siblings is give them affection, a little advice sometimes (which is generally just common sense nothing complicated) and sometimes stop them from trying to kill each other.
if Alec seems more obviously sly in this, then good. he's meant to because he was raised by unseelie. all that political strategy got melded into unseelie plottwisting loophole mannerisms. he and Magnus are constantly playing little word and power games with each other. Alec is also trying to play chess with his dad and Magnus while his dad and Magnus are playing checkers with each other
alec: I just want to live with my boyfriend five nights a week and spend weekends with my family. is that too much to ask?
the unseelie court and Magnus: yes
alec is calling arawn tad which is Welsh for father
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alexanderlightweight · 2 years ago
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so this is super helpful because i didn't really look up much about Arawn other than his description so i didn't have much knowledge or understanding of how the courts and the hunt worked in shadowhunters.
especially because i'm more familiar with Arawn the lord of Annwn, so i just have been going off that lore and some other things that i know from other unseelie myths. (it's why Alec calls Arawn 'tad' because it's welsh and the Araw n i know best and am interested in is Welsh) though i like his horns in his picture
this is super helpful btw, ty. i'm going to pick and choose from that definitely.
also in this arawn is definitely more interested in his kids in a very... asmodeus way i think.
his kids are an extension/expression of his power and he delights in being praised through their deeds and also works very hard to ensure his children adore him above nearly all else. arawn really hates when his kids find lovers outside of his court (those relationships dont normally last unless his kids get bonded without permission) and if he could kill magnus for (in his opinion) 'tricking his son' then he would tbh. he's also not happy about how much alec's not his kingdom since you know, he lives with magnus.
it's not healthy at all by human standards but they're also not human and things are much more either intense or boring and so it works for them.
the other thing that is implied in the fic but not outright stated is that there is a general issue with time here. alec's gone back in time centuries and no one knows that yet because of how time works for faerie rings.
also alec is super favored but he's also incredibly favored because he's never going to be an heir. he's the one kid who will never be caught up in any kind of power struggle and arawn appreciates the idea of that. he also is having a bit of a power trip at having stolen a nephilim babe as his own son
alec's also incredibly receptive to arawn's magic because it saved him and latched on and that also forms a bond. also, tbh arawn's the kind of dad where at some point the kids are just like 'please don't pay us any attention so we can do things without you knowing every single detail' and alec is a consistently shiny distraction for arawn.
especially after he bonds with magnus
arawn lovingly interrogating some of his older children about what they've been up to and five minutes in someone goes: has alec visited recently, i haven't seen him in forever
cue a 3 day rant on magnus bane being the bane of arawn's existence while alec's siblings nod in agreement because 1) they miss their baby brther and 2) life is so much easier with alec around to distract arawn and 3) you don't disagree with arawn about magnus and arawn wont realize for months that he never got any new information.
he continually falls for it not because he's unaware of the manipulations, but because his anger at magnus is so great that a switch is just flipped.
thanks again for the info dump btw, i'm excited to use some of it!
<3 lumine
Tumblr is being fucky with asks so throwing my "random book canon faerie info" here @alexanderlightweight
Ok rant and TDI spoilers incoming below the cut. Not really a prompt more...random info to be used if you think it fits?
Arawn is definitely more of an asshole in the books. He doesn't really care that much about any of his kids but:
His favorite was Erec, very sadistic, loves abusing his siblings, got jealous when he realized one of them was more popular than him and convinced the king to give him to the wild hunt. Probably would not react well to Alec being the new fave
The wild hunt doesn't belong to either seelie or unseelie courts but is willing to deal with them. It's led by Gwyn ap Nudd, who out of all the faerie "leaders" is most likely to get the "tough love" title. very similar to your Alec now that i think about it, esp considering he started bending his own rules as soon as he met Diana (bit similar to mirai) bc he's that in love. Actual members of the wild hunt can only leave if permitted by him. They also have one eye color changed (black/gold/silver)
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The wild hunt sibling is Kieran! He's a pretty important character but for now he ends up taking the throne, and he's dating 2 shadowhunters one of whom is Helen's younger brother, Mark, who was also in the wild hunt.
There are two separate cases where Arawn used dark magic and spells to give heirs extra power and strength, which is probably something he'd do to Alec:
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The first case was Auraline, a child of both him and the seelie queen who was supposed to inherent both their thrones until there was a prophecy and he sent the riders of mannan (near invincible, loyal to the unseelie king and do whatever he wants, would definitely cause trouble if asked to go retrieve Alec) after her. She ran away, married a nephilim, and their descendant was actually adopted by Tessa and Jem, so Magnus sending Alec to them actually tracks with canon a bit.
The last unseelie heir we care about is Adaon. He's probably the "nicest" but what REALLY matters is that he and Magnus had a thing (implied in the books but confirmed by CC) that i assume Alec would not react well to
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buckevantommy · 19 days ago
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bucktommy ghost au! 👻🫀🧑‍🚒
Tommy dies in that gas explosion; Howie gets him out but it's too late. Meanwhile across the country, young Buck crashes his motorcycle and gets more than a broken arm: he needs a new heart. Fortunately there's a match in LA.
So young Buck gets Tommy's transplant heart, and during recovery is where he finally finds some direction in life.
option 1: Buck learns all about his donor and decides to become a firefighter too, wants to help save people.
option 2: Buck ends up in LA training to be a firefighter all on his own. It's only when he joins the 118 that he realises his donor worked there too.
(i prefer option 2, so more on that..) Buck learns all he can about Tommy, learns as much as he can from Chim and those who knew him, meets Sal.. and people ask why he's so interested and Buck lies through his teeth. He can't explain how he feels connected to Tommy, like he was meant to be a firefighter because Tommy was. Can't explain why he took art classes and a workshop on jeep maintenance and developed a taste for a particular brand of craft beer. He's never been a movie guy but he watches a few romcoms and feells things he's never felt before.
Buck visits Tommy's old house - now up for sale but struggling in this economy, plus there was a bad storm that caused damage and they're waiting to get repairs. So Buck squats in Tommy's old house for a few weeks.
And then he starts seeing him.
It starts after everything goes to shit: losing a victim, the thing with his therapist, a first responder stalking him.. Tommy appears when Buck feels more alone than he's ever been despite being surrounded by people and having a great team and captain.
It's not the first time he sees Tommy, he just didn't remember it until now. Tommy was there in his hospital room when Buck woke up from surgery, a figure in the room, and beyond the glass. He was there his first day at the 118, just another blue shirt among the rest, in the background. He was there the night Buck lost his first victim, sad eyes in turnouts on the tarmac.
And he's here, now: in his old house looking right at Buck. It's the closest he's ever been and Buck is now sure it's Tommy. They talk for the first time, but it's mostly Buck doing the talking. Tommy doesn't say much. He seems confused, and when Buck gently explains that he's dead he witnesses a bit of bitchy Tommy for the first time, too. Tommy knows he's dead, what he can't figure out is why he's still.. around.
note: eventually there's the reveal that Buck can see ghosts - but Tommy is the first. Maddie has the stronger sense. There's also the reveal about Daniel but that's all background stuff.
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annemarieyeretzian · 6 months ago
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laudna’s thread was silver??? now it’s gold??? now it’s connected to imogen’s???
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sangre · 10 months ago
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water, running down my face / water, running different ways water, like a billion waves / water, just a tear in space. ✧
for my ffxiv oc, eden mercure. prior to enw, he was not a little predisposed to world-shattering grief and causing problems bc of his weary heart. SO, when i got to elpis, it wasn't long before i decided that he was a hermes shard rather than one of azem. it's just too perfect a story.. anyway, please enjoy my love letter to him before dawntrail! and go listen to this song, it's so good
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xenosaurus · 2 years ago
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I have a page for my worldbuilding projects that’s a huge WIP, but in the mean time, here’s a list of the ones I can remember off the top of my head!  I’ve done my best to split these by genre, although some obviously fit in multiple categories. You can also browse through my "original stuff" tag for things that haven't made it as far as a concrete project, if you can tolerate the mess.
UPDATE: Tumblr changed their tag system, so I had to fix the links.  They SHOULD be working, but chronological links don’t cooperate with mobile, so I’ve made them general links.  Please add /chrono to the url if you can, a few of these are very weird out of order (looking at you, Boar’s Blood).
Urban Fantasy
Witchmouth General; comedy about a hospital in a city that is mostly monsters and aliens
Freedom Over Gold; a comedy-drama about a trio of homunculi killing their masters
Immortality and Tax Fraud; a comedy about gods who possess people and the hosts that are still resisting them (slightly NSFW)
Mundane Motherhood; a slice of life/recovery story about a woman who adopts a kid who was being raised to fight demons
The Empty City; a drama about a limbo world entered in dreams by people who compete for “days”, which give them another day of life in the real world
The Mortal Forge; an adventure story about a group of cursed people putting together an expedition to find a legendary cure
Tethered; a slice of life story in a setting where everyone has a familiar, starring two teenagers who are “tethering” their familiars, allowing them to become more physical and sentient
Fallen Angels in YOUR Area!; a comedy about a group of angels who are banished to earth for gaining too much individuality
Arlan Kingslayer; a comedy about classic high fantasy book characters being brought to the real world and not wanting to leave
High Fantasy
Boar’s Blood; an adventure story about a magical society built on the grave of an undead dragon that is rapidly falling apart (NSFW)
The Phoenix Bride; an adventure story/romance about a woman exploring an ever-expanding magical tower to confess her feelings to the woman who created it
God Hunters; technically closer to magical steampunk, an all-women drama about monster hunters (NSFW)
Scales and Bonedust; in a setting where some humans live in dwellings draped over the backs of dragons, a man and a dragonling try to find their way home after their whole community is killed
Rabbitheart; a fairy tale of sorts about a young jester (and would-be sorceress) trying to reclaim her familiar to earn a princess' hand in marriage, with a large section of backstory about the setting's version of Arthurian lore
The Mayfly; a dark fantasy about a mortal half-elf prince learning the truth of elven immortality
Whalefall; merfolk dark fantasy about a "bloodsalt knight" (a soldier who bites themselves to draw attacking predators to the blood and away from their school) who is separated from her people
Mark the End; trope manipulation on 'everyone grows up and has babies' endings where the children are the reborn god-monsters their guardians fought as teenagers. heavy on monster lore and character drama
Vampire Prince Walter; a romantic comedy about childhood sweethearts (who have since become a vampire and a werewolf) being arranged to marry each other... as long as their fathers don't find out they like each other too much to spy on the other.
Science Fiction
New Apocalyptia; a comedy about a world where all movie apocalypses happened at once (slightly NSFW)
Salt Water; an adventure story about a group trying to reach the bottom of their world’s incredibly deadly oceans, also mermaids and surfing as a death sport
Peppermint Circuits; a gay love story set in a world where everyone has a chip in their brain to influence their behavior (slightly NSFW)
Spycaller; a murder mystery about humans who interact with the intergalactic community from within mech suits
Superheroes
Superfish; a traditional coming of age superhero story about an LGBT group for college-aged sidekicks
Isaac is Okay; a very gentle story about a timetraveling superhero that traps himself in the past to raise his younger self away from their abusive father
Villain Risk; a superhero drama about an illegal hero team being arrested, told after the fact by a social worker, a kid in juvenile detention, and a shapeshifter who killed a cop and stole his life
Fate and Switch; a soulmate au fakeout about psychically linked superheroes who have been brainwashed, and their partners’ attempts to find them
Tooth and Nail; a superhero/kaiju mashup about bioengineered superheroes fighting monsters, and the protagonist’s attempts to protect his new apprentice from the horrors of their work
You Can Keep the Mask On; a superhero story intended to be told through sexual encounters between characters, obviously (very NSFW)
Overpowered; a comedy about a city's extremely, well, overpowered supervillains
Abelsons; a superhero story focusing on the "support" members, such as the people who make costumes and the medics
Bonus Individual Posts
that one about the destiny orphanage that one about the silkworm aliens
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ludinusdaleth · 2 years ago
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something about ludinus coming so close to being a druid, to being a force with nature, to being a keyleth of his time (especially seeing how parralelled their beliefs, lifespans, & weights on their shoulders are). but being so terrified of giving in to a cause. of not having full control of it. he creates & toys with synthetic nature because he cannot control it otherwise. he butchers ashari practices & slaughters fey to gain their abilities. he doesn't even want the power. he just needs it because the calamity showed him what being powerless in the face of infinity meant. calamity cannot happen again. what the gods did cannot happen again. but he ensures it does, as he chooses to face infinity with all the power he now has in tow.
to be a wizard in the age of arcanum was to take. was to create anew by taking. was to scoff at druids & their pathetic thoughtfulness to the old ways & their slow softer ways of life in the face of "progress". to chase a way to prove to the gods they were equals or better, because to face the idea they were just small specks in the universe and that was okay was terrifying. ludinus is terrified of being a person. he's terrified of admitting he could be small. because he knows what he's done to those under his boot, and he knows it is ugly. surely everything bigger than me, is a predator like predathos. like me. surely everyone would rend the world apart to feel whole like him.
somewhere in the luxon ludinus covets, desperate to escape fate, theres a side of the dodecahedron, saying: you could have been a druid.
and it's making me weepy.
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yeonban · 2 months ago
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Unprompted: Valentine's Day.
@cinderlynx asked: / v day ask for tobias ofc !
❝ if cupid dares to come stompin’ around on my turf , i’ll waste that annoying little pervert without a second thought . ❞ generally speaking , ash has no discernible feelings regarding the day of love . sure , it’s always a hassle having to evade golzine’s attempts at delivering sickeningly expensive gifts that’ll only get traded for a whole buncha pizzas . yeah , receiving flowers &. chocolates from squealing girls he’s never seen before in his life definitely gets in the way of his daily obligations as a cold - blooded leader . the whole day feels like it’s just an elaborate ploy orchestrated to tank his reputation . regardless , ash knows there are worse things in the world than eye - sore teddy bears &. heart shaped cakes , so he usually treats the day with cold hard indifference despite his personal grievances . this time around , however , the blonde appears abnormally agitated for reasons unbeknownst to even the genius himself . enough to get him talking considerably more than usual - willingly , to tobias of all people . ❝ i mean , just who the hell does he think he is ? someone’s gotta be blamed for the obscene amount of couples shamelessly standing around , practically eating each-other’s faces off in the damn subway . i’m sick of it , man . they should wipe this stupid holiday off the freakin’ calendars &. burn down all the stores robbin’ people of their dime in the name of love , or whatever the hell - ❞ ash , suddenly very aware of the one sitting beside him , makes the swift decision to cut his petty tangent short , despite the plentiful mountain of irritation yet to be alleviated through bitching to a friend .
in the company of quite literally anyone else , he ain’t gotta worry about spur of the moment complaints resulting in genuine plans to enact violence or destruction on those who’ve soured his day . maybe he’s being paranoid , but the blonde sure as hell ain’t willing to risk it - no way , not when that bastard’s said shit like ‘ do you want me to kill your enemies? ’ &. ‘ i'll do it, i mean it. ’ with his full fucking chest . ❝ . . . that ain’t a suggestion , ‘ case you were wondering . ❞ nothing more than a small sigh preludes the gentle collision between ash’s palm &. the side of the brunettes head - a little toss for good measure . seems the lynx has grown bored of seething , if his blossoming smirk means anything at all . luckily for valentines day , ash has sized up a new target to occupy his mind with . he’ll just have to continue cursing out cupid some other time . ❝ so , what about you , your majesty ? spirit of love got you all swirly eyed for anyone just yet ? don’t tell me you let that fuckin’ baby with a bow stick some arrows in you . infidelity’s a real twisted thing , y’know ? don’t go breakin’ my tender little heart , now . who knows what the boys’ll say . ❞
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Not a peep leaves Tobias' mouth while he listens earnestly to the other's complaints, many of which he himself has also uttered months or years prior, and it's a mixture of satisfaction at their growing similarities and amusement at Ash's vehement anti-romantic spirit that has the brunette staring at the blond with a captivated smile on his face all throughout the other's protest. Though rare, or perhaps because of that rarity, hearing Ash dominate the conversation instead of the other way around is a surprisingly pleasant change of pace, and the topic that has pushed him into this frenzy being such a childish one only adds to the appeal of the situation. This big bad gang leader genius, overflowing with grievances about harmless, heart-shaped things and loving relationships... heh, Tobias doubts he could have chosen a more ironic subject for Ash and his loving little heart to grumble about if he'd tried.
The complaints suddenly come to a halt however, and it doesn't take half of his IQ to figure out why long before the other decides to clarify the benignness of his criticisms out loud. Of course dear ol' Ash would overthink himself into the worst-case scenario after having been privy to Tobias' dedication, and it's a positive thing that he's come out and verbalized these concerns now rather than let his worries fester further. After all, it won't do for Ash to thread on nails whenever they're together thanks to whatever incorrectly preconceived notions he's come up with in his head; not when Tobias seeks to bring the exact opposite outcome to fruition and lead Ash into ultimately feeling at complete ease around him. ❛ Don't think yourself into a headache, worrywart. The whole point of my decisions is to make your life better. If I went and got rid of those stores now, won't you just feel guilty for robbing these poor local business owners and their lovesick customers of the Valentine's Day experience? I mean, what if those stores were their only source of income? What if it was those couples' first date? Why, the sheer horror of having something that precious ruined! ❜ Despite his dramatically aghast tone, Tobias cares little for these trivialities. Whether someone's livelihood is grounded to dust, or a romance is led astray, his heart does not budge and his brain thinks nothing of their plight. Still... although he wouldn't have bothered to contemplate such boring circumstances were he on his lonesome, this is unfortunately something that Ash is assuredly going to take into consideration every single time; and thus something Tobias ought to account for as well.
It must be a rollercoaster to despise something but nonetheless have the heart to not wish ill upon those partaking in it, and to even go the extra mile to ensure that nothing shall take their happiness away in spite of it clashing with Ash's own. Tobias can't relate to any of this benevolence, of course, but it appears he does care enough to go out of his way and placate the blond even when, had the object of his affections not been as kind-hearted of a person as Ash is, the mafioso would have picked the easier solution and brought merciless ruination to anything worsening the other's day as soon as such a fact would've become obvious. ❛ Listen, Ash... I know your sweet little heart could never accept the idea of me shattering those random people's lives, so don't worry. You can keep blowing off steam around me without having to think about the potential fallout. I'll be a good boy, I promise. Not even one frown will come out of you 'cause of me, 'kay? I'm being real attentive to all of your cute little quirks to make sure of that, so no need to walk on any broken shards around me. I know what'll make you happy and what won't. ❜ And, thankfully, he already has several ideas in mind come next Valentine's Day. Ash's gripe seems to rest mainly with the obnoxious atmosphere outside, but if that's the only thing bothering him... well, it shouldn't be too hard to peacefully resolve it. Money can do wonders, whether to create a specific environment outside of NYC and pay businesses to move over there for the day, thus bringing their customers along as well; or to provide couples and spouses with free tickets to various expensive romantic spots outside of NYC on the day of. That way, Ash should be spared the guaranteed nausea, and Tobias the constraints of having to keep his ideas restricted to the inside of their houses.
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The smile on his face persists even as Ash gently smacks him, and he lifts a hand in kind to reach out and playfully ruffle the blonde's hair in pacifying response. Not that he needs a cue anymore before going ahead and touching Ash at this point in their friendship, but there is no world in which Tobias will turn down what he perceives to be an opportunity to be even more touchy with the other than he would have been had Ash not initiated a touch first. ❛ Why all this Cupid hate, though? You've been talking about the despicable love in the air for a while now. It's starting to sound more like jealousy than anything else. What happened, princess, upset that you don't have someone to be lovey-dovey with? Is that why you've filled out that Valentine application for me? Aww-- ❜ The snickers that follow sound obnoxiously mocking, though the brunette wholeheartedly believes this is at least part of the reason behind Ash's dissatisfaction with the couples roaming the city. For him specifically, it must look like yet another display of what he is forbidden from ever experiencing, and thus act as a reminder that he is different from those people. Or however else that self-induced delusion of his goes. From Tobias' point of view, the barriers Ash continually sets between himself and what he wishes for are beyond inane, and it's taking quite a while for the older teen's carefully worded declarations and fastidiously taken actions to set the blonde's messed up brain back on the right track again after such absurd thoughts have made their home out of it for what is likely the better half of his life.
The topic switches to Tobias though, and the smile he dons becomes more theatrical with each passing second, the hand previously busying itself in Ash's hair returning to his own side to rest atop his heart in usual feign. ❛ So you are attached to our relationship after all! Phew, everything in the world is well again. You've taken a stone off my heart with that one. ❜ And while everything points towards a staged reaction (which it is to an extent), Tobias truly does feel a smidgen of relief at Ash's unexpected fondness of this spur of the moment decision they've agreed on months prior. It isn't the first time, nor the second, nor even the third, when the blonde has referenced this "relationship" of theirs despite having had no third parties present to notice what a good job he's been doing as a fake boyfriend, and it leaves Tobias wondering if Ash has begun to foster similar feelings to the ones plaguing himself, because few other hypotheses can explain why jokes such as these have been making such constant reappearances. It's too early to tell for sure though, and while Tobias prides himself on his rationality, he doesn't entirely trust his opinion on this particular issue just yet, not when he's aware of just how easily his own biases could have wiggled their way in and clouded the actual reality.
Ash's question prompts a hum, somewhat irresolute, and the mafioso supposes it won't hurt to test those waters right here, right now. If he's wrong about his guess and nothing is out of the ordinary, then Ash should simply go about business as usual, and perhaps tease him about his crush 'til the novelty of the news wears off. Alternatively, if Ash has started to care about Tobias' love life more than a regular friend would, it should be easy grounds for a more assertive approach from his end in their near future. ❛ But I'm afraid I have to bring bad news. I might have left my window open overnight or something, 'cause I think Cupid did manage to shoot his shoot on me. I've never understood the concept he stands for though, so maybe you can tell me if what I'm going through is love or not. That way, we'll be sure of it. ❜ It's partially the truth, since he really doesn't know what can qualify as love or even what love means at the end of the day, but it's also an indirect manner through which to study Ash's reactions without blatantly piquing his suspicions.
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With a finger tapping at his temple in what appears to be idle contemplation, and with his gaze falling lower into seemingly the void of introspection, Tobias begins to list off his "symptoms". No longer focusing on Ash anymore should make the enigmatic recipient of his fondness more of a mystery than staring Ash dead in the eye the entire time would. ❛ Let's see... what got my alarms blaring was how often I'd find myself thinking of this person. I mean really, what business do I have linking everything back to them, day in and day out? It's like I'm working overtime and never clocking out. 'sides, whenever I think of them I start losing interest in whatever else I'm doing at the moment, and I immediately want to get up and go see them. Don'tcha think that's just a biit troublesome for someone in my position? Honestly... I think my business partners have started wondering if their ideas are boring enough to be the cause of me leaving five minutes into their presentations every time. ❜
Another hum, intentionally more troubled-sounding than its predecessor. ❛ What else is there... ah, right. I've been in a real good mood lately. You probably don't know this, but I've been bored beyond measure since as far back as I can remember. I don't think I've ever been in a good mood for longer than a week. Well, at least not 'til now. ❜ Fleetingly, he wonders whether this tidbit will tip Ash off about the mysterious person's true identity, or whether his self-doubts will stand in the way of even that. After all, if Ash has barely ever seen Tobias in anything other than a good mood, and if the brunette's latest words are to be taken at face value, then it should mean the one creating Tobias' good moods is at least located in NYC, if not currently right in front of him. ❛ Something I'm sure you did notice, though, is that I like doing whatever I want, whenever I feel like it. But lately even that's changed a bit. I've found myself considering how the things I want to do will affect this person, and I've even cut back on some of them. Bewildering coming from me, right? Even I'm still shocked by this. ❜
A sigh heralds the (temporary) end of his "woes" and the tapping stops; while grey eyes rise to once again meet Ash's and thoroughly examine each of his microexpressions. ❛ There's probably a bunch of more developments I forgot to mention, 'cause I just can't tell if they're relevant or not, so how about you ask me about the usual tell-tale signs of this disease, doc? I'm sure everyone will want to know if it's terminal or not. ❜ And, although he'd planned to dip soon anyway so he could finish his surprise for the other, Tobias opts to phrase things more vaguely now that Ash has shown interest in his love affairs. Rather than use a meeting or something of the sort as the excuse for his soon-to-be departure, he instead allows for a more open-ended conclusion. If Ash's mind jumps directly to the possibility of Tobias heading for a date with someone else given the holiday at hand and the fact that he is going to willingly leave Ash alone when he allegedly has the option not to, then all the better for figuring out what Ash's actual feelings on this matter are. ❛ By the way, I want to leave in an hour, so if we're going to get to the bottom of this, you should start firing away. Either that, or we can hang out again later in the day. ❜ If he'd heard himself without holding prior knowledge of why he wants to leave, even he'd have thought he had hit his head on something this morning.
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greektragedybitch · 1 year ago
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my sexual orientation is fictional characters that have the potential to go insane and be unhinged
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godihatethiswebsite · 6 months ago
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I’m with that one anon: f the other omega, time to put ourselves first😅I mean, how would she even be able to compete with the omega who is their true scent match? Best she just runs along and finds herself a new pack🤗
Anyways, I am so excited for the new chapter! Love, love, love your writing
Ya'll are so vicious I love it! 🤣 If it's any consolation: omega isn't the only one going through it...
Hope you enjoy the new chapter! ❤️
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whitedahlia13 · 1 year ago
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We were sewn Into the fabric Of a fate Stranger than fiction And we frayed At our ends Again and again Disillusioned by a phantom Of greater possibility We were two threads Tethered end to end Caught between Oceans and islands Entangled by moments Of nothing And everything
-Words from the Fire, Two Threads
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annemarieyeretzian · 6 months ago
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imogen saying “laudna is everything. you can see it. she had her fate thrust upon her. it was something she didn’t ask for, but she’s embraced it and become strong with it and overcome it.” 🥺
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botanists-little-cookie · 1 year ago
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Oh hey I don't think I ever posted this here. Family flowchart moment.
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Familial day seemed like the perfect day to drop it <3
I can't believe I forgot to add Jasmine, my wonderful and lovely sibling-in-law Jasmine who I love to death <3
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zanzanne · 2 months ago
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amy is teaching me their "telepathically send your food to people" power. to make myself feel better i'll believe this silly little landmine is actually psychic
#🎀i am....its my mind pwoers........trust mee.............#i sure hope it is! i really do!#closing my eyes and thinking really hard so i can mentally send susie the taste of banana split ice cream...#to be fair if you're like amy and have spent almost 5 years devoting yourself to a character (or to us their transuniversal soulmate)#to the degree that they have. i wouldn't think it out the question that you'd develop SOME sort of telepathic ability or ''mind powers.''#🎀I GET MIND POWERS FROM THINK RESLLY HARD AND LOVE MY GIRLFRIEND.REAL#they do. trust me.#🎀im soooooo onormal about her i just KNOW me and yoomtahs souls are tethered i can physically feel the string of fate wrap around my brain#🎀and my heart and then shoot out to reach her.no matter what anyone else says her and i belong together there is NOTHING that compares to#🎀the feeling i get when i see her SHE is home to me my home is HER. the physical pull i feel and how i can feel my brain move upon seeing#🎀her is just proof that WE ARE MADE FOR EACH OTHER.and i know any other iteration of her and i in any other world are too.if this is the#🎀iteration where she is only a character to the people of this world then so be it but one day i WILL be home.i WILL see my beloved#🎀she is mine and i am hers and that is a universal constant#🎀those who see her with anyone other than me are insulting love itself#🎀and i know she is waiting for me out there just as much as im waiting for her<3sooooooooo#🎀anyways where am i.sorry i got insane on ZANZANS BLOG NOT EVEN MINE.hii dont mind me#🎀im not a tinfoil hat guy trying to tell u aliens are coming to abduct me or smth im just a very determined lesbian<3#...and that is basically everything you need to know about amy!#i suppose we both have the ''she's just a character to everyone else but so much more to me'' thing going on in two different directions hm.#born in a place that is not home vs. thrown out of your home but both trying to reach who we love most.#this was supposed to be a little silly post at first i think we went juuust a bit too far. but nevermind
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impossible-rat-babies · 7 months ago
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I wanna do like. lore heavy gpose bc both return to oblivion and last words of a shooting star have been haunting my brain
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sai-int · 14 days ago
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IN CONTEMPT | simon riley
You tried to move on, but no one quite measures up; not to the way he touched you, not to the way he ruined you. But when he reappears, you can feel him even before you see him. The past has a way of punishing disobedience, and now, it’s here to settle the score.
✉️ SEQUEL TO: ‘ RETURN TO SENDER ’ | [ AO3 ]
18+ AU, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, soft!simon, cuckolding, stalking, dirty talk, implied voyeurism, extreme exhibitionism, praise, rough sex w aftercare!, breeding kink if you squint, smidge of degradation, unprotected sex, cream-pie, oral sex (f!recieving) fingering, squirting [ 16.6k words ]
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Fuck Simon for vanishing, for leaving you with nothing but a £21.90-shaped hole in your wallet.
It’s humiliating, really—how twenty quid can leave such a deep dent in your otherwise empty pockets. But the alternative? A fate you couldn't afford to entertain—sleepless nights, baby-screeching, endless tears, and a lifetime tethered to a man who couldn't even be bothered to stick around longer than 5 minutes after fucking your brains out, taking your favorite pair of oversized sweatpants on his way out, too. So, you swallowed the morning-after pill and kept it moving.
The immediate days after he disappeared blur together in a heavy, sluggish haze. You still show up to work, still plaster on a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes—though it never did, even before Simon. Every shift is the same bullshit but somehow worse—customers testing your patience, coworkers draining the last bit of energy you’ve got, and a boss who somehow manages to be more insufferable than the rest combined, multiplied by ten, then squared.
Your life was shit before, but that’s all been exacerbated. Nothing feels right anymore. You don’t remember who you were before him, how you managed without his touch. Everything’s off-kilter, like the world shifted just enough to make moving through it a little harder.
You try to shove him out of your mind, slam the door, bolt it shut—for your sake. But when one door closes, a window inevitably opens—and he is the draft that seeps through, whistling through the gaps, curling around you and filling your lungs, regardless of how hard you try to shut him out.
The rational part of your brain tries, with dire urgency, to tell you that it was just sex; that it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. You made an offer—arguably reckless, maybe even stupid, but not regrettable—and he accepted. Weird, but simple. Clean. Done.
But even as you rationalize and deny his effect on your life, your body betrays you. It still remembers whether you want it to or not—the phantom heat of his massive hands branding your skin, the weight of him pressing you down into your creaky mattress, the primality of being wrecked, ripped apart, and haphazardly stitched back together.
It’s hard to fight the way your body craves—the pang buried deep in your bones, in your cunt, gnawing at you like a plague. It wears you down, sanding away every hard edge you put up against the hunger for him. Eventually, you stop trying. Stop pretending.
After a week, you begin to cling to the news channels like they hold your salvation, listening like their reports are scriptures to damned ears. You sit on the scratchy, cheap carpet in your living room, bathed in the cold, artificial glow of the screen nearly every night, waiting like a dog at the door for an owner who isn’t coming home.  You watch until your eyes dry, stinging as you blink, your fingers twitching around a carton of pad thai, stomach a tangled knot as you swallow each bite. Every time that breaking news banner slashes across the screen, your pulse spikes, breath snags—thinking: this is it. This is the moment his name finally breaks through the LEDs.
But it never comes. You envy how they can swallow it all down and forget him.
He’s gone. Not only from your life, but seemingly from existence itself. No reports. No shitty CCTV footage of him. No murmured speculations from tight-lipped officials. The world moved on within a couple of days as if they were paid to not to speak his name. As if speaking his name would plague them with the shadow of him as well. 
Days turn into a week, a week turns to two.
A fortnight, two weeks on the day since it all happened, and still, you can’t let go. The less you hear, the more you need him. The obsession burrows deeper, twisting its roots around your ribs like weeds, pulling tighter with every breath—suffocating, consuming.
Then come the dreams.
The first time you see his eyes in your sleep, you wake in disarray—your sheets tangled, your hair tousled and your skin sweaty. The imprint of him lingers, burned into the backs of your eyelids, in the goosebumps on your neck.
You can't deal with it anymore. 
You can’t cope with the way he haunts you. It’s cruel, really, how he lives up to his name. How he’s gone, yet has never truly left.
You download the BBC app and turn on notifications. Each alert is a spark, a fleeting moment where your breath catches in your throat, where your heart stutters against your ribs. You cling to the possibility, to the thought that maybe this time, there will be something—some sliver of information, some sign that he still exists in the world beyond your memories.
Every vibration, every chime sets you on edge. Your fingers twitch, your stomach knots. You find yourself unlocking your phone without thinking, scanning headlines with eagerness that borders on despondency. You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. Playing detective. But deep down, you know better.
You need him.
It’s pathetic, really, the way your mind latches onto every news clip, every report, dissecting vague mentions of overseas conflicts, covert operations, missing operatives. You read between the lines, searching for something—anything—that could be him. A shadow of a man. A ghost in the margins.
You probably look like an addict going through withdrawals—waiting, itching, restless. 
In a way, you are. You couldn’t get enough.
The second you feel the faint buzz in your pocket, your breath hitches, your pulse kicks up. Your fingers twitch before you even register the movement, scrambling for your back pocket, ripping your phone out like it’ll tell you exactly where he is, what he’s doing, when he’s coming back. But it never does.
You keep watching. Waiting. Because something must surface eventually. Because if you stop—if you let the remnants of him settle—it makes him real in the past tense. And you can’t stomach that. Not yet.
Notifications pile up as you go to work, then come home, go to work, then come home—rinse and repeat. War, corruption, scandal, catastrophe—but never him. Instead, you choke on the taste of useless knowledge, drowning in politics you couldn’t care less for, memorizing names of leaders who mean nothing to you right now.
How could they mean anything when the weight of it all feels so Orwellian? You constantly think back to a time when breathing was easier, when you weren’t so voracious—so infinitely, pathetically hungry. But now, Simon is the Thought Police, and you, like Winston, can feel something coming—stalking, circling, tightening the trap.
You tell yourself you won’t stoop to his level—that you wouldn’t degrade yourself, touching yourself to scraps like he did to your letter, your messy, faceless scribblings. But the truth is that you’re worse than he, because you don’t need a piece of paper. You’re already pent up, already had a hit of him, and that’s all you need. He’s there, beneath your skin, in your blood, indelible in every sense of the word.
You cave, slipping your fingers beneath your panties, knowing how futile it is. You can’t touch yourself like he can—can’t make yourself feel the way he does, the way his hands, his mouth, make everything feel alive. Make everything feel worth it. That hollow emptiness—the dark, insatiable void that is him; it will swallow you whole. But what else is there? What can you hold onto when nothing else has ever come close? It’s all you have.
Though, when the wind blows, when you're alone in your room, your legs trembling from the soft circles you trace on your clit, it doesn’t feel like you're alone at all. There’s something there, the faintest sense that someone’s eyes are on you—not intrusive, but there. Observing, spectating..
It’s that feeling—that feeling of being vulnerable, of being prey that gets you going. The final puzzle piece clicking into place, the last push before your back arches and you’re coming undone, gasping—no, howling his name, until it reverberates off the walls of your room.
You feel it all the time. A prickle down your spine when you lock your door at night, a sudden hitch in your breath when you pass by your bedroom windows after a shower. A pit in your stomach when you walk home from the railway station, some shadows out of place, some that stretch too long beneath the streetlights, like they’re reaching for something. Or reaching for you. 
There’s something that consistently lurks in the alley across from your flat. A narrow sliver between homes, shrouded in shadow—an odd, latent presence that doesn’t quite fit, too still, too tall to be a dumpster. You swear it’s there almost every night, the air thick with it, but whenever you try to get a closer look, from your front door or wherever, it’s always gone—vanished.
It could be a trick of the night, a cruel illusion it could be anything, anyone—but would you be this wet if it was? Would your breath falter, thighs pressing tight, when the curtains stir just enough to frame the shadow across the street?
You feel it, a slow creep along your spine. A presence you can never name, but know all the same. It feels like him, each goosebump shouting and hissing his name. It’s a connection that defies reason, something deeper than instinct, sharper than memory. A pull, a whisper in your blood, like an unspoken language only the two of you understand. You’ve never felt anything like it before, never known a presence so visceral, so consuming. If this is madness, if this is nothing more than a delusion stitched together by longing and desperation—so be it.
You’d welcome insanity if it meant he was really here.
The shadow lingers. Not moving, not retreating. Just watching. Waiting.
A whisper curls in the back of your mind, sultry and insistent—go to the window. Let him see.
You leave it open now. Always.
The only thing you’ve gained since losing your virginity to Simon is a strange, newfound confidence—like a secret only you know, a mark he’s left on you that no one else can see. The longing isn’t new anymore; it’s settled in, familiar, woven into the fabric of your days. It doesn’t sting like it used to, but it never really leaves either, just hums beneath the surface, constant and quiet.
But the irony isn’t lost on you. Because for all that confidence, you’ve never felt emptier.
You’re four hours deep into your shift. It’s a quarter past four in the afternoon and you’re standing in the detergent aisle, one hand gripping the pricing gun, the other peeling discount stickers off the roll and slapping “Clubcard Exclusive” onto bottles of Persil like a machine. Mindless. Repetitive. A perfect, numbing distraction.
Four lousy weeks since Simon. Four weeks of gaps where his presence used to be, of clawing at scraps just to feel something real. Now, all you’ve got is the fluorescent hum of the overhead lights and the sharp scent of artificial “Spring Fresh” assaulting your nose.
And then comes Keith.
Fucking Keith.
His footsteps are light, but not light enough. Like a predator who thinks he’s stealthy when, really, he’s stomping through the underbrush, scaring off anything with a pulse. You always know when he’s coming, when he’s about to invade your space. It starts as a shift in the atmosphere, an overwhelming surge of something cloying, thick, unwelcome. It seeps into your personal bubble like a scent you can’t scrub off, a presence you can’t ignore no matter how hard you try.
"Hey, love," he drawls, his northern accent grating the moment it reaches your ears. He sidles up to you with that same cocky ease, the kind that might almost be impressive if it weren’t so painfully unwarranted—like he truly believes he belongs at your side, like he’s convinced himself you want him there.
You don’t look at him. You keep your focus on the detergent, pressing the sticker against the plastic with a little too much force. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint this time.
Though, he never does.
“Didn’t think I’d find you today,” Keith continues, leaning against the shelf with that stupid, self-satisfied smirk. As if you’ve been playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game rather than actively avoiding him. “Been hidin’ from me or somethin’?”
You exhale sharply through your nose, and internally count to three.
He’s not ugly. Not by any means. He’s tall-ish, broad-shouldered but lanky, with sharp green eyes that never seem to blink, like they’re waiting for something to happen. His jaw is set, strong, but there's an unsettling tightness to his smile—like he’s always hiding something just beneath the surface.
His confidence is anything but charming; it’s suffocating. It pours out of him in tides, clinging to you like obnoxious, over-sprayed cheap cologne, like the lingering stench of stale Lynx body spray that seems to follow him, no matter where he goes.
“I’m working, Keith.” Your voice is flat, clipped. Not an invitation.
“Oh, I see that.” He gestures to the bottles like he’s just now noticing them. “Riveting stuff. But, y’know… if you ever wanna take a break, I could keep you company. Maybe grab a drink after the shift?”
The same fucking offer, over and over. Like if he keeps throwing it at you, eventually, you’ll crack.
You sigh, setting the pricing gun down with a little more force than necessary. “I don’t drink.”
Keith chuckles, unconvinced. “Everyone drinks.”
Jesus Christ.
You finally turn to look at him—a mistake. His grin widens, taking your attention as a victory. His eyes rake over you, lingering a little too long in places that make your skin crawl.
“C’mon,” he says, voice dipping into something meant to be sultry but only makes your stomach twist. “I’d be good to you, y’know.”
There it is. That undertone, that expectation—the same fucking entitlement you’ve seen on him a million times before.
Your fingers twitch, itching to whack him over the head with the pricing gun. Instead, you grab another sticker, slap it onto the next bottle, and pretend he doesn’t exist.
But he isn’t done.
“You’ve been different lately,” he muses, watching you too closely, eyes raking up your body, to your face, and back down. “Real quiet. Distracted. What’s up with that, honey?”
Your jaw tightens. You press another sticker down, smoothing out the edges.
“Nothing.”
Keith hums. “That right?”
You grit your teeth. You hate this. You hate that he’s noticed. Hate that he’s perceptive enough to see the cracks. Hate that some part of you, some stupid, pathetic part, is sort of enjoying the attention —even if it’s coming from him.
Because it’s something.
Because it’s not radio silence.
But it’s not him. It’s not him, and you fucking hate that. You hate Simon for leaving you ravaged without so much as a goodbye. He ruined you, twisted everything you thought you knew, and then just vanished like you were nothing. And that’s what cuts the deepest—that you were never even worth the closure.
You should've known better, back then. But you sure as hell know now.
Usually, you’d brush Keith off with a simple excuse—a friend you don’t have, a date that doesn’t exist. A lie. You’ve perfected the art of deflection, wrapping yourself in a comfortable mask that keeps him at arm's length. He’s persistent, but you’re sharper. Always have been.
But when he presses again, you hesitate.
“C’mon,” Keith says, his voice too casual, “Just one drink, on me. What do you say?”
You feel the old reflex kick in, the instinct to shoot him down. But you hesitate. The words hang there, suspended in the air, ready to be said.
Maybe it’s the loneliness gnawing at you, sinking its claws deeper into your skin with every passing day. Maybe at this point, you’re craving anything—the heat of another person, the touch, the distraction. Anything to fill the space Simon carved out and left behind, like a hole in your chest that nothing’s been able to fill.
Or maybe it’s just a fuck-you to Simon. A fuck-you to the way he still haunts you, weaving through your mind like wind through dead branches, whispering questions that will never be answered. To the ache burrowed deep, winding through your ribs like roots splitting through concrete, relentless in its hold. 
You suck in a breath, the tension fizzling and popping inside you, and before you even realize what’s happening, you hear yourself say, “Alright. Fine. One drink.” 
At least it was on him. 
Keith’s expression shifts, his eyes widening in shock, like the idea of you saying yes never even actually crossed his mind. The surprise on his face is almost comical. He stumbles over his words, trying to mask his confusion with a quick laugh.
“No way,” he says, shaking his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Really? I—uh, I thought you’d shut me down again.”
You don’t answer, just shrug. The words feel too heavy in your mouth like they don’t belong to you. But they’re out there now, hanging between you like a promise neither of you fully understands yet.
Keith’s smile widens, but there’s something gross behind it now. Something triumphant.
“Well, if you’re sure,” he says, stepping a little closer, the air thickening with the scent of his cologne and something darker, more insistent. “I know a place nearby. Not too far. We can grab a pint or two, talk... maybe get to know each other better.”
His gaze lingers on you, too long, too shallow. His eyes flicker down to your lips for just a fraction of a second, then back to your eyes, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. Ugh.
It should make you step back, re-think what you’re jumping into. 
But you don’t. You can’t. You need Simon out of your head and gone. For good.
“Alright,” you say again, this time with a little more force as if you’re trying to convince yourself just as much as you are him. “One drink.”
Keith grins like the Cheshire Cat, the satisfaction in his eyes clear as day. “I’ll pick you up at 9,” he says, voice low and assured. “Plenty of time to get home and change, right?” He lets out a small chuckle, his confidence oozing from every word like he already knows the night is his to win.
You nod mechanically, a brief pause before you speak again. “Yeah… I’ll uh—I’ll text you my address.” The words come out flat, detached. It’s no big deal. Totally.
His smile widens, smug in a way that makes your stomach churn. “Good. I’ll see you then.” He turns to head back toward the break room, giddily gliding down the aisle, like he's walking on air.
You just stand there, frozen for a second, watching him go. The store hums around you—distant chatter, the clinking of metal shopping carts, the soft shuffle of customers weaving through the aisles. It all feels like a blur, the noise distant and muffled, as though you're submerged in water. Your mind is far away, caught in the thick fog of uncertainty.
You don’t even know what you’re doing, but maybe this is what you need.
Simon lingers in the back of your mind like a shadow you’re always reaching for without thinking—an instinct, a reflex you can’t unlearn. And the thought of replacing that longing with something so fleeting, so hollow—something so… Keith, feels like a betrayal. Like carving out a piece of yourself and handing it to someone who will never understand its weight.
A sigh escapes you. You pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the screen as you look at the glowing numbers. Your heart flutters, unease building with each second that passes. But you don’t stop yourself. 
You type out your address slowly, each letter feeling like a weight added to your chest. It shouldn’t be a big deal, right? It couldn’t be that bad. You’ll just go out and try to make the best of it.
You hit ‘send.’
So much for getting to know each other. 
Keith hardly bothered to ask anything about you; the conversation is dominated by the insufferable droning on about his crypto investments. You aren’t really listening.. Your mind keeps drifting, thinking of his absence.
Simon’s absence. 
God, it bothers you how deeply he’s imprinted on your mind. Was it the fact that he took your virginity? There’s no way it could have been that chemically altering. Yes the sex was amazing, but how could he haunt your thoughts so extensively after barely saying a word to you, only ever muttering filthy things while fucking your brain numb?
Stop thinking about him fucking you. This is a problem. 
You pull yourself back to the present. The date’s going... fine. Nothing special. You’d pulled on a simple pair of jeans, a black top. Nothing too flashy, nothing that screamed you were trying—because you weren’t. What did it matter? Not like you had anywhere to go, or anyone to impress anymore. Clothes didn’t mean much when your world had narrowed down to this: a quick escape.
The pub is crowded for a Thursday night, an odd mix of tired regulars and middle-aged men—DILFs you’d much rather be accompanying. They laugh loudly, their voices thick with the warmth of too much liquor; they’re the ones you should be with, the ones who seem to care, to be alive in a way that doesn’t feel so desperate.
But instead, you’re stuck with Keith. His voice drones on in the background, talking about Bitcoin and intermittent fasting like he’s just discovered the secrets of the universe. His words are empty, meaningless in the moment, but you smile and nod, letting the noise of the pub drown out whatever nonsense he’s spewing. The drinks are good—strong, surprisingly so—and it burns its way down your throat, a welcome distraction. The alcohol settles into your chest like an old friend, warm and familiar, a little dangerous, but comforting all the same.
You’re a pint and a half deep, just enough for a pleasant buzz, for the edges of your thoughts to soften. Keith, on his third, is looser, expressive, leaning into your space a bit too much, his knee brushing against yours beneath the table. The alcohol makes it easier to stay present, to focus more on the moment instead of the static in your head.
He cleans up decently. The dim lights of the pub soften the harsh hazel-green of his eyes, take the tension out of the lines around his mouth. After a pint, he’s not as awful to look at. As you near the end of your second, he’s not too hard to listen to. His presence in the booth next to you isn’t suffocating anymore. The uncomfortable tightness has faded, replaced by something more manageable—a comfortable numbness that lets you go through the motions without feeling every single heartbeat. The kind of numbness you can live with for a while if you don’t think too hard about it.
You welcome it, more than you welcome the shit storm you’ve been for the past month.
You let the minutes pass, letting yourself be carried by the momentum of it all. You finish the pint, your focus drifting to the sensation of his hand brushing against yours, to the faint, gnawing in your heart as it cries for affection. It was all so simple. So much easier than you’d expected, this little dance, this surface-level distraction.
Then, a few minutes later, it happens. Keith leans in, his lips parting, the space between you closing like a slow, inevitable collision. His conviction wraps around him like a cloak, thick and heavy, as if he knows exactly how this will unfold. The warmth of his breath grazes your cheek, his scent faint but persistent, a mix of cologne and something stale, like the night’s beer. His eyes flicker with implicit expectation before they flit shut, his lips a mere centimeter from yours.
You don’t pull away.
You don’t have the energy for that anymore. Not for the back-and-forth, the push and pull of deciding what’s right and what’s not. You’ve been worn down, layer by pitiful layer until all that’s left is this: the heat, the need, the emptiness that drives you to reach out and accept whatever is offered. You let it happen, your lips parting to meet his, the kiss tentative at first, but growing more insistent as the seconds pass.
It’s not good. His lips are too stiff, too small against yours, moving with a clumsy eagerness that reeks of desperation—like he’s been waiting for this and has no idea what to do now that it’s happening. But it’s something.
Something to dull the ache, to quiet the static in your mind long enough to pretend you’re not suffocating. Something to ground you, to remind you that you’re still flesh and bone, not just longing and regret. Something to forget in the morning.
Because why not?
Maybe if you drown yourself in something else—something that isn’t honey-brown eyes and a mask that hides too much—you can finally erase the impression Simon left behind. Finally silence the ache, the apparition of his touch that you still feel under your clothes, even within the pub. Even with Keith by your side. 
Maybe if you let yourself unravel into someone else, scatter the pieces of what Simon broke and stitch together the fragments of what came before him, you’ll be able to move on. Maybe if you swallow it all, stretch yourself wide, dislocate your jaw just to fit it all in and swallow—you’ll get by. You’ll manage. Even if it never digests. Even if it all bleeds through the cracks anyway.
So, you push further. Let your fingers ghost over his knee, lean in close—just enough that your breath brushes his skin. You whisper, low and saccharine, asking if he wants to get out of here—head back to your place. A distraction. A mistake in the making.
Keith practically yanks you from the bar, his grip firm—too firm—as he steers you toward his car with single-minded determination. His fingers dig into your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, like he needs to keep you tethered. The street lights flicker overhead, casting fleeting shadows across his face, sharpening the hunger in his eyes.
The drive is a blur of speed and silence, the tension between you both is thick enough to choke on. His knuckles are white around the steering wheel, foot heavy on the gas, cutting the fifteen-minute trip to your flat down to five. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. There’s nothing to say. Just expectation hanging in the air, dense and stifling, laced with something desperate, something thoughtless. You let it wrap around you, pull you under.
Then you’re at your door, and he’s on you. His chest flush against your back, hands already gripping your hips, body pressing close, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. His teeth graze your skin, just barely, like he’s tasting his kill—like he already knows he’s won.
God, you feel like a slut.
The world keeps spinning. Traffic hums in the distance, the wind howls through the alleyways, life presses ever forward, indifferent to the choices you make. But here, as your hands tremble against the cold metal of the lock—it all shrinks to this. The frantic thrum of your pulse. The too-firm grip of his hands, insistent and wandering, pressing into places they have no right to be.
Because you don’t belong to Keith.
You don’t look back at him. You can’t. Because if you do, if you meet his lustful, haughty gaze, you might stop.
And you can’t afford to stop. Not yet.
When you both make it inside, you shut the door and Keith tries to kiss you, to make this something it’s not—some messy, desperate collision of lips and teeth, a lustful explosion—but you’re not down for that. You tilt your head and give him your neck, dodging his lips like it’s second nature. He doesn’t notice as you guide him to your room, too lost in the idea of getting his dick wet to realize you’re steering this whole thing.
And wet, he gets it.
He fucks you on your bed, and it’s got to be the most boring experience of your life. He’s got you prone, on your stomach, and you don’t look at him. You can’t look at him—because that would make it real. That would solidify the fact that you’re here, in your own bed, fucking Keith of all people.
You keep your gaze fixed ahead, on the dim sliver of moonlight seeping through your window’s curtain, as he ruts into you. The pace is off, mechanical like he’s following some half-baked porn script in his head. You have to fight the urge to ask if it’s even in, if he’s just finger blasting you. With Simon, you didn’t have to wonder. The stretch, the burn of him splitting you open, the way he had you trembling, leaking down your thighs before he even properly fucked you—that was something else entirely.
Keith leans over you occasionally, breath hot and panting against your ear, his attempt at dirty talk making you cringe.
“You like that, love?”
No, Keith. You’re jackhammering my cunt with your pencil dick.
You don’t answer out loud. You just lay there, belly pressed against the mattress, and try to conjure the feeling of someone else—someone bigger, rougher, someone who knows what to do with you. But even in the dark, even facing away, you can’t bring yourself to lie. This isn’t Simon. It’s not even close.
You wait. You endure.
Finally, he shudders and spills into the condom you made him wear, and you silently thank the universe that the miserable ten minutes are over. Simon had you writhing for at least thirty. After eating you out, too.
You continue staring ahead as Keith collapses beside you with a satisfied groan, murmuring something, pressing a kiss to your forehead like this meant anything. You don’t react. You barely register his voice.
Because out the window, across the street, there’s that shadow again.
Still. Watching. Waiting.
And for the first time all night, you feel something genuine.
You definitely could’ve found better than Keith. But God, he’s easy—easier than a prostitute in the back of a bar, and just as desperate.
It’s been a month since you first fucked him—two since Simon—and he’s like a goddamn pest, lingering, clinging, always there. But you don’t push him away, either. Not completely. Because if you’re being honest with yourself, it is nice to have someone in your bed, someone to text, someone to pick you up when you don’t feel like taking the train. He’s convenient. Reliable, even.
But his affections are only tolerable in small doses before they become suffocating. He’s a lovesick puppy, always trailing after you, those hopeful, stupid green eyes searching for something you’ll never give him. And God, you feel horrible for using him—horrible, but not enough to stop.
Each time he’s between your legs, each time his name pops up on your phone with a good morning, love, each time you toss him a scrap of attention—a lazy smile, a half-hearted hug, a peck on the cheek if he’s especially lucky—you see it. That flicker in his eyes, that glimmer of something warm and delusional, like he thinks this is leading somewhere. Like he thinks you’ll wake up one day and want him the way he wants you.
And maybe that’s the worst part. The way he clings to every half-truth, every unspoken maybe, every quiet moment that isn’t outright rejection. He’s a fool for it. And maybe you’re cruel for letting him believe in something that doesn’t exist.
But you did warn him. Laid it out in blunt, undeniable terms—this isn’t love, Keith. Just sex. No strings, no expectations.
But you suppose, for someone like him, being something to you—no matter how small, how insignificant—is still better than being nothing at all.
Simon doesn’t linger in your mind the way he used to. Not as much. Not as sharp. You shut off notifications for BBC, but couldn’t bring yourself to delete the app. Just in case. 
But every time Keith is on top of you—grunting, sweating, trying—you’re reminded of what you had. What it felt like to be wanted in a way that left bruises, but you’ve accepted the fact that Simon is gone. Gone with the wind; traceless, like he was never here to begin with.
Keith stays over some nights, always making sure to slip out in the morning. Per your request.
At first, he obeys. But then the edges start to smudge. Morning lingers too long, bleeding into midday, stretching into afternoon like melted wax. Before you know it, he’s still there. Still there when you’re making coffee, still there when you just want to be alone in your dingy flat.
You wake up one morning to an empty bed and the smell of eggs sizzling, the sound of your cabinets opening and closing. You drag yourself out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and there he is, standing in your kitchen, bare-chested and humming some god-awful tune as he tends to eggs and flips pancakes with a spatula that hasn't been used since you bought it.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, flashing you a grin like this is normal, like he’s your boyfriend.
You blink at him, groggy, disoriented. “Where’d you even get pancake mix?”
“Had some at my place,” he says, as if that’s a completely reasonable explanation.
You texted him last night for him to come over and fuck you, and he brought food—from his own flat—to cook in the morning. Was this supposed to be romantic? Jesus, fuck. You turn back to your room, ignoring the smell of breakfast permeating your walls, and throw yourself back under the covers.
It only gets worse from there, though.
He starts using your shower, stepping out smelling like your shampoo, like your soap, like your space isn’t your own anymore. 
Even when he’s not here, he finds ways to insert himself into your day. You’re halfway out the door, ready to catch the train to work, when your phone vibrates in your pocket.
Keith: Hey, on my way to pick you up
Your stomach sinks. You didn’t ask him to do that.
You sigh, rubbing your temple as you type out a quick, You really don’t have to, I can take the train.
Keith: Nah, babe, I’m gonna.
And that’s the problem. It doesn’t matter what you say. He just does it anyway.
You’re on your lunch break one day, tucked away in the breakroom, enjoying a moment of peace with a granola bar you snagged from the petrol station days ago. The store is busy, but back here, it’s quiet—just the faint hum of the coffee machine and the distant chatter of coworkers.
Then, something tugs at a strand of your hair, pulled tight in your ponytail, making your head jerk back just a little.
Your throat tightens before you even turn.
Sure enough—Keith.
He plops down in the chair next to you, all smug, too close, legs spread wide as he leans back like he owns the place.
“How’s my lovely girlfriend?” he asks, tone playful.
Your fingers tighten around the granola bar, the wrapper crinkling. “I’m not your girlfriend, Keith,” you say, feigning a small, polite smile. “But I’m okay, thanks for asking.”
Keith just chuckles like you’ve made some kind of joke. “Yeah, totally. Y’know, we’ve been at this for a while, lovey. Think you’ll let me meet your parents soon?”
You freeze mid-bite.
There’s a slow, nauseating churn in your gut, a deep unease that coils tight around your ribs, squeezing, festering.
“You can’t—” you pinch your nose bridge, “You’re not meeting my parents,” you say, firmer this time, staring at him, hoping—praying—that maybe this time, he’ll get it.
Keith just shakes his head, still grinning. “Awh, that’s alright. You’re just scared, dolly. I can wait for you.”
Your mouth goes dry. You don’t even bother dignifying that with a response. You just shove the last of your granola bar into your mouth, chew like you’re forcing down something bitter, and push back from the table.
“Gotta get back,” you mumble, standing, already heading for the door.
Keith doesn’t follow, but you can feel his eyes on you as you leave.
The more he smothers you, the more you wish you never started this shit in the first place. What were you thinking? You should’ve just put on your big girl panties, pushed the memory of Simon as far down as you could, and moved on. But each time you think of Simon, it’s like a knife twisting in your gut, because God, just the thought of being able to moan his name makes you want him all over again. You crave the way he fit, the way he understood you without all the effort. You want him to give you what you need—what you crave, even though you know deep down that it’s a fool’s wish.
With Keith, the cracks are starting to show. In bed, he starts trying too hard, like he’s desperately trying to prove something to you. He’s fishing for praise, waiting for some kind of validation. He’ll ask, “That was better than last time, right?” as though the answer matters to you. As if you’ve been keeping score.
You aren’t. You never were.
Your room smells like him now—like cheap cologne and sweat. He just gave you the most disappointing dicking yet, and he’s already passed out. The light is off and you’re lying there, forced into a state of calm that’s not really calm at all. You can feel him beside you, his breath steady as he sleeps, completely oblivious to the storm inside you. You turn away from him, laying on your side, staring blankly at the wall in front of you, your heart hammering in your chest.
Fuck, what the fuck are you doing? Why the are you doing this to yourself? It feels like punishment. Like you've shattered some unspoken rule, a silent code, and now you're paying the price. You just wanted an escape, a moment to breathe. Not to be someone’s charity case. The questions spin around you, but there are no answers. No clarity. Just endless doubt.
You let out a soft sigh and toss back onto your back, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest as your head rests on the pillows. Your eyes catch the sight of Keith's hoodie, thrown carelessly over the desk chair.
As you stare at the hoodie, lying there where you first saw Simon, you truly feel it—he’s really gone. No longer in the fragments of your room, no longer in your bed, slouched in your desk chair, lingering on your dresser.
The room is suffocating, thick with heat that presses down on your chest, suffocating you with every breath. It’s heavier than it should be, the air stale and still, clinging to your skin like a second layer. Keith insists on keeping the windows shut. He hates the drafts. You hate him for it.
You sit up, your skin sticking to the sheets. The weight of the night lingers like a fog, clouding your thoughts. You sigh, lethargic, your body sluggish as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the coolness of the floor greeting your bare feet. Your panties are discarded somewhere in the mess. You find them and pull them on absently, the fabric sliding over your skin
You round the bed quietly, your footsteps muffled against the worn carpet as you approach the bedside table next to his sleeping form. Keith’s pack of cigarettes sits there, unassuming, but it calls to you. You tug one out, the familiar crinkle of the cardboard grounding you for a moment. You take his lighter next, the flick of the flame a cruel reminder of how the nasty, expensive habit has settled into your bones. You never meant to start smoking. You swore you wouldn’t. But now, it’s just another part of the routine, a pointless comfort you’ve grown too used to, another reason you should’ve never gotten with Keith.
You walk to the shut window and lift it open with one hand. The cool night air rushes in immediately, cooling your skin. You lift the cigarette to your lips, sparking it, and watch as the tip ignites. The glow is soft against the dark, the only light in the room for a brief moment before the flame dies and the smoke curls up, wrapping around you like a secret. You take a drag, inhaling deep, the burn of the nicotine settling in your chest, grounding you, if only for a second.
You lean against the window frame, half-sitting on the bottom portion as you lean to let the smoke escape outside. The night is unnervingly quiet. You guess it’s just about midnight, but you don’t bother checking your phone. You take in the sight of the street, the houses on your block, There's nothing across the way tonight, just the empty stretch of alley, and you find your gaze drawn to it, unable to look away. The stillness wraps around you, and the faint echoes of your own thoughts seem too loud in the silence.
Something coils sharp and tenacious in your chest as you stare into the emptiness. You let Keith in, let him slither into the cracks of your life, and now it’s rotting you from the inside out. You’ve been shoving anything you can into the hollow space he left—distractions, vices, fleeting touches—but it only stretches wider, gaping and endless..
A part of you aches for that shadow to appear, if only once, just to feel something. Because  another part of you knows what it is—who it is. Knows that he’s gone.
And that, more than anything, stings.
The cigarette is nearly burned down to the filter, the last embers glowing weakly in the dark, a pale orange against the quiet night. A gust of cold wind bites at your skin, snapping you back to reality with a sharp chill. You turn to look over your shoulder, and Keith is sprawled across the bed, mouth hanging open in that obnoxious, ungodly way he sleeps. A snore rattles through the silence and your eyes instinctively roll.
You take a final drag, the smoke bitter on your tongue, and then snuff it out against the window sill and toss it, watching it smolder into the dirt below. You stand up, stretching your stiff limbs, and close the window, leaving just a small crack for the night air to filter in. 
Fuck Keith and whatever it is he wants. This is your house. You’re not his mom, his girlfriend, or whatever the hell else he thinks you are. If you want the window open, then so be it 
You turn back to the bed, your body aching for the solitude of your own sheets. You crawl under the covers, pulling them tight around your shoulders. The warmth is a small comfort, but it’s enough. Sleep tugs at your eyelids, beckoning you into the quiet. Your hands cover your ears, trying to block out the guttural snoring coming from Keith’s side of the bed. It’s like a fucking chainsaw cutting through the peace you crave. But you hold on to the stillness, the promise of escape—if only for a few hours.
You’re dead asleep when the sound cuts through the thick haze of unconsciousness—a soft, broken whimper. Barely a sound at all, more like a breath hitching in a throat, swallowed before it can fully form. It weaves itself into your dreams, threading through whatever meaningless fragments your mind had pieced together, distorting them into something unsettling.
Your body is heavy, limbs weighed down by exhaustion, but the noise needles at you, persistent in its quiet agony. You groan, eyes still shut, rolling onto your side as you mumble something incoherent—something about Keith shutting the fuck up, that you have work in the morning. Whatever it is he’s doing, you don’t want to hear it.
For a moment, silence settles over the room like a thin sheet, barely there but present enough to lull you back into the pull of sleep. Then the bed shifts. A slow, deliberate movement, like someone rising carefully, trying not to wake you. A footstep follows, then another, the faint creak of floorboards. You breathe a little easier, thinking maybe he’s leaving—maybe he’s finally getting the hint.
But then it comes again. This time, distant, muffled. A cry, higher-pitched, threaded with something frantic. It makes your skin prickle, not with concern, but with irritation.
You frown, eyes still shut, brain too fogged with sleep to process much beyond vague annoyance. He’s either having a nightmare or, worse, a wank in the corner. Neither interests you. You don’t even want him here, in your bed, taking up your space.
You sigh, pressing your face deeper into the pillow, trying to will yourself back into unconsciousness. Whatever it is, it’s not your problem.
Seconds later, you hear it again, more desperate this time, like a wounded animal with its throat ripped out, struggling to breathe. It grates against your nerves, pulling you further from sleep, until frustration bubbles up in your chest.
With a groggy grumble, you push yourself up, your movements sluggish and heavy with exhaustion. Your right arm props behind you for support as you rub at your face, knuckles pressing into your tired, shut eyes.
“Keith, will you shut the fu—”
Your voice cuts off mid-sentence, throat tightening as you finally blink the sleep from your vision. The dim light from the streetlamp outside casts long shadows across the room, bathing everything in sickly, pale yellow streaks.
Keith isn’t in bed with you.
He’s in the chair—your desk chair—against the wall and facing your bed, bound with ropes that are wrapped so tight they cut into his arms, legs, wrists, chest. A rag from your kitchen, dark with spit, is stuffed into his mouth, held in place by a strip of fabric wrapped around the back of his head. His chest heaves, his nostrils flaring with panicked breath as he stares at you with wide, frantic eyes, veins bulging against his skin.
Your body locks up, breath snagging in your throat.
“What the f—”
You barely get the words out before Keith starts thrashing against his restraints, his muffled cries breaking through the stagnant air of your bedroom. His whole body shakes with the force of it, the chair rocking slightly under his weight, but it doesn’t budge. The ropes hold firm.
You start to move, heart hammering, the slow creep of realization curling up your spine like a cold finger tracing each vertebra.
Then you feel it.
A large, cold, calloused hand slowly traces the curve of your upper back, dragging upward, a ghost of a touch against your spine. It lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the back of your scalp, tightening just enough to make your breath hitch.
Every muscle in your body locks up, your breath shuddering out in uneven bursts. The room shrinks, walls closing in around you. The grip on your hair tightens—not a yank, not yet, just a firm hold that makes your scalp prickle.
Then, a shift. A press of something solid and warm against the crown of your head. The unmistakable drag of breath as whoever inhales deeply, like he’s committing you to memory. A low, gravelly hum rumbles from his chest, thick with something unreadable. Satisfaction. Possession. Maybe both.
He's right beside you. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him, that his presence warps the air around you, suffocating, intoxicating.
You don’t dare move.
Because you know exactly who it is.
The scent of him just like you remember—gunpowder, sweat, something faintly woody—clashes with the lingering staleness of your room. It seeps into your lungs, an old ghost resurrected, clawing its way back to the surface.
Then, finally, a voice—rough, undeniably Mancunian, curling at the edges with something almost amused.
“Been busy, huh, pet?”
The words slither into your ear, smooth and deliberate, sinking their hooks into you like they never left.
You swallow hard, the heat pooling low in your stomach at the deep, deliberate pull of his voice. It scrapes against something raw inside you, something that never healed right. Your heartbeat stutters, then picks up, but not from fear. 
Still, you don’t move. You don’t look.
If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up—wake up and risk him being gone again.
Your eyes stay locked onto Keith’s, wide and frantic in the dark, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. He looks at you like you’re supposed to do something, like you’re supposed to save him.
But before you can, Simon makes the choice for you.
The grip in your hair tightens—no longer just a hold, but a command. He tugs, slow and controlled, and your head tilts back whether you want it to or not. Your breath hitches, your fingers twitch at your sides, but you let him. You’ll always let him.
And there he is.
Maskless.
Your breath snags in your throat, brain stalling, tripping over itself. You need a second—one long, aching second—to make sense of it, to stitch together the face you only ever caught in fragments. A shadowed jaw, a flicker of his mouth, the barest glimpse of his nose when he was buried between your thighs all those weeks ago.
But his eyes, his eyes don’t lie.
They’re the same eyes that have haunted you for weeks—dark, relentless, burning into you even in sleep. The same ones that linger behind your eyelids, that you’ve conjured in the dead of night, that you’ve chased with trembling hands and gasping breaths, desperate for something that feels like him.
And right now, they’re burning into you, unreadable as ever.
He’s here, in the flesh.
His bone structure is cut from marble—sharp cheekbones, a strong brow, a subtly clefted chin that adds to the undeniable masculinity of his face. Soft blond stubble shadows his jaw, catching the dim light as he tilts his head, studying you with those dangerous, all-consuming brown eyes.
Scars carve their history into his skin, some thin and white, others pink and freshly healed. One splits through his eyebrow, another drags across his cheek, and two more pull faintly at his lips. They settle among the freckles dusting his nose, a contradiction of softness and violence, of things that should never coexist but somehow do.
He’s devastating.
His other hand has found your throat, palm rough and massive against your skin. He could snap your neck with half a thought, with an eighth of his strength, and yet, all he does is trace along your jugular, feeling the rapid thrum of your pulse beneath his fingertips. It’s possessive. Calculated.
His grip shifts, sliding up to cradle your jaw, just before his thumb drags across your bottom lip. He presses forward, slow, deliberate, until his thumb slips past your teeth, resting heavy on your flat pad of your tongue.
You don’t think. You just react.
Your lips wrap around the digit without a second’s hesitation, without him even needing to ask.
And the look in his eyes?
Like he never expected anything else.
With his thumb hooked in your mouth, saliva pools at the corners of your lips, threatening to spill. You can’t swallow, can’t do anything but sit there, pliant and open for him, while he holds you in place like some helpless, caught fish.
His grip in your hair loosens, but only so he can guide your head forward, tilting your chin with the hand still in your mouth until your gaze lands back on Keith.
He’s wide-eyed, panic threading through every inch of him. His breaths are ragged, desperate, as he tries to piece it all together—his wrists bound tight, the ropes cutting into his skin, the oppressive weight of the man looming behind you, and the sight of you. Sitting there, silent, pliant, unresisting.
Keith’s mind races, but there’s nothing he can do. No words, no pleas that will untangle this mess. You can see it in his eyes—the confusion, the fear, the realization that he’s powerless. He’s looking at you like he doesn’t even recognize you anymore.
Simon hums, low and contemplative, a deep rumble that vibrates through your very bones.
“This y’plaything, baby? What you’ve been fillin’ y’time with?”
You try to move your head, to make some kind of response, but his thumb presses down, firm, stopping you before you even begin.
His tongue clicks, a disappointed tut that rolls through your ears like a warning. Like he already knows the answer and doesn’t like it.
“Know I left you... Wasn’t very nice of me, now, was it?”
His voice is thick, rich with something unreadable, but his grip tells you enough, a warning and a promise all at once. He tilts your chin back up, forcing you to meet his eyes again.
You want to tell him no, it wasn’t nice, that he ripped something out of you when he left. That you’ve spent every goddamn second since trying to fill the void he carved. But all that escapes is a strangled, pitiful “mm-mm,” your lips parting helplessly as spit slicks your chin.
His smirk deepens, eyes darkening as they flick down to your mouth, to the mess you’re making of yourself.
“Wasn’t very nice of you, though, was it? Goin’ ‘round openin’ your legs for the first man y’see, hmm? First one willin’ to put his cock in what ain’t his…”
The words strike something deep, hot, and ugly inside you. His? If you were his, then why the hell did he leave? Why did he disappear like smoke, slipping through your fingers, leaving you clawing at the air, grasping at nothing? What is he doing here now, after all this time—after breaking into your home, tearing through your life like a storm and vanishing just as quickly, leaving you to sift through the wreckage alone?
Anger surges, reckless and unthinking, and you bite down on his thumb—hard.
He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even flinch. Just smirks at the pain like you’re some unruly little puppy testing its limits. His eyes gleam, a slow, predatory amusement playing across his features as he finally, finally pulls his thumb from your mouth.
You wipe the drool from your chin with the back of your hand, straightening as much as you can under his hold. “I’m not yours,” you say, low and firm, but your voice lacks the conviction you wish it had. “If I was yours, you wouldn’t have left so suddenly, you dick.”
His expression shifts—less amused now, more exasperated, like you’re missing something so glaringly obvious it physically pains him. He pops the same thumb into his mouth, licking the taste of you off like it’s second nature, like he’s reclaiming something.
"‘Course I left, love. Was on the run.”
You blink.
Oh.
He watches the realization flood your face, that sudden shift in your gaze that’s almost embarrassing to witness. You can feel the heat of his stare, the sharpness of it, cutting through the tension in the room. Simon leans down toward you, dropping to one knee to be at your eye level, his movements slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of your discomfort. His hands rest casually on his thighs, but there’s nothing casual about the weight in his voice.
“But,” he says, a playful edge in his tone, but the undertone is sharp, cutting through the soft hum of the room like a knife. “I guess if y’not mine, then I guess I should go, huh?”
The words hang between you like a challenge, testing your resolve, pushing at the walls you’ve built so carefully. You feel your heart pound in your chest, your throat tightening. You open your mouth, but the words catch before they can form. You shake your head, but it’s not enough to make him stop.
He stands up then, straightening to his full height, and it’s almost like the air shifts around him, “Fine then,” he says, his voice low, almost amused. “No problem. I’ll leave. Y’can stay here with Keith, yeah? Let ‘em keep y’ company.”
The words hit like a gut punch, a shock to your system as you realize you’ve completely forgotten about Keith. He’s still there, bound and helpless, and a grimace pulls at your face as you glance over at him. Sure, he was annoying, but this? This isn’t what he deserved.
How Simon knows his name is a mystery, but somehow, it doesn’t surprise you. It never does with him. Keith’s name slipping from Simon’s lips is an ugly reminder of something you’d rather keep buried. Something you regret.
Simon starts to turn, heading toward the door, and the world tilts on its axis.
You can’t let him go, can’t let him walk out like that—again—like it’s nothing, like you can just let him leave and keep pretending that none of this matters.
Your legs feel weak, like they might give out from underneath you, but you manage to stand. Slowly at first, then with more urgency, your hands reaching out toward him without thinking. They land on his forearms—massive, firm, like steel wrapped in skin—and you grip him hard, pulling him back just a little, just enough to make him stop.
Simon’s body tenses under your touch, but he doesn’t say anything right away. He simply turns back to face you, his expression unreadable. The quiet between you two stretches.
He lets you stop him. He knew you would, he wanted you to. 
You glance at Keith, who’s dumbfounded as he struggles to comprehend what’s unfolding. Then you look up at Simon, where that insufferable, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t,” you say, voice tight.
He cocks his head, brows furrowing slightly, though amusement lingers in his dark eyes. “Don’t what?”
You swallow, feel the words stick in your throat before forcing them out. “Don’t go.”
Something in his expression flickers, shifts just slightly before settling into something heavier. He doesn’t waste time. He steps toward Keith, bending at the waist until he’s face-to-face with him, a lion looming over an antelope with its throat already torn open, arterial spray painting the dirt, limbs twitching in useless protest as the last dregs of life seep out.
“Hear that, lad?” Simon drawls, voice thick with condescension. “She doesn’t want me to go. Wants me t’stay right here—stuff her full o’ my cock, yeah? Bet she doesn’t want that from you.”
Your mouth falls open, lips parting in shock. Not because he’s wrong—Jesus, he’s not wrong—but because he says it like it’s the simplest fact in the world, like he’s reading it straight from the book of universal truths.
Keith is trembling now, his whole body shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. He looks so small, so pathetic compared to Simon’s hulking figure.
Simon doesn’t look away. He watches him, studies him, his gaze slow and calculating before he hums, almost thoughtful. His voice is deceptively quiet, laced with something deceptively soft. “Think that pencil dick does ‘er wonders, eh?”
Keith whimpers, eyes wide, body rigid, already feeling the metaphorical teeth at his throat. Simon just reveles in it, feeding off the fear like it’s sustenance. And you’re dumbfounded. 
And aroused.
You shouldn’t react to this the way you are. You shouldn’t feel your cunt growing wetter than it's been in months. shouldn’t feel your breath hitch at the way he’s openly claiming you without hesitation, without shame. But you do.
Because even if Simon doesn’t have the right to stake his claim on you, doesn’t have the right to act as if you still belong to him—doesn’t he?
You signed your name at the bottom of that letter all those weeks ago.
And to Simon, that was the dotted line. The confirmation.
You swallow, the sound too loud in the thick silence, your body frozen as you watch Simon’s one-man pissing contest unfold. It gets his attention, though. His head turns sharply, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pins you in place, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife.
Despite the draft floating through, the air is thick in the room; it presses against your chest as you stand frozen, caught between two men—one holding you hostage with his eyes, the other trembling with frustration and fear. Simon’s smirk doesn’t falter as he straightens up, glancing over his shoulder at you with that same cold gleam in his eyes. He’s toying with you. You know that. He has been. But there's something different now. Something sharp and jagged in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s definitively claiming the space between your hearts, drawing lines you can’t ignore.
Keith’s eyes flicker between you and Simon, darting like he’s searching for an escape. You imagine he thinks Simon is some crazy ex, some jealous, unhinged thing from your past. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He whines through the make-shift gag like he wants to say something, to demand an explanation, to plead. But he’s frozen, paralyzed, locked in place as it all crumbles right in front of him, powerless to do a damn thing about it.
Simon, however, is unfazed. Barely even interested. His eyes flick back to Keith, sharp and dismissive, like he’s looking at a stale loaf of bread.
“You, lad… are just a stopgap. Temporary. Got that?”
Simon’s voice is steady, calm—like he’s explaining something simple, something Keith should’ve already known. Then, without warning, he grips Keith’s hair, yanking his head up from the scalp and forcing him to look into those cold, unrelenting eyes.
Keith lets out a sharp, choked noise as he makes Keith’s head bob in a mockery of a nod.
“Yeah,” Simon murmurs, voice laced with amusement. “That’s right. Now you’re gettin’ it.”
Simon releases Keith’s head with a sharp flick of his wrist, sending it snapping backward. Keith groans, but Simon doesn’t spare him another glance.
Instead, he turns back to you. Fully. His gaze is heavy, piercing—digging beneath your skin like he’s peeling back layers, searching for the fight in you, daring you to contradict him.
But you don’t. You can’t.
And he knows it.
You want to scream at him, to remind him that you’re not a prize to be fought over or a possession to be claimed. But the words die in your throat, stifled by the raw, undeniable tension curling in the pit of your stomach. Because he’s right.
He stalks toward you, closer and closer until you’re forced to crane your neck to meet his gaze. The room feels smaller, quieter, as if the world around you has paused in reverence of him. You can’t escape his eyes, those brown depths that see right through you. They peel back the layers of your mind.
His lips curl into a dangerous, knowing smirk that sends a shiver down your spine. “Thought y’could just disobey, sweet thing?” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with venom. “Thought y’could just fuck off and be so… disrespectful?”
His words slice through the air, every syllable hitting you like a lash against your skin, the sting burrowing under your flesh. His eyes darken, becoming something primal, like he’s waiting for the moment you finally realize just how much he controls you. “Thought I wouldn’t know?” His voice drops lower, almost a growl. “Thought I wouldn’t do somethin’ about it?”
You try to hold your ground, to summon the will to look away, but the weight of his gaze pins you in place. His eyes bore into yours, unblinking, unrelenting. There’s a coldness there that you never thought you’d see from him.
It’s unmistakable now. The contempt he feels for you—disrespecting him, breaking his trust—it’s palpable in the furrow of his brown and the frown lines on his lips.
Your throat tightens, a mix of shame and anger swirling inside you. You want to argue, but how could you? After everything? He’s right, isn’t he? You did disrespect him. You did go to someone else, let another man touch you.
You didn’t think he’d come back, but deep, deep down you knew he would. You knew he was still there, always watching, you just didn’t want to accept it. And now, as you stand in front of him, feeling the weight of his gaze, you realize the kind of power he has over you. Not just physical, but mental. Emotional. And that power isn’t something you can run from, no matter how much you want to.
His hand reaches up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, the touch soft, almost affectionate, but you can feel the danger lurking just beneath the surface. 
His breath skates along your ear, scorching in its proximity, his lips barely touching but still branding you like a slow drag of a candle stick on paper. His other hand settles on your throat—not choking, just securing, owning. Like he’s collaring you, like he’s locking you back in place where you should’ve been all along.
His voice is low, every syllable laced with quiet fury. “Gotta show y’little plaything who y’really belong to, huh?”
Your breath stutters, your pulse hammering beneath his fingertips, but you nod, eyes wide, body betraying you in how quickly you submit. His heat rolls off him in waves, seeping through your flimsy shirt, wrapping around you like a smothering embrace. It’s too much and not enough all at once.
“Words,” he murmurs, his grip flexing—just a tease of pressure, just enough to make your stomach drop.
“Yes,” you rasp, the word trembling as it falls from your lips.
And then you’re moving—you don’t know how, don’t know if he shoved, pulled, or if you just folded for him, but suddenly you’re laid back on the bed, looking up at him.
He towers over you, broad shoulders blotting out everything else, his presence suffocating in the way that makes your lungs tighten and your blood rush south. You stare up at him, and he stares right back, gaze heavy and dark, like he’s been waiting for this.
Like he’s already decided what he’s going to do with you.
Simon’s voice, a low, guttural growl, fills the room. “Look at him,” he commands, his fingers snapping the buckle of his belt. The metallic click echoes, a sharp, ominous sound.
You turn your head to the side, gaze locking onto Keith's. His eyes, wide and terrified, dart between you and Simon's hulking frame. His hands twitch against the restraints, his legs kicking feebly, a desperate, futile struggle.
The leather of Simon's belt snakes through the loops and he tosses it aside, metal clanking on the floor. Then, a sharp tug on your ankles yanks your hips towards the edge of the bed. You gasp, your head whipping back towards Simon, shock and fear battling for dominance in your expression.
But his hand clamps down on your chin, his grip like iron, forcing your gaze back to Keith. He leans over, his lips brushing your ear. “Look at him,” he repeats, his grip tightening. “If y’so much as blink, if y’look away, this stops. And we're done.”
The threat hangs in the air. A whimper escapes your lips, a small, broken sound of surrender. “‘kay,” you whisper, your voice trembling, your eyes glued to Keith's terrified face. “... Okay…”
The fabric of your panties rasps as he yanks them down, a swift, decisive motion that leaves your pussy bared to his hungry eyes. A gasp escapes your lips, a mix of surprise and a sudden, unwelcome heat blooming between your legs. Without warning, he’s on his knees and his mouth is on you, hot and wet, his tongue a relentless, insistent invasion. He licks and sucks, his ministrations both brutal and exquisitely precise. 
Instinctively, your eyes flick downwards, seeking his own. His gaze, dark and intense, is already locked on yours, a silent, predatory command. He pauses, his tongue hovering just above your swollen clit, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air.
You wrench your gaze back to Keith, your body trembling with a mixture of fear, embarrassment, and arousal. You fight the involuntary arch of your back, the way your face wants to contort in pleasure, the sounds that threaten to spill from your lips—sounds Keith has never heard, expressions he's never earned. The shame burns, a hot, corrosive acid, mixing with the raw, undeniable pleasure that pulses through you, a traitorous betrayal of your own body.
Simon senses your restraint, the tension that coils within you, the silent battle raging in your soul. It only fuels his desire, a cruel, possessive hunger. He slips his fingers inside you, two, then three, crooking them in a teasing rhythm, stretching you wider and wider.His lips tighten, nearly swallowing your clit, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity through your core. A loud, involuntary whine spills from your lips, a desperate, animalistic sound you can't suppress. Your back arches and you can’t help but look at him, your hips lifting off the bed, as he holds your thighs hostage against his shoulders, his mouth and fingers working in tandem, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
Keith’s panting, his chest heaving, still fighting against the restraints. But something’s shifted. His struggles are less frantic, less desperate. His eyes are half-lidded, glazed with a sheen of arousal. A flush creeps up his neck, his breath coming in short, rapid bursts. The sight of him, both terrified and aroused, is a brutal contradiction, a twisted reflection of the conflicting emotions tearing you apart.
Simon’s fingers move inside you, stroking your g-spot while his tongue continues its work on your clit, slurping and sucking so lewdly. “Missed this fuckin’ pussy, God,” he murmurs, his voice heady with lust. “Needy girl, y’taste so good,” he groans as he makes out with your folds. He thrusts his fingers deeper, his tongue swirling and teasing. 
“Look at him” he commands, releasing your clit with a pop, his voice a low growl. “Look at how hard y’makin’ him, girl. He wants you, don’t he? He wants t’be the one doin’ this t’you.”
You feel your peak building, the pressure mounting, a wave of sensation threatening to overwhelm you. 
Your hand instinctively clutches at Simon's cropped hair, your fingers digging into his scalp as the pleasure intensifies. You drag your gaze back to Keith, his body a twisted tableau of arousal and restraint. His hips buck against the chair, a frantic, rhythmic movement, and he gnaws at the rag gagging him, a desperate, muffled sound. His eyes, glazed and dilated, are locked on yours.
You can’t handle it—you tear your gaze away, the weight of his shame, his helplessness, too much to bear. It’s unbearable, looking at him when the only man you’ve ever truly wanted is the one between your legs.
You hate that Keith is watching. Hate the way his eyes track every movement, every shift of your body. But fuck—if it doesn’t send a pulse of heat through you, knowing someone is.
You try to look away, to break the connection, but Simon's eyes hold you captive. They're dark, intense, burning. This time, he doesn't force your gaze away. Instead, his eyes silently beckon you, Come, they say, Come in my mouth, baby.
Your orgasm coils low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, heat licking up your spine like a flame searching for air. It swirls, thick and consuming, a molten ache that makes you want to cry. You arch your back, your body convulsing as you call out his name, a desperate, raw plea that fills the room. A wave of pure pleasure washes over you, and you unravel, gushing into his mouth.
Simon groans, a low, guttural sound of satisfaction, as he savors the taste of your release. Unbeknownst to you, he'd been rhythmically grinding his hips against the edge of the bed throughout your orgasm, his own arousal building each time you clenched around his fingers. He takes his time, meticulously licking you clean, his tongue lingering on your swollen flesh. 
Eventually, he pulls away from your pussy, but not before slapping your sensitive clit, the sound echoing in the room. The force of the impact sends a jolt of overstimulation through you, a lingering tremor that makes you twitch and gasp. He chuckles at the reaction. Asshole. 
You instinctively clutch at your shirt, pulling it off, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from your core. Your senses are reeling, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of your orgasm.
He moves to straddle your hips, his large, powerful thighs rooted on either side of your hips, anchoring you beneath him. He leans over you, planting his forearms on either side of your head, effectively caging you. His eyes bore into yours.
The space between you is barely a breath, just the warmth of his exhale mingling with yours. His lips are still slick, shining with the remnants of you, his cheeks streaked with evidence of just how deep he went—messy eater. You watch as his gaze flickers down, lingering on your mouth like he’s thinking about it, like he wants it, but he doesn’t move.
You mirror him, flicking your gaze from his lips back to his eyes, searching for something—an answer, an intention, a reason why he’s hesitating. Your brows pull together, your voice soft, uncertain. “Simon?”
A grunt. That’s all he gives you. A quiet, low vibration in his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable.
Your fingers creep up, threading into the short, soft hair at the base of his skull, anchoring him in place. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop you, just breathes. His eyes keep flicking down, but he still doesn’t close the distance. It’s unlike him. Unbecoming of him. A man who takes what he wants without hesitation—why now, when you're right here, does he stall?
“Won't you kiss me?” The words are barely above a whisper, but they break something in him.
He nods slowly, like it’s unpracticed. Like he’s never done something so intimate before.
He nudges his nose against yours first, like he’s testing the waters, feeling out the moment before he lets himself sink. And then—his lips press to yours.
Soft. Gentle. Everything you didn’t expect from a man who just slapped your overstimulated cunt.
Your eyes flutter shut as the kiss deepens, slow and unsure. His lips are dewy from where he’s been, the taste of you lingering, and for once, you have to guide him—slowly, patiently molding your lips to his, showing how to do something other than take.
And he lets you.
The kisses start slow, tentative, like he’s learning you. But it doesn’t last. Hesitation melts into something more primal, more insatiable, and you can’t help but reciprocate. His lips part against yours, and when your tongue brushes against his, he groans low in his throat—deep, guttural, vibrating against your lips.
It sets something off between you, a chain reaction of need. His hands start to wander, dragging over the curves of your bare skin, rough palms mapping the places he’s missed. His fingers press into your waist, then skate down to your hips, your thighs, then back up again, as if he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.
You arch into him, your body betraying you, craving the heat, the weight of him. His touch grows firmer, his grip tightening like he needs to feel you under his hands to prove that you’re real, that this isn’t just a fever dream.
Somewhere between gasps and swallowed moans, he pulls back just enough to yank his shirt over his head, revealing broad shoulders and a torso carved from marble. He’s still in just his boxers now, and it’s almost unfair—the contrast between his near-nakedness and your own, how he’s still clothed while you have nothing left to hide.
But then his eyes rake over you, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips, gaze dark and full of intent. He reaches out, slow, reverent, fingers tracing the dip between your collarbones before sliding lower, down the valley of your ribs, spreading warmth everywhere he touches.
“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes locked onto yours like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.
You smile bashfully before your eyes flick to the corner, catching movement—or rather, the absence of it. Keith.
You’d once again forgotten he was still here.
He’s unnaturally silent, his breath shallow, his body frozen. But even in the dim glow of the room, you see it—the damp patch spreading across the front of his sleep shorts, dark and unmistakable.
He came in his pants.
Something cold prickles down your spine, a mix of disgust and something else, something twisted. The shame on his face is unbearable, carved into every trembling breath, every flicker of his glassy eyes. His face is utterly wrecked, drained of any fight, any defiance. Like he already knows he’s lost. Like he knew it the second tied him up. 
Simon follows your gaze as he gets off of you and leans back against the headboard, legs spread, arms resting lazily at his sides. His gaze flicks between you and Keith, amusement curling at the edges of his lips. He scoffs, shaking his head as he watches the pathetic, trembling mess still tied up in the corner.
“Jizzed his pants? Christ.” His voice is dripping with disgust, but there’s something else there too—something utterly pleased. Like Keith’s shame only serves to highlight his own triumph.
Your breath is still uneven as you turn back to Simon, watching the way his fingers stroke absentmindedly over his own stomach, dangerously close to the waistband of his boxers. He exhales slowly through his nose, then lifts his hand, trailing fingers up into your hair, brushing over your cheek in one slow, deliberate stroke.
The touch is gentle. And maybe it’s that contrast, the tenderness hidden beneath all that violence, that makes you instinctively lean into his palm, nuzzling against it like you belong there.
Something flickers in his expression—something unreadable, something deep. But it’s gone just as quick as it came, masked behind an air of satisfaction. He stretches, cracks his neck, and then settles back against the pillows, arms behind his head, looking up at you with expectation.
“Go on then,” he murmurs,  patting his upper thigh. “Give the bloke a reason t’cry.”
You glance at Keith again, slumped against the chair in the corner, his face burning with ignominy, his breaths uneven. His teary eyes are flicking between you and Simon, his hands twitching in his restraints like he doesn't know whether to cover himself or reach out for something that will never belong to him.
Simon watches you, tracking every flicker of emotion across your face. He tilts your chin toward him. His grip is firm, but not forceful—just enough to remind you of what he expects.
“C’mon, pet,” he drawls, his thumb tracing slow circles at the hinge of your jaw. “Let ‘em see what he was never gonna have.”
 You don't hesitate, your body moving eagerly. Simon reclines, his fingers already toying with the elastic waistband of his briefs, a silent invitation. You crawl over him, straddling his hips, the rough fabric of his briefs a stark contrast to the slick heat between your legs. You settle your bare, slick cunt onto his clothed cock, a kaleidoscope of butterflies shooting through your core as you feel the girth of him beneath you.
Now, your back is to Keith. You can't see his face, but you can imagine the look that must be twisting his features. Simon’s enjoying the spectacle, reveling in the power he holds as he cucks him.
And, you admit to yourself, a dark, shameful part of you enjoys it too. The knowledge that Keith is forced to watch, to witness it all, fuels a perverse excitement, a thrill that makes you slicker than Simon’s touch alone does. The realization is sickening, but exhilarating.
Simon’s hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, urging you to grind against the clothed length of his erection. The fabric of his boxers, rough against your swollen clit, sends a jolt of pleasure through you, eliciting a soft mewl from your throat. His cock twitches beneath you, a hard, insistent pulse, and he hisses at the rhythm of your grinding, a low, guttural sound of barely contained desire.
You meet his gaze, your eyes wide and seemingly innocent, your hands resting lightly on his chest. “Can I fuck you now? P… please?” you ask, your voice soft, almost pleading.
“Fuck, sweets,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “Take it—it's yours.” He pushes his boxers down to his knees, and with your eager assistance, reveals the full, throbbing length of him. He cups his cock in his hands, pumping it lazily, his eyes fixed on the way it reaches just below your belly button. A low groan rumbles in his chest. “Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, his voice ragged.
He reaches for your hips, helping you lift them, guiding you as you position yourself above him. The anticipation is a tangible thing, a thick, heavy tension that fills the room as you slowly lower yourself onto him.
You hesitate, hovering above him, the anticipation a sharp, almost painful thrum in your core. Then you lower yourself onto him. The initial stretch is intense, a sharp, almost burning sensation that elicits a low moan from your throat. You bite your lip, bracing yourself, as you take him inch by agonizing inch, savoring the feeling of his thick length filling you, stretching you wide. A whimper escapes your lips, a sound that's both a cry of discomfort and a raw expression of pleasure.
He feels impossibly large, impossibly full, as if he's somehow grown even bigger since the last time. It's an overwhelming sensation, a raw, visceral fullness that borders on pain, yet is laced with an undeniable, addictive pleasure. It's the ultimate release, the scratching of an itch you didn't know you had.
When you finally take him all, a guttural groan erupts from Simon’s throat. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your ass, kneading and urging you on. His eyes, dark and possessive, are fixed on you, watching every movement, every subtle shift of your body. “Look at that,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “Look how you take me. So fucking tight.” His gaze lingers on the way his cock distends your abdomen, stretching your skin to its limit, a visible testament to his size.
Too lost in the pleasure, you barely register Simon's occasional, smug glances towards Keith, the subtle shifts in his expression as he watches. 
You begin to ride him, slowly at first, savoring the feeling of him filling you, stretching you, the friction building with each rise and fall of your hips. The rhythm quickens, escalating as your body adjusts to his impressive girth, the pace becoming more frantic, more desperate.
The room fills with a cacophony of sounds: the slick slap of skin against skin, the wet, gasping moans that escape your lips, Simon’s rough whispers, a torrent of the dirtiest words imaginable, painting the air with sex. And beneath it all, Keith's muffled whines, the rhythmic bucking of his hips against the restraints, a constant, jarring counterpoint to your pleasure, a stark reminder of how he’s watching. 
The muscles in your thighs begin to tremble, a burning ache that spreads with each thrust. The sensory overload, a chaotic mix of the lingering aftershocks of your previous orgasm, the constant, invasive feel of Keith’s eyes on you, Simon’s roaming hands, and the insistent, stretching pressure of his cock, begins to push you past your limits. His pubes, coarse and rough, scrapes against your swollen clit, sending jolts of raw, almost painful pleasure through you. It's too much, a tidal wave threatening to drown you.
Simon senses it all, the subtle shift in your rhythm, the way your breath hitches and catches the way the sodden walls of your cunt clench around him. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, and he stills your movements, halting your grinding just as you teeter on the edge. He holds you suspended, your bodies locked together, the tension building to an almost unbearable degree.
Simon pulls you close, your foreheads touching, your breaths mingling in the humid air. Both of you are slick with sweat, your bodies still thrumming with the aftershocks of your shared climax. He murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle, “Do you trust me?”
You nod, the affirmation barely a twitch of your head, your trust in him a strange, almost instinctive thing.
With a sudden, almost effortless movement, he lifts you off his cock, setting you aside on the bed as if you weigh nothing. He rises to his knees, his eyes dark and intense, and grabs you again, manhandling you onto your stomach. Your chest presses flat against the mattress, your ass raised high in the air, and your’re directly in sight of Keith
You clutch at the bed sheets beneath you, your knuckles white, as you brace yourself. You feel Simon's hand smooth over your ass, the touch both possessive and caring. Then, two sharp, stinging slaps land on either ass cheek, making you jolt. A gasp escapes your lips, but beneath the sting, a traitorous heat blooms between your legs, your cunt leaking.
He leans over you, his cock pressing flush against your ass, hard chest against your back, the heat radiating from him. He rasps in your ear, “He’s gonna watch, sweetheart. He’s gonna watch as I fuck y’till y’brains leak out y’ears, ain’t that right?” He continues. You whimper, a small, broken sound of acceptance, your body trembling.
Keith looks utterly defeated, his face a mask of exhaustion and a strange, twisted arousal. The dark stain on his shorts has grown exponentially. A flicker of guilt pierces through the haze of your cock-drunk stupor. A pang of remorse, a whisper of conscience, tries to surface, but it’s quickly swallowed by the need that simmers within you. The shame is there, but it’s overshadowed by the throbbing between your legs.
You're repulsed by the situation, by the violation of Keith, by the way Simon is using him to make a point—as a pawn in this twisted game. Yet a shameful part of you revels in the power, in the dominance that Simon exudes. 
Simon leans back, his eyes dark and predatory, and grabs his cock, circling your entrance with the slick, glistening tip. He teases you, the anticipation stretching the moment into an unbearable eternity. “What do we say, hmm?” he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “When we want something?”
Your face is half-smushed against the bed, the rough fabric digging into your cheek, and a muffled plea escapes your lips. “Please,” you whisper, the word barely audible.
He continues to torment you, the tip of his cock dipping in and out of your swollen entrance, each teasing touch sending a jolt of desperate need through your body. A string of pleas spills from your lips, “Please, Si—” you beg, your voice thick with desire. “Please—I need it— I need you—”
Simon’s eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he watches your desperation. “Awh, baby,” he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery. “Don't ask me. I’m not the one y’need to convince.” He hums.
He reaches out, his hand weaving through your scalp wrapping around your hair, and he yanks it back sharply, forcing your head into an unnatural, painful angle. Your neck strains, and your eyes are forced upwards, locking directly with Keith’s.
“Ask him,” Simon commands, his voice a low, menacing growl.
Your eyes meet Keith's, and you whisper, your voice thick with shame and desperation, a string of broken pleas.
Simon's grip tightens on your hair. “Say it proper, pet,” he instructs, his voice hard. “Say, ‘Please let Simon fuck me, Keith.’”
You instantly repeat the words, verbatim, the phrase a humiliating echo of his command. Unshed tears prick at your eyes, threatening to spill if Simon so much as grazes your clit again.
Keith looks between you both, his gaze shifting between your prettily arched body and Simon's monstrous, towering figure behind you. A flicker of something that might be resignation crosses his face. He nods lazily, a slow, almost imperceptible movement.
Simon smirks, a triumphant, possessive expression twisting his lips. He releases your hair, the sudden freedom making your head loll forward. “See what happens when you ask nicely?” he murmurs, his voice laced with a dark satisfaction.
And then, without further delay, he inches in, the head of his cock pressing against your swollen entrance.
He slides into you, the angle intensifying the stretch, filling you even deeper than before. The sheer size of him steals your breath, the slow, deliberate intrusion forcing the air from your lungs. You claw at the sheets beneath you, your knuckles white, tears wetting the fabric.
He grunts as he sheaths himself fully, then pulls back before plunging in again. He watches as your cunt clenches and drools around him, sucking him in with a desperate, hungry grip. “Greedy pussy,” he growls, his voice thick with lust. “She’s so fuckin’ greedy.”
You whine, a broken, helpless sound, your body trapped beneath him, forced to endure his thrusts. There's no escape, no reprieve, only the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, stretching you, dominating you.
Gradually, he picks up the pace, the rhythm becoming faster, more brutal. You howl, your drool soaking the sheets beneath your face. He’s hitting spots you didn't know existed, stretching you to the brim, the feeling bordering on unbearable. You can barely focus, your vision blurred by tears, the world reduced to the relentless pounding of his cock, the wet squelches from your pussy, and the raw, visceral sensations that rip through your body.
Each thrust forces a wheeze of air from your lungs, a sound that more closely resembles a death rattle than a moan. Your whole body is ablaze, and he’s the one who struck the match—watching as you burn, as the flames lick higher, consuming everything in their path.
Simon suddenly hauls you upward, his hand looping around your upper chest, pulling you flush against his sweat-slicked chest. His hips don’t falter as they continue to snap into you, your body arching involuntarily with each powerful stroke. His other hand grips your waist, anchoring you, while he leans into the crook of your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin there.
Your entire body, a raw, exposed spectacle, is laid bare before Keith. Your mouth hangs slack-jawed, your tits bouncing with each rapid, violent thrust that jolts through your frame. Even though he’s seen you naked before, he’s never witnessed you like this: so utterly debased, so completely at someone’s mercy.
He’s never seen anyone like this.
Simon licks a slow, deliberate stripe from your neck to your ear, his tongue tracing a path of fire across your skin, all while continuing to fuck you, his rhythm unwavering. You’re limp in his arms, your head lolling back, your eyes rolling towards the back of your head. The pleasure is so overwhelming, so intense, that you can barely even manage a sound, your vocal cords paralyzed by the raw sensation.
He harshly whispers in your ear, his voice a low, guttural growl, “Y’gonna cum,? Can feel y’clenchin’ ‘round me—fuck, y’so tight, baby—”
You manage a garbled, broken attempt at a “yes,” your voice thick with unspeakable pleasure.
“Good,” he murmurs. “‘M close too and y’gonna take it all— Gonna fill this cunny—fuck,” He pauses, his voice hardening, “And y’better not take a fucking’ Plan B this time.”
The words, a brutal reminder of your vulnerability, snap the last vestiges of your control. A wave of raw, unadulterated pleasure crashes over you, unlike anything you've ever experienced. You gush, your orgasm violent as you squirt, your release spraying across his cock and the sheets.
He continues to fuck you, his thrusts relentless as he chases his own high, his hands squeezing your tits, urging you on. “Atta girl,” he grunts, his voice thick with lust.
You go limp, your body leaning against him, your mind a blank canvas of pure sensation. Then, with a final, shuddering groan, he empties himself inside you, filling you to the brim, his cum a hot, pulsing tide that leaves you feeling utterly spent.
He stills, holding you close, his arms supporting you. He’s truly fucked you senseless, leaving you a shell of your former self.
Slowly, gently, he pulls out of you, the withdrawal leaving a strange, hollow ache. He lays you on your side, his touch surprisingly tender, and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. You let him, your body and mind too exhausted to offer any resistance.
He rises, his movements fluid and predatory, and stalks towards Keith. From your position on the bed, you can see the hard planes of his naked form, a stark, imposing figure standing before the bound man. He speaks, his voice low and menacing, the words barely audible. Keith looks up at him, his eyes wide with fear.
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, Simon retrieves a knife he’d apparently left on your desk, the blade glinting in the dim light. He swiftly cuts through the ropes binding Keith, freeing him from his restraints.
Within seconds, Keith scrambles to his feet, his movements frantic and desperate. He doesn't look back, doesn't offer a word of explanation or apology. He simply runs, fleeing the house as if pursued by demons.
You lie there, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of Simon's brutal possession, your mind struggling to process the scene. You don't know what Simon said to Keith, but the fear in the other man's eyes, the sheer urgency of his escape, speaks volumes. It couldn't have been anything good.
The front door slams shut, the echo reverberating through the quiet house. The sound of hurried, stumbling footsteps fades into the night. Keith is gone.
Simon exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, before setting the knife down exactly where he had left it earlier. The metal clinks against the wood, sharp and final.
You haven’t moved.
Your body still hums, every nerve alight, the aftershocks of everything that’s just happened still pulsing through you. Your heart slams against your ribs, beating an erratic rhythm you can’t quite slow down.
Then, warmth—solid, steady, unshakable.
Simon sidles in behind you, his presence swallowing yours whole. One thick arm loops around your waist, the other sliding up to your sternum, pulling you back into his chest, into his heat. You don’t resist. You don’t even think to.
He presses his chin to your shoulder, his breath warm as it fans across your skin. His grip is firm, possessive, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
“Still with me, love?” he murmurs, voice rough, threaded with something unreadable.
You swallow hard, blinking yourself back into the present. Your fingers twitch at your sides, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.
You choose the latter. Your hands settle over his arms, feeling the solid muscle beneath your palms, the way he holds you like you belong to him.
You hum in response, soft and instinctive, nuzzling just slightly deeper into the warmth of his chest. It’s comforting in a way you don’t fully understand—how you can feel so at ease wrapped up in the arms of a man who is anything but safe.
Your fingers trace idle patterns along the skin of his forearm, feeling the scars, the ridges, the history carved into him. You tilt your head slightly, voice still a little breathless as you ask, “What did you say to him?”
Simon chuckles. “Told ‘em if he so much as breathed a word about this, I’d track him down, carve his tongue out, and mail it t’his mother. After I made him swallow his teeth, o’ course.”
Your eyes widen. “Jesus Christ.”
“At least I didn’t go with my original plan.”
You hesitate, blinking, your heart skipping. “What plan?”
Simon leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, completely unbothered, “Killin’ him. Tossin’ his sorry corpse into the Thames.”
A beat of silence.
“…Oh.”
Simon laughs—an actual laugh, deep and rumbling, like you just told the funniest joke in the world.
And it’s only now, sitting here, still bare against his heat, his arms caging you in, his scent thick in your lungs, that you remember he’s still a criminal.
Simon holds you close, his chin resting against the top of your head, arms locked around you like he has no intention of letting go. His body is warm, steady—like he belongs here, like you belong here.
Then, quietly, he murmurs, “Y’mine now.”
You let out a small chuckle. “Yeah, I got that part.”
His chest vibrates with a quiet laugh, one of his hands slowly dragging up and down your arm, fingertips tracing your skin like he’s memorizing you. It’s gentle—too much so for a man like him.
You shift just enough to glance at the analog clock on your nightstand. The dim glow of the numbers makes your stomach sink.
“Shit.”
Simon hums in question.
“Sun’s coming up,” you sigh, rubbing your face, “and I have work in three hours.”
He doesn’t even pause. “Nah, y’don’t.”
You let out a tired laugh. “That so?”
“Mhm.” He pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and sure. “Told you. Y’mine. That means y’don’t have t’work.”
You blink up at him, frowning. “Simon, I have a life here. A job, a flat. I can’t just give it up.”
He shrugs, lips twitching. “I’ll get your lease terminated.”
 You turn to face him in his embrace. “Without penalties?”
His smirk is slow, lazy. “Don’t worry about it.”
You stare at him, not even bothering to ask what that means. You already know. You also know you’re too damn tired to fight about it.
With a long exhale, your fingers trace the pink scar just below his collarbone. “Where would we even go?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. 
“How do y’feel about Manchester?”
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THIS IS THE FINAL INSTALLMENT OF THE RETURN TO SENDER UNIVERSE. I WILL NOT BE WRITING ANOTHER PART.
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