Tsk, tsk, tsk.

It was easy to find him.

It was almost too easy to find him and his name—his real name. Not what everyone knew him by—no. His. Name.

It was a shame, really—he should’ve been more careful.

Simon. Simon Riley.

It had a nice ring to it. The way your mouth formed around the letters. It tasted nice.

God…

Did he taste nice?

You couldn’t help but wonder. Fuck, even the thought was exhilarating. Would he let you lick the sweat off of his skin? Would he whimper, would he moan?

Would he let you do that if he knew what you were really doing?

If he knew that you were watching him?

If he knew that you yearned for him to the point of going mad?

Would he turn away in fear? In disgust?

Would he hurt you? The thought of his hand reaching out to yank you by your hair—the thought of him pressing a gun to your temple, speaking to you in that voice—was enough to send excitement straight to your core. It was sick and twisted—but you couldn’t even help yourself, could you?

And now here you were—doing your nightly duty. Watching him, like he was your god damn favorite show.

Everything seemed fine right up until you saw it and your stomach turned and twisted into a billion knots.

Simon—your sweet Simon—had brought someone home.

Oh, really?

That was so… fucking. Funny.

So funny you forgot to laugh, really.

And fuck.

Your knuckles were turning white from how hard your fist was clenched.

And you watched.

Watched. It. All.

You would have to do something about that; wouldn’t you?