vioxsoo

[vioxsoo]

Airhead

pairing: shigaraki x original character

genre: college au

synopsis: The protagonist's best friend sets her up on a date with someone that comes off as unpleasant. To Hibiki's, the protagonist's best friend, satisfaction the two easily warm up to one another.

word count: 8.2k

Hibiki’s saying goodbye to yet another fling.

What she should be doing is coming into the diner and clocking back in so I could get a fifteen-minute break. The diner was practically dead as per usual but leaning against the counter and staring out the window for fifteen minutes isn’t the same as sitting on the other side of the counter picking at the stale fries that sat in the back from earlier this morning. I couldn’t blame Hibiki though; she has always been flamboyant and loveable at first glance. The work uniform works in her favor as well; however, the short, black skirt with a small apron at the center always has me wondering if the owner of this ridiculously run-down establishment was a pervert. 

My eyes stray from the large windows and look around the relatively dead diner. Earl, a regular customer, sat in a corner booth with a cup of coffee and technically yesterday’s newspaper in hand. Apart from him there was a wrecked couple sitting on the opposite end of the counter from where I stand, sipping coffee. They were no doubt trying to drink away the undeniable hangover they were going to have in the morning. It wasn’t a surprise to see the good old 24-Hour Diner dead at twelve in the morning on a Monday though. 

The small bell at the door finally rings, letting me know a certain someone has finally come in. “About time!” I snap looking up to the door and seeing Hibiki walk in with a smile spread on her plump lips. “I’ve been waiting for my break,” I whine, slumping into the counter.

“Remember I told you about him? Isn’t he so cute?” She swoons, going around the counter and leaning against it right by my side. Her curly, brown hair tickles at my ears as she tilts her head to rest on my shoulder. “He’s such a hottie,” she continues, appraising him in a tone of voice that sounds dreamy. She probably was dreaming, especially by the look of her half-lidded eyes staring out into the parking lot being illuminated by one single lamp post. 

“Yeah, sure,” I say with the roll of my eyes. I stand up, causing her to almost drop her head onto the red counter. “I’m taking a break,” I say, already pushing open the greasy, white double doors that lead to the kitchen. Daisuke, the cook, sat on a bucket hunched over and scrolling through his phone with some earphones on. He’s probably just a tad older than Hibiki and me, or so I think. We’ve both seen him around the college campus, but don’t know his exact age. A while back she made a bet that she could get his age out of him before me, but I say she’s already lost that bet. Daisuke is a tight-lipped guy who, for the most part, keeps his personal life to himself. “How are the fries this fine morning?”

Daisuke doesn’t move from his spot. He merely glances at me from the corner of his eye and lets out an amused sound, something between a chuckle and a scoff. It’s that kind of laugh you give a coworker when they say something that’s not amusing at all, “Oh, you know, very delicious. The strips of potato were lightly sauteed in a thick oil until golden around the edges and seasoned with sea salt. It was then garnished with my sweat and tears,” he jokes in that sarcastic way he always does. The lilt in his tone is very much present when he mentions his bodily fluids. 

I nod, reaching for a plate and dumping some fries onto it, “That’s…” I pause staring at the sad and soggy fries, “really gross, Dai.” I look up just in time to see him sit up straight and stretch his arms out. 

The sounds of his back popping and screaming in utter bliss to be straightened out make me cringe. “That’s not my name,” he groans, standing up and pocketing his phone. The wire of his earphones dangling freely now from the pocket of his jeans. I turn with my plate in hand and see Hibiki with a wide grin just outside the ordering window. Her hand reaching through and handing Daisuke a piece of paper, presumably with an order scribbled on it. 

I don’t bother answering him and just walk back out towards the front of the diner and take a seat at the counter. Hibiki leans her elbows on the counter and steals a fry from my plate. “Look over there,” she mumbles under her breath as she discreetly points her fry in the general direction she’s talking about. “Just came in. I jokingly offered him the Two Story Beef Burger and he took it.”

An amused breath leaves my lungs as I look up slightly interested. It’s not every day someone decides to try the disgustingly tall burger Daisuke hates making. There’s that and the fact that I want to see what nutcase orders a five-patty burger at nearly one in the morning. To the right of us sat a man in a booth with his hood up. Tufts of black hair peek out beyond the hood as he stares down at what looks to be a Gameboy Advance. “So that’s what a weirdo looks like,” I whisper to Hibiki as I throw a fry into my mouth. 

The conversation doesn’t linger on the man though, Hibiki is quick to turn her attention back to me. “Did you do that lecture quiz for philosophy yet?”

“I haven’t to be honest, wanna do it together?” I reply, taking my phone out of my apron’s pocket. My fingers swipe around the screen until I find the quiz’s portal. 

Hibiki seems to be doing the same, her eyebrows knitting together as if merely thinking about the quiz would succumb her to utter pain. “That’s cheating,” she mumbles to her phone, “Bet I can finish it before you though.” Her brow is raised up and smirk dances on her lips, challenging me into yet another round of her bets. She likes betting, but I honestly don’t remember a time where either of us actually paid each other back if we won. 

“Ready?” I smile, thumb hovering over the Start Quiz button. 

Maybe we’re seen as childish when we do bets like these in public, but it makes things more fun, “Set?” she inquires, that challenging smirk never leaving her features. 

“Go!” Simultaneously we press the button and start at the first question. I see her click an answer before I even have time to read the paragraph long question. Dread fills me for Hibiki. Hopefully the idiot actually read the question, bet or not this is her grade. The first question seems threatening due to its length, but the answer comes to me relatively fast. 

The quiz takes Hibiki about three minutes to complete and announces it loudly, “I win!” she exclaims happily and dances in place as she holds her phone to her chest in pure giddy. 

“Congrats,” I giggle, submitting my own quiz and setting the phone down on the counter. “Bet I got a higher grade than you though,” I challenge looking up at her while chewing on a salty, stale fry. 

Hibiki’s green eyes narrow down at me, “Bet,” she replies as if this were the biggest gamble she would ever take apart of. “What’d’ya get?” 

I pick up my phone again and unlock it to see my grade. It was a solid eight out of ten. I just know her grade is lower considering how she probably just skimmed the questions instead of reading them in full. Proudly, I put my phone down and show her the screen. “I’m smart,” I smirk with a playful, haughty tone of voice. 

“A smart person would drown those sorry excuse for fries in ketchup,” Hibiki’s lips tremble as if trying to hold back a laugh while I turn around and look to see Earl walking to the door. “Have a good shift, girls.”

In a cheery tone we simultaneously say, “Bye, Earl.” We watch the old man leave the diner and keep an eye on him until he’s safely in his car. 

Once he’s haphazardly leaving the parking lot in his beat-up Dodge Ram, Hibiki slumps into the counter, “You win that one.”

I look past her and see Daisuke staring at us with a plate set on the order window, “You can interrupt us ya know.” 

His shoulders rise and fall as Hibiki takes hold of the plate. On it sat the greasiest burger with fries I will ever see. It honestly looks like Daisuke put in extra effort to douse oil on the poor thing. “Breaks over!” Hibiki grins widely, pushing the heart attack on a plate into my hands. “I’m cashing in my win with this.”

“Um, cashing in?” I ask unintelligibly. My eyes stay on the plate, thinking about what she means. Like I said, we never really paid each other. Not even favors. Then it hits me like a freight train, “Are you scared of him?” I whisper teasingly, referring to the stranger in the booth playing an old game.

For a second, I feel like I’m right, but I know her. The way her eyes shift to the man and her brows raise means something is up. I know that scheming spark in her eye like I know the back of my hand. Her green eyes are wide as she looks back to me, “Okay, okay,” she says in what sounds like defeat. “He’s a friend. I was thinking about the other night. You said you hadn’t gone out since like practically the civil war-”

“Did you just call me old?”

“-and I was like ‘noooo’ when I went to bed,” she continues dramatically without even acknowledging my interruption. “My poor little heart couldn’t take it. Thinking about your love life being washed up at the ripe age of twenty.”

She finally stops and stares at me. Her dramatics even bring tears to her eyes. “What about him? There’s gotta be something wrong with him.”

Her wide eyes blink once, then twice until the sign of tears have disappeared. “He’s antisocial like you. Doesn’t really have any friends.”

“So, you think he’d make a good boyfriend candidate and I have friends!”

Hibiki rolls her eyes and shoves the plate into my hands, “I’m literally your only friend, but I don’t count b‘cuz we’ve been besties since braces.” 

I slowly stand and look at the order window to see Daisuke still standing idly by. He’s no doubt enjoying our exchange. “Dai is my friend!” I say a little too loud for the nearly empty diner. The pitiful couple was gone too. They probably made a getaway when Hibiki and I were taking our quizzes. 

“Not my name,” Daisuke mentions once again and doesn’t bother to add anything else that would favor me in this position. 

Hibiki tilts her head in the man’s direction, “Go. His name’s Tomura. He’s kind of weird, but he’s nice.”

Begrudgingly, I step away from my nearly empty plate of fries and take my first few steps in Tomura’s direction. He still sat staring down at his Gameboy and this up close I could see, as well as hear, he was playing some RPG with odd Egyptian like music. “Hey, Tomura,” I say, greeting him and setting his plate down. I watch the patties slightly shake at the impact, then look to see Tomura isn’t even bothering to look up at me or reply for that matter. I stand there unsure of what to do before turning my head and looking at Hibiki with wide eyes before looking at her so-called friend. 

Her eyes are set in a glare as she gives me a nod and juts her chin in his direction. If I didn’t know this weird girl, I wouldn’t have known what she meant. 

Sighing, I set my hands on the table and slide into the seat across from him. The cracked red leather digging into my bare legs as I settle myself in and awkwardly stare at the man. “So…uh, Hibiki said you’re antisocial like me, but I think you’re a few levels ahead,” I say jokingly to him in hopes of at least getting a laugh out of him, or something akin to it.

He sets down the pink game console and finally looks up at me. This doesn’t settle my uneasiness though; a shiver runs up my spine and I can practically feel the hair on the back of my neck rise. Tomura’s eye color is so dark I can’t even distinguish where the pupil meets the iris, but that’s not what causes the primitive fear to stir in me. It’s the dark circles around his eyes mixed with what could only be described as a resting bitch face. The guy looks like he hasn’t had a good night’s rest since 2003. His pale hands push his game aside and pull the plate closer to himself. Tomura looks to the huge grease tower before looking to me and raising a brow, “You gonna get me a fork or something? Or do you expect me to Scooby-Doo this thing?”

 A mix of embarrassment and utter disbelief rain over me. I slide out of my seat quickly and smooth down the uniform’s skirt as I walk behind the counter. 

“How’s it going?” Hibiki whispers as she leans in close to me while I pick out a knife and fork. 

I turn to her quickly, “That guy isn’t socialized,” I whisper harshly, “Did his mom not take him out on walks or something? Literally told me if I was gonna get him a fork or something. Girl, the audacity on that guy!”

She clears her throat, obviously fighting back a laugh. “He’s like that. Took him a while to talk to me in class too.”

“And you’re trying to set him up?” I ask wrapping the knife and fork in a napkin. “You’re a horrible cupid. Letting them out without proper training,” I hiss quietly before making my way around the counter. Looking up at him, I see he’s surprisingly not on his game again, rather his cheek is resting in his palm and his tired eyes on me. The pressure I feel because of this makes me walk faster, “Here, sorry,” I say, setting the knife and fork down beside his plate. 

I watch him look at the rolled-up utensils before he decides to rip the napkin off with one hard yank. He takes them and cuts a corner of the burger before shoving the meat and cheese into his mouth. “You just gonna stand there or sit down again?” he asks, waving the fork towards the seat in front of him. “At least pretend we’re making happy so Hibiki gets off my case,” he grumbles as he takes a fry to his mouth. 

“Then you know about her setting this up?”

Tomura scoffs and rolls those dark eyes of his before he starts working at cutting off another piece of the burger, “Sit down will you? You’re making me nervous.” I mumble a quick apology and sit down in front of him again before he continues. “We’re in the same Women Studies class. She hasn’t stopped annoying me about meeting up with some friend of hers since she decided to sit next to me.” He looks up at me, resting his chin on the back of his wrist and letting the fork dangle in his light grip. Tomura slowly chews the meat, then says, “Wouldn’t think someone as cute as you struggles for a date…Anyway,” he says looking back to his plate for another forkful, “Told her I’d finally do it if I got a plate of food. Timing kind of sucks though. Was s’pose to help my friend raid a dungeon but free food is free food.”

“Ya really know how to make a girl feel special,” I deadpan. My eyes wander from his face down to his plate to see he’s managed to eat a good chunk of the burger. “What game were you gonna play?”

He looks up at me with a raised brow and sits back. Again, his eyes look me over, almost like he was sizing me up or trying to see if I am really at all interested in his game. He is definitely the type of guy who thinks women can’t play video games because they’re marketed towards men more. Either way, anything was better than hearing Hibiki whine later that I didn’t give this a try. “World of Warcraft.”

I nod hearing the name.

Tomura’s eyes narrow, concluding my speculation. He was sizing me up to see if I knew what a game was. “You don’t know it do you?” he asks.

“No, not at all,” I say glaring back at him, “It’s just one of the most popular MMO games that’s been running for nearly seventeen years.” 

The man sucks his teeth before he looks back down to his plate of grease before pushing it in my direction, “You can have a fry,” he says taking the fork and stabbing at a piece of meat, “What kind of games do you play?”

Taking up his offer, I snatch a fry off his plate and slouch back into the crusty leather, “Eh,” I shrug my shoulders and finish off the fry, “a little bit of everything. I hate fps though.”

He raises a brow, “Literally everyone likes fps. You’re either a liar or you haven’t played any good ones.”

I reach over and take another fry. Tomura is still looking at me, waiting for an answer while I chew on its rubber texture. “Name a good one.”

“Classic one is Call of Duty,”

“Pass. It’s so boring,” I scoff, going to grab another fry, but he pulls the plate back towards him. I lean back and look at him, his eyes narrowing once again. 

He pushes the tufts of hair away from his eyes and sits up straighter, “Not even Halo?”

“No, besides I think their outfits are ugly.” I confess to him as I look back to Hibiki and see her leaning against the back counter whispering to Daisuke. “I like seeing the characters I control run around,” I say, turning back to him. His eyes were now on the two other people in the diner as well. “You didn’t order anything to drink. Why not?” I ask, effectively changing the conversation.

“My waitress isn’t very attentive,” he says as the corner of his lips lifts into a lopsided smile. He doesn’t look half bad despite his disheveled appearance. 

I stand up and smooth out my skit once again. “Would you like anything to drink, sir?” I ask in my practiced customer service voice and even sprinkle in my fake smile for some pizzazz.

Tomura’s brow raises in amusement. That lopsided smirk never leaving his features. “Yeah, I’ll take a milkshake.” 

Once hearing his request, I turn on my heel and walk towards Hibiki and Daisuke. “Dai, make two milkshakes,” I say loudly, shooing him off with the wave of my hand. 

“Not my name!”

Hibiki shoves her phone in my face just as I seat myself at the counter. “Not gonna lie to you, babes, you two look so cute together!” she squeals as silently as she can, but I don’t doubt that Tomura heard it from his booth. 

I raise my hand and place it on the back of my neck before trying to roll out the kinks I’ve been feeling for a while. “He’s not so bad.” I mumble and stop to look back at Tomura in his booth. He wasn’t looking anymore, in fact, he was back to playing his game. His fingers picked at the buttons slowly. The pauses in between make the game seem like something you’d have to think about. Something that’s definitely not a Mario game. “Why’d you take a picture?” 

Her curly hair bounces as she leans over the counter and shows me a variety of pictures with me sitting in front of Tomura, “I’m gonna start a scrapbook for you two. You’ll be able to show it to your kids one day.” Her smile is so contagious I can feel my next life smiling as well while we look through the pictures. “He’s not so bad, right? Once Tomura gets talking he’s really decent.”

“The expectation bar is that low for him, huh?” I look away from the phone and at Hibiki before remembering why I’m at the counter again, “Dai, my two shakes!” I stare through the order window and hear his famous reply before I start hearing a blender go wild in the kitchen. 

That’s the only noise fixing through the air for a few seconds before silence overtakes the dilapidated establishment. Hibiki turns and looks to the window as well. We wait patiently until Daisuke’s hands appear with a milkshake in each. “About time,” Hibiki says playfully, her tone never really rising above cheery. “Any longer and my little creation would be no more, Daiki!”

Hibiki turns and hands me the shakes, but I stay put in place as I stare through the window. Daisuke’s brown, blank eyes bore into mine as I wait for him to say something about the nickname. “That’s… not your name,” I say as if expecting him to repeat each word after me. He continues to stare straight at me without blinking for another five seconds before turning away into the kitchen. I click my tongue before turning around and heading in Tomura’s direction. He’s still into his game, body slouched over the Gameboy in his hands like his life depends on it. “Your shake,” I say, setting his down next to his plate and sliding into my seat. Again, just like the first time, he doesn’t respond, so I sit there and sip at my vanilla shake. 

It feels like a millennium goes by before he glances up at me and pushes the game aside once again. “You got one too?” he asks, then sips at his own shake. “Don’t expect me to pay for that.”

“Please,” I scoff, “You came to a setup because you were promised free food. I don’t expect you to pay for a two-dollar shake.” 

“Glad we’re on the same page then,” he chuckles. I smile at this and take a sip of my own shake once again. We were more than on the same page. It was only common sense that someone coming into the nastiest diner due to the promise of free food at nearly two in the morning wouldn’t pay for a thing. Hell, if anything I’ll just tell Hibiki that she must add this to his free tab because I’m part of the deal here. “What were you guys talking about over there?” he asks, nodding towards the counter. “Hibiki was all giggly. More than usual.”

“Oh, that?” I ask moving around the thick liquid with my straw, my opposite hand busy holding up my head. “She was just talking about my future babies with you,” I reply casually just to see if that would get a rise out of him.

Tomura doesn’t disappoint. He’s practically spitting up and choking on his shake. I watch him with a smile until he grabs his napkin and coughs into it. “What the hell?” he asks. “Get me some water!” Without answering back, I dismissively wave a hand and walk to the counter and grab a water bottle behind it. I take my time walking back, figuring he wouldn’t die from choking on some ice-cream. When I get back to the table Tomura practically snatches the bottle from my hands and chugs the water down as I take my seat. 

“You good?” I ask out of courtesy as he sets down the water bottle. 

He’s obviously still getting over it as his body trembles, trying to hold back a coughing fit. Despite that, he looks up with a glare set on me in an attempt to seem threatening. It doesn’t quite work though as he goes into another coughing fit. I patiently wait for him to stop, then finally he says, “You’re a terrible waitress. You’d let a customer die, wouldn’t you?”

“What? You expect me to give you CPR or something? I’m a waitress not an EMT, Tomura.” He clicks his tongue annoyed, then takes another sip of water before setting the bottle down between us. “Do you need an ambulance?”

A smile cracks at the corner of his lips, “After I’m done dying?” he chuckles softly, “You really aren’t attentive at all.” Silence settles between us, and I watch as his hand plays with the bottle cap. I don’t bother breaking the silence this time and take a sip of my shake. If he really wants this to go on, he might as well speak now or forever hold his peace. “What if that old man, Earl, had a heart attack out here? What would you do?”

“Old Earl?” I laugh, looking up at him, “He’d ask for the city morgue’s number before he even thinks about calling someone to save his life. Earl’s a real pessimist.” I say with a low laugh. “Does Hibi talk about work in class?” I only decide to continue with my story when I see him shake his head. “Well, I think it was last year when Earl actually had a heart attack after trying that,” I say gesturing to the tower of grease that had now just become a pile on his plate. “Dai, that’s the cook,” I can faintly hear him yell out to me from the kitchen about his name, but I continue, “he was actually ready to call the paramedics, but Earl weakly clasped his arm and slowly shook his head. Old man really rode it out then left in his rickety old truck like nothing happened.”

Tomura whistles astonished at the story. “That’s a hardcore old man.” He then pushes his plate towards me, “Fry?”

“Or one with no health insurance” I say, reaching for one and taking a bite out of the soggy thing. Tomura smiles and picks up his game again, he holds onto the power button and watches as the dim colors fade to black before pocketing the small thing into his hoodie. “Ready to head out?” I ask, already sliding out of my seat and picking up the empty cups. “Want a to-go box for the rest of your heart attack burger?”

His black hair shakes around as he mumbles, “Nah. Your story kind of scared me away from it.” Tomura slides out of his seat and stands up beside me. He takes his plate and follows me to the counter where he places it in front of Hibiki. “Thanks for the food, Hibiki. Here,” He pulls a few crumpled bills from his hoodie’s pocket and hands them to her, “for her shake.” 

Hibiki and I look at each other and give a subtle shrug. “Gonna go then, Tomura?” Hibiki pipes up, taking the plate from the counter. 

“Yeah. I’ll see you two around,” he says before walking out into the foggy night. 

My best friend is fast to turn towards me the second Tomura is out of sight. “So, what do you think? I know how to pick them, huh?” She says quickly and rather proud. 

With a shrug, I place the two cups on top of the plate in her hands before taking it from her and into the kitchen. She follows closely behind me, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, “I mean, yeah he piqued my interest.”

Out of the corner of my eye, Hibiki seizes her giddy movements, “But?”

The dishes clatter as I drop them into the sink and turn to her with a chuckle, “He didn’t ask for my number, Hibi. He’s obviously not interested.”

She childishly lets out a raspberry and waves her arm dismissively, “That’s like a technicality, babes! Don’t worry about it, there was definitely some chemistry. Right, Daiki?” Hibiki asks, turning to get Daisuke’s input. 

On the other hand, I looked to him, waiting once again to hear him chastise Hibiki for using anything but his name. That doesn’t happen though. Instead, we all turn our heads to the door as it rings. “Shifts over!” 

Jamie and Rosalind, the late-night waitresses, walk in ready to relieve Hibiki and I. “Thank you!” Hibiki shouts, throwing the small apron off and walking out of the kitchen. “Come on, babes!” I hastily follow her out to her small Honda Civic as I messily fold my apron. “Crash at mine, yeah? We can grab a bite before class.”

“Deal,” I smile as we get into the car. 

In the morning, Hibiki and I don’t even find time to grab that bite to eat she mentioned after work. I’m running around her old, little apartment ripping drawers open and looking for the clothes I’ve left before. My brain tingles at the thought of her not having washed them, but that fear skips my mind when I see my jeans and a shirt stuffed into the back of her drawer. 

Hibiki, on the other hand, is not as flustered about already running late for our first class. “Find them?” she shouts from the kitchen. She’s been cooking up a storm since she woke up a few minutes ago. That girl has no worries in the world as long as she knows she can make a meal when the sun rises. 

I emerge from the battle with her drawers unscathed, but out of breath. “Hibi, you really need to organize your stuff,” I huff, dropping myself into one of the mismatched chairs she uses for her dining table. 

When she drops a plate of scrambled eggs and a slice of toast in front of me, she says, “If you found them, then it’s obviously not that bad.” She sits down in a wicker chair with her own breakfast. “Now hurry, my late attendance record cannot be ruined. I’m always exactly five minutes late.” 

Sometimes I wonder why she’s always late, it’s not like she lives far. Hibiki managed to get an apartment right down the street from the community college we both attend. “Right, wouldn’t want the professor thinking you don’t care about his class,” I reply with a roll of my eyes. 

“Exactly,” she says, already dropping her plate in the sink and walking towards the room. “You wanna walk with me or do you wanna go ahead?”

My eyes travel down to my old wristwatch, and it takes me a while to decipher the time because there are no numbers to help me, “Yeah, I’m gonna get going.” I say, standing up and taking one of the random little journals and a pen that Hibiki likes collecting. “My phone’s charging near the TV btw. I’ll be dropping by after my classes to pick it up.”

Hibiki appears at the bathroom entrance with a toothbrush in her mouth and a thumbs-up before disappearing into it again. With that, I walk out of her apartment and lock the door.

My mind wanders back to the previous night though. To the bet with Hibiki and the odd stranger she had me meet. Tomura was a fun change of pace last night. Night shifts were usually anticlimactic, but he made me feel like there was some kind of action going on in my usual routine. His attitude is weird if I’m being honest with myself and despite that I do in fact feel like seeing him around some more. Seeing him out in the wild would actually be entertaining. Maybe he’s just as awkwardly quiet and rude around other people as he was last night. 

Before I know it, the day races by and my hopes of seeing Tomura slowly dwindle. I know he said, “see you two around” and I know that doesn’t necessarily mean the next day. Hell, it was probably just one of those things you say to someone you’ve just met out of some common courtesy. 

Currently, I stand in the middle of the school courtyard waiting in line for an iced coffee when Hibiki bounces her way towards me. “Hey, you get your phone yet?” she asks while standing on the tips of her toes to see how long the line is. 

“Not yet,” I sigh, glancing down to my watch trying to read the time. “Probably after I get a coffee.” She doesn’t respond and lets silence fall between us as we patiently wait to order. I roll my shoulders and as I do so, I catch sight of a familiar brunette walking by with an enormous backpack. Daisuke passes by staring intently at us but gives no effort to greet us. 

“Your coworker sucks,” a voice sounds from behind Hibiki and I. “Think he’d say hi at least.”

Turning around, Hibiki and I come face to face with none other than Tomura himself. Guess ‘see you two around’ did mean today. The sight of him actually makes me feel pleasant. “Yeah? Hi to you too, Tomura.”

The man is wearing identical, if not the same, clothes from the night before. I wouldn’t even put it past him to wear the same clothes a few days in a row. “Hey…” he pauses for a second, staring at me before turning to Hibiki, “Hey, Hibiki.”

I look to her expecting a conversation to blossom between the two. Surprisingly, she just gives a small wave and turns around and takes a few steps forward as the line moves. “So, you’re grabbing an iced coffee too?” I ask, looking him over and noticing he too was carrying a backpack, but it isn’t as stuffed or hiked up his back like Daisuke’s was. 

“Yeah?” The tone in his voice makes the response sound like a question. Which in turn makes me feel stupid for asking because the little kiosk we’re waiting at only sells iced coffee. “What? I don’t look like a coffee kind of guy?”

I turn on my heel and face forward in line, hoping to hide the visible embarrassment that’s crossing my face like a hot wave. “You look like the kind of guy who’d chug a Monster for breakfast, lunch and dinner,” I say. 

This change in position doesn’t help though. Tomura’s far more active than he was when we were sitting across from each other. He steps right beside me, a teasing smile already crossing his lips. “That so? Well, you’re exactly the kind of girl I thought you were.”

“What would that be?” I’m ready to hear him say I’m a basic girl who likes iced coffee to be honest. What other kind could he be thinking of? Especially with him assuming last night that I didn’t know much about games, he’s definitely the type to go for a stereotype. Just like I did with the Monster drink comment.

Hibiki’s already ordering when he finally opens his mouth to say something, “The airheaded type.”

“What?” I snap, looking up to him. Tomura’s lips only rise into that smirk of his before he’s pushing my forward. I look ahead and smile to the cashier, momentarily forgetting his comment, “An iced coffee,” I turn to look at Tomura again, “What does that mean?”

“Two iced coffees,” he corrects me while placing some crumpled bills on the counter. “It means,” he starts, as he takes hold of both drinks and hands me one. “That you’re a little slow, in my perspective that is.”

We step out of line, and I look around trying to spot Hibiki’s curly head of hair, but she’s nowhere in sight. Great, she’s abandoned me once again. “Whatever,” I huff, finally deciding to look back at him, “Thanks for the coffee, but I have to stop by Hibiki’s apartment and pick up my phone.”

He’s sipping his drink and giving a quick shrug, “I’ll join you,” he says, inviting himself. This catches me by surprise, but I give no objection and just lead the way. He makes no attempt to start a conversation, so I don’t bother trying either. We silently make our way across the street and walk up to Hibiki’s apartment. 

“You can come in,” I mumble, opening her door with my key. 

He’s quick to note this, “You have a key to your coworker’s apartment? You’re just gonna let in a total stranger?” Despite asking the second question I can hear him step onto the tiled floor.

I glance back to see him looking around the small kitchen that’s right at the entrance. “She's been my best friend since our Proactiv years,” I explain going back to her room and picking my phone up off the dresser where her television is set on. 

“You mean that acne medicine?” he snorts from the kitchen. 

There’s a loud clang just as he finishes that question, and I’m practically flying down the short hallway to see what damage has been made. “What’d you drop?” I ask, heart beating in my chest as I see him leaning over to pick up a saucepan. 

Tomura gives no real response, just a usual shrug and sets the saucepan on the drying rack. “So, you two are really close, huh? Doesn’t explain why you’d let a total stranger into her place,” he says going back to his initial question.

I scan him over, before deciding to push him out. “She said you were friends. Really doubt she’d care if you saw her underwear hanging from the ceiling fan.” I lock the door behind us before glancing at my phone. There are no new notifications, but at least I could finally be able to tell time without feeling like I failed fourth grade. “I’m done for today.” My statement is probably too sudden because when I look to him, his features are twisted in confusion. “My classes I mean,” I clarify for him. So much for me being an airhead, we’re practically on par so far. 

“Me too,” he says, tossing his cup, now only ice, into a bin right outside Hibiki’s apartment complex. We stop walking and he looks at me. Those eyes of his that had my primitive instincts tell me to run don’t seem so bad in the sun’s soft glow. “You gonna walk home or should I offer you a ride?” 

His attitude just as bleak in the sun though.

I shrug a shoulder as I take a sip of the iced coffee still in my hand. Not exactly chivalrous this one. “I guess I could grace your car with some female presence.”

This time he rolls his eyes, probably realizing that was a shot at his probable lack of dating experience. He then leads the way back to the campus parking lot; the thing looks like a car dealership with the number of cars taking up every single space. 

Tomura’s quiet as he leads me through various rows of cars before stopping in front of a navy-blue one. “Hop in,” he says, clicking a button on his remote key. I go around to the passenger side and pull the door open and get in. The inside is surprisingly clean. His appearance really makes me draw a certain conclusion to his character. I’ve been wrong so far though, he’s not a complete slob. “Something tells me you’re judging me again,” he pauses as he starts the car. “Something also tells me you’re feeling bad that you were wrong,” Tomura says, finishing his thought as he’s looking back while pulling out of the space. “Am I right?” he asks before taking off for the lot’s exit.

“You’re not entirely wrong,” I reply, trying to make him believe that he’s not spot on. “Take a right when you leave by the way.” 

He nods and stops at the exit for a second before following my directions, “You can turn on the radio,” he says gesturing towards the screen in between us. 

I lean over and press at the power button, next thing I know my heart is wanting to jump out of my chest. The volume’s all the way up, and my fingers are anxiously spinning the volume wheel until it’s at ten. “Oh, my god! Are you deaf or something, Tomura?” I shudder in my seat and press a hand to my chest. “That was terrifying.” The fact that it was trap metal didn’t help my heart an ounce. That is the loudest type of music I’ve ever come across. “Keep going straight,” I mutter when I notice we’re at another stop. 

Tomura doesn’t seem at all fazed by the music though. He’s sitting there with a grin on his face, obviously in love with the reaction I gave at the sudden raucous. “Here,” he says, digging through his hoodie’s pocket before tossing me his phone. 

With a brow raised, I look at him then swipe my thumb across the screen. “You’re really going to let a total stranger look through your phone just like that?”

“She said you’re friends.” He says referring to my previous answer. With that answer, I decide to slide through his apps until I land on Spotify. His entire home page is filled with trap music; however, that doesn’t make me believe it’s his most listened to. 

My thumb hovers over his Spotify Wrapped story, then I look up at him to make sure his eyes are still on the road. I tap on it quickly and skip to the fourth slide and wait until his most listened to song is shown. “Awe, Tomura!” I gasp out looking at the song’s title. “Who would have known you’d be into K-pop?” The speed in which his eyes snap from the road to me is almost alarming. “What do you know about K-pop?” I ask smugly looking back at him. K-pop is seen like a more feminine music genre, just like games were seen as something more masculine. 

“Don’t be a snob,” he sighs. His initial reaction slowly fades as he looks back to the road ahead of him. “Where to?”

I hum and look up to see we’re in front of the city plaza. I haven’t been paying attention, “Oop, we’ve gone a little too far. Sorry.” I apologize quickly and look back to his phone just to press play on his most played song. “Go back to Mariposa Rd and keep going straight until the road ends.”  With that, I set his phone down in the cupholder. 

Tomura doesn’t protest or whine at the fact that I wasn’t paying attention. He simply does a U-turn and goes back to the road I told him about. “So, what’s an airhead like you majoring in?” 

My attention moves to the passenger window before I decide to respond, “That’s a good question,” but I don’t elaborate further than that. Truth is, I don’t know what I want to major in just yet. No particular subject has piqued my interest. That’s most likely why I decided to go straight to a community college instead of some University. “What does an antisocial person like yourself study?”

“That’s a good question,” he repeats, slowing the car to a stop, “Been stuck on choosing between a computer engineer and a biology major.” Tomura seems almost proud of himself as he begins driving once again. He’s probably making small bets in his head the way Hibiki does at times. “From what I’ve seen, I can probably tell you what you should major in. If you want my opinion-”

“I don’t,” I laugh and turn to look at his profile. He’s looking just as tired as he was the night before. “Thanks though. I’ll find what I like somehow.” 

“I was just gonna say you should stick to being a waitress,” he chuckles, pulling the car in front of my house. “This you?”

“Yeah,” I say looking up at my house. The little flowers in front are slowly wilting because of the weather's sudden dip in temperature. I pull out my phone and hand it to him, “Type in your number.”

He stares at the phone in my hand for a few seconds before taking it in his own hands. “Want to know why I think you’re an airhead?” he asks while tapping away at the screen. 

I take the phone back as he holds it out and hit call on the number, so he has mine as well. “Yeah, sure. Why am I such an airhead?” I ask as I watch his phone vibrate in the cupholder. 

“You haven’t introduced yourself.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t know your name.”

For a second, I feel like the world stops as I look up at him with wide eyes. Did he really say what I think he said? Hibiki obviously gave me his name, why wouldn’t she extend the courtesy to him? “Neither have you!” Obviously, I’m ready to throw him under the bus as well. Sure, I know his name, but he should have at least introduced himself too. 

Tomura shifts in his seat so he’s partially facing me. “How can I introduce myself when you’re already like “Hi, Tomura!” huh?” He says in a mocking tone of voice. “Don’t waitresses usually introduce themselves anyway?”

Defensively I reply, “Don’t customers usually say hi back when the waitress greets them?” 

Tomura sucks his teeth and looks away for a second before opening his mouth a few times like he’s trying to figure out what to say next but decides against it. It takes him a few seconds before it seems like he finally makes a choice. “What’s your name then, airhead?” he finally asks, sitting back. 

“Wouldn’t you rather keep calling me airhead?”

“No.”

I chew on my lip, pretending to think about giving him my name. In the end, I just give in after realizing I have no more comebacks to throw at him. “Sakiko.”

His fingers roam to his door and clicks a button, unlocking all the doors. “Get out. All that tension building for a basic name like Sakiko?” He says in a joking tone of voice. 

“Puh-lease!” I scoff, crossing my arms. “You’re one to talk, Tomura,” I say, dragging out the last syllable in his name. “That’s literally short for Michael. Your name is literally the blueprint for basic.”

Tomura lifts a hand to his chest as if he’d been wounded. “That stings, Saki!” 

“I only speak facts, Michael.” I say feeling a tad bit victorious. Feeling the vibe slowly fade, I smile and reach for the door handle. “I’ll see you around then?”

“Yeah, yeah. Get out of my car,” he teases while waving me away. “Can’t miss you if you’re not gone.”

Hearing that, I don’t even bother asking for a better goodbye and just take his as it is. I make my way up the path and unlock my door. Before walking in, I look back hoping to see Tomura still parked in front, but that’s just wishful thinking. The dude is long gone, there’s not even a care in sight. Shrugging my shoulders, I walk into my home and lock the door behind me. Just as I’m looking down at my phone, it vibrates in my hand and a text from Hibiki pops up at the top. 

Instead of replying to the text I decide to call her. “Hey! See my text? Are you still on campus? I can give you a ride home now.” She says quickly as I drop her tiny journal on a coffee table and walk to my room.

“Guess what,” I smile, plopping down on my plush mattress. 

This game is one of Hibiki’s favorites. She immediately starts guessing random scenarios. I think I even catch her mentioning if I had somehow met an A-list celebrity, totally disregarding the fact that we live in a washed-up town in nowhere Kentucky. “Wait, did you somehow get a tapeworm in your iced coffee?”

“What? Ew.” I say, feeling a frown pull down my lips. “No, why would you even think that, Hibi?”

I could practically visualize Hibiki shrugging her shoulders, “Dunno, saw it once on a documentary.”

“Really? That’s gross. Which documentary?” 

Hibiki laughs and says, “I’ll send you a link, but what happened?”

Remembering why I decided to call her has me sitting up straight. “Oh! It’s about Tomura. Finally got his number, but that doesn’t matter. Why didn’t you tell him my name?”

Her smooth voice hums on her end of the phone softly. I have no secrets to hide, so why hadn’t she just given him my name? “That reminds me of something else!” the line goes quiet for a second before she starts talking again, “I don’t even think his name is Tomura,” she confesses.

Now I’m silent, staring at the phone then quickly hanging up on her. My fingers are quick to call Tomura, or whoever he is. “What’s your name?” I ask the second I hear that he answers the call.

He lets out a loud laugh on his end before anything else. “You just figured that out, Saki? Nearly took you a whole day.”

“Quit playing!” I whine into the phone. “What’s your name?”

“Tenko. It’s nice to meet you, Sakiko.”

A giggle leaves me now that I’ve finally heard a proper introduction. “Nice to meet you too, Tenko.”

[vioxsoo]

[vioxsoo]

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 ]

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.

[vioxsoo]

If you see this you’re legally obligated to reblog and tag with the book you’re currently reading

[vioxsoo]

RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

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

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that it really mattered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But still…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The studio audience laughs on cue.

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

It doesn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But as you straighten,  the air feels different.

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

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

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

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

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flick back to him.

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

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

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

Just silen—

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

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

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

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

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

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

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

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

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

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

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s addicting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. You were that desperate. 

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

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

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

“Go fuck yourself.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No underwear. A Right dog, he is. 

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

“What’d y’want?”

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

How could he even fit inside of you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

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

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

You could slap him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the stretch still has you lightheaded. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“for a first-timer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “No.”

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

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

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

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

Two cops.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shut the door.

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

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

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

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

[vioxsoo]

Pet peeve of mine is when people act like Shigaraki having any suave, or speaking skills would be out of character. Like, yes, he is a gamer and a brat. But he was also serving lines such as; "All that lives and breathes presses on the weight in my soul. So then, why shouldn’t I destroy it? Why must I suffer it? When this world falls, we’ll see the glorious new horizon that awaits. So why not lend me a hand? I’ll show you the halls of heaven and the depths of hell.” Like?? This bitch was raised by All For One. He knows how to fucking talk. And he knows how to be dramatic.

[vioxsoo]

You Remain - pt. 5

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Neighbor|Reader x Simon Riley

When Taskforce 141 returned from their mission, every single one of them was bruised, aching, and exhausted. But that was nothing new... almost every time they returned, at least one of them came back with an injury, no matter how small it was.

Yet, they never were too tired or beaten to grab a drink or two before parting ways to their respective homes. Their teammate, Kyle Garrick - also known as Gaz - started the tradition. A simple ask of "Up for drink, mates?" turned into them needing to have one, or else the mission wasn't fully completed.

So they walked into a very small pub right next to the base; the same one they always went to. It was late, almost hitting 11pm, but it didn't matter the time.... the place was always open, welcoming anyone who fancied a drink at any time of the day.

Kyle, Johnny, Simon, and their captain - John Price - picked their usual spots at the bar right as a waitress yelled out to someone in the back. "Customers!" Her high-pitched voice damn near echoed the room as she walked toward where she was trying to get a coworker's attention, but it made since...... they were the only people there.

"Think she can yell any louder?" Kyle teased, making Johnny chuckle and Price stifle one that threatened to escape. Simon remained quiet, the faint remanence of the mission still lingering in his mind. He just wanted to get a drink and then go home.

His eyes glanced up when someone walked from behind the door.

He thought he was dreaming. Maybe he was still taking that 5 minutes nap in his office before the debriefing they had with their commander - Kate Laswell. Maybe he had been knocked unconscious before they reached the extraction point.

Because there was no way he was sitting there..... looking at you.

You felt just as similar as he did. Eyes widening as you saw four huge, burly, and scary looking men sitting at the bar like they were about to hop over it and murder you.

What a ridiculous thought... you saw the uniforms they had on.

But something made you freeze when you looked at the soldier sitting closest to you, balaclava on that had a skeleton pattern on the lower part of it. The smudged eyeblack painted around his eyes was nothing short of threatening, like he was a trained killer. But his eyes...... those brown eyes you'd recognize anywhere.

Simon.

What was he doing there? Did he just get back?

Stop staring.

You quickly walked over to them. "H-hi.. what can I get for you gentlemen?" Hiding your wide eyes, you pulled out a few glasses out, acting as though you were ready to pour their drinks.

They were whiskey men.

The guy with the mohawk specifically asked for a Scotch, while the other two settled whatever was in stock. But, when the masked man asked for a Bourbon, you felt a tightening in your throat. It was him. You were sure of it.... Your eyes stayed wide, but you would be damned if you dared to say his name. Especially with the other three men sitting there.

So you fixed their drinks, passing it to them before scurrying off to the back. Those brown eyes stayed glued on you the entire time, half narrowed because... why the fuck were y'here?

You could have been anywhere.... at the pub by the flats, at the store around the corner, any fucking where. But not here... not while he was sitting next to his teammates.

"Lass looks like she saw a ghost." Johnny commented, making Kyle and Price chuckle. But Simon hadn't registered what he said, his eyes planted in the same spot at the door where you disappeared off to. Johnny nudged his shoulder. "Gotta stop wearin' that ugly mask, Lt." Another chuckle from the two men, but Simon just hummed - a signature response when he didn't have a cheeky remark back to the sergeant.

Oh, how he wished it was just a random person who thought he was a scary-looking guy because of his balaclava. He wished it could have been anybody else....... but not you. He knew why your eyes tried not to glance his way or why you all but bolted out of their presence. And he wanted nothing more than to get up and leave.

They sipped on their drinks while Simon barely touched his. The thirst for a bourbon completely gone from his taste buds. Kyle asked Price how long they'd have time off, and the three of them were glad when they had been given a month.

Johnny was the first to say he'd be going back to Scotland to spend time with his family. Price and his missus of 20 years were going to take a vacation up to the cottage they owned; he made a point that no one was to contact him, which got a light-hearted joke out his soldiers. Kyle had been in a long-distance relationship with his girlfriend for a couple of years since she was at university in France. He'd take the opportunity to surprise her.

That just left Simon....... he did the same thing no matter how much time they had off. He had no family, no friends (excluding the bond he had with TF141), and no lover. So he would be home by himself. There were times when they tried asking if he wanted to tag along, but he denied their requests, stating he just wanted to take it easy.

You walked out again, eyes more relaxed as if it were any other customers you served. "Can I get you all another round?" While Price and Kyle declined, ready to get home, Johnny asked for one more Scotch. You nodded before glancing down at the glass in front of Simon - he still had some left. "One for you?"

He shook his head.

Ignoring the way he stared so... serious at you, you fixed the drink for the man sitting beside him before sliding it in front of his hand.

"Ya must not be from here." He said, making your eyes widen once more. They flickered to your neighbor before landing back on him. "The accent."

Oh. Right

You almost forgot you didn't have an English accent like everyone else. "Uh.. yeah. I'm from the States."

"Sweet. What's a lass like ya doin' in London?" he took a sip of his drink.

You nervously glanced at Simon again. While it seemed like a harmless conversation from the mohawk guy, you felt like it was forbidden to say with Simon sitting right there.

Still... you answered.

"Um.. guess I needed a fresh start." You left it at that.

If you weren't trying so hard not to fidget with the towel in your hand, you would have noticed that Johnny immediately clocked the way your eyes would glance at Simon as if he was going to reach across the counter and snatch you up. It was a look he hadn't seen on women's faces before when they were intrigued by his lieutenant. But there was something that hid behind your eyes.... something that made the corner of his lip creep up.

"Ghost here-" he began, making your eyes widen even more. Simon's head snapped toward him. "-don't talk much. But he won't hurt ya."

"Oh uh..." You didn't know what to say. Who the fuck was Ghost? You went along with it because god help you if the manager came out wondering what the hell was going on. "Sorry-" a timid giggle left your mouth, "-just don't often see people in the military, I guess."

Johnny smiled. "Right off base lass. You'll see a lot o' us." He went on to introduce his name, sparking up a conversation to comfort you as a distraction of the intimating stare of the man beside him. He didn't ask questions; just asked if it had been a busy night.

You tried engaging back, but the weight of Simon's gaze was starting to become too much. It was like you could feel how hard his eyes got as they narrowed. And he couldn't help the thought bubble all the way up his throat and pass his lips.

"Wot 're y'doin' hea'?" he spit out, tone beyond flat but almost irritated.

Johnny turned his head in shock, while your eyes widened for the millionth time since they got there.

The atmosphere stilled. It almost became silent, other than the soft music playing from the speakers. You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

Was he.... pissed at you?

"Um..." you started before Johnny cut in.

"Ya good mate?"

Simon didn't respond. He was waiting for you to answer him.

Johnny glanced at you. Then to Simon..... then back to you, before the flash of realization crossed his face. You two knew each other, so he waited for you to say something. . .

"Uh..... my boss asked me to cover for the bartender. He's sick."

Silence again.

It made sense. The owner had several pubs in London, so of course he could have someone from another location cover when any employee was out. But did it really have to be you to cover?

Thinking it was better to end things before it got even more awkward, you told them you'd step to the back for a second and left.

"The fuck was that Lt?" Johnny asked immediately when you passed the door.

Simon lifted his balaclava and downed his drink before setting the glass on the bar and lowering the mask. "Nothin'."

"Bollocks.... Ya know her?"

Simon's eyebrow raised at hearing British slang come from the Scot, but he wasn't in the mood for entertaining it.

"Drop it, Johnny."

The sergeant knew his superior was never one to talk; never one to delve into his personal life. There were snippets they knew... but this had Johnny's head spinning.... and just like Simon would have guessed, he knew that the man was going to open his fucking mouth the next time they were back on base.

"Just sayin' Lt." He downed his own drink. "Headin' out-" he took some money out to pay for both their drinks "-Comin'? Or ya gonna wait for ya bird to come back..."

It was a bad joke, but so be it.

Simon's eyes cut so hard at the man that if looks could kill, he'd be dead already.... probably a long time ago.

Not getting a response from his Lt, Johnny chuckled to himself at why he knew he didn't get one. He would get his answer when he saw him again, so he left.

When you stepped back out in view, you noticed Johnny was now gone... but Simon remained. Fuck. His eyes shot to you, and you wanted the floor to swallow you all the way to the core of the Earth.

You quickly grabbed the empty glasses, cleaning them to avoid the way he glared at you. Why was he so...........

Fuck.

You didn't know the right word for it.

As soon as you caved and looked up at him, you couldn't help it; you needed to say something to stop this quietness between the two of you. "How was your mission?" You whispered.

Caught off guard, he wasn't expecting that question to leave your mouth. It took a moment, but he answered. "Fine."

You glanced down at his hands, noticing something you hadn't before. Cuts - a tint of red and a bit puffy - sliced over his knuckles. Like he had been punching something.... or someone. Your eyebrows furrowed as your lips curled down, making him glance to your line of vision. He moved his hand in an attempt to hide the wounds.

Your eyes blinked, raising back up to him. "What happened?"

Don't ask tha'

He didn't want to answer.

"S'nothin'."

Before you could counter back, the manager called out for you, and you excused yourself to the back. She was telling you to clock out since your shift was over. Thank god! You gathered your stuff and walked back to the front, thinking Simon would still be sitting.

But he was gone.

The disappointment settled in before you even knew, and you fucking hated it. Why did you want to talk to him so much? The man never gave you any indication that he wanted your company... yet you were so fascinated by how he popped in and out of your life.

Wait..... your life?

What life did you have that involved him?

But you also found the way you liked how he looked at you; the lingering stare from those brown eyes.

What was he thinking when he saw you? Did he think of you while he was away on his mission... like you thought of him? Would you ever be brave enough to tell him your thoughts?

No. Never.

But for now, your focus was on trying to get home. Not having a car, it would be a long walk and bus ride back to your place. As you began to make your way to the bus stop, you realized how empty the street was. The distant thunder made you groan as you hoped the storm would hold up, but a small droplet of rain proved otherwise.

For the love of-

"Need a ride?"

You stopped walking and looked to the side, seeing your neighbor on the other side of the street, leaning against his car. His balaclava was lifted above his nose as he smoked a cigarette. Fuck he looked way more intimating - standing in the dead of night, a dark uniform on, and you barely could see his face. But you knew it was him.

"Oh. Um.. no it's okay. I'll just catch the bus."

He hummed, taking a drag of his cig. The roll of thunder echoed in the sky again, and you looked up. "Gonna start spittin' soon. Sure ya wanna wait out hea'?"

You had no idea what the hell he just said, but it obviously had to do with the weather. But he had a point... did you really want to stand outside while you got soaked?

Another roll of thunder.

Shit

"I guess not." You whispered as you looked ahead while weighing the options you really didn't have before glancing back at him. "You sure it's okay?"

He nodded, throwing the cigarette on the ground and discarding it with his boot.

You walked over to him, wanting to ignore the way your heart was beating fast. The closer you got, the faster it beat. But it almost wanted to skip several beats when he stood at the passenger door and opened it for you.

Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't blush.

"Thanks." You said as you slid into his car.

"Mhm."

He closed the door and walked around, getting in the driver seat before turning the car on.

It would be a good 30 minutes to get back to your side of the city. 30 minutes of sitting next to him. 30 minutes of taking in the scent of his vehicle. It faintly smelled just like him, with a hint of leather and what you assumed was.... gun powder? Or was that just the distinct odor of his military gear in the back seat?

It was awkward for the first couple of minutes. You tried being as still as possible so he wouldn't look over at you. But he seemed to be just as focused on the road as you were.

He turned the music up a bit as he turned onto the motorway, putting the car into a calming mood. A song you knew played, and you leaned your head back, looking out of the passenger window as you began to hum softly. You hadn't realized - nor expected - the tiredness of working double shifts all week finally taking its toll on your body, and before you knew it, your eyes closed... just briefly.

Simon listened to you hum, glancing over at you before focusing back on the road. That tone. That voice.

He didn't know what possessed him to offer you a bloody fuckin' ride. He had no intentions of trying to be as close as he was to you right now. But there was no way he would have let you spend the rest of the night getting home while getting stuck in a thunderstorm.

So there he sat, driving the both of you home as you hummed until quietly dozing off into a small nap.

Think I'm gonna have Simon make a move on her next chapter... or she make a move...? They both make a move? Basically they about to get heated lmao!

Oh and does anyone know if I'm using British slang right? I googled that 'spittin' line lol!

Like, comment, repost, and send feedback :)

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[vioxsoo]

(Poly 141 x fem reader)

You had always been their sweetheart.

Soft, tender, and gentle- the heart of their home. The warmth in the spaces between them, the one they curled around after long days of violence, soothed by your touch and your voice, the way you cared for them without hesitation. No matter how much blood stained their hands, no matter what nightmares haunted their sleep, you were there. Unshaken. Unyielding in your love, hands gentle and soft as you cradled them close and warm.

So they had never needed to know about the things you kept buried.

The past you refused to unearth. The things you could do, the person you had been before them- before you had a home to call your own, before you had people who held you just as carefully as you held them.

They didn’t need to know, and you didn’t need to think about it.

Until they went missing.

You first learned something was wrong when John’s daily check-in didn’t come.

It had always been a habit of his, something he did without fail, no matter how far away he was. Just to let you know I’m breathing, love. That was what he had said, years ago, the first time he had explained it to you. You had teased him for it- What, you don’t trust me to not burn the house down?- but he had only smiled, voice steady and sure when he told you, I like knowing you’re safe.

It had never failed. Not once. Even when he himself could not text you, Lasswell herself assured you they were fine and merely had to be careful.

But now came the silence.

No messages. No calls. No updates.

You tried not to panic. They were on a mission, after all. Maybe something had gone wrong with their comms, or maybe they had been forced to go dark, and Lasswell was busy. It had happened before, and they had always come back to you, whole and alive, pressing their faces into your neck, murmuring apologies and reassurances.

But then a full week passed.

Then two.

And no one would tell you a thing and Lasswell wasn’t picking up, either.

You had tried- had called, had knocked on doors, had pushed until you were met with polite deflections and stone-cold refusals.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but that information is classified.”

“There’s nothing we can share at this time.”

“We appreciate your patience.”

Patience.

As if you would sit here, helpless, and just wait. Hopeless, and helpless, and unable to do a single thing to help then.

No. No, you had done that before. You had waited before. And it had cost you everything.

You weren’t that girl anymore. You weren’t a victim of circumstance, hoping for scraps of kindness, praying for someone to do right by you.

If no one would help, you would do it yourself; because they were yours, and they were the best thing that have ever happened to you, and you weren’t going to lose them.

Tracking them down was easier than you expected.

You had spent years curating the image of someone soft and harmless, someone not worth keeping secrets from. And people loved to talk. Especially when they thought you were just a grieving, desperate woman trying to find a lost fiancé and his friends.

All it had taken was a few well-placed words, a few tearful looks, and doors had opened.

It had taken only days to pinpoint their last known location, then. After you’d hunted down Laswell, and had her help you. Though you were glad to see that she was working to find out where they were, as well, and merely lacked the manpower because of some general named Shepherd.

You filed the name away for later thoughts.

A warlord with connections to arms smuggling in Eastern Europe. An old base, abandoned by one regime and taken over by another. And your men had been sent in to dismantle it.

But they hadn’t come back. MIA, the reports said.

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t care for those three letters. You moved.

You gathered supplies, mapped out your route, planned your approach with the precision of someone who had done it before. You emptied old caches, dusted off weapons you hadn’t touched in years, and set off.

The infiltration was clean; a single shadow among many, slipping between patrols, cutting down obstacles with silent, brutal efficiency. Years it may have been, you hadn’t gotten as rusty as you’d feared you’d be.

You had never been squeamish. You had learned long ago that softness had no place in survival- but it could thrive and bloom in the aftermath, a stubborn weed that eventually makes way for a full bouquet.

But this was different.

This was fury burning in your blood as you carved a path forward, every movement precise- you couldn’t afford any less.

You didn’t stop, no matter what.

Not until you found them at last, and your heart ached something fierce abd sharp in your chest.

Caged. Beaten. Bound but not broken- and drugged.

I should have been more rough, you mourn for a split second. An easy death was more mercy than what was deserved.

John’s head lifted first, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Love-?”

Then Simon, bloodied but breathing, his body sluggish with whatever chemicals they had pumped into him. Every part of him was covered in blood and cuts.

Johnny’s voice, then, hoarse and raw, full of disbelief and worry. “No. No, you’re not- this insnae real-“

And Kyle, whose breath hitched as you knelt beside him, gentle fingers brushing against his bruised face.

They thought they were dreaming; they thought you weren’t real.

And maybe that was a… mercy.

Because if they had been clear-headed, if they had seen what you had done to get here, if they had watched the way you had cut down anyone in your path with merciless efficiency-

They would have looked at you differently.

And you couldn’t bear that. To have their illusion of your gentleness shattered like that…

So you played along.

Whispered reassurances, pressed kisses to sweat-damp foreheads, untied their bindings with careful hands. You coaxed them to move, guided them through the corridors you’d emptied, wiped away the blood that dripped from their skinz

And when they sagged against you, too dazed to fight, too lost in the haze of their drugged delirium, you held them-

Kept them safe, and brought them home.

Later, they woke in a hospital, clean and stitched and safe.

You were already there, fussing over them, your voice soft and sweet, your fingers gentle as you pressed cool cloths to fever-warm skin, brushed stray curls from foreheads, adjusted pillows and blankets with quiet determination. Dressed in something white and pink, the colors of innocence, nails cleaned of blood even if your hands will never be truly clean.

You looked the same as ever.

Pretty and delicate, their lovely girl, their tender-hearted sweetheart.

And for all that had happened, all that they had suffered, all that you had done-

They never suspected a single thing, and you didn’t tell them; didn’t tell them that there had been no extraction team. That there had been no grand military rescue- not even from the the same military that had abandoned them.

(His name was General Shepherd. You will not forget it- you’d need to carve his name on the bullet you’ll save just for him, after all.)

That it had been you.

Only you.

Only Laswell knew the truth, and she would keep your secret because she understood what it meant to protect the people you loved.

And if you had to carry this weight alone to keep them from ever looking at you like you were something other-

So be it.

You sat beside John, pressing a kiss to his temple as his fingers curled weakly around yours.

You smiled at Simon when his hand brushed against your knee, seeking reassurance, seeking you, his eyes tired.

You let Johnny hold you, his arms tight around your waist as he mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder, still half-lost in the remnants of the drugs.

And when Kyle murmured: “At leas’ you’re safe, pretty.” His voice thick with sleep-

You just smiled and ran your fingers carefully through his hair, and held them the way you always had.

And pretended that everything was exactly the same.

[vioxsoo]

Need more of whatever the hell Horikoshi is doing right now

[vioxsoo]

Price's lil wife Shenanigans

Thank you @goatgoesmbe for this idea

"And for any argument really. Even silly stuff how Price jokingly tutted when you heat your tea in microwave like- he would gladly make a new one, you have a kettle

Without question, the others immediately take your side and defend your microwaved tea. Despite Price knowing full well they used to mock people who do that. They would just go 180° with their opinion for you."

The tea thing yes yes yes. During a helicopter ride or something all geared up, Gaz leaned over to ask how The (their) Missus was and Price muttered that he found out you make your tea in the microwave when he’s not around to do it. All of them audibly groaned, Ghost clutching his lil brit heart at the idea. What are you? a monster? Tea without a kettle? That's the behavior of a true criminal. Untilll they were all over at the house again and they watched you place your cup into the microwave to heat it up and Price is rubbing his face in his hands. 

“Woman for christ’s sake the kettle is right there.”

“Ya but this is faster and it tastes the same.” Price turns to his men looking for back up because No. No it does not taste the same. Their captain is staring at them, but behind him is you. Staring so sweetly. Genuinely confused as to why its such a big deal. 

“Think it tastes good both ways.” Garrick is the first to speak up.

“Maybe even better when you get your tea faster.” Soap adds. The men slowly stepping closer to you and away from Price.

“I always make my tea that way. Not a big deal cap’n” Ghost’s final addition is the nail in Price’s coffin. Turning to see your smug ass face, surrounded by his men. Traitors. Absolute traitors. 

The next time they’re at the base and Riley goes to make tea, pulling the kettle out of the cupboard, Price snatches it aways. 

“No No Lieutenant. Make it like you always do. In. the. Fucking. Microwave.” Standing arms crossed waiting for Ghost to have some sort of comeback. His eyes darting to Soap and Gaz, knowing that if he makes his tea in the kettle they would snitch to you for sure. Fuck. Worth it tho.

[vioxsoo]

GHOST BY JIANGBAOAOWU

[vioxsoo]

LOW COUNTRY | INTRODUCTIONS

johnny mactavish x reader

[NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]

mild swearing, lots of plot

The farm isn’t just a home—it’s a responsibility, a burden you never planned on shouldering alone.

You left this place once you were fresh out of high school, eager to escape the quiet, the isolation of the small town you grew up in. The city called to you, and you answered. New York City—the hustle, the noise, the lights. It was everything your small-town heart dreamed of. The world felt wide and full of possibility. You imagined yourself growing into the person you’d always wanted to be. College and a future in the city, away from the farm, away from the confines of the life that had always been so familiar, so small.

But then, one night after a bar-crawl with your friends marking the end of your Senior year, you got the call.

Your Ma had passed away. Just like that—no warning, no time to prepare.

You dropped everything. That’s what you do when family calls. You go home. The city and all your plans  felt so far away as you packed your bags and made the drive back to the farm. When you drove up the long driveway, the house sat there in the distance, almost looking the same, but so much different all at once. It felt wrong without your Ma's laugh echoing through the halls, her hum in the kitchen, her steady presence.

The funeral came and went in a blur of emotion, family, and loss. It was all a whirlwind, a blur of faces, of handshakes, and hushed condolences. But when the dust settled, the reality set in. Your Pa needed help. There was no denying it. He wasn’t the same man anymore—not without your Ma beside him.

So, you stayed. You told yourself it was temporary—just a few weeks, maybe a month at most. You’d help him get back on his feet, make sure everything was squared away, then go back to the city. But days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Mere months  turned into two years. One look at your Pa—slow-moving, his back hunched a little more each day, his hands trembled a little more than they used to—and you knew.

You couldn’t leave him.

The farm, with all its heavy tasks and responsibilities, became yours. For a while, your Pa tried to help, tried to keep his old pace. But as time passed and his grief only grew, his strength had faded, and soon, the weight of the work was yours to bear alone. He couldn’t lift the hay bales like he used to, couldn’t herd the sheep the way he had before. And those trips to the farthest corner of the farm on horseback, checking the fences, making sure everything was secure? You reckoned he couldn’t even get on a saddle.

You didn’t mind at first. It was just the two of you now, and you loved this place, loved the land, loved what it represented, It was home. But there were moments—the quiet ones, when everything slowed down—that the weight of it all settled heavily on your shoulders. You weren’t a farmhand. You were a woman who had spent her whole upbringing dreaming of more. A different life. But now, you’re tied to this place. Tied to your Pa. And your Ma's laugh still lingers in the walls, thick and heavy like the humidity that Summer brings each morning. 

You’re exhausted, frustrated—running on fumes. You can’t keep doing it all, but there’s no choice. The farm, the animals, the crops, the house... and Pa. You’re stretched thin, your bones aching under the weight of responsibilities that pile up faster than you can manage. The idea of doing it all alone feels like a cruel joke.

Something’s got to give. 

The help-wanted flyers were your last-ditch effort. You spent the better half of the previous night making them yourself, attempting to make them each as uniform as possible. 

‘FARMHAND WANTED. 

DEPENDABLE WORKERS AND SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY. 

CALL XXX-XXX-XXXX FOR DETAILS.’

If you didn’t find someone soon, you didn’t know how much longer you could keep it together. So, as the clock striked 8 AM the next morning, you climbed into Pa’s old pick-up, the engine coughing to life as you made your way into town.

You’d been born and raised here. The downtown—if it can even be called that—of Williston is small, everyone knows everyone, and most folks are working-class, middle-aged. The kind of people who offered a warm smile and a helping hand without a second thought. You’d grown up with their kindness, and now, as you hung those flyers in their storefront windows, you could feel the weight of their stares—half concern, half curiosity.

They all know your story by now. They’d watched you grow up, watched you leave, and then watched you come back after everything fell apart. You could feel the sympathy in their eyes, but they never let it show—there was a quiet understanding between you all. Their hospitality was something you could never take for granted.

But no amount of kind gestures could change the fact that you need help. And fast.

You pull into an empty parking space a block away from Main St, quickly hopping out and make your way through town, handing out flyers to shop owners and sticking them to cork boards. It’s routine. A simple task, but the weight of it all makes it feel heavier than it should. The town’s small enough that you’re familiar with most of the faces, and it feels like you’ve talked to half the town by the time the afternoon rolls around. You’re famished—your stomach growling louder than the engine of Pa’s truck as you finish your rounds.

You head into the local bar/diner/cafe/pawnshop, the comforting smell of fried food and coffee hanging in the air. The place is familiar, cozy—its booths all torn leather, worn but inviting. Al—or Crazy Al, as most call him—the owner, gives you a warm smile when you walk in, his graying hair poking out from beneath his old baseball cap. He’s been here longer than anyone can remember.

“Ya look like ya could use a milkshake,” he says, already putting scoops of vanilla ice cream into the blender.

You nod, grateful for the small kindness. Al gestures toward one of the metal bar stools in front of him, you sit and his eyes narrow a little when he notices the exhaustion written across your face.

“What’s got’ya  all wound up, kid?” he asks, pouring the milkshake in a mug and handing it to you

You eye the mug with momentary confusion before you choose to ignore his choice of cups. You take a deep breath, the weight of the day hitting you all over again. “It’s the farm,” you say, swirling the straw in the thick milkshake, not sure where to start. “Pa’s slowing down. I’m running everything from the crops, to the cows, to the house. I can’t keep up.”

Al nods, his expression softening in sympathy as he leans back against the counter. “That’s a helluva load for one person. Yer doin’ right by yer Pa, though, kid. Ya know that?”

You smile faintly, but it fades quickly. “I’m just doing what needs to be done, but it’s just not enough anymore. So I’m trying to find someone to help—a guy, young and strong, you know? I just can’t do it all by myself.”

You slide one of the flyers across the counter to Al, asking him to keep an eye out. “If you see anyone, just... send them my way? I’m desperate, at this point.”

He takes the flyer, his gaze flickering to the paper before meeting your eyes again. “Funny ya mention that,” Al says, scratching his chin. “There’s a new guy who popped up not a day ago. Didn’t think much of it at the time, but he was askin’ around for work. Thought he looked a little outta place for this town, but...”

You raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean ‘out of place’?”

“Just dun’ seem like he belonged, I guess. Looks like he went to Iraq or wherever they’re fightin’ these days.” He shrugs. “But hey, if ya need someone, ya might want to track ‘em down. If I see ‘em again, I’ll send him yer way.”

You nod, feeling a spark of hope. “You’re a Godsend, Al.”

About a week later, it’s a humid Wednesday morning in the heart of August. The kind of heat that clings to your skin, even when the sun’s hiding behind a blanket of clouds. A slight fog lingers in the air, and the scent of sweet grass drifts through the open windows, carried by a lazy breeze. The sun’s rays begin to break through the mist, casting long fingers of light across the fields and trees in the distance.

You finish cleaning up after breakfast, the dishes clinking softly in the sink. Pa’s moved from the dining table to sit in his ratty old armchair in the corner, eyes half-lidded as the local weatherman drones on about tomorrow’s rainstorm. It’s a quiet, familiar morning—the kind you’ve gotten used to in the last couple of years. Your hair’s tied up, a few loose strands sticking to your sun-kissed skin as you wipe down the counter, sweat beading lightly on your neck.

Then you hear it—boots on the porch.

Your body tenses instinctively, the old reflex kicking in. You consider grabbing the shotgun atop the door frame, but a second later, you shake the thought off. It’s overkill, and you’ve got enough sense to know it.

You open the door, not expecting much, probably some girl scouts, or worse, another annoying sales rep. from out of town.

You grasp the handle, pulling open the door, “Look, whatever you're selling, I ain’t buying. I got enough shit to pay fo-”

Standing there is a man, 6 '2 if you had to guess, built like a damn ox, all sharp angles and hard muscle, hair a cropped mohawk that looks like it belongs on someone ten times tougher than him. His eyes are so blue they nearly blind you, but they seem to hold a storm behind them, like he’s seen some shit.  But what really gets you is that smirk. It makes you want to both slap and kiss him at the same time.

And then he opens his mouth, and…

Definitely not American. Not even close.

You blink, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve stepped into some strange dream. You’ve always been more open-minded than most of the people in town, but hearing that thick accent in the middle of your quiet, rural world makes everything suddenly feel a little too strange. Now you get what Al was talking about when he mentioned, “Not from around here.”

He’s dressed in a dark blue flannel, sleeves rolled up to reveal a white wife beater underneath, the fabric stretched tight over his chest. A neat, tiny gold cross between each pec, as if to say ‘Hey! Look at my man-tits!’ His denim jeans are worn, the brown scuffs on the knees looking like he’s been praying in dirt. And those forearms… Thick and muscular, veins running like rivers beneath his skin- stop it.

You force your focus back up to his face, and it’s just as distracting. Soft stubble accented by the sharp slope of his nose. He stands tall, looking at you like he’s waiting for something—oh. He spoke, and now you were supposed to respond. That is how conversations work.

 You’re not the type to generally stare at people, but something about him, something in the way he carries himself. You try not to notice how his broad shoulders fill the doorway like he’s daring you to le- STOP.

He shifts on his feet, a hint of uncertainty behind that cocky grin. You can tell he’s not as sure of himself as he’s trying to appear. Maybe that’s the only thing stopping you from slamming the door in his face.

Still, you don’t trust him. Why would a guy like that want a job on a farm in the middle of nowhere? He looks like he could be doing much more important things—literally anywhere else—but he’s here. Standing on your porch with your flyer slightly crumpled in his big hands. 

“What can I do for you?” You try to sound cool, collected, but your tone comes out a little sharper than you meant.

He tilts his head, the smirk never wavering. “I hear ye're lookin’ for a hand.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That right?”

“Aye,” he answers, his accent thick and heavy, rolling the words in a way that makes the air feel hotter than it already is.

He steps a little closer, just enough to make you take a half step back. “Name’s Johnny-” he stretches his hand out, “Mactavish. I’m lookin’ for work. Could use somethin’ steady.”

You study him for a second, arms crossed, and wonder if you should even entertain this. A man like him could be trouble. Hell, a man like him is trouble. You take his hand in yours, giving it a solid shake.

“Do you know anything about farms?” with crossed arms and raised eyebrows, you don't bother to hide the skepticism in your voice.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’ve done my share o’ heavy liftin’. Hard work don’t scare me.”

“Alright,” you hum, stepping back and letting the door swing open a little wider. “Come on in. I’ll get you something to drink, but don’t think you’re on the job yet. I’m just…” you pause, “Interviewing, I guess.”

He gives you another smirk,more amused than cocky as he steps past you. “Yes ma’am.”

You step aside, letting him in, and the moment he crosses the threshold, he fills the space. It’s not just his size—though, yeah, the man is big—it’s his presence. Something about him shifts the air, like he’s the sun and everything around him are just mere planets, susceptible to his magnetic pull. The house, your home, suddenly feels a little too small.

His smile fades, just slightly, as he takes it all in. Maybe it’s the warmth of the place, the scent of coffee lingering from breakfast, the old family photos lining the walls. Or maybe it’s just the quiet—different from whatever he’s used to.

“The hell is this?”

Pa’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and confused. He’s already halfway up from his chair, eyes narrowed, hands braced on the armrests like he’s about to stand but isn’t quite sure if it’s worth the effort. His gaze flicks between you and the very large, very unfamiliar man now standing in his house.

You sigh, already anticipating the reaction. “Pa, relax,” you say, walking over to him, ready to placate. “I was just looking for some help around the farm.”

Pa squints at the stranger like he’s trying to figure out whether he’s real or just a heat stroke-induced hallucination. “Help? With what?”

“With everything, Pa.” You lower your voice to a whisper-shout, rubbing your temple. “You can’t keep up the way you used to, and neither can I. We need someone else.”

Pa grumbles something under his breath before scoffing. “And how exactly do ya plan to pay ‘em, huh? We can’t afford that.”

You set your jaw firm. “I’ll make it work, I promise”

That makes him pause. He knows that tone. Knows it the same way he knew your mother’s, unyielding and steady, like a tree standing firm against the wind. Your roots bury deep in the ground you walk on, just like her. There’s no use arguing when you get like this, and he’s too tired to fight a battle he knows he’ll lose.

Still, his lips press into a thin line, his weathered hands gripping the armrests of his recliner before he exhales, slow and resigned. “Stubborn like your mother, I tell ya.”

The words land heavier than you’d like. You huff out a breath, shoving it down before it can settle too deep—before your guest gets too curious. You don’t need a stranger poking around and popping stitches.

So instead, you turn away from Pa as he sits back down, still muttering under his breath, and quickly clear the dining table of a few lingering cups from breakfast. The kitchen’s only a few steps away, the open floor plan letting you move freely. You rinse out a glass and fill it with cool, sweet tea, condensation already forming on the outside as the humid air clings to it. It’s an old habit, a simple kindness—making sure guests have something to drink.

When you turn back, you see that Johnny’s wandered toward the wall, where a small collection of family photos are hung in mismatched frames. He’s standing still, his broad shoulders relaxed but his head tilted slightly, studying them. Studying you.

Your stomach twists when you realize which one he’s looking at.

It’s old, a little faded in its frame, but still clear—you, small and bright-eyed, cloaked in your Ma's too-big dress and classy jewelry, drowning in fabric and pearls as you grin at the camera. Your Ma's crouched beside you, laughing, her arms wrapped around your waist to keep you steady. The slight shadow of your Pa holding the camera, capturing a moment frozen in time.

You clear your throat, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of last night's baseball game replaying from the tv. Dave Winfield hit his 400th home run last night against the Twins. Johnny’s attention was pulled back to you. His blue eyes flicker with something unreadable before he schools his face.

You don’t give him the chance to say anything. Instead, you hold up the glass and gesture toward the dining table. “Sit.”

He does, pulling out one of the side chairs and settling into it with an easy, almost lazy confidence. You set the glass in front of him and take the seat at the head of the table, watching him as he wraps his fingers around the sweating drink.

And for the first time since he showed up, he’s quiet. 

You realize, rather suddenly, that you’re not actually sure what to ask him. You’ve never interviewed anyone before—never had to. The farm’s always been run by family.

You clear your throat, shifting slightly in your chair, trying not to feel small under his gaze. He’s watching you—not in a way that feels threatening, but in a way that makes you hyper-aware of yourself. Of the way your fingers tap against the tabletop, of the bead of sweat still clinging to your collarbone from the August heat.

You square your shoulders and push past it. “So,” you start, “what kind of experience do you have with hard labor?”

He leans back a little, forearms flexing just enough to be distracting. “Done my fair share,” he says, voice casual, like he’s talking about the weather.

You arch a brow. “Like?”

His lips twitch, just slightly, like he can tell you’re trying to keep up the tough act. “Military.”

That gives you pause. Military. You study him again, looking past his too-relaxed posture. Yeah, you can see it now—in the way he holds himself, in the sharpness of his gaze, in the way he takes in a room like he’s cataloging exits.

“What branch?” you ask.

“UK Special Forces.”

That surprises you, but you keep your face neutral. You wondered what brought him here, of all places. Obviously he wasn’t American, he sounds like Groundskeeper Willie, for Christ's sake. Your fingers tap against the table once before you ask, “What’d you do?”

He hesitates. It’s slight, barely there, but you catch it. His jaw tenses for just a fraction of a second before he exhales through his nose. “Served where I was needed.”

You tilt your head. “Iraq?”

His eyes flicker—not with surprise, but with something else. A shadow. It’s gone just as quickly as it appears, buried under that same easy smirk. “Among other places.”

You don’t push. You just nod, sensing that it’s not something he wants to talk about all that much.

You’re fine with that. Everyone’s got their wounds.

You exhale, shifting slightly in your seat, fingers drumming lightly against the wooden tabletop. “How much can you lift?”

Johnny takes his time answering, reaching for the glass of sweet tea. He swirls it absently, watching the condensation bead and trail down the sides before taking a slow sip. “Depends,” he finally says, setting it down with a soft thud.“What’re we talkin’? Hay bales? Fence posts? You?”

Your lips press together in a flat line. You refuse to bite. “Let’s stick to hay bales.”

His grin is slow and amused, like he enjoys getting under your skin. “Can handle hay bales no problem.”

You roll your eyes and shift topics before he can drag this out. “Ever ridden horses?”

He stretches slightly, rolling his broad shoulders before settling back into the chair. “Aye, a few times,” he says, tipping his head. “No’ often, but I ken how.”

You nod, working through his accent in your head, but ultimately satisfied enough with that. “Ever herded sheep?”

His brow quirks, and he tilts his head just slightly, giving you a look. “Aren’t there dogs for tha’?”

You let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking your head as you lean forward to rest your elbows on the table. “Yeah, there are. But Dixie’s old now and too nice for her own good. Sleeps with the sheep more than she herds them. Think she likes being part of the flock.”

Johnny’s expression shifts just a fraction—nose wrinkling, jaw tensing like he’s biting back a reaction. Then, casually, like it’s nothing, he mutters, “No’ really fond o’ dogs.”

Your fingers tap against the table once before you hum, neither surprised nor bothered. “That’s fine. Dixie’ll leave you alone if you don’t want to interact with her, she’s a sweet girl though.”

Johnny exhales through his nose and nods, shifting in his chair. He leans back, resting one arm over the backrest like he owns the damn thing, settling into an easy, almost lazy posture. You, on the other hand, are still sitting straight, trying to keep some sense of control in this conversation. You move toward the standard questions—his work ethic, reliability, how soon he can start. Hopefully ASAP.

He answers everything with the kind of confidence that makes it clear he’s no stranger to hard labor, though he keeps the details vague, like he doesn’t see the point in spelling things out to you

Eventually, you sit back, rubbing your hands over your thighs before resting them in your lap. “Look,” you start, exhaling slowly. “I’ll be honest with you. I can’t pay much. It’s a lot of work for a little money.” You’re already bracing yourself for rejection.

Johnny’s quiet for a moment, like he’s really thinking it over. His fingers tap lightly against the table’s edge before he shifts, rolling his shoulders once more before leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I’ll work withou’ pay,” he says finally. “So long as I get a place tae sleep. An’ meals.”

That throws you a little. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your worn jeans as you study him, searching his face for any flicker of dishonesty. But he doesn’t look like a man trying to con you—just someone who’s already made up his mind.

He watches you right back, head tilted slightly, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll argue.

You think on it. It’d be more cost-effective to add a couple extra eggs or greens to each meal rather than shell out cash on the daily. You don’t particularly like the idea of someone working for free, but if he’s willing, if it helps keep the farm running.

You nod, exhaling through your nose. “That can work.” This time you extend your hand first, across the table and palm up. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Johnny glances down at your hand, then back up at you. Slowly, he reaches out, his grip firm and his hand dwarves yours. Working hands, warm, rough with calluses. The shake lingers just a second longer than necessary before he lets go, settling back into his seat with an easy smile.

“Guess I’m yours then, boss.”

You spend the next few hours showing Johnny around the property, riding side by side on horseback. Before you even get 5 minutes out of the barn, you realize—for all his confidence—he’s not the best at riding. His posture is stiff, his grip on the reins just a little too tight, and when the horse starts to trot, it becomes painfully obvious—he can’t post to save his life.

You bite back a smile, watching as he bounces awkwardly in the saddle, his jaw tight with concentration. Yeah. That’d be a lesson for tomorrow.

For now, though, you make things easier on both of you. You have Johnny dismount the horse and put her back in her stall. He does so with a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck in embarassment, and you gesture for him to get on behind you on Shimmer—your brown beauty with a white patch on her forehead. She’s steady, calm, used to being ridden double.

He hesitates for only a second before swinging himself up behind you, settling in close. Closer than you’d realized he’d be.

It makes sense, he takes up a lot of space compared to you. Granted, Shimmer is a horse for your size, not his. His chest is flush against your back, warm and solid, and suddenly, you’re very aware of just how big he is. His arms rest lightly on either side of you, long enough for his hands gripping the saddle’s pommel as he adjusts. 

You swallow hard, fighting the blush creeping up your neck. Focus.

“You good back there?” Your voice is steady, but barely.

Johnny shifts slightly, just enough that his chest presses firmer against you. “Aye,” he says, low and smooth. “Though, I cannae say I mind the view from back here.”

You roll your eyes, forcing yourself to focus on guiding Shimmer forward instead of the warmth of him against your spine.

Tomorrow, you’ll teach him how to properly ride a horse.

You guide Shimmer across the acres, Johnny still seated behind you, his chest a steady presence against your back. You don’t bother overwhelming him with too much about the animals—there’d be time for that later. For now, you focus on the land itself, pointing out the ins and outs of the property. The best routes to take. The spots where the fence needs checking. Where the land dips and swells, where the ground gets soft after rain. What to avoid.

To your surprise, he doesn’t just nod along like he’s only half-listening—he absorbs everything.

You’d expected some level of attention, but Johnny takes it to another level. He’s perceptive, and alarmingly so. He never asks you to repeat yourself, doesn’t need clarification. His responses are short but sharp, repeating directions back to you with precision, like he’s filing everything away for later.

It shocks you a little. Most people take weeks to learn the best ways around the farm, to memorize which fence posts need reinforcing, which pasture belongs to which animal.

Johnny’s picking it up in hours.

You exhale, eyes scanning the land ahead as you consider it. Must be the military. You don’t know much about what exactly the UK has their Army doing, but you imagine remembering terrain was part of the job. Mapping escape routes, tracking paths, knowing where to move and when. James Bond shit.

It’s a little unnerving, if you’re being honest. But at the same time, it’s... reassuring. If he can learn this fast, maybe he’ll actually be useful around here.

By the time the sun starts its slow descent, painting the sky in hazy streaks of orange and pink, you’ve spent the better part of the day word-vomiting everything Johnny needs to know about the property. He took it all in with that same sharp, unnerving focus, barely asking questions, barely missing a beat. You’d expected him to lose interest, to at least seem overwhelmed, but he never did. It’s strange.

It’s late afternoon. You bring him inside, leading him upstairs to the guest bedroom.

The layout of the house is simple. All the bedrooms are on the second floor. Pa’s bedroom is to the left of the stairs, along with a storage room and a couple of closets down the hall. He’s got his own ensuite bathroom, which is a luxury in a house this old. There’s a small common area at the top of the stairs, more of a nook than a real room, where an old desk and a shelf full of worn books sit untouched most days. To the right of the stairs and down the hall is your bedroom, and next to it, the guest room—now Johnny’s room. Directly across the hall is the bathroom, which, as of now, isn’t just your bathroom anymore.

It’s Johnny’s too, now. You just had to pray he would remember to put the seat down. 

You pause outside the guest room, pushing the door open so he can step in. It’s simple—a sturdy bed, a nightstand, a decently sized dresser. Nothing fancy, but clean and comfortable enough.

Johnny steps inside, tossing his bag onto the bed and glancing around. He gives a small nod, like he approves, before shooting a look over his shoulder.

"Cozy," he remarks, that damn accent making the word sound richer than it has any right to.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “My room’s next door,” you tell him, nodding toward it. “And we’ll be sharing the bathroom across the hall.”

Johnny quirks a brow at that, glancing toward the bathroom before his gaze slides back to you. His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but damn close.

“Hope ye dinnae take long showers, then,” he teases.

You huff, pushing off the doorframe. “I don’t. I won’t be in your way. Hope you won’t be in mine.”

He chuckles, low and amused, before stretching his arms above his head, the hem of his wife beater riding up just enough to reveal a dark tuft of hair, tastefully accented by a vline and the bottom half of some abs. He sighs, rolling his shoulders. “Well, as long as ye don’t mind m’walkin’ around in a towel,  we’ll get along just fine.”

You blink. Once. Twice. He’s messing with you, but you wouldn’t mind a bit. You don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing that. “I’ll let you get settled,” you say, tone flat. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Johnny watches you for a second, then grins—a lazy, wolfish thing that makes your stomach flip in a way you’d rather not acknowledge.

“Yes ma’am,” he drawls. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You turn on your heel and head back downstairs, exhaling as you step into the kitchen. Dinner. You’ll focus on dinner. For you, Pa—and now, Johnny.

Like it’s normal. Like you’re not dangerously aware of the Greek God now living just a door down from you.

The sun’s nearly set by the time dinner’s on the table, casting a warm orange glow through the kitchen windows. The air is thick with the scent of home-cooked food—something rich, filling, the kind of meal that sticks to your ribs after a long day’s work. You don’t cook fancy, but you cook damn well, and the proof is sitting right across from you.

Johnny practically groans after the first bite, dropping his fork against his plate and leaning back in his chair like he’s just had some religious experience.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” he mumbles, chewing through another mouthful, shaking his head in near disbelief. “This is th’ best thing I’ve eaten in—hell, I dunno how long.”

You scoff, stabbing a piece of chicken with your fork. “You act like I just served you the cure for cancer.”

Johnny just points his fork at you, eyes damn serious. “Might as well be.”

Pa huffs out a chuckle, though he’s still regarding Johnny with that wary, fatherly suspicion. He’s been watching him since he sat down, not quite unfriendly, but assessing. The kind of look that says ‘I don’t trust you yet, but I’m willing to tolerate you.’

“So,” Pa starts, setting his glass down, “what’s a young guy like yourself doin’ lookin’ for farm work? Dun’ seem like the kinda thing a soldier would go for.”

Johnny doesn’t falter. He wipes his mouth with a napkin before answering, “Needed a change o’ pace,” he says. “Figured I’d try m’hand at something new.”

Pa isn’t impressed. “Ya ever worked on a farm before, boy?”

“No’ exactly, no.” Johnny pops another bite into his mouth. “But work’s work, aye? Ye put in effort, ye get results. Simple enough.”

Pa hums, clearly not satisfied with that answer. “... And where’d ya say your from, again?”

“Scotland.”

“Huh.” Pa leans back slightly, arms crossed. “Ya don’t say.”

Johnny just grins, sensing the old man’s suspicion and, by all accounts, enjoying it. But then he shifts gears, effortlessly steering the conversation in a different direction. “Caught some of tha’ baseball game ye had on this morning.,” he says, casually, like it’s just an offhand remark. “Did nae get tae see th’ end of it, though. Who won?”

That gets Pa’s attention. His eyebrows lift slightly, suspicion briefly forgotten. “Ya watch baseball?”

Johnny shrugs. “Not often, bu’ I like a good game when I see one. And from what I saw, th’ Angel’s were struggling there for a bit.”

Pa scoffs. “Struggling? Boy, they were getting their asses handed to ‘em. Pitcher was all over the damn place. If I’d been on the field, I’d have-”

And just like that, the two are off, talking baseball, going back and forth like they’ve known each other for years. You groan, pushing your food around on your plate as the conversation carries on, completely hijacked.

You should’ve known this would happen. Give two men a sport to bond over, and suddenly, they’re best friends.

You zone out for a while, chewing absentmindedly, half-listening as they talk about batting averages and pitching speeds. You don’t notice it at first—a gentle nudge against your ankle.

You flinch slightly, assuming Johnny just bumped you on accident. You shift your foot away under the table.

He follows with his own. Your brows furrow slightly, shooting a glance at him. He doesn’t even look at you, still chatting with Pa like nothing’s happening.

A moment later, another nudge—softer this time.

You realize he’s doing it on purpose.

You sit up straighter, stiffening as you move your foot again.

Johnny follows.

Your jaw tightens, eyes narrowing. What is he doing?

You flick your gaze toward him again, and finally, he meets your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough for the ghost of a smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth before he looks back at Pa, completely unfazed.

You resist the urge to kick him under the table, opting instead to glare daggers at him, your expression screaming ‘What in the absolute fuck are you doing?’

Johnny, the absolute menace, doesn’t react beyond the occasional brief glance in your direction, his smirk lingering like he’s enjoying this way too much.

Meanwhile, Pa’s none the wiser, still going on about how baseball’s gone soft over the years. And you’re stuck sitting there, silently fuming, trapped in a footsie war like you’re in grade school.

Dinner winds down, the conversation between Johnny and Pa finally tapering off. Johnny, mercifully, lets up with the footsie nonsense, though not before giving one last, slow brush of his ankle against yours—like a final, smug little victory lap. You pointedly ignore it, pretending not to notice, even as heat creeps up the back of your neck.

Eventually, Pa calls it a night. He pushes back from the table with a tired groan, muttering about how he’s “too damn old to be up this late,” before shuffling off toward the stairs.

You listen to his slow, steady footsteps as he heads up to his room, waiting for the familiar click of his door shutting. And then—you’re alone.

Johnny lingers in the kitchen, standing near the island, hovering. He looks out of place for the first time since he showed up, like he’s not sure if he should offer to help or just let you do your thing. Instead, he leans against the counter, arms crossing over his chest, his weight shifting from one foot to the other.

It’s awkward—unlike him.

You stack plates, rinsing them under the faucet, letting the warm water fill the quiet. But you can feel him watching you. Not in a weird way—just... observing. Like he’s waiting for something.

And you’re not about to let that something slide.

“So,” you say, voice casual as you scrub a dish, “what was with the footsie?”

Johnny makes a noise in the back of his throat, amused. “Thought ye’d never ask.”

You scoff, shooting him a look over your shoulder. “Seriously?”

His smirk is pure trouble. “Could nae help myself, lass,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on the countertop. “Ye just looked so serious, sittin’ there all quiet, tryin’ not tae react.” His voice drops just a bit lower, teasing. “Was cute.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest, a traitorous little skip that pisses you off.

Because, genuinely, what the hell? Sure he’s probably the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, and potentially your exact type to a T, but you’ve only known this man for a day. There’s no way you could be that desperate, no way you’re already feeling anything. Right?

The thought alone makes irritation creep up your spine. You shut the faucet off with a little more force than necessary, turning away from the dishes completely so you can fully face him.

“What are you playing at?” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You fold your arms, leveling him with a look. “Are you actually here to work? Or are you just here to freeload an-”

Johnny pushes himself off the counter, not playing around. He stands up straight, tall, and present. And when he looks at you this time, there’s nothing cheeky about it.

“I’m here tae work,” he says, steady, certain. “Ye need help, and I can handle it. Tha’s why I’m here.”

His smile returns, but it’s softer this time. Honest. He lifts a shoulder in a slow, lazy shrug, his voice dropping. “But you’re gorgeous, and there’s no denyin’ that. Just sayin’.”

Your brain stalls. Stops working entirely. There could very well be steam coming out of your scalp.

He moves beside you, completely unfazed, grabbing a towel like it’s the most natural thing in the world and starting to dry the dishes you had already washed. Meanwhile, you just stand there, staring where he was just standing, still feeling the heat of his gaze on your skin.

You’re in trouble.

[vioxsoo]

𝖾𝗑-𝖿𝗐𝖻!𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 “𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵” 𝗋𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗒 𝗑 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗐𝖻!𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 “𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘱” 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗑 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖼𝗐 : 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾

𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖾.

𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎—𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌; 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁, 𝗇𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖽𝖽 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗑. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗎𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍?

𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅. 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾. 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗋𝗆, 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.

𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝖻𝗒 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗂𝗆: 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎; 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇'𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍.

𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎: 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾. 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗁𝗒, 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍—𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉—𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖻𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗐 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅. 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝗂𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗋𝗆, 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌—𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌.

"𝘺𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯'𝘵 '𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥, 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰' 𝘧𝘶𝘯," 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽, 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖼𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐. 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽? 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗈𝗍𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝗄𝗇𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄.

𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾; 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌.

𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗁. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒, 𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽. 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽-𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗅𝗒. 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾.

𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 141. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽, 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅. 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽.

𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖽. 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒, 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾. 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗆𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖺𝗇𝗌. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒? 𝗈𝗁, 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝗒, 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀.

𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇. "𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥?" 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽, 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝖽, 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽, "𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦. 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘺𝘦," 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗒 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗄 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾.

𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍. 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒. 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗑. 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗇𝗄 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗀𝗈 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝗎𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝖺𝗓. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌.

𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗐, 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇—𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖺𝗅.

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝖿𝗍. 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗌𝗇𝖺𝗉 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇, 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗁𝗎𝗍 𝗎𝗉—𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗐, 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒'𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗍. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗐, 𝗁𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁, 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗉𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐? 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

"𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵, 𝘓.𝘛.?" 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗋. "𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘺𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸?" 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾. 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗎𝗉 𝗌𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖼𝗄𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍'𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗉, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗉. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍. 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗍.

𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗋. 𝖻𝗎𝗍, 𝗀𝗈𝖽, 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻? 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆. 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄. 𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐.

𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗋𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝗃𝗈𝗁𝗇𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽.

𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍. 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽?

𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨.

𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢

[vioxsoo]

Ghost gets no bitches and he reminds me of whatever that TikTok audio is that’s like “how’d you get her?” And the other person is like “get her? No she grabbed me by the throat and told me I was hers”.

Word count: 800

Warnings: none (ghost being immediately whipped)

So hear me out you’re at the grocery store and while walking down the aisles you see this behemoth of a man. Big muscle sexy, surgical mask covering his face. You want. What to say? How should you approach? Ah yes you need help getting something from the top shelf. Stepping so you’re in his line of sight

“Could you come here?” You ask him and he just gives you a blank stare. Raising your eyebrows clearly waiting for a response he turns around looking for who you could be talking to and who is clearly not listening to you. When he sees no one else in the aisle he slowly points at himself, questioning you. “Yes you.” You smile trying to hold in a laugh. Quickly adding a “please” in the sweetest little voice and he is scurrying over to you.

“Could you please reach that box for me?” Ghost raises his arm up and points to a box when you nod confirming that’s the one you want he hands it to you. “That one too please” he obeys. You have him hand you two more boxes (not needing any of them). Then you try to push your luck a little. “Wait not this one” you hand him a box back and he returns it to the shelf. Before you know it you’ve had this man put all the boxes back just to hand them to you again. A smirk plastered on your face. Not once did the large man question you, not when you were looking up at him with those pretty eyes.

“Ok done with this aisle. Come on.” You start walking and his feet are following you. He hasn’t said a word to you but is following you around the store like a puppy. Down the next aisle you pointed at something (well within your reach) and he handed it you.

“Are you always this obedient?” You watched his eyes go wide but he found himself nodding. He’d probably say yes to anything you ask when you’re looking at him like that, like you want to eat him whole. His answer brought a smile to your face and he swore his knees were gonna buckle. You held out your hand, “phone.” It was a statement not a question and he quickly (fumbling) pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it to you. When you saw it was locked you looked up at him moving the phone ever so slightly towards him. You had meant for him to take the phone and unlock it but instead he mumbled out “0000” a small but dramatic gasp left your lips “oh so he does speak.” You typed in the 4 digits and the phone opened. You looked up at him when the basic passcode worked. “Simple and obedient. Just how I like ‘em” ghost swallowed hard. No one has ever treated him like this. Spoke to him like this. Not even Price. He should be offended? Insulted? Definitely not turned on. Right? (mark him down and scared AND horny). You handed his phone back to him, your number and name resting on his screen. He reached to take the phone from you, but you didn’t let go. Fingers touching you looked up at him “you better call me. I’ll be real sad if you dont.” He swore he was gonna pass out. Before you let go of his phone, hands still touching, heavy steps made their way into your aisle.

“Aye lieutenant there ye are. Been wandering round lookin fer ya.” Soap called down the aisle.

Ghost refused to acknowledge his friend calling for him, keeping eye contact with you. Your smile got bigger as you let go of the phone.

“Lieutenant huh? That mean you know how to give orders too?” He nodded again. “Then I’m definitely going to need you to call me. I’d like to see that.” Your eyes shamelessly raked down his figure. Fuck he needs to hold on to something.

Once you finally walked away, Soap approached quickly asking who you were and when ghosted shrugged his shoulders “I don’t know.” (But he’s gonna that’s for sure)

“She’s a fine looking lass I’m gonna go talk to her.” Ghost’s hand moved fast, grabbing the back of Soap’s neck guiding (pushing) him in the opposite direction of you. He was thanking god you saw him first and not Soap. If you had talked to Soap like that, ghost knew you’d have him walking on a leash (who’s he kidding if you had asked ghost would’ve barked)

[vioxsoo]

Familiarity & Whiskey // Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Simon and Johnny get in a fight, which is how Simon crosses your path. Thinking your an easy mark for quick comfort and a quick fuck, he's not aware you're in the UK to meet your estranged father. Your circles running tighter with his than he thinks...

(Unedited)

Poor Simon can't catch a fucking break. Let this man nut and smoke a cigarette.

CW: feminine descriptions and pronouns used, alcohol consumption, making out, heavy petting, allusions to oral (male receiving), Simon's lowkey highkey manipulative, absent father!John Price, don't think too hard about age gaps i gave up

Request by: @i-live-in-spite

NSFW 18+ MDNI

"Go to hell, Riley. ‘S where ye fuckin’ belong." 

That had been Johnny’s direct words.

 Which was the first and only time Johnny had addressed by just his last name. Usually it was some irritating nickname, his callsign, or his rank delivered with the Scotsman’s usual bright eyes and mirth that somehow made it less annoying to Simon. And when it was his real name, in serious times, it was his first name, with a sincere look and genuine inflection. Never just ‘Riley’. 

But Johnny had spit his last name like it was a curse. Something that tasted bitter in his mouth, something poisonous. 

Hell, maybe it fucking was. And it had him craving something volatile- destructive. Alcohol, sex, a pack of cigarettes… and if he couldn’t get one of those to self-medicate this poisonous streak, he’d settle for bloodying his fists before the end of the night. 

A shit mission with a shit conclusion. A shit day. Fuck, a shit year.  Culminating in a clash between Lieutenant and Sergeant, Simon’s icy seething clashing Johnny’s explosive rage about a bad call made worse by Simon’s version of coping- cold indifference and colder jokes.  Actions had consequences, isn’t that what Simon always told his sergeant? Maybe that’s why Simon was stewing in the shitty pub close to base crawling with recruits after Gaz and Price had forcibly split up the confrontation right as it was about to get physical. 

Price had all but shoved him off base while Gaz took Soap somewhere to cool off- probably the gym or some equally shitty pub on opposite ends of the city. So there he was, sulking in a corner, nursing the only bourbon this bar offered, stewing over whether or not he needed to apologize.  

The thought of apologizing burned worse than the bottom shelf bourbon he was sipping. He was Ghost. The Ghost. He didn’t apologize. This was one of those times he would’ve actually appreciated Price’s usually unwarranted ’sage’ advice- but he was tied up, still on base and pissed off because he was trying to wrap up mission reports and now was cleaning up Simon’s mess. 

—

"Excuse me? Would it be ok if I sat here? I’m waiting for someone but the guys at the bar won’t leave me alone." You were biting your lip a little, trying your best not to look too awkward as you asked the tall, dark, and you assumed handsome but you couldn’t tell around the mask he was wearing. You felt nervous, but not to be talking to you, you were nervous for a laundry list of other reasons. Including and limited to meeting your father for the first time since you were barely three years old. 

When the pub had been suggested to you, you’d thought the closeness to his base was an advantage- casual, easy, public, nearby- what you hadn’t accounted for was the herds of young soldiers that would also be there.  Trying to buy yourself a drink to calm your nerves while you waited had resulted in four heinous pick up lines, three cocktail napkins with phone numbers scrawled on them, two vulgar gestures, and one marriage proposal. Like the 12 days of Christmas song, but from hell. The only place that wasn’t buzzing with sloshed young soldiers was a dark corner with an absolute behemoth of a masked man, two empties and a half drank tumbler of whiskey.  Despite (or perhaps because of) the nerves, jet lag, and shot of tequila you’d just took because of said nerves, you considered yourself something of a strategist. 

After you asked, narrowed amber eyes flicked up to you appraisingly, pinning you to your spot. Even slightly slouched over his drink, he was huge. Not just tall, but built like a brick house. He wasn’t wearing an actual military uniform, but everything about him just read military. He stared at you for a second, then a minutes, stretching into two. To your credit, you kept your chin high and your eyes level on his. Right as you started to say, "Never mind, sorry to bother-" 

" ’s fine." His voice was deep and kind of gravelly, low enough that his quiet tone was almost lost to the barroom chatter. His accent wasn’t one you’d heard before, a bit sharper and choppier than the accent John had on the phone. He scooted further into the booth, dragging his drink with him. As you turned back and slid into the corner booth, he scrutinized you again, like you were supposed to be familiar to him, "I know you?" 

"Doubt it." You smiled, a tight lipped but warm thing. You knew you didn’t know him considering this was the first time you’d set foot in this country. Not to mention you’d undoubtedly remember a character like this. So instead, you offered him your name and an outstretched hand. He nodded, neither returning the exchange or shaking your hand, just grunting to show he heard you. 

Still, he scanned you again. Simon was sure he’d never met you, but there was something about you that was eerily familiar. It was the feeling of someone’s name being on the tip of his tongue but slipping between thoughts before he could place it, or a song that as soon as he tried to think about it the melody slipped away. It wasn’t your physical features, as pretty of a bird as you were. That little smile, the way you carried yourself, the saunter in your walk, how your shoulder were held, the set of your jaw, you were young in the face but seemed older, the casual confidence so rare for someone your age… These were all things so familiar to him, but he couldn’t connect it to it’s match. Maybe it was the bourbon. 

"Y’not from ‘round here." He stated, and it wasn’t a question. Simon knew it as a fact. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why someone not from here would patronize a piss-poor pub like this, especially a bird like you- pretty and warm and put together. He rose an eyebrow that shifted the brow of his mask, "What brings you?" 

Blunt and to the point. Definitely military.  You leaned back against the booth, your finger tracing the glass rim of the wine glass you’d set down in front of you. White wine from a shit hole like this was one of the many clues that you didn’t belong here. 

"Meeting someone important." You answered vaguely with another one of those warm but tight smiles. Seriously, where did he know that from? "He’s late." 

"A date?" He pressed further with eyes that were somehow intense and disinterested at the same time. You couldn’t decide if his bluntness was a military quirk or social dysfunction, or possibly both. Of course he couldn’t know that this was the furthest thing from a date you could be doing tonight, which made you laugh, loudly and suddenly. The noise took Simon off guard, but not for it’s spontaneity or for how bright and beautiful it was , but because it tugged at that feeling a familiarity, bordering on nostalgia. 

"Oh, god no." You rushed, shaking your head and forming an X over your chest for good measure, still laughing a bit as you took a sip of wine. Still, you weren’t sure how you were supposed to describe John. "Not a date. I’m just meeting…. someone important." 

Simon doesn't know why this pleased him. Something about you being available and talking to him as opposed to the damnably flashy and obnoxious grunts wearing their dress uniforms to the pub on a fuckin’ Tuesday… Simon’s mouth quirked into a subtle smirk as he lifted his mask enough to take a sip of his bourbon, not missing how your too-familiar eyes followed the movement, intrigued and keen, “Who then?" 

"Nope, I’ve already answered, like, three questions. Your turn?" There was that casual confidence again as you turned the question on him with that little grin, legs cross under the table as your nails clicked against the sticky wood table, "What brings you here?" 

Simon’s expression under the mask soured again, eyes fixing on the lipstick stain on your wine glass. Pretty color… He wondered how it’d look smeared along his mouth. Or his cock. He shook that thought out of his head, bringing his eyes back to yours. Maybe it was the bourbon that loosened his tongue, or maybe those eyes of yours, “Got in a fight with a mate o’ mine. It was… suggested that we give each other some space.” 

‘Suggested' was nice was of saying Price manhandled him all the way to the guard station at the gate. Like a scolded dog being put outside. 

“So you’ve put yourself in the corner? Are you in timeout?” You quirked an eyebrow in another frustratingly familiar gesture, something that made him chuckle instead of bristle as you gestured to the dark corner he’d been lurking in. 

“Something like that.” He nodded, swirling the whiskey in his glass. 

“What was the fight about?” You asked casually, taking another sip of your wine. Normally so private, Simon would’ve bitten a stranger’s head off for such a personal question. But coming from you, between his desire to keep your attention on him and the ever present nagging sense of familiarity, he just sighed. 

“Hard week pushed some buttons. We’ve both got tempers. Mine’s worse.” He explanation was simple, both from characteristic standoffishness and the fact the mission that had provoked this fight had taken place in a country the British Military was not supposed to be. Another deep sigh like the confession took something wrenching from him, “He puts up with me usually, but I… said somethings’ I shouldn’t’ve.”

You nodded sagely, taking in the rather vague information with eyes settled on the far wall as if you were doing mental math, quiet deductions. He recognized this look from somewhere, this was the look of someone looking for answers and solutions. Your fingers tapped against the table again before your eyes slid back to him, “So you were both assholes to each other, but you were worse?” 

“Yeah. That’s the gist of it.” Simon scoffed as you boiled down his already barebones explanation even further. You nodded again, looking at him quizzically. 

“Have you thought about just apologizing?” You rose an eyebrow at him, your head cocking a little to the side. The most obvious answer in the world that for some reason he couldn’t wrap his hand around. He opened his mouth to protest, but you were quicker, voice chiding in way he’d heard before- but from where?, “No, let me guess, it’s not that simple, you can’t just apologize.” 

For a moment you dropped your voice a little lower and attmepted a half imitation of his Mancunian accent which would’ve been offensive if it wasn’t exactly what he was about to say. You huffed a quiet lap before returning to your normal tone with a roll of your eyes, “Believe me, yes, it is that simple, and, yes, you can just apologize. And if you truly think it���s not something an apology would fix, let him get one good hit in and get it out of your systems. Problem solved.” 

“Get it out of our systems?” Simon asked a little incredulously, despite the sampling of a sharp wit and the occasional hard glint to your eyes, he hadn’t expected someone as soft looking as you to jump to punching as a serious form of conflict resolution. Hell, you sounded more like his Captain Price than some random pretty thing in a pub, “that’s terrible advice.” 

“You telling me you would’ve seriously taken my apologize and talk it out advice?” Your eyebrows raised again as you leaned forward on your elbows onto the table- another frustratingly familiar look that would’ve distracted him if your now exposed cleavage didn’t distract him further. He swallowed as he stared, feeling the growing need to get something out of his system, and his fight with Johnny was becoming less and less forefront in his mind. 

“Not a chance.” He shook his head, sniper eyes locking in on the drop of wine that escaped your glass and slid between your breasts, quickly disappearing between skin and under your shirt. He could find it with his tongue, bet your skin made the wine sweeter… 

“Yeah,” You laughed again, setting down the empty glass, finding this intriguing masked character to be a wonderful distraction from the anxiety of this upcoming meeting. And if John was running late, you’d take advantage of the distraction, “Figured as much.” 

___

An hour and another glass of wine later, you’d continued to scoot closer to the masked man in the booth with you. He was first to initiate contact, throwing an arm over your shoulders in the pretense of keeping you close enough to hear over the rowdy group cheering on a rugby game, it was you who had leaned into his side. His hand had found your thigh first, but your nails were tracing little shapes and words against his forearm. 

“Who was it you were meetin' 'ere, sweetheart?” Simon asked again, his mask still rolled over his nose again as he took another sip of his bourbon, lips grazing your earring as his breath fanned over your neck. He wondered how you would react if his teeth tugged one of the pretty little earrings you’d picked out. You were distracted noticing how his accent minced certain letters in syllables in a delectable way, “Only a fool’d keep you waitin’ this long.” 

Two glasses of wine and jet lag had done away with your need for vague answers as you leaned into him, shivering as the smell of bourbon, cigarettes, and gunpowder started to overpower your perfume. You swallowed, eyes meeting his with a bit of nervousness he hadn’t been able to pick up on you until just now, “I’m meeting my father. We’ve been estranged most of my life. And he’s an hour and forty five late now.” 

“Shit.” Simon muttered under his breath, not thinking you could’ve said anything that could really surprise him. Meeting your estranged father and yet you’d spent the last two hours coaching and comforting him through a fight with his friend. That level of self sacrifice should’ve clued him into your parentage almost immediately, but he was busy staring at how your wide eyes were staring up at him through your lashes, teeth toying with the seam of your lips that your tongue kept darting out to wet. 

“I’m a little nervous.” You admitted, the nail that was tracing shapes on his forearm dropped down to his massive thigh to brace yourself. If you leaned any closer, you’d be all but in his lap- which wouldn’t be the worse thing, both of you mentally decided. You took a deep breath, sipping some of the water you’d ordered midway through your third glass of wine,  "A lot nervous, actually.” 

One thing about Simon, was that as a sniper, he was opportunistic. When he saw a shot, he took it. And you just lined him up to test his theory on how long it’d take to convince you to slip into the pub bathrooms with him. 

His arm around your shoulder adjusted so he could gently brush some hair behind your ear, thumb purposely grazing your cheekbone before he tilted your face up to meet his, “Well, you know the best way to get over your nerves?” 

The sudden closeness stunned any witty retort to silence as you hummed for him to continue, swallowing thickly in a way that brought those keenly sharp eyes to watch the bob of your throat. He chuckled lowly to himself, so sweet and perfect, he was about to absolutely ruin you. But he wasn’t evil, he’d put you back together again… 

“Gotta… work... it outta your system. Just like you said, sweetheart.”  His other hand was kneading into your thigh through the pretty satin of your skirt, such a good girl, with a skirt below your knees, and he looked forward to shredding those tights underneath with nothing but his teeth and bare hands. But… he wondered if he could make you cum through them before he ruined them, and with the way you tensed and then melted at his touch, he was betting the answer was a firm yes. “Gonna let me help you like you’ve been helping me?”

You thought he sure had a funny way of equating this heavy petting to the teasing and mild comfort you’d offered about his fight with this ‘Soap’ guy, but you nodded anyway. All the pent-up anxiety made it an eager motion as he chuckled, leaning forward and catching your mouth, so possessive and borderline aggressive at your compliance. He was a bit of a bully, using his bulk and his weight so you would bend underneath him like he was testing how hard he had to press for you to break, and when you whined at the feeling of him biting your lip, he only swallowed your sounds and laughed into your mouth. 

Lips smearing your pretty makeup, one hand tangling your hair into his finger and the other fisting your skirt so it started hiking up your legs, and one of his boots nudging your ankles out of their polite cross so he could start prying your thighs apart.  God, you were making out (bordering on hooking up) with a nameless, masked man with anger issues while you waited to meet your estranged father for basically the first time… What had your life come to? 

Actually, the absent father bit explained the masked stranger bit if you thought about it for more than three seconds. 

“Fuckin’ hell, you’ve gotta be taking the absolute piss, Simon.” A sudden and angry voice, familiar to both of you sounded from the front of your secluded little booth. You jumped back away from your paramour. Simon, apparently was his name, while he only turned in frustrated confusion at his captain interrupted him blowing off steam, just as he’d been instructed when Price all but kicked him off base for the night. 

Your eyes went wide in absolute mortification, like you’d melt under the table and just die there. Standing there, watching you sloppily make out with someone he apparently knew, was your father. John Price. Who hadn’t seen you since you were three years old and compulsively carried around a Kermit the frog stuffie everywhere you went… He looked older compared to your hazy memories of him and the singular picture your mother hadn’t burned, and the interesting facial hair only made him look older. You suspected he was capable of looking warm and kind, your mother always said you got his soft eyes and smile, but right now he looked pissed.

“Price?” Simon questioned, yanking his mask back over his mouth to hide the smears of his lipstick, wondering if this temper had something to do with the mission or with his fight with the sergeant and if so, why it was urgent enough to interrupt him right now. He’d noted how you went rigid underneath him, batting his hand out of the balmy soft canyon between your spread thighs before they clamped shut again. Shit, that door was rapidly closing...

You spoke at the same time as Simon, your voice somewhere between hesitant questioning and caught teenager, “Dad?” 

“Dad?” Simon immediately parroted, his respect for his Captain superseding the whiskey and lust as he peeled himself off of you quickly doing mental math Olympics to figure out genetics and age gaps, “Bloody Hell, John-“ 

You shrieked, as Simon didn’t get a chance to justify himself or even ask, how was I supposed to know the bird I was trying to fuck was your kid you’ve never told anyone about? Because your father’s face went red instantly, jumping across the booth and landing a scarily hard punch across Simon’s face, spilling wine and whiskey all over you in the process. 

So it was going to be a bloody knuckles kind of night, after all. 

____

Sorry I kinda changed up your request a little bit, I started writing and it kinda got away from me. I'm a slave to the little worm in my brain.

[vioxsoo]

shigaraki was cool

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