sweetestsong

[sweetestsong]

Successive Slidings of Pleasure / Glissements progressifs du plaisir (1974) | Dir. Alain Robbe-Grillet

[sweetestsong]

Thinking about how TF 141 hires Price a secretary, just because the poor guys has been stressed out of his brains and needed somebody to handle some of the paperwork for him.

Well, one day you needed a signature from Price himself. Lo and behold, that was the TF’s day off, which means you have to go to their dorms on base. No biggie, the building was pretty much just a big house. But it was a little late, so you felt kinda bad about needing to disturb them at this hour.

So you go to the house and quietly get let in by the house keeper. “Hi, honey, the guys are in the pool.”

“T-they have a pool?”

You walked through the home and slipped out the back door. Like a portal to the heavens, a pool glowed in the center of the patio space. And there was the task force, all shirtless, all practically carved out by the lighting. Soap was sitting on the ledge, his broad chest and strong shoulders highlighted in blue. Gaz was lounging in a chair, his abs perfectly painted in the wavering reflections. Ghost looked like a fallen angel, his tattoos brought out by the low lighting and his mouthwatering build stretched out as he lifted his arms to adjust his mask.

“Hey there sweetheart, you need something?” Price spoke just as he was stepping out of the pool, his muscles flexing under the layer of fat.

“Signature.” Was all you could manage to say.

;) Next

[sweetestsong]

Her pink room

[sweetestsong]

You've been kidnapped by the local butcher and he convinces you he's going to fucking eat you.

DARK!Ghost x fat fem reader

CWs: kidnapping, rape, dehumanization, gaslighting, bondage, undiscussed kink, animal play, threats and talk of cannibalism but no actual cannibalism

A tidied up and extended ramble I subjected @391780 to on anon. Inspired directly from their post where Butcher!Simon draws a diagram of beef cuts on you.

It’s pretty immediately obvious he’s a murderer. He’s probably a serial killer for all you know.

In reality, Simon doesn’t consider himself a serial killer, despite his body count. He’s just someone who doesn’t have qualms dealing with nuisances. He’s a retired vet; after you’d killed enough people, what’s a few more? 

No, his kills were just business, practical. They were men who made the mistake of getting in his way, of being inconvenient. Most, anyway—there’s at least one or two whose only crime was being an especially annoying cunt. Sometimes, some people “jus’ need killin’.” 

As a butcher, he does find the implication funny, but no, he’s not eaten any of the scum he’s off’ed. “Don’t serve ‘em up to customers, neither.” After all, Simon’s got far higher standards than that. They weren’t even fit for dog food, and he has a reputation to uphold. No one can compete with his quality. 

No, you’re nothing like them. You’re special.

Never in his life had he seen a prettier creature—and you’re absolutely prime. He’s salivating just looking at you, plump and oh so soft. He can see it in the way your skin wobbles gently as you move about. Simon couldn't find a straight line on you. And he’s looked. He’s been transfixed watching you, aching.

You live your life meandering obliviously, no brand in sight, not even a tag on your ear. He's surprised no one else snatched you up. Poor thing, left to fend for itself ‘s cruel. Nothing else to it. 

Wrangling you was simple; it’s not like your large form actually offered you anything towards your defense. It was easy, really. Your total lack of survival instinct was staggering. It was even more shocking that you lasted this long, he could almost laugh.

You were clueless to the danger, even when it was directly in front of you. It was endearing. Your eyes roved over him, not paying him any mind, just carrying on about your undoubtedly inane business. Only when he was on you and it was too late did you start to kick up a fuss.

The look of panic on your face was just priceless. All this crying and babbling nonsense like, “What are you doing?!” and “Stop!”

Simon's first concern was not damaging you too much. He was careful. Just a single huge bicep around your neck, and any fight you had seemingly evaporated with fright. He could have groaned audibly at the squishy softness of your neck alone, his muscled arm practically stony in comparison. But he'll have time for that later. You're bent over in a headlock, his grip as rigid as a pillory. Of course but he’s not actually applying enough pressure to choke you. You’re just forced to come along or be dragged.

Not that it would have mattered if you were too wild to be led; he would simply tighten his hold and let you catch a wink. Pull out the dolly, load up the truck and be on his way.

On the big stainless steel worktable, the metal stings even through your clothes. Unfortunately for you, even that scant protection doesn't last. The sight of the meat shears was enough to paralyze you again, and with a handful of strategic snips and one rough yank, Simon rips your last vestiges of humanity from you. All your skin transforms to gooseflesh, shivering on the table, but it's your turgid nipples where his roaming gaze finally settles.

He’ll have to remember to adjust the heat later. After all, “‘s a bit early to start chillin’ you”, he’d chuckle.

You were a bit of silly thing. It's good that he snapped up you before something bad happened to you. Might be a minute before you caught on, but he didn't mind waiting.

You're his perfect little prize. No doubt you'd win "Best of Fair"— that is, if Simon was willing to let someone else gawk at what's his. It was tempting. You'd look pretty in that blue ribbon.

He knows exactly where he'd stick it. The pin would sink riiiiiiight through the tender flesh of your nipple, easy as. He'd make it quick, but you'd squall all the same. His cock strained impatiently against his trousers at the visage. Your teary face, that shiny rosette hanging down proudly, bobbing slightly at your teat, forked ends kissing your belly as he made you "sit pretty" for the cameras.

...but no, you're just his.

Simon will keep you at home. Coddle you, give you plenty of softness and warmth. You’ll not want for blankets, pillows, and other such treats, but not a stitch of clothing will ever touch your skin again. There would be no hiding your nakedness from him.

“Clothes? Clothes ‘re for people, what you need clothes for?” he scoffs. You don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s a question, because he doesn’t want an answer. A dog doesn’t answer “Who's a good boy?” does he? 

You’re groped and prodded like some saran wrapped package of beef at the grocery store. He's feeling and squeezing every inch of you. And he’s—he's measuring you? Jotting things down. Snapping at you to "'old still" as he steadies the tape, making sure there's the right amount of snug tension to get a proper measurement. Just as you try to obey, he's manhandling you again, moving you this way and that, one position to the next. The tape tickles terribly.

As he lassos your wide upper thigh, the tape suddenly brushes against the lips of your pussy, making your heart stutter painfully. When he pulls back the tape, you're holding your breath. He just returns to the pad of paper. As you try and calm yourself, you think distantly that the stubby pencil looks puny in his giant fist as he adds to his chicken scratch.

You were sorely mistaken when you thought that you'd get even a brief reprieve. No, what's coming next is worse. You're completely helpless to fight him off, your punches and kicks might as well have been the frantic swats of a rabbit's soft paws, for all he reacted. Your wrists were lashed to your ankles behind your back, joints complaining at the unfamiliar stretch. Hogtied. By the end of it, you’re panting, trussed up in practically half a roll of twine, fat bulging between the strands, desperate to escape it. While the measuring tape may have tickled, the twine fucking bites.

Simon admires his work, says it looks good on you. He can’t resist taking one of your new little rolls between his fingers, giving you a teasing, humiliating pinch. You struggle, of course, but the terrifying man commands you to “Settle”, says the only thing your fussing will get you is rope burn. 

He claps you on the ass affectionately, assuring you that the scratchy string is only temporary. You still feel the warmth of his hand long after the swat. He knows a guy for leather, does good work. All hand-stitched. Simon will have a proper harness made for you. Something with a lot of D-rings. It will be more comfortable for you, and more importantly, he can situate you how he likes with minimal bruising or chafing. 

"I'll 'ave somethin' made from you too."

As he admires your skin, that's what he muses offhandedly. He’s not usually one to bother, but it’d be a travesty to waste hide like yours. "Couldn’t find more supple, could you?" He hasn’t decided what you'll be yet, he’ll need to do some maths to figure out how much material you'll make. If he's careful, he's hoping he could get a jacket and a fine, sturdy pair of boots out of you. Every time he sits down to clean his boots, buff and polish them to a shine, he'll think of you.

Behind his mask and the façade of impassivity, he savors your reaction. That's the first time your consciousness flees from you. Seeing your face suddenly slacken, fat cheek smooshed against the table, is delightful.

Simon lays it on thick, praising how "well-marbled" you are. Delectable. So plump and well-fed, you honestly can't blame him for any of this, really. Something about wagyu beef.

Oh, come off it, he's going to take good care of you while you're still bleating too, not just your hide, so why are you pitching a fit? You won't find meat living a softer life. He’ll massage you daily, knead every inch of you between his huge, oiled hands. He'd take his time, temple t' toes. You couldn’t get a knot in a muscle if you tried.

Your more delicate bits don’t escape his tender ministrations either. He takes painstaking work in rubbing your insides down with thick fingers, wringing orgasms from you until you're limp and still as the rest of the meat in his shop. Says it’s good for the flavor, will make you even sweeter.

It’s all completely horrifying; it has to be a nightmare. He says all this so casually, like he’s telling you the time of day. This man is truly completely deranged. 

His hands are always on you; it’s never-ending. Brutish fingers always pressing, tips disappearing into your doughy plushness. He's taken it upon himself that you never “exert” yourself and you have no choice in the matter. Bastard won’t even let your hands free to eat or bathe. He "grooms" you. Brushes your hair, trims your nails, cleans your teeth, brushes, lathers, rinses, dries, moisturizes your skin. It’s humiliating, and you hate every second of it.

The juxtaposition is too much, the horror and absurdity of it all. All the restraints and manhandling, your looming demise, while insisting on soft surfaces for you, water temperature just right, food carefully curated and cut up just so. He won’t let anything happen to spoil the meat.

He doesn’t spare any expense on your “feed” either. You eat what he eats; might as well be eating off his plate. Albeit simple, it’s good food. You don't see a point in denying it. It's fresh and flavorful, and to no one’s surprise, it includes a lot of meat. Always from his shop, of course, only the best for you.

He’ll bring out some new parcel every night for dinner, unfolding the brown paper wrapping, holding up to you to admire his work. “‘S a ribeye.” He goes on about the marbling, the even color of the meat. “Couldn’t find fresher,” he’d say, "was only jus' bleedin' this mornin'."

You’re his captive audience. There’s nothing else you can do but warily watch him make dinner from whatever position he's left you tied in at that particular moment. Just seeing a blade in his hand gives your heart palpitations. That day, dinner is steak, sautéed mushrooms, jacket potatoes, and roasted broccoli.

You’ve long since stopped fighting him when it comes to meals. Because it can always get worse. After being bent over, forced to eat off a dish on the floor without the use of your hands, knees aching, you’d resigned yourself to the fact that eating off his fork was a sufferable compromise.

Still, if he’s in a mood, he won’t even allow that. You'll eat off his fingers, and he’ll laugh at your expense and chide you when you inevitably “make a mess” when he deliberately misses your mouth. 

The food was prepared, but this time the knife didn’t leave his grasp. It wasn’t a steak knife. It was too big and not serrated, but that didn’t seem to bother Simon. It certainly bothered you. Its presence loomed like a guillotine in your periphery. Glinting.

He feeds you bites between his own. Every mouthful and he looks so pleased as you dutifully open for him without being told. You desperately missed his mask at meal times. At least then you couldn’t see his smug fucking face.

On the plate the steam billows and curls. The meat gives easily under your molars, practically melts in your mouth. Hot and rich and juicy, it’s basted in butter, with garlic cloves and sprigs of rosemary, seasoned with cracked peppercorn and flakey sea salt. It’s a touch rarer than you’d like. 

You wish you were capable of escaping the horror of it all for even a second, pretend you were anywhere else, with anyone else.

Simon punctuated his first bite with a low rumble of approval, watching you with those dark, cavernous eyes. He’d continued in that way, a man content in silence. Until he wasn't

”...you'll taste better.”

He waited until your last bite to say it, maybe that was a sort of twisted mercy on his part. The meat transformed in your mouth, became sinewy and bitter. You couldn’t swallow, and went to spit it out. But he expected that apparently, was on you in a second. Giant rough hand sealed over your lips, practically enclosing the bottom half of your face, smooshing your cheeks up into your eyes. 

“Chew.”

It takes longer than usual, but you try to obey. His hand hasn’t moved from your mouth.

“Swallow.”

His eyes move from yours to your neck, his thumb grazing your throat lightly, tracing the bite’s trajectory as you force it down. His eyes are back on you then. 

With Simon’s free hand he deftly pierces the last drippy morsel off the plate with the oversized knife, popping it between his scarred lips. The hand still on you moves, migrates to cup your jaw, gradually starting to squeeze. You don’t have any fight left and open before it becomes painful.

Fear paralyzes you again, when he brings the knife towards you.

The movement is slow, as if he’s actually concerned about frightening you. He’s holding it longwise, pointed off to the side—

Then it’s on your tongue.

He drags the flat of the blade’s length across the trembling muscle, leisurely, only moving it away to flip it and clean the other side, myoglobin discarded on your tongue 

“They’ll say ’m spoilin’ you rotten. Eatin’ off my own plate, sleepin' in my own bed, warm under my roof. Keepin’ you safe indoors. Such a sweet, tame thing, are you?” He strokes your cheek, wiping at a drip at the corner of your mouth with a thumb before popping that in his mouth too.

Whether Simon lets you speak depends on his mood. Somedays you're gagged the whole day, besides feeding and watering. In that case it's usually a milder gag. Cloth or tape. If you give him a reason, run your mouth , you'll force Simon to remind you "what you are." His favorite is the look of your wide wet eyes and your trembling lips stretched around a padded ring gag.

The sounds you make are special. Little nonsense noises, almost like "you're tryin' to talk like a person would." Sweet, pitiful sounds. He also loves when wet, choked sobs that cascade out of your open mouth, forcing you to drool. “You’re so messy, sweet’eart. Nose runnin’, too.” Says you're leaking from practically every hole. Eyes, nose, mouth, cunt.

Sometimes, you might almost be fooled into thinking he feels sorry for you in those moments when you're hyperventilating and hysterical, or wailing so mournfully. He always hushes you when you're crying, pets and hold you, dries your face, as if he’s not the cause of your tears. Despite how much Simon adores the taste of them, adores the soft jingling of the little cow bell tied ‘round your throat when your whole body quivers with sobs, the stress will sour the meat. He’ll say as much, but surprisingly it doesn’t help calm you down.

If it was necessary, he's not opposed to sedation. After all, he's done the research to find one that won't affect your flavor. But most of the time, his solution to your despair is yet another thorough fucking. Dopamine to counteract the stress.

Simon forces the orgasms out of your body as easily as he forces his cock into it, you're utterly helpless to stop either. His livelihood is working with his hands and unfortunately he’s damn good at it. When all's said and done and you're spent, he’ll lightly chastise you for working yourself up, for fussing.

He loves the heft of you in his hands, weighs your heavy tits in his palms, grips your ample belly. Simon can't resist taking mouthfuls of you into his mouth, worrying your supple fat with his incisors. Your tits, ass, thighs, arms, belly, back fat, hell, your double chin. It doesn't matter, any squishy bit of you. You're always afraid he might be getting impatient, that he’ll take a bite out of you, but he never does. Simon says he's just sampling, maybe tenderizing you a little. 

His favorite taste of yours is still between your legs. He has you thank him for being so careful there. Past you inner thighs and plump mons, the pressure of his teeth yields, feeling barely a graze. 

He likes putting mirrors in front of you, says he wants you to see how lovely you are. Your hands are clipped together, chain snagged in one of the shop's many meathooks, just low enough that you don’t strain your shoulders or quite have to stand on your tiptoes.

He directs you to watch, popping the lid off of a permanent marker with a squeak.

He maneuvers you this way and that as he works, dragging the marker down your body. His lines are surprisingly clean considering his canvas is such a pliant, organic shape. Hands are as steady as a surgeon. The marker tickled terribly on skin, the ethanol smell burning your nose, making it hard to think.

It only took a minute to recognize what he was doing. Your skin itches under the felt tip. You flail, trying desperately to smear it, to muss his work, but the ink dries too quickly.

Simon wouldn't let you keep your eyes closed, so in that moment you were grateful for the onslaught of tears blurring your vision somewhat.

That day, he showed you all your different cuts, as if you cared, as if you were together enough to pay attention.

Chuck, rib, loin, sirloin, rump, round, flank, plate, brisket, shank.

He tells you which are his favorite. Tells you which of his mates he’ll have over to enjoy you, ponders what pieces he’ll think they’ll like best. How to cook different cuts to get the best effect, that some cuts are naturally tougher and have to be cooked slowly, while the other cuts are tender and fatty, can be cooked at a higher temperature, quicker. 

From the very beginning, he’s referenced the “Big Day.”

He’ll ask if you're excited over the shinnnnk of a knife against a whetstone. Simon always keeps his tools in order, clean and sharpened expertly, but he thinks he'll polish them up extra shiny for the occasion. To a mirror finish, so you can see yourself. You're so beautiful, it'd be a cryin' shame for you to miss it. 

It’s been months now you’ve been with him and the day never comes. 

...

You didn't dare question it.

But if you did, Simon would just chuckle, dark eyes crinkling, amused that you're so eager. Maybe he'll say that he decided he wants some milk from you instead.

[sweetestsong]

Computer, how do I politely ask someone that i want their teeth in the side of my neck while their nails rake down my back and their painfully hard cock is straining against their clothes as they grind harder against my boxers- hey wait, computer? Hello?? Wakey-wakey? Still there?? Computer, do you copy??

[sweetestsong]

this was so needed

Simon Riley who doesn't let his pretty dove lift a finger.

Noticed pretty early on how you always put yourself before others. Your feelings on the backburner until they could be let out later. Hell, you even did it with him. Smile not quite reachin' your eyes, but persevering nonetheless. It made his gut twinge, the crack of your resolve starting to splinter.

You never let anyone help, always piling another task on top of your already stacked plate. It kept you busy, kept your mind from wandering. Never an ounce of time to sit with yourself and your thoughts. It was your normal. That is, until Simon stepped in. He completely flipped your world upside down. Won't let you lift a finger.

"I can do things myself, Si," you huffed.

"I know Dove, but 'ya don't have to."

It had made you upset, feeling unaccomplished - lazy. If your body wasn't tense and hurting by the end of the day, you felt as if you didn't work hard enough. You were busy scrubbing the floors, on your hands and knees really working the soap into the grout when you heard Simon's low huff.

Tensing for a moment, you slowly continue to scrub when you feel him at your back, gently plucking the brush from your fingers.

"Go on, 'll finish,"

"But Simon-" you start.

"You're exhausted. Time for 'ya to start puttin' yourself first. Go on, ran 'ya a bath."

He gestures towards your shared bedroom before turning back to scrub the grout between the tiles. You slowly back up, wanting to fight back but his words hit deep. Turning on your heel, you walk into your bathroom. The lights are off, soft glow of the candles he has lit casting a small shadow on your skin. You look at yourself in the mirror. Confusion etches on your face. A deep tug in your chest as the emotion wobbles up. It makes your throat tight.

You truly look at yourself. Tired. Completely worn thin. Eyes glassy from exhaustion. When had he even ran the bath? You hadn't even heard the water running. On the counter, he has your pajamas stacked in a neat little pile, soft panties and socks on top. Your favorites. A small smile tugs at your face.

Undressing, you throw your clothes in the hamper, dipping your toes in the steamy water. A soft sigh escapes your lips as you step in. The hot water feels good on your aching body. You sink down into the suds, the smell of epsom salts clearing your airway.

You must've dozed, because when you open your eyes, Simon is there. He's running his fingers through your hair, eyes soft as he watches you. Your chest squeezes, pure and utter adoration on his features.

"Must've been tired," you half-joke.

"Mmm," he hums.

His hand slides down to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your lips.

"Work too hard," he says.

Your brows furrow, mouth opening for rebuttal. He tsks softly, grabbing a cup from the side of the tub. Simon dips it under the water, shielding your eyes as he wets your hair. You didn't ask, but you don't have to. He lathers up your shampoo between his palms, slowly scrubbing your scalp.

It feels heavenly, eyes fluttering shut as you hum in contentment. His thick fingers work the shampoo into your hair, soap spilling down his fingers and onto his wrists. The smell permeates your nose, and you inhale, relishing the moment. Sometimes you think he's too good to be true. Someone as kind and patient as he is. You wonder if he ever gets tired of you. So you ask,

"'Ya ever get tired of dealing with me?"

"'That supposed to mean?" he grumbles, shielding your eyes again as he rinses the shampoo out.

"I'm a lot. I know I am," you mumble, eyes closing as the tears spring up.

"You're askin' if you're a burden?" he flat out asks.

You nod, the words unable to come out. Throat tight with emotion. He stops then, one hand on the back of your neck and the other still resting on your forehead. One slides down to grab your chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tilts your head to look at you.

"Look at me," he orders.

Your eyes flutter open, meeting his dark gaze. His pupils are blown, a thin ring of brown glinting in the candlelight. His brow is furrowed, not in frustration, but in thought. Mouth pulled slightly down in a frown.

"Lovin' you is the easiest thing in the world," he starts. "Not a burden. A goddamn treasure."

You laugh softly, the sound wobbly with tears.

"Mean it," he murmurs, giving your forehead a kiss. "Too hard on yourself."

He lets his thumb slide over your bottom lip, pulling down slightly to part them as he gives you a soft kiss.

"Gotta let me help out sometimes," he says, giving you another one. "Can't do it all on your own."

You nod slowly, the soft press of his lips on yours stirring a warm feeling in your belly. He pulls away, reaching over to put some conditioner in his palm. Gliding them through your hair and untangling the knots.

"I'm trying Si," you say.

"I know, Doll."

It's quiet for a moment as he lathers up your body wash, slowly washing your body. Slides down the slope of your breasts, to your soft tummy. Gently in between your thighs, rubbing the suds into your damp skin. Nothing sexual about it, just tenderness. It makes your lip quiver. The kindess.

"Too good for me," you whisper.

"Never."

Simon rinses you off then, letting the water drain and leaning back from the bath to grab your towel. Dries the water from your body and gets you dressed in your pajamas. He knows how to towel dry your hair before gently untangling it with comb. Things that he's picked up living with you. Things you never asked him to do, but he learned.

Never wanting to bother him. You let him now. Too tired, eyes fluttering closed as you yawn. Relaxed from the bath. He guides you to the bed, pillows fluffed, and blankets pulled back for you to slide in. You shimmy down into the bed, Simon tucks you in before coming in on the other side. You cherish the moment, feeling a bit guilty for not doing it more often.

Something about letting go kind of feels good. Control no longer making your fingers red from holding on so tightly. He's warm, sliding behind you and snaking a heavy arm around your waist. Simon pulls you close, breathing in your damp hair.

"Thank you," you murmur, eyes heavy with sleep.

"Welcome Dovie," he grumbles, squeezin' your hip and closing his eyes.

fluff fluff fluff

[sweetestsong]

aftercare would go so mf crazy with this guy i swear

"sweet angel, you asked for that, huh?" he murmurs in your ear, kissing the shell of it a he holds your trembling form.

your soft, wet eyes, look up at him with knit eyebrows, as he leans back a bit to gaze at you. one of his hands curve to hold your clammy cheek, and he brushes a stray strand of sweaty hair away with his thumb, before continuing to draw careful circles with the pad.

he grins at you in the face of your tired huff of a response, but he knows your words aren't coherent enough yet to even try. "all tired, love?" he muses, met with a whimpering whine in return.

his own small chuckle of response is enough to set off a louder whine, and he keeps that toothy smile. "okay, okay, angel, i'm sorry. no more teasing for my beautiful girl," he coos, patting your hip with his other hand. "did s'well for me, taking it so well, hm?" he leans in once more, kissing along your sweaty hairline, savors the salt on his lips in return.

your weak hands clutch around his upper body, muscles straining to hold on, return some of the care. he notices, and holds you closer, trying to relieve some of the strain.

"s'okay, love, you relax, i'm not going anywhere, such a sweet girl."

simon laughs against your ear if you try to scramble away from his cock. like you had just been begging him, not even 30 minutes prior, to fuck you silly.

well, now you’re gonna take it. :(

your back to his chest, legs kicked apart. one of his hands has both of yours pinned under his, and the other has your hips up for him to push his cock into you.

pathetic little noises leave your lips as he ruts into you, over and over again. his weight crushing against you and knocking the air right of your lungs.

you’re babbling incoherently, pleading for something. and he’s not even sure if you know what you’re asking for.

hips stuttering forward as the pleasure grows too intense, your orgasm coiling low in your belly and white hot pleasure zipping up your spine. but it’s simon dragging you back and forth on his cock that sends you hurtling towards your third orgasm.

his thick, pearly seed filling you up not long after.

and it’s not until you’re boneless and whining does he let up. pressing kisses down your spine and soft praises.

[sweetestsong]

[sweetestsong]

simon riley x afab!reader

@lay-z ... i am unwell

im a freak... whos the dom? whos the brat? whos to say...

contains spitting , laundry stealing & mutual assholery

You’d been running your mouth all morning. Teasing jabs, cocky smiles, and just enough skill in the ring to keep Ghost from completely crushing you too early. You knew he was holding back—but you kept pushing. Testing limits. Baiting the wolf.

"Come on, Riley," you taunted, breathless and smug as you ducked another swing. "You getting old or just slow?"

His eyes narrowed behind the mask, and that was the only warning you got.

In less than a blink, he surged forward and swept your legs out from under you. The mat cracked against your spine. A grunt ripped from your throat before his weight bore down, pinning you flat. One arm pinned at the bicep with a rough hand, the other trapped beneath his knee.

"Fucking hell—" you wheezed, trying to twist free, but he was iron.

"You’re mouthy today," Ghost muttered low, the words almost conversational. Almost. His hand curled under your jaw, rough fingers prying your face up, his thumb pressing into your cheek to force your lips apart.

You tried to jerk away—he only gripped tighter.

"You wanted to act hard?" he growled, pulling up his mask.

Then he spat.

Right into your mouth.

Warm, abrupt, vile.

You gagged instinctively, choked, bucked beneath him, but his palm slammed over your mouth to shut you up.

"Swallow it," he hissed.

Your body stilled. Not out of obedience—out of sheer shock.

"You play games, you get reminded who owns the ring," he muttered darkly, still over you, still heavy, still calm in that terrifying, calculated way. "Get up when you’re done gagging."

Then he stood, leaving you there with your pride cracked open and a mouthful of humiliation.

He didn’t look back.

You wore the mask this time.

Not required for sparring, but you pulled it on with quiet satisfaction. Just a simple balaclava, nothing fancy—just enough to keep Ghost from pulling the same stunt again. No more spit. No more open-mouth degradation.

He clocked it the second you stepped into the ring. Tilted his head. Said nothing.

But you saw the twitch at the corner of his eye.

“You scared of my germs now?” he drawled as you stretched. “Or just tired of tasting defeat?”

You flipped him off and grinned under the cloth. “Just playing smart.”

That was your first mistake.

You fought dirty this round. Quick jabs, feints, a heel to his shin just to hear the grunt you weren’t supposed to notice. You had him working for it—until you didn’t.

The takedown came brutal and fast.

Your back hit the mat again, air punched from your lungs as he straddled your hips, thighs locking around you like a trap. Your wrists pinned overhead by one gloved hand.

And this time… he leaned in. Pressed down. His weight shifted, hips grinding against yours slowly, deliberately.

Not sexual—not really—but god, it felt offensive.

“You think the mask would save you?” he murmured, breath hot against your temple. “Thought I’d lose the upper hand?”

His hips rolled again. Not obscene. Not tender. Just dominant. Like he was stamping his presence on you.

You squirmed. Your mask hid the flush in your cheeks but not the ragged breath in your throat.

He chuckled, low and smug. “Still cocky?” he asked, voice syrupy and cruel.

You didn’t answer.

“You’ve got nowhere to run,” he went on, grinding once more before pulling back just enough to let your arms go. “And nothing to hide behind that mask but your pride.”

Then he stood, gaze raking down your sprawled form.

“You done pretending you’re not mine in this ring?”

You didn’t answer.

You were an idiot.

Laundry day slipped your mind, your gear was all still damp, and the only clothes left were some old ones from before you put on muscle—back when you were leaner, softer. Now they clung too snug around your arms, your thighs, your ass. The shirt stretched across your chest every time you moved, and the pants… well. They didn’t leave much to the imagination.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It was just sparring. Ghost had seen you bloodied, bruised, half-dead and limping—this wouldn’t even register.

Except… it did.

You caught it the moment you stepped onto the mat.

That flick of his gaze. Down, then back up. Quick, but not quick enough.

He didn’t say anything. But his posture shifted. Looser. Lazier. That strange, looming confidence that said he was either planning something... or distracted.

So you poked.

“Problem, Lieutenant?” you asked, tilting your head, letting your shirt ride up just slightly with the motion. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Shut up,” he muttered, then lunged.

The match started rough. He was faster—too fast. Almost like he was trying to shake something off. His usual precision faltered. Not much, but enough for you to notice. Enough for you to press the advantage.

You twisted under him. Rolled to the side. Shoved him back and grinned when he landed on one knee.

“What’s the matter?” you goaded. “Not used to losing when I’ve got my thighs out?”

His stare snapped to your legs. You felt it more than saw it. And then he moved—grabbed your ankle mid-pose and yanked hard, dragging you under him again.

Pinned. Again. Of course.

But this time, his hands lingered.

One on your hip. One at your jaw.

The breath between you was tight.

“You wear this on purpose?” he asked, voice low, not angry—curious.

Your heart kicked in your chest.

“Laundry day,” you managed, a little too casual.

His thumb brushed the hem of your shirt. Pulled it down with a slow, deliberate tug, like he was correcting your uniform—but his hand didn’t move away after.

“Next time,” he murmured, “don’t give me ideas you’re not ready for.”

And then he stood. No grinding. No spitting. Just that voice, thick and dark and full of unspoken threat—or promise.

You stayed down a second longer than you needed to.

You noticed it about a week after tight-clothes-gate.

At first, it was just one pair. Then two. Then your favorite black briefs—the ones that hugged just right, breathable, comfortable, slightly worn in the way that made them perfect. Gone. No sign. Vanished like smoke.

You chalked it up to the machine. Maybe someone else on base snagged them by mistake. Maybe you left them in the dryer. Maybe the laundry gremlins were hungry this month.

Totally plausible.

But then you noticed something else.

Simon was… different.

Not dramatically. He didn’t start baking cookies or hugging people or anything psychotic like that. But he was definitely less growly. Less murderous. He even joked once, with someone other than Tav. Asked you how laundry day went—with a little tilt to his head and a voice so innocent it made your skin crawl.

“Still losin’ clothes?” he asked, flipping a knife in his hand like he wasn’t watching your every microexpression.

“Couple things missing,” you said slowly. “Weird, right?”

He hummed. “Real strange.”

Then walked off.

Whistling.

Whistling.

You stood there in the hallway, towel slung over your shoulder, bare feet cold on the tile, and your stomach dropped.

Because Simon Riley was not a man who whistled without reason.

And there was definitely no damn reason to be happy about your missing underwear… unless he was the reason.

But that would be insane. Deranged. A violation of—

The next day, one of your old shirts—stretched out and obviously worn recently—was neatly folded on your bunk.

No note. No explanation.

You didn’t say a word.

But you looked at Ghost differently after that.

And he looked like he knew it.

You weren’t dressed for much of anything.

Sweaty, pacing, post-workout, and stripped down to a sports bra and compression shorts that barely passed regulation. You’d just finished your circuit and were cooling off when Simon appeared in the doorway of the gym, mask on, arms folded, watching you with that usual unreadable stillness.

“Spar?”

You paused mid-step. Blinked at him.

“I’m not dressed for that.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said, already stepping onto the mat. “You look... ready.”

You frowned. Something about his voice was off—too casual. Too interested. But your blood was still pumping, and maybe a part of you wanted to wipe that smug tone off his face for good.

So you agreed.

The match started slow. He didn’t come at you like he normally did. No bone-rattling tackles, no brutal takedown attempts. It was like he was holding back again—really holding back. Letting you take the lead. You grappled, twisted, and finally, with a sharp maneuver, you hooked his leg and slammed him onto the mat, hard.

You straddled his waist, thighs locked around his hips, pinning his wrists with your hands.

His mask tilted up. “I yeild.”

Too easy.

Way too easy.

Your breath hitched just slightly as you realized how little he resisted.

Then you felt it.

The bulge.

Firm. Heavy. Pressed up perfectly between your thighs, under you, pulsing with heat even through both layers of fabric. You froze.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t say a word.

Just laid there, pinned, staring up at you.

You shifted your hips slightly, experimentally.

His breath caught.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Oh,” you muttered. “That’s why it was easy.”

Still no denial. Just the faintest twitch of his fingers beneath your grip. Like he was daring you to let go. Like this wasn’t sparring anymore—it was something else entirely.

You leaned down, face inches from his mask.

“You’re sick.”

“I’m patient,” he murmured back, voice like a growl. “And you’re on my cock.”

You sat back up. Stared down at him.

You could get off him.

You should.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t move at first.

Just stared down at him, your fingers still wrapped around his wrists, your thighs still clamped tight around his hips. His chest rose and fell beneath you, steady but deep—controlled in a way that made your own breathing feel ragged.

It was past 10pm. The gym lights were dim, humming faintly overhead. No one came in this late. Not unless they wanted to be alone.

Which meant you had time.

So, slowly—deliberately—you rolled your hips.

Just once.

A slow drag of fabric against fabric, the heat of him pressing up between your legs like a warning. Or a reward.

You felt the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. Not resisting. Just… bracing.

Your breath ghosted out in a quiet laugh.

“So this was your plan?” you murmured. “Let me win, get me on top of you, then lie there and act innocent while you’re fucking hard under me?”

Simon didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

You ground down again—sharper this time, less teasing. His hips bucked once, unthinking, chasing friction. A sound slipped from under the mask, half-growl, half-exhale.

Your thighs clenched around him.

“This doesn’t count as losing, does it?” you asked, leaning down until your chest brushed his.

He tilted his head, mask brushing your cheek. “I haven’t lost anything.”

You rolled again, dragging a needy sound from deep in his throat.

“Feels like you’re losing control.”

“No,” he rasped. “You are.”

His hands twitched in your grip, but you didn’t let go. You pressed your hips down harder, rocking slow and mean now, feeling his cock throb through his pants beneath you.

It was intoxicating. The power. The way he stayed still—not because he couldn’t move, but because he was letting you do this. Letting you win in the most twisted way.

And yet… the second you slipped, let your grip falter, forgot who you were straddling—

You knew he’d take it back.

But for now?

You ground again, slower this time, a wicked smile on your lips.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Say I won.”

He growled behind the mask.

And didn’t say a fucking word.

You leaned forward again, mouth by his ear, the damp heat of your breath making his muscles twitch under you.

“Say I won…” you murmured, rolling your hips slow and cruel, “and I’ll lose the shorts.”

His hands clenched in your grip, tension crackling through every inch of him like a live wire. You could practically hear his pride dying behind the mask. It wasn’t that he couldn’t fight back—it’s that he didn’t want to ruin the moment. Not when your voice was like that. Not when your body was grinding down with every syllable.

And not when you dangled the promise of more right in front of him.

He hesitated for maybe two seconds.

Then:

“You won.”

A whisper. Gritted. Choked out like it cost him blood.

You arched a brow. “Say it proper.”

Simon’s jaw tensed.

“You won,” he said again, louder this time. “You beat me.”

You smirked. “Good boy.”

And in one smooth movement, you rocked your hips forward and lifted yourself just enough to hook your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts. You shimmied them down your thighs slowly, revealing the rest of your sweat-slick skin, your underwear clinging from earlier friction—barely staying on.

Simon stared.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

You let the shorts pool around your knees and settled back on his hips, straddling him in just your bra and those stretched-thin briefs. His cock twitched hard beneath you.

“Still think you didn’t lose anything?” you asked sweetly.

He was quiet.

Then, under his breath:

“Fuckin’ tragic defeat, this.”

You grinned.

And started to grind again.

You moved slow.

Cruel.

Your hips rocked in a steady rhythm, pressing down just right. Not enough to let him finish—never that—but enough to make his eyes roll behind the mask, enough to make his hips twitch upward every time your soaked underwear dragged across the thick bulge in his cargos.

And then you saw it.

The dark spot.

A little wet patch blooming at the tip of his cock, staining the front of his pants. Your slick mixing with the precum soaking through the fabric. You paused for a moment, admiring the mess you were making of him, the flush crawling up his neck.

Simon didn’t move. Just breathed hard through his nose, fists clenched tight, straining like he was trying not to rut up into you and completely lose his shit.

You ground in a circle, watching his stomach twitch.

“You’re leaking,” you said softly. “All that just from this?”

He made a noise behind the mask—somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

You grinned.

“Didn’t even take your pants off,” you murmured, dragging your core along him again, slow and deliberate, leaving another stripe of wet in your wake. “Look at you.”

He bucked up once—then stilled, as if ashamed.

And then:

“Don’t stop.”

You blinked. “What was that?”

His voice cracked just enough.

“Don’t—don’t stop. Please.”

The breathy desperation in his tone made your whole body tighten. That sharp, dangerous man beneath you? Begging. Not with a loud cry, not a dramatic collapse—just quiet, strained submission leaking out of him as easily as the wet spot in his cargos.

You leaned down, dragging your mouth to his ear.

“You’re pathetic.”

His cock twitched violently under you.

“Keep begging,” you whispered. “Maybe I’ll let you cum in your pants like a fucking teenager.”

And oh, the way he gasped.

You kept your pace—grinding down in tight, smooth circles, just a little harder now. Just enough to chase the slick sounds building between your body and his ruined cargos.

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this every time we spar,” you whispered, smirking against his jaw. “Hard in the locker room. Jerking off to the thought of me pinning you like this.”

His breath hitched.

“You close just from this?” you laughed, cruel and low. “Didn’t even take your cock out.”

And that’s when it happened.

His head fell back against the mat with a soft thump, a strained, helpless whimper escaping his throat like he didn’t even mean to let it out. His hands twitched, grip faltering, and then he arched—just slightly—hips stuttering up into you.

You felt the warmth bloom beneath you.

Saw the dark patch on his cargos spread fast, thick and soaking, his whole body locked up under yours as he came hard in his pants like some pent-up teen who’d never been touched.

You froze for a second, shocked into stillness—then sat back on his hips, eyes wide, laughing breathlessly.

“Oh my god.”

He didn’t say a word.

Just breathed hard, chest rising and falling, sweat beading at his temples beneath the mask.

You reached back, dragging your fingers over the mess he’d made. Warm, wet, and so much.

“Fucking hell, Riley,” you muttered. “You really just—”

He groaned, low and wrecked, tossing an arm over his face like he could hide from you. Like you hadn’t just ridden him to the saddest, hottest orgasm of his life.

“You done?” you asked sweetly, still sitting on him.

“Shut up.”

You grinned.

“You’re gonna spar like that next time? Or you want me to bring a towel?”

His answer was just a guttural noise—half threat, half mortified plea.

You stood up slow, dragging your shorts back over your hips with deliberate cruelty. His cum-stained cargos were still tented, still twitching, and you knew—you knew—he wasn’t anywhere close to done.

You adjusted your waistband, then glanced down at him with a smirk, like he was nothing more than a workout you barely broke a sweat over.

“If you decide you have more in you…” you said, voice smooth and smug as silk, “I’ll leave my room unlocked.”

And then you turned on your heel and walked out—hips swaying, head held high, not even sparing him a glance over your shoulder.

Simon lay there, still panting, sweat-slick and soaked through, staring at the ceiling like he’d just seen God—and then got laughed at by Her.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

The scramble.

He sat up like something had snapped inside him, ripped off his mask, and wiped his face with the back of his arm. His hair was a mess. His cargos were worse. And he did not give a single fuck.

He was on his feet and halfway to your room before the gym door finished swinging shut behind you.

He didn’t even bother to knock.

Just burst through your door, still flushed and unhinged, and found you halfway through pulling your sports bra off.

Your brows lifted.

“That was fast.”

He shut the door behind him.

“Not as fast as you’re gonna be beggin’,” he growled, stalking toward you.

You only grinned.

i would do awful things to mr riley and he can do them back to me

[sweetestsong]

you should’ve said no.

should’ve laughed it off, pushed him away, told him that this was a terrible idea.

but how could you? how could you, when ghost was looking at you like that—like you were something to be devoured?

the gym was empty, the locker room dead silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing and his low, hungry growl.

you were still straddling his lap, thighs spread over his thick legs, his hands gripping your hips like he owned you. his mask was shoved up just enough to reveal his mouth—his lips, his teeth—and every time he bit down, every time he kissed, sucked, licked at the softness of your belly, your thighs, your waist, you swore you felt your head spin.

“still think you ain’t built for this?” he murmured, voice rough, vibrating against your skin. his fingers flexed, thumbs stroking slow circles over the flesh of your hips, dipping just beneath the hem of your shirt. “’cause i got a real fuckin’ problem with that.”

you swallowed hard, hands gripping his shoulders, his hoodie soft beneath your fingers. “simon, i—”

“nah.” his teeth scraped the curve of your hip, nipping lightly, just enough to make you gasp. “try again.”

he wanted an answer.

but how the hell were you supposed to think when he was touching you like this?

when his big, gloved hands were kneading at your thighs, gripping them tight like he needed to feel you?

when he was trailing kisses along your belly, groaning like he loved every inch?

“don’t wanna hear another damn word about you hidin’ yourself,” he muttered against your skin, breath warm. “not when i’m sittin’ right here, starvin’ for you.”

heat rushed up your spine, your thighs clenching instinctively around his.

his grip tightened.

he felt it.

and judging by the way his lips curled against your skin, he liked it.

“yeah, that’s it,” he murmured, his voice dark, approving. his fingers dug into your thighs, pulling you down firmer against his lap. and fuck, there was no mistaking the hard press of him beneath you now. “told you, love—could spend all night right here. holdin’ you. tasting you. showin’ you just how perfect you are.”

you let out a shaky breath. “ghost—”

“simon.”

you blinked. “w-what?”

his hands slid up, slow and deliberate, fingertips grazing the bare skin just beneath your shirt.

“simon,” he repeated, low and firm. his mouth ghosted over your belly, his tongue flicking out to taste. “that’s what you’ll call me when you’re comin’ apart in my hands.”

a whimper caught in your throat.

he smirked.

then, gripping your waist, he flipped you beneath him like you weighed nothing.

“now,” he rasped, nosing along your jaw, his breath hot against your neck. “i’m takin’ you home. and if you think i was bad here?”

his teeth grazed your pulse, and your whole body shuddered.

“just wait till i get you in my bed.”

[sweetestsong]

reblogging. Please

does anyone like to proofread 👉👈 my ass gets nervous posting fics and i wanna make sure theyre well polished before they go out and my bsf isnt into the same shit as me so i dont wanna put her through reading it 😔 i have a few in the works (cod and leon kennedy) that ive been putting off writing bc im anxious abt it dhdjsjdkaj just message me or send an ask if youre interested

[sweetestsong]

creaming over this truly

Ruthless

or: Country!Simon catches you attempting to tag his property, of course he has to teach you a lesson.

cw: 3.6k words, 18+ mdni, Country!Simon, alt universe, no use of y/n, some plot with smut, dub-con, spanking, breeding kink, p in v, creampie, age gap (Simon 29, reader 23), primal play & reencounter (if you tilt your head), pet names (little girl, city broad, lucky), fingering, lite pussy pronouns, degradation.

a/n: a scrapped Drabble turned into a full story cause I love plot

You were running like your life depended on it.

It was dumb for you to even attempt to tag the Riley barn to begin with.

You knew that, your friends knew that, anyone in town would’ve warned you otherwise.

It all started with a little end of college fun, wreck havoc like the good ole days. Nothing out the ordinary. Something that supposed to be a silly little prank, saying goodbye to college and hello to adulthood by spray paint and a little egging.

Was it a little too much for your liking? Yes.

Just plain rude and disgusting because at the end of the day, what exactly did Ghost do to deserve any of this? But peer pressure is a nasty, annoying, bitch. Regardless of age.

The Riley Ranch had been rumored as evil and haunted, the only people who really interacted with the land being other farmers. Even when Simon Riley, the last standing of the family, came to church (on the rarest occasions), people kept their distance. Afraid his families “bad” energy would spread over to them.

They called him Ghost.

There was a fire at the families home, started by Ghosts father who was always in a rage. Your father made sure your family stayed clear of him when you visited, he wasn’t too kind to quote, ‘big headed, posey, no good, city slickers.’ No one thought his rage would grow so large into trying to kill his whole family.

No one one besides Ghost made it out that night, there was rumored to be a large burn mark on his back to prove it.

You’d gotten found too fucking quick, “What the hell do you think you’re doin?” His voice booming on the highway road.

Simon Riley was blessed to have ears like an owl. Heard the car pull up and stop on his property, the rumbling of the engine— a beat passes— the car doors slamming shut and the far off hushed giggles. Nothing new, people had passed his property to spook whoever the hell they were with. Try to show how “evil spirits” ran rampant on his land, even if they were, he hadn’t ask for them to be there. But they’d never stop. They’d do it before.

They’d do it again.

But he heard that can of spray paint shake and his boots hit the floor before he even realized it.

Not the brown farmhouse gate he’d spent so long sanding down as a child with the help of his grandfather. Not the white ranch fence he’d spend so long getting together as soon as the land was properly handed to him and in his name, that’d he hand painted himself and fixed up the grass so people knew better than to drop any litter there.

No fucking way.

Your friends were already in the mustang you’d arrived in, those bastards, revving the engine and zooming off. You dropped the can, more spray getting on the grass fuck, fuck, fuck— your brown eyes slowly looked up, meeting a more than livid pair blue eyes.

You wanted to squeak out, ‘im sorry’ but where would there be room for that? Not in between the ranch fence that already had a squiggly line and crooked smiley face with black spray paint on it created by yours truly. There would absolutely be no room for an apology when his face was already screwed up, jaw clenching from underneath the bandana that hid his face, eyes narrowing into slits.

Well duh, babe. Move those feet!

And you did, turning at a 90 degree angle and sprinting like it was the end of the world. Ghost mumbled a ‘god damn it’, and ran right after you, his boot quickly meeting a carton of unopened eggs.

Oh you were definitely in for it now.

You ran through the Egyptian wheat, tall as the eye can see, green leaves scratching your arms and legs. You prayed to God there wasn’t any crazy animals hiding in there. You were panting, taking a quick glance behind you and you could only hear rustling of the large plants that surrounded you, feet hitting the floor.

Then you heard a distant yell in the field, “[+], you get back here!”

Well it wasn’t exactly the hardest to spot you out, you looked like your mother— who looked like her mother. You came from a family known for actually being good people, never hesitating to help or providing when need be. You’d met Mr. Riley a couple times in your 23 years of life. Quick instances that you vaguely remember. But you knew his face, and he knew yours.

Your mom had been one of the few good people making sure he was well taken care of when he was younger, she couldn’t raise him like she had wanted to with having to travel back and forth from the city for work as a children’s author. But she’d made sure he was taken care of in whatever home he was placed in, encouraged him to join the Boys and Girls club, something to ground him.

“Just needs someone to look after ‘em is all,” she’d ensisted while braiding your hair one night before heading to meet him at his group home, fingers weaving through your curls with purpose, you were around eight. “Some kids need a lil extra love, show ‘em someone’s there for ‘em. Simon’s one of those kids, so is your older brother, even though he’s a pain in my side at times. They’re all good in their core— their heart. It’s important to have someone nurture it. Gods called me to do that.”

Though, the relationship strained when the foster system let him go. “He’s just having boy troubles. Boys go through those weird hormones when they hit a certain age. Wants to prove ‘imself as a man. They get real hard headed [+]. He’ll get over it ‘nd pull through. He always does,” she’d say. So certain. Undoubting. Like a sixth sense.

And Simon did manage well enough, clearly, for him to have a proper farm for himself, one that was properly taken care of and thriving. You’d visited with your mom two years back. It was so clear to you now. Your mother practically smothering him in a hug when she got close enough. Simon was awkward at first, but accepted it. His eyes and whole body softing by her touch. She’d been family when no one else would be.

He looked towards you, you met a gorgeous shade of blue, long blonde lashes to match his short blonde hair, face with a few noticeable scars and half his face hidden under a black bandana. You were standing a ways off so you couldn’t hear what he or your mother was saying, but you saw him nod toward you. Your mother saying something and him nodding in response. She waved you over,

“[+] you know Simon— I mean, Mr. Riley since you’re a grown man now, ain’t that right.” She laughed.

“Whatever you want ma’am.” He looks down at you and extends his hand. You take it, butterflies fluttering in your stomach, and give it a firm shake.

“Good seein you.” It wasn’t just words, he was sincere, caring. Like seeing an old friend.

You nodded, “ ‘S good seeing you too.”

He showed you the farm after that in his truck. The big house that was farther toward the woods, properly fixed after the fire a decade ago, the Egyptian wheat field, the horses and chickens and the new blue barn he was building to accommodate them, the horse training area used to break in horses no one else would. It was a lot of land, a lot of work, but you could tell by the sound of his husk voice, he was proud of himself and the work he’d been able to accomplish. Even more happy when your mom praised him.

It finally clicked: that barn— and right on time, you’d caught sight of it. Not the one Mr. Riley had been fixing when you visited, the old one. Large and in charge that had old wood, and was definitely falling apart. But you made a bee line for it anyway.

What other option did you have?

Your heart was practically beating out of your chest, nerves on a high because you didn’t even notice how close Ghost was to you before you ducked so he couldn’t grab you. Kicking his shin and dashing towards the barn that was bones.

“You damn brat! fuck me!” He cursed, hopping to ease the new pain on his leg before running right after you.

You undid the large wooden latch, sliding the doors open and immediately trying to slide them close. But his hand shot through the opening, a shiver runs down your spin.

Up the steps you went, the only place you could go, and Ghost was right on your heels, quick, almost silent— didn’t call him Ghost for no reason. You tripped and fell on a pile of hay and wild chickens went fluttering and clucking down to the barn floor, clouding your vision. Next thing you knew, Ghost finally caught you. His hands grabbed hold of both of your arms as you rolled around and thrashed underneath him.

“You fuckin asshole! Let me go!” You grunted, trying to kick your legs where the sun didn’t shine but completely missing when the older man closed your legs, gripping them together under your knees in his hands. He had you like a pig about to be roasted.

“You ruin my property but I’m the asshole?” The fucking audacity of you. “Gonna teach you a fuckin lesson cause clearly they don’t teach you city folk manners.”

With ease, Ghost sat himself down on one of the old hay bails, bringing you over his lap. He grunts, keeping you as still as you can, and then like thunder— his large calloused hand comes down to your plump ass, echoing in the empty barn.

“Mr. Riley!” You gasp, your head shoots up, eyes widening— there’s no way- was he giving you a spanking? The next one yanks you out of your thoughts, brutal, harsh, that makes you scream his name again, “Mr. Riley, that’s enough!” But he’s completely ignoring you.

“Spray painting my fences,” SMACK!

“Tryin to egg my house,” SMACK!

“‘Nd Ruinin my fuckin crops?!” SMACK!

“You’ve lost,” SMACK! “you’re damn,” SMACK! “mind! little girl!” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!

You’re crying and whimpering, as his hand continues forming ripples in your ass. You’d gotten one singular whopping your whole life, from your grandma for breaking her good vase when she told you no ball throwing in the house. Life altering from one incident that made you into the goodest girl there ever was.

And then there’s this predicament, one that ripped your soul in two. One half fueled with hatred for doing something so crude— so audacious. And then the other that’s struggling to keep itself contained. one more hit that meets your tender bottom, one that hits you in a place you didn’t realize was boiling over— a smack to the ass that forces an egregious moan out of your trembling plump lips.

Simon stills, his eyes flicking over the state of you. You’re shaking, head down and legs finally not kicking. But he sees the way you try to hide yourself further into his lap, because you and he both know you just moaned because of a little whooping.

Oh— you're crazy.

You’d unknowingly created a fire and Simon would add lighter fluid to it.

He lifts the bottom of your short flower patterned dress, just to peak, you jump but still, your heart pounding even louder than it had before. And it’s a sight for the man to behold— your underwear soaked like the damn ocean. You squeeze your thighs together, trying to bring the hands down to hide the slick that was ever growing.

“D-don’t look.” You sniffle. Too damn cute.

But there’s a snicker, something that makes you look back at him and his eyes are shining with mischief, “My god, you’re a filthy lil thang, aren’t’chu?” It’s almost rhetorical, he’s not asking you, he’s asking your cunt. “Didn’t know you city broads were like that, learn somethin new every day, don’t you?”

You yelp when he yanks your underwear down to your knees, thrashing around once again, but Simon keeps you still. Your pretty pussys glistening as bright as sun on water, slick all over your fat second pair of lips. He brushes his fingers against them, sending shivers up your spine, you cant help but arch further into his touch.

You whine, “Mr. Riley-“

“—Shhhhh, gotta hear her,” he murmured, slowly slipping a finger in your drenched hole. Your pussys practically sputtering out with every thrust of his finger, slipping another one and coating it perfectly. He takes them out, sucking up the juices on his tongue that you’ve left on them, spitting down on your hole before stuffing his fingers back into you. He hums in satisfaction as you lose your mind, “such a fuckin slut, you just get this wet for anyone, don’t you?”

Your eyes reach the back of your head, breath hitching, “Nooo, I don’t- I wouldn’t!— ooh- agh- Mr. Riley!” your interrupting yourself with your own moans. Whatever anger you had before, folding into nothing.

He finally let’s go of your hands and you grip on to his leg, nails clawing at his jean cover thighs. Your stomach tightens running away as your orgasm builds but Simon follows, thrusting his fingers into your gummy walls even more, curving them to find your sweet spot with determination.

“Eaaasy now, don’t want to hurt you. Be good ‘nd cum. Know you want to, make a mess all over me darlin’.”

And that’s all it takes, with a twitch and a squeal, your cumming all over his hand. Simon thrusts his fingers a couple times, watching the wave of euphoria wash over you before sucking one of fingers clean, then bringing the other to your mouth.

“Come on, don’t be fuckin uppity, taste it lil girl” he tsked, you take the middle finger in your mouth, tasting your own arousol, swirling your tongue around it. Slowly pulling your head back with a ‘pop.’ It all goes straight to the blondes aching dick.

You hear it, the unbuckling of his belt, your stomach touching the tint that had built because of you. your mind finally snaps out of the trance he’s got you in. You barley manage to get out of his lap, scrambling through the hay, tripping over your underwear, on your as knees. Giving Simon the perfect view of your tender ass and the slick that’s dripping down to your thigh before you turn when you meet a wall. Pushing yourself into it.

“We- shit- someone- someone’ll come!” You ramble out, panting, still feeling the after effects of your orgasm. Your eyes avert to anything in this barn besides the man infront of you. But he made his way over to you, slow, stalking. And once he’s on his knees and hovering above you, he springs his cock from from his boxers. The blonde is hung, large and girthy, his tip strawberry red and leaking pre cum.

He bends down, sliding his fat cock between your wet folds, and then smacking his tip on your clit creating a plap, plap, plap. You can’t help but whimper at the sensation.

“You want it don’t you?” he whispers in your ear, taunting you, goosebumps wave over your skin. “Don’t want me all the way,” he traces over your belly, and then pokes right where your uterus is, “up here, hm?”

“Don’t want me to make you feel good pretty girl? Don’t wanna feel it once?”

Maybe it’s the adrenaline that’s pulsing through you, the way he’s looking down on you like you’re pathetic, dick crazed maniac. And maybe that’s exactly what you are, just once— you just want feel him stir your guts just. this. once.

“I do.”

And your soft voice is just enough for the brute to yank your legs open, Simon throwing your legs over his forearms and spreading your pretty hole open with just the tip. The man starts bullying himself inside the tightness of your pink walls.

He’s big. He’s too big. You hiccup, shoving at his shoulder while he’s splitting you in half, “Mr.Riley, ‘s so much! hicc- can’t. I can’t.”

He croons, slowly thrust more and more of his veiny length into you. “Come oooon city broad, thought you could take it? Don’t go runnin. Been runnin from me alllll this time little girl.”

“Bet you won’t do no shit like that again, ruining my damn property,” Simon hissed, smacking down your clit a few times. “Gonna fuck that nonsense outta that lil brain ‘f yours.”

“I won’t! I promise! Mmmph- I’ll be good! S-so good just for you. Always for you.” You mewled, one hands clawing at the wall behind you and other hand at his shoulder. He finally feels it, his cock reaching the very hilt of you, balls smacking your ass crack. The damn obscene sounds your syrupy pussy is making to keep him inside you, and his tip giving your cervix the messiest and he’s sure, the first kiss it’s ever received.

A baby.

You’d look so fucking sexy, being all plump with his fucking baby. He pushes your thighs back to you head further, jackhammering into your heat rough and mean.

“Five,” he mumbles, groping at one of your tits in his hand. Squeezing and kneading it like a vice.

“Wha-“

“You’ll give me five ‘f ‘em, won’t’cha? Make me a daddy.”

He’s talking nonsense, partially. Simon wasn’t dead set on five, he’d wanted a baseball team but he’d settle for whatever you wanted. One would do if it caused you too much strain. He’d take care of you and the baby, buy you whatever you asked for, have you sat on that back porch, in a rocking chair. Your hand on your full belly, watching him as he worked all lovingly.

Simon breath hitches, rolling his hips into yours with a grunt, fucking drunk at the thought of it. The thought of you, all while your pussy was squeezing on him like you were reading his fucking mind.

“C-christ almighty, I got lucky with you huh? A snug lil cunt like this deserves to be up filled up with my cum.”

You still couldn’t believe it, thee Simon Ghost Riley, was with you in this old barn fucking your brains out like you were fucking Eve in that damn garden, on top of a pile of hay. Both of you letting out moans and groans like animals that you’re sure anyone who stepped foot on property would be able to hear. It’s hot, and sweat is forming on both of your foreheads, your skin is sticky. Simon’s big balls hitting your ass every punch of his tip into you G Spot. both of your eyes hazy, stupid off the other getting off.

“Feel so gooood M-Mr. Riley! So much!” You keen, reach for the bandana hiding his face. He always pushes your hand away but then he remembers what you’re about to be— his lover, his wife— the mother of hic children.

“Mamma’s gotta know the face of ‘er children’s daddy right? pull it off.” And you do, tugging it. And god, maybe this whole ordeal got you lucky.

So damn pretty. A scar on his nose, another one at the end of his pink lips, blonde strands swaying everytime he ruts into you, “Mr. Riley’s sooo pretty,” you slur, talking to him like it’s some secret. You’re lucid in his cock, eyes squeezing shut in pleasure while you stomach coils up.

“Uh-uh, eyes on me city broad, look at me!” He squeezes your cheeks together, planting a fat kiss on your smooshed lips. He snaps his hips forward, and your head would’ve hit the wall from how good you feel. But Simons still got your pretty face in his hands.

“Gonna have ya allll bare foot ‘nd pregnant, waddlin yer cute ass ‘round here with a ring on that finger.” He’s telling you, as if this is already happened and he’s seein it with his own eyes. All you can do is moan at his words. You can’t even form a sentence at this point. Just nodding your ditzy little head while he gives you his dick.

“Gonna be a pretty fuckin mamma too, fu- shit baby, your pretty tits all full with milk for our kin— damn, you love the sound ‘f that dontcha? You can deny it all ya wont, but she’s achin for it.”

God, you are. She is too. You didn’t even know how greedy your pussy was being as he pistoned in and out of you, “Gonna— gonna cum, fuck I’m gonna-“

“-Yeah, thaaat’s it lucky, come all over your husbands cock.”

All you can utter is a ‘s-shit’ when your orgasm smacks you, your toes curling in your converses, thighs shaking in Simons hold.

The blonde gets you in a headlock, smooshing you down into the floor further, brushing your curls with hay out of your gorgeous face. rutting into you as your walls clamp onto him, begging for his all milk he’s able to give you.

Simon growls, and the strings of cum fill your womb. Your clammy bodies are still stuck together as he rocks the last bit of cum into. Mumbling while kissing your neck, “take it lucky it’s all yours. Gotta keep you nice ‘nd full if you’re gonna get pregnant.”

It’s quiet finally. The barn itself is old and creaks but you can hear the chickens right down the steps clucking, the cicadas chirping, the breeze passing through the trees. The only think you hear are his and your pants,

Simon scoops you up in his arms, adjusting your dress to cover the mess he’s created thats dripping down on that barn floor with every steps he takes.

“Mr. Riley, where are we- where are we going?” You hiccup, gripping onto his shirt. All you can look at is him, a little in shock, a little blissed out. The only thing your able to focus on is the handsome man holding you against his chest. The way his heart pounds louder as he looks down at you.

“To the house. It just won’t take after one go.”

a/n: a draft that’s sitting since last month. Luv you bubs. Can’t wait to write more country!simon

most recent masterlist

[sweetestsong]

Kyle Garrick X Single mother!reader

Pairing : Gaz x f!reader Cw : None.

Word count : 2.2k

You got married young, you were pregnant and at the time it seemed to be the only solution. The marriage was short lived though, as a child is not the only thing needed to keep a marriage going. After the divorce you retained full custody of your daughter. After him you were sure marriage wasn’t for you, but then a few years later you met Kyle.

At first, you weren't sure about him. You had a career, a daughter and were not ready to relive your previous marriage with another man. But Kyle surpassed your expectations. Being attentive, loving, and with your daughter? You’ve never seen someone try this hard.

Kyle always got her favorite snacks when grocery shopping. Your daughter was outdoorsy, so on weekends, much to your dismay, he would take you two on camping trips, hikes, or anything she remotely mentioned liking.

You wanted to rejoice, but it only hurt because it wasn't reciprocated. Your daughter was a daddy's girl. A nightmare to all your new boyfriends.

Granted most men don’t really care for their girlfriend’s kid. But Kyle did, and although she mentioned liking something, she would rather pout and give an attitude, than let Kyle have a semblance of victory when offering it to her.

What pained you the most was realizing he wasn’t trying to introduce her to his hobbies, he was just trying anything he thought she might like. He got ideas from his old friends in the military and would try anything in his power to make it happen. He was just a try-hard. This is what eventually ended up with you two getting married.

His behaviour towards your daughter didn’t change, and he even became more of a father to your daughter than the real one ever was. Kyle was always here for her. Drop her off, and pick her up from football practice. Sometimes even staying, not minding that she gave him the cold shoulder and you made it clear that he didn't have to, he still did. When it was his turn making dinner he made her favorite or something he knew she would like. It was exhausting even for you.

You tried speaking to her, but as she got older it got worse. She kept saying she already had her biological dad, and that he was the only dad she needed or loved.

Which you always found odd as he was a ‘busy man’ so things like plays, events or football practice, were never part of his schedule. He barely kept her for a full weekend at times.

Calling you to pick her up because something ‘urgent’ came up.

She was always calling him with no answer, or crying when he promised to come but didn’t while in the same breath cursing the one who did.

Lately though Kyle swore she was warming up to him. You saw no change in your part, you even thought he might be delirious.

The car pulled into the school entrance. Kyle turned to look at her, gathering her things in the backseat.

“Have a good day, love!” He said, she hummed and kissed only your cheek and got out of the car in a haste. Joining her waiting friends.

“Wait a minute, miss!” you called out, frowning, “You seemed to have forgotten something!” You scolded but Kyle’s hand rested on your thigh and gave it a squeeze

“It’s okay.” Kyle said before leaning in to speak to your daughter. “Eat all your lunch, yeah? You’ll need strength for tonight’s game.”

She stared at you both for a moment. Her head slightly moved. Was that a nod? She had already turned her attention to her friends. You were about to speak up but Kyle’s hand continued to soothe you. He should be the one upset right now! You didn’t want to worsen it so you only sighed.

“I took my afternoon off so we can both come see you play tonight!” you said

She halted, turning back to the car. “I asked Dad too, so it's okay, if you're busy—”

“You’re joking?! Us missing you getting a trophy?!” He exclaimed “No, we’ll be there and then get victory ice cream!” He beamed, her friend on her side giggled whispering to her.

“Whatever!” She said, “Leave already.” She rushed inside the building dragging her friend along.

“Did you see that progress?” he smiled, you raised a brow not sure if you witnessed the same scene. “She nodded and I know she was delighted about the ice cream.” he grinned

“Oh was she?” you asked. Yeah, poor Kyle was definitely losing it.

“She was,” he confirmed. “Trust me, I can tell.” He shrugged as you leaned, kissing his lips.

“She’ll come around, I’m sure.”

“I know.” He smiled, he was weirdly enthusiastic today.

During the afternoon game, he was silent, arm crossed. Your daughter and the team had come with the school bus. You were a little late because of traffic, missing the warm-up and the first few minutes of the match. It might be why he was so quiet but you were not sure. From time to time you glance at him not sure he was even enjoying the game. It was a kids game after all, not the premier league.

Your previous husband had voiced that there was no point in watching those games, as it was just a bunch of kids kicking the ball aimlessly. Which is normal for a 5 year old but now she had grown, but had no chance in showing him how talented she was.

And he wasn’t a football fan. So for someone like Kyle who watches it a lot, it might be worse.

You chewed on your lip anxiously, then it caught your attention, the little fidgets, the way he mumbled under his breath. After the first half, his eyes were laser focused, and his posture changed a little.

His leg bounced up and down arm crossed looking at the girl running on the field.

You were sure now. He was invested. As a matter of fact he was struggling to behave. When the other team scored, you didn't even register that he had jumped up until his voice rang in your ear.

“Come on mate! That’s clearly offside!!”

Your eyes widened, “Hey what are you doing!” you whispered in a hurried voice as you quickly pulled on his sleeve causing him to immediately sit back down.

“Sorry but this ref must be fucking blind!” he cursed, “and that brat has been doing some dodgy tackle the whole game, give her a yellow card, something!” You noticed some parents looking your way and you quickly pulled on the sleeve of his jacket, “Kyle babes, please.”

“Sorry.” He muttered while sitting.

“Behave, or she will never even give you a ‘whatever’ next time you ask to come.” you sent an apologetic smile to the other parents then winced to your daughter. “Nice, sweetie you're doing great”

Her eyes went from you to Kyle, she seemed to search for someone else, but then turned her attention back to the game. Kyle wasn’t off about the kid, in the other team, she eventually got a warning.

“Fucking finally,” you muttered getting an amused look from Kyle. “What? I can be objective” you said, focusing back on the game.

Your daughter got the ball, she was a natural, and played beautifully. She got close to the goal, but a rough tackle sent her flying before crashing to the ground. She clutched her leg, rolling in pain. Your eyes widened and you felt your blood boil. The kid got a yellow card.

“Your fucking joking?!” Kyle yelled

“What the fuck are you doing?!” You exclaimed, “boot the little shit off the field!”

“Hey calm down, it's a kids game!” a lady said to you.

“How about you mind your business? I’m trying to get Miss Ibrahimović over there off the field before she does any more damage.” You replied

“Watch your mouth bitch, that’s my child!” the man besides her said.

“Yeah? Well your child is a little cunt!” You blurted out, quickly covering your mouth realizing where you were but the damage was done.

He stood up and so did Kyle. Blocking him from your field of view.

“Easy mate, it’s a kids game.” he said simply, “keep the tough guy act for another time yeah?”

The man was about to reply but a sharp whistle cut the conversation short.

“Hey! Sit down!” The referee yelled “Or I’ll kick you out!” he warned.

You slumped back into your seat, heat creeping up your cheeks. This was embarrassing, you were there for your daughter and you made a scene hopefully she would not blame Kyle for it. He was only defending you.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, hiding your face on his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he leaned to your ear, “a little cunt?” he mocked,

“She was!” you whispered back, he nodded making you both giggle silently. Before turning back to the game. Your daughter was set to shoot the penalty.

She then scored. Her eyes immediately turned to you both.

“That’s my baby!” You exclaimed.

“Beautiful, love! You got this!” Kyle cheered, her lips curled, and shyly ran to her teammates, you caught her glancing again, just to make sure you were still watching.

The rest of the match was tight until the opposite team scored again and won, 2-1.

Kyle was more devastating than your daughter. The walk to the car would be gloomy. She finally separated from her friends, reaching you two. Kyle glanced at your daughter as she walked between you and him.

“You did great, love, that ref was proper—” he stopped himself. “You were outstanding,” he smiled.

“It’s okay” she said, opening her little bag of snacks Kyle had brought for the kids. Win or lose, they deserved it. Consolation prize. “You shouldn't get upset, I got a medal.” She explained. “And we all heard mommy curse out a man today,” she giggled, munching on the little crackers.

“Yeah…Sorry, about earlier, promise I won’t embarrass you again.” You said, pleading to be able to come to another match.

“It’s okay…it was funny” she mumbled, “Daddy curses sometimes during practice games too.” she tried to suppress a giggle but it slipped through. You frowned. What does she mean? Her dad never came to her practice. She couldn’t possibly mean…You glanced over at Kyle, who seemed to have caught that too. You two remained silent letting the little girl speak.

“My friends said you had to come to every game from now on, practice or not…” she peeked up at Kyle while speaking “ If you want, or whatever…” she mumbled, she was hesitant.

“Your friends?” He asked, as you raised a brow amused that was clearly a lie.

“Why would they want Kyle to come?” You asked perplexed.

“Daddy always comes with snacks,” she shrugged while playing with the fabric of her little pink shorts. Did she just call him daddy? Wait a minute. Your head whipped toward him, eyes wide. Kyle stopped in his tracks. You could almost see the gear turning in his head as he tried. He tried his best not to be expressive so as to not scare her. You would have thought he was dealing with a wild cat, that at any given minute would jump and run away.

“You’ll come again, yeah?” She asked, “I’ll win first place next time. I won’t waste your time, I promise.” You two were too stunned to utter a sound.

“What type of question is that?” He said crouching at her height, holding her fidgety hands in his. “ Have I ever missed any of your games?” She shook her head. “Being here for my daughter is never a waste of time. Daddy will always be there whether it’s important or not. If you want me for anything, I’ll drop everything and come running, you understand?”

“Promise?”

“Promise” he replied.

“You can’t bail!” She said holding her pinky out.

“Never.” He said holding her smaller pinky in his. She smiled before hugging him. He picked her up. Patting her back.

“Should we get consolation ice cream?” He asked to resume the walk to the car.

“I'm not a baby” She mumbled, still hugging him tightly.

“I might need it, what do you think mommy?” He asked, freeing his hand to take yours.

“I…I'd like ice cream” you nodded, keeping your voice leveled so as not to ruin the moment with ugly cry. You’re sure Kyle might not hold out if you broke.

“Can I get chocolate then?” she asked as you finally reached your car.

“Of course, sweetheart.” he set her down in her seat, securing her belt. As soon as he shut the door he turned to you.

‘Daddy,’ he mouthed smugly, pointing to himself.

“You almost cried just now, didn’t you?” you teased,

“And I might weep if she says it again,” he nodded, making you both laugh silently.

“It’s okay, we’ll just blame it on the ice cream price increase.” you said, pecking his lips. “I love you” you said, followed by another kiss. You made the right choice with this man.

“I love you too,” he replied, grinning as he kissed you back.

“Now let’s hurry before our diva changes her mind about you” you said, getting in the passenger seat and he closed the door behind you. 

Blog masterlist

[sweetestsong]

cw: nsft talk

i laugh all the time at the fact that in every single ficlet/drabble/fic/whatever i read about johnny, there is exactly ONE agreed notion on him: he is god’s most persevering munch.

dom, switch, sub, ghost, TBI, hybrid, alpha, omega, WHATEVER THE AU IS—johnny needs to be so absolutely nose deep in your cunt just to live.

AND ITS EVERY WORK I READ. he gets his own pleasure out of doing it, genuinely always just loves doing it for the game. i think its the worlds hottest and funniest, most agreed upon thing in the entire world.

johnny soap “munch king” mactavish

[sweetestsong]

i needed this like a long drag of an overdue cigarette.

Tears Dry on Their Own

or: Simon Riley picks you up after a break up and decides he’ll keep you.

cw: 5.6k words (jeez), mdni 18+, plot with smut, postbreakup!reader, avoidant!reader, harddom!simon/meanie!simon, possessive!simon, dub con, no use of y/n, situationship, p in v, creampie, cowgirl, spanking, dumbification, daddy kink, manhandling, age gap (mid 20s reader, early-mid 30s Simon), reader aesthetic.

a/n: obvious influenced by Amy Winehouse’s song, did a drabble about it but expanded it further. love u, bye.

One thing you knew for certain is that no one stays forever. No one does. Be it friends, co workers, family, relationships— everyone leaves. Whether from death knocking or not.

So why did you have to wait idly by for anyone when you could go off yourself? Spectate the grounds when you were ready and the smoke cleared?

And that’s how you lived. Coming and going, disappearing from the face of the earth and then reappearing like nothing happened. Like some stray. Was is good habit? Of course not. But you’d been tired of disappointment.

Tonight was no different from any other though— that ugly, disgusting, irritable feeling of heartbreak. Disappointment pimp slapping you once again.

Was it even a breakup if it didn’t even start? It was stupid for you to be hung up on a married man. Every single thing about it was stupid but it’s not like you knew he was married. You’d only known for three hours. Mark was his name and he was— he was kind— atleast to you that is. Sometimes.

Okay, out of 100 he was kind 76% of the time. But he bought you clothes, shoes, jewelry, paid for trips, he’d pay your rent— you were a kept woman. Nothing wrong with that.

He’d call? You’d come. Somewhere in the middle, you’d thought Mark would fall in love with you though. That you weren’t just a pretty face, or a good fuck— you could do the emotional, the romance of it all. Not run. All Mark did he’d laugh at you.

“You’re not being reasonable, baby,” he chuckled snidely as he went around the large hotel room, picking up the littered clothing he’d left on the floor.

Reasonable? What was reasonable? Asking for a relationship was unreasonable? That doesn’t even sound right. Your face scrunches up.

Mark feigns a pout, cupping your face after adjusting his tie, “Don’t give me that face baby. You’re too pretty for it.”

“Then I’m just nothing to you Mark?” Your voice didn’t even sound like your own, tight and sharp. But it felt so much smaller.

He scuffs then sighs, gently kissing your lips, “You know you’re not nothing to me baby. You’re- you’re pretty, sweetheart. So gorgeous. You’ve— helped me… so much doll. Been so good to me this entire time. Don’t ruin this for me, please?”

Ah.

Don’t ruin it [+].

Just keep smiling, keep looking pretty, keep wearing that pretty dress and that pretty necklace he got you. Laugh at his jokes, get your own rocks off. But the thought of it just being a pretty and sitting object kept festering in the back of your mind. You wanted more, more, more. You deserved more. You should be able to ask for the whole damned world if you wanted to and receive it on a silver platter with the finest wine and a vanilla ice cream drizzled with chocolate with the cherry on fucking top.

You wouldn’t get that from Mark— you hit a dead end.

It was when you went to go get your friend a gift, you’d entered the revolving door mindlessly, then you heard the family crowd in on the other side. Two kids giggling, a pretty blonde wife smiling and then, fresh and neatly styled brunette hair, hazel brown eyes, dressy attire and a grey trench coat— Mark. The same loving smile he gave you on his face as he planted a kiss at her temple.

He didn’t even notice you.

Your feet stumbled, entering the building, dizzy. Heart trailing out of you and along with the bastard and his fucking generic tv looking family. You followed, back through the revolving door to try to get a glimpse of him.

One more time, one more fucking time— a bad habit. A bad decision. You’d let the man walk away with whatever you gave him today.

It was your fault for letting it get this far to begin with, getting so attached to such a guy who gave you almost everything you’d wanted. Everything but love.

You let out a ragged breath, your lip trembling as you stare at his back. Him trailing away on such joyace footing right along with the setting sun along with his family. Taking the day with him. While you’re stuck to face the music.

Be a big girl, [+]. You’re a big girl. That’s what you’ve always been.

You turn on your heels, no gift in hand, in the opposite direction. The dark blue overtaking the sky, click, click, click of your heels hitting the pavement with every step. Vision getting blurry the further you walk. You don’t even know where you’re going, just letting the tears fall, the pit in your stomach turn into a labyrinth. You could handle it. Just a big, silly, knee scraping fuck up.

Shit, you needed a drink.

It started with a one night stand, doesn’t it always? He’d been away for so long, too long, and just needed to get his mind back into civilization. No other way to do than to get his dick a little wet? And you were available. He’d seen you once before, on some social media. Your posts would attract anyone who saw them. An alluring little thing in that grimy filter, so pretty, had all your curls tossed to one side, smiling with your pretty brown eyes, lifting your shirt just a bit so you could see the black thong you were wearing— a little teaser.

It was an absolute miracle he found you sitting across him in that empty bar, you lifted your head from the counter, long lashes clumped together, mascara slightly smugged, adding to temptation. Ghost bet you’d look even prettier crying on his dick and not over whatever had you in tears that was so minuscule :(.

You were in a tight, cropped, long sleeve turtle neck, dark low rise jeans that oh-so-perfectly hugged your curves and a 90s layered haircut that went down your back. You pulled out your compact mirror, the tears dried up by themselves, you lightly patted your face with fingers. Your eyes wandered around you, then finally to Ghost. You studied him in curiosity, eyes flicking from his brown eyes to his skull faced balaclava. What the fuck was he wearing? You looked around the empty bar only to gain a smirk from him that was unbeknownst to you. He beckoned you over with two fingers.

You were admittedly a little tipsy, talking to someone, even to a masked muscular man would be better than mumbling into the bar tender who very visibly didn’t want to be working their shift. So you dragged yourself over. Ghost watched your hips swish with every motion, even with a couple shots in you, and your eyes a glossy, you were walking as if you hadn’t been through the ringer. Poised.

Ghost listened to your dumb sob story like the many women your age. Some guy fucking you over, but you liked him still. Wanted to be with him and for him to choose you. But he wasn’t going to choose you. Same script different character. Ghost would be kind to you though, at least for the moment—

“Should I help ease your mind then?” His voice raucous, almost obnoxiously deep, sent your brain swooning.

You wave him off, sniffling, “I don’t think I’ll forget this one. I think it was more of a wake up call.”

“Didn’t say I could make your forget,” and his hand reaches yours, pulling you just enough so you’re facing him but still sat in the bar stool. He rubbed your hand gently, “Asked you should I help ease your mind.”

Your heart goes haywire, you lick your lips, eyes flicking from his all black attire to his brown eyes that swam in your own.

“Trynna kill me?”

“Don’t think murderers admit that to their victims, do they?”

The ends of your lips curved up, giggling smacking your forehead and leaning on the bar, insanely gorgeous, “right of course.”

He got you there.

You looked between the brute and the rest of the dingy bar, lights flickering above you— you’d play your hand with the devil tonight.

“Then please do.”

Was it strange for you to follow a man with a mask out of a bar and to his place? Of course. Not an ounce of urgency or concern, he teased you about it with his thick fingers were two knuckles deep inside you as soon as he got you in his house about a 30 minute drive from the bar. “Brainless little thing aren’t ya?”

He tsked, his fingers curling, grazing your g-spot and getting a yelp from you. “Thinkin with your cunt, we’ll have to fix tha’.”

It was when he felt you drenching around his aching red tip with precum, Simon almost lost his mind. Maybe you were the one trying to kill him. Had to get more in you. Arched your back further, slowly stretching your sloppy cunt inch by fucking inch.

“Oh- oh my go- Ghost!” your breath hitched, toes curling, you lift your head just enough to look back at him with those big doe eyes, Christ, you were going to kill him. “Y-you said just the tip.”

He’s just barely acknowledging you, too consumed (literally) by how tight you were choking him length, he grunted, “Heh, Not when she’s begging for me to be inside ‘er. You crazy? Fuckin greedy little cunny you’ve got, as if the tip would be enough.”

And you were whining so beautifully as you clenched around him, clinging at the sheets because the bastard was so thick, so biiiig (just like you moaned), and he pulled you right back down on his length because you could take it. Had to.

He couldn’t even fit all of him inside you.

That’s when he knew he had to keep you on a leash. Not a tight one, loose enough to let you wander, let you think you could continue on like you’ve always been. Hopping around from man to man, unknowingly letting yourself be some bitch. No, no, no that wouldn’t fucking work, not anymore. Not for Ghost. Perfect kitty, soon enough he’d tighten it, just when the time was right, enough that he wouldn’t loose track of you, keep you in check.

Make you his.

You’d assumed Ghost was in the bathroom when you scrambled out his bed and out of his house. The man was a monster, in the best way imaginable, but one night is one night. You’d keep your end of the deal. A taxi was on the way because he truly did live in the middle of no where, no uber or lyft— it was £70 taxi well spent.

“You’re gone?” Ghost asks, wiping his hands with the towel that was in his back pocket. You didn’t know what time it was but the man already had a little smudge on his and face, unshaven stubble, sweat already bleeding through his shirt— he looked too handsome to be true. You’d already felt butterflies fluttering around in your stomach.

“Uh- yeah. I- ehem- it’s been fun.” You nod, curtly.

He hummed, “Sure.”

There’s an awkward silence only filled with the rock music coming from inside the garage. You check your phone, 10:45 am, new message; taxi service: I’ve arrived.

You look up from your phone but there’s absolutely no taxi.

Ghost sees the look of confusion on your face, he’s already moving to one of the cars parked in front of the garage, “Does it look like that taxis coming out here? We’re in the middle of the woods.”

“Oh…” you scatch the back of your neck, and sigh, “well I’ll just walk to meet him then.”

Ghost looked at you, raising an eyebrow, a silly little thing, “So you can miss the taxi and be stranded there for the next forty minutes? Don’t be dumb, baby. Just get in the car!” He barks out his orders, getting in his black truck and slamming it shut.

It’s a simple three minutes, down the long path of his drive way, through the paved brush in the woods to his mailbox. Exactly where the yellow taxi cab sat parked. The truck stilled, Ghost unmoving while you gathered your purse, double checking to make sure everything was there. Your glance at him once more, scars crawling up his neck to the mask, blonde hair, pretty long lashes, brown eyes—

Ghosts voice filled the silent car, just as you opened the passenger door. “You come back when you want.”

It was a simple sentence. A direction.

He was taunting you, had to be. You’d thought about his words for the entire car ride back to your flat. Then day or so, and if you didn’t get a sign from god, you’d move on with your life as if that never happened.

But while rummaging through your purse, on the inside pocket while looking for your wallet, there was a crumbled up piece of paper. Ghosts address and number on the back.

You found yourself back there a week later, after contemplating up and down the small walls of your apartment. you drove yourself this time, cursing to yourself that this was stupid and he wouldn’t want to see you again. But you knocked anyway…

Silence.

You knocked again, rocking on your heels and taking a step back to take a look at the fairly large house. Probably a five or six bedroom, it was old, but fixed up properly. A garage connecting to it, two different trucks outside of it.

Simon opened the door, shirtless, stomach with a little pudge over his untoned abs, tattoos on full display and biceps flexing— he should’ve been on the cover of Mens Health Magazine. A damn model. The blonde nodded towards something in the front garden.

“The keys under the flowerpot over there.”

Without another word, he stepped to the side, letting you into the house. A German shepherd came walking down the hall, immediately coming to sniff you out like you were a bad guy. You immediately went to pet him, your hands finding his collar, a bin shaped tag in the middle of his neck that read, ‘Slugger.’

“I’ve got some things to take care of. You do what you want.”

And with that, Ghost was down the hall. Leaving you in the foyer with his dog. And you’re in disbelief because wasn’t this supposed to be— well— a hookup? A quick, ‘hey, I’m signaling you to bone me.’ You grumble, “that ass,” slipping off your shoes and stepping further into the house.

“As if I’d sit around ‘nd wait, ‘m not some pet.”

Let’s not calling waiting then, you wasted time. Ghost's house was a shell of what once was. The leather couch’s and the tv were new. The end tables, coffee table and mirror that hung on the walls were testaments of time though. Old antiques that had to be from the 70s or 60s, a record player placed in the hallway towards the kitchen, still used, rock records spanning the last five decades sat in crates on the floor. Under the tv was a plethora of movies, vhs to dvd, old classics to new action movies.

There were no pictures though. No photo albums to show that a family once lived here in this old house, none on the walls either. Just old paintings of sceneries, a few wilting plants in the corners of the room. But you could tell, the old bannister that led upstairs, the way the house just barely creaked with you and Slugger’s movements, the pencil marks of growing heights on the wall. A family was here once, but it was long gone.

Being here was like intaking the last lifeless breaths of something, utterly still- stuck.

The couch sunk once you plopped down on it. You sighed, Slugger happily panting with his tongue out at you. Graciously waiting for head pats. You chuckled giving him a little ruffle at his cheeks, “Guess we’re both waitin for the same thing, huh?”

“Still busy?” Your voice was naturally sultry, alluring, popping your head into the room where you heard the keyboard being tapped. This room, Ghosts office, completely different from what surrounded it. New, fresh, sleek, renovated.

Ghost hadn’t intended to be stuck at his desk for the last hour, paper work irritated the blonde to no end. He’d rather hand it off to Price. But you’d shown up on your own accord. Didn’t fight when he told you he had something to do, sceptical but still wanting to see whatever he had out for you— patient, just like he wanted. Good kitty.

“No,” a little white lie, he patted his leg, “come on.”

You shift on your feet, footsteps on the smooth hardwood gliding you behind his desk and onto his leg. “I didn’t take you for a business man Ghost.”

“A nickname like mine and you thought business?” His eyebrow raises, amused.

“Related to it! It’s related, no?”

“The military. Lieutenant.” You giggle, shoving his shoulder, “Then I was half right! Not bad, if I do say so myself.” You go on talking, treading lightly on the tightrope, your heart rate picking up while his thumb brushing over your plump lips, lost at the sight of you, gorgeous.

You chuckle, eyes finding his, “You’re not even listenin to a word—“

“—You talk too much.” He murmurs, planting his lips on his. It’s quick. Too quick for your own liking, your grip his hair and put his lips back on yours. They part just enough for his tongue to slip through. It’s wet, it’s sloppy, it’s desperate. Ghost throws your shirt and bra on the cluttered desk, skirt hiked up above your hips, underwear hanging off your foot. It’s already feeling humid, his large hands groping the two large globes of your ass, gripping harshly as you slid his large pink tip between your folds.

“ ‘S not gonna fit-“ you babble, moaning at the simple feel of his dick on you. One of his hands move up your back, “It’ll fit, just like it did last time, don’t think about it so much.”

“B-but-“ Ghosts hand reaches the back of your neck, gripping, “-[+], I’m not askin you. I’m telling you. Put. It. In.” You snuck down on his cock, painfully slow. Eyes squeezing shut with a shaky breath as you tried to take Simon. You remembered the limit, dreamt about it in your sleep and woke up with soiled panties. But you wanted to try fitting more, more—

“Oi, don’t get fuckin greedy. You know what to take,” Simon grunted, giving your clit a nice flick.

“ mMmm’ I’m sorry, sorry.” You mewled. You felt your brain was already shot, eyes turning into your skull as you bounced up and down. Ghosts head coming down perfect to bite and suck on your hardened nipples. You were hiccuping and crying, feeling that vein while his dick scraped your soaking walls.

You hadn’t even realized how dumb you looked, head resting on his shoulder, your arms hooked up under his while Simon took hold of your hips, guiding you up and down, back and forth, on his cock, drool continuously forming that you had to suck back up and slurring out daddy, daddy, daddy.

There’s a snap in your face, a deep chuckle you feel that comes from the bottom of his stomach, “God, is that brain even on? Too fucked out to hear me?”

You keen, “feels- ooough! Feelsh so g-good daddy.”

“I knooow. Poor baby,” Simon fake coos, pulling you away so he could really get a look at that adorably stupid look on your face. Simon couldn’t wait to see more of it. “Can’t even think properly, huh? Don’t worry, Daddy’ll do the thinking for now on. You’d like that, hm? Need someone to guide your little head.”

You moan and bite your lip, looking at him with those pretty brown eyes while rutting your hips so desperately— “Need you, need you so- hicc— soooo-“ Your own gasp cuts you off, eyes widening and shutting and you fell into the crash of a orgasm.

So sweet, so good, a orgasm that got you so high, it would land you right back down into Ghost's arms.

The relationship was— well the situationship— it wasn’t a bad arrangement.

You found stability within Ghost. Shocker? To you, yes.

There were no set rules to him, you could come and go as you pleased— the key under the green flowerpot in the front yard were yours— and if Ghost was there, he’d fuck you just as you needed. Rough and deep, pulling at the blonde strands of his hair whilst he ate your swollen pussy after wearing you thin, crying and thrashing. And when you woke up Ghost was either gone, in the living room watching some 80s flick rerun or in the garage.

“Leaving?”

“Yeah, see you later.”

“Mm.”

He didn’t press, he didn’t pull. He was constant. Ghosts house become your little safe haven. Anytime you felt like running off, being alone yet not alone, you were back there, blast music whenever you wanted, dance around without your neighbors banging on the wall and you’d have a cute little dog to pet everytime you gad the chance, Even when he’d gone on a mission, he’d leave you a note, ‘replace what you eat’ or ‘take care of the house’ because he’d known you’d be there. That was the very least you could do, right?

Take Slugger on a walk or two, fill the fridge before ransacking it, leave a couple clothes in the bedroom because you always forgot something at your place. Buy the fashion magazines you’d been dying to read and set them right under the stack Ghost had left there.

It felt so nice to be in Ghosts big arms, you didn’t have to have that hard shell you worked so hard to create, let his calloused hands explore you. Gently from your stomach to your chin, caressing ever so softly, you couldn’t help but lean into it. Lashes fluttering, sitting idly in one of his shirts that went mid thigh or maybe in the little black and blue tank top and underwear set he bought you.The one with lace at the hem that showed off your plump ass and hard nipples— you waited patiently for whenever he came home. Be it 7 pm or 1 am.

Let him ruffle your hair before you could swat him away, let him get a long and good look at you after his long day. Bring your ankle to his lips on the other end of the couch you two were both slouched on, movie playing in the background, before playfully biting.

Simon would ask, “What’d you do all day, hm?”

“Work, bullshit, more work.” You’d scuff, playing your nails but you weren’t focused on them. Not at all, more focused on Ghosts reaction, none of course, “let’s hear the bullshit then.”

You couldn’t help but want to be there. Because Simon wanted to hear you, his sweet girl, go on and on till you got tired, all curled up in his lap. Dozed off and nuzzling into the man’s every touch. Simon adored that about you.

You hadn’t even realized how kept you were until he handed that card, telling you, “you should get your own dresser instead of hogging mine. And get Slugger that collar you wanted for him.” As if you’d forgotten.

Did you run because you could see a storm brewing a mile away? Felt yourself reverting to the girl you once were with Mark. Being left to your own devices then meant to be the stress reliever. Kept. That’s what Ghost had to see you as right? Nothing more than pretty object. Right?

No, this was your greed festering again. Something you should’ve shoved downs flight of stairs just when you got that little nibble of proper attention you wanted. Ever wanting, ever needing— More, more, more. Fuck the world, you wanted the galaxy— the universe. You’d dreamed of it one night, living peacefully in this house, warmth filling it, laid out in his truck, watching the stars pressed into the blondes side. But Ghost couldn’t give you the universe. You were stupidly sure of that— convinced every molecule to refute the idea of it. No man could. You’d accepted that.

You’d rather be alone than to be let down.

And maybe it’s on Simon for not tightening the leash when he had the chance. He shouldn’t have let you perch in his lap and rub into him without telling you that there was no backing out of— well— this. Another problem. He should’ve told you that you’d be his, no more of the back and forth. Settle you properly. You hadn't even known you’d slithered around a snake tamers neck.

You were so blatantly ignoring him. Ignoring his calls, his texts. And it’s not like he was harassing you, he’d call or text once a week. See if you’d bite, but he’d get nothing. But you were still going place to place (he had your location on), showing off all sexy and high tailed with your friends. Eating, clubbing, working, showing your pretty face to the camera. Like nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

It irritated Simon. To the point, the men working under him were even more terrified and exhausted of him after training. Soap had to remind him to ease up on them, “They’re wee babies aren’t they?”

No, they were annoying little brats, who should understand without being told. Just like you.

Simon realized his fault. He just needed to train you right. Strays are all the same. You could keep them around for so long, let them bite and scratch even as you pet them, they leave, maybe get roughed up a bit then— they’d be right back when they needed or wanted. Looking for comfort, to find out if anything had changed— safety. You’d known where you were supposed to be eventually.

He heard the front door open, gently shutting it closed and the zipper of your boots coming off.

“Where’ve you been?” Simon thundered. He was sat on the couches closer to the window, man spreading, brown eyes piercing you.

You glance off, voice just above a whisper, “Around.”

Around? Right. Just paying the person you gave your attention to, no mind. Not an answer that would fly, not in Simons book.

“I just came to get a jacket.”

But you don’t move, the tension is too thick. Almost suffocating. You didn’t know why you were back honestly. You wanted to see him, just for a bit. Even if it was to grab one of his old shirts. Say hi to Slugger. The jacket was an excuse.

“What’d’you want [+]?”

What do you want? You blinked. Once. Twice. To go home. A new thought because you so badly wanted to be here no matter what you did, your mind would trail back to being here, face pressed in Simons thigh, almost purring the way he rubbed the back of your nape, Slugger on his doggy bed sleeping, Simon telling you to hush because you were talking over the horror movie you were scared of— that’s what you wanted.

But is that what you deserved? Is that what Simon wanted? Simon was looking right through you, eyes deep and searching for any waver yet understanding. Oh, it wasn’t just a simple question. It was, ‘What do you want so I can make you stay?’ Fickle were the worries that crossed your mind to Simon. He saw the way you kept shifting foot to foot, eyes in a panic, playing with your nails and the rings on your finger—you were scared. He was driving you into a corner on purpose.

Run. Just like you always do. It’s better this way.

“I-I want my jacket.” You stammered out, swallowing the spit in your mouth, “I need to get it, then I’ll get out of your hair.”

Your reply was like a rejection, a smack in empty forrest. You move finally, up the stairs, and you hear it. It’s like a rare bell that chimes when you finally come to a realization— Simons chuckle. It’s short but deep, drenched in sarcasm.

Faster.

Ghost was on you before you could get down the hallway, throwing you over his shoulder— tightening.

It was wrangling a feral cat. This entire beginning to now, letting you come and go when you wanted, feeding you, cuddling you, gifting you— it was house training a stray. And now that you’d bit his hand, and I mean really bit it, he’d force you into a house cat—

Help your stupid little brain remember where you belonged.

Right up under Simons large build, your hands pinned together at your stomach in one of his hands, shoving your face down into the mattress of his bed with the other, dropping every fucking inch of his girth into your tight pussy. Squirming too much, mewling, “ ‘s too much- agh- daddy too much!”

And there’s a large hand that comes down on your ass, fixing your lower back to arch so you weren’t in fetal position, “Shut up ‘nd take it, take it, fucking take it.”

You’d never in your life felt so full, so stretched, so out of your mind. Your lucky Simon was giving you the opportunity to take those shaky breaths, try to get used to the size, but it didn’t make a difference. Your snug cunt was gripping him like a vice, he wanted to memorize every single bit of it.

He breaths through his nose, shuddering before snapping his hips into yours, “Fuckin hell, baby, all this f’me. Always been for me.” His thrusts are slow and mean, dragging himself out so his tip is right at the entrance of your hole then plowing back into you.

“Fuuuu- so full- so much,” you gasp, tears forming in your eyes.

“Holdin out on me, mmph- you were holdin out on me alllll this time. Like I wouldn’t- fuck- be able to fit in your pretty pussy ‘nd then leavin me high and dry,” he grunts, delirious on your gummy walls, thrusts becoming more rapid, his heavy balls hitting your clit with every movement, He snickers, “You lost your brain princess, this is where you should be. Turnin that dumb little brain off and takin my cock.”

Simon presses your hands down on your stomach, exactly here his dick was pressing your cervix, you flinch, sobbing out his name as you cream all over his dick. “Therrrre she goes, gorgeous fuckin slut you are. You've been aching for it haven't you?”

The blonde flips you onto your back, sliding back into your sensitive heat without a second thought. You claw at Ghosts back, eyes rolling into your head like a flimsy doll. Cockdrunk baby, he jaw clenches, that quick wave of jealousy washing over him, but he lets it out out in the way he fucks you. Getting three of his fat fingers and rubbing loud and sopping mess you’ve left around your clit. Getting you through three orgasms just by playing with that bundle of nerves.

He nibbled everywhere, sure to leave hickies around your neck and chest, then bites. literally. “To think, you’d go off without a word to me, like you don’t care. Who told you to run off like that? Huh? Daddy didn’t, did I?” The blonde presses all your weight down on you, swiveling his hips.

“N-no” you hiccup, his hand goes to your throat, giving it a nice squeeze, “No what? Don’t you have any manners doll?”

“No sir,” you yelp, that strawberry pink cockhead hitting your g-spot. The plap, plap, plap, of Ghost bottoming at your then giving your g-spot a knuckle sandwich with his dick.

“Told you, you over think too fuckin much,” Ghosts voice strangled, “Get out of your head, enough of the running.”

“I don’t,” you shake your head but Simon squeezes your cheeks together, throwing your legs over his shoulders, “don’t fuckin lie, [+], don’t feed me bullshit.”

And you feel smaller than you ever had, whimpering, the most vulnerable you've ever been, forcing everything out and handing over the key to Pandora’s box- “You- you can’t let go, okay? You have to- hicc- you have to be with me!”

As if you had to ask.

He just needed to hear it from your plump lips, even if it took you being overstimulated, tears on his shoulder and your mixed cum spilling out of your swollen pussy. He’d tame you over and over and over, just for you to stay with him. Keep you close.

“Open,” Ghosts mezmorized, your mouth falls open and a wad of his spit falls in. He closes your mouth with his thumb, “Swallow” and you did, throat bobbing in his hands. He pressed your forehead together, molding your lips, biting your lips so much you can feel the blood.

You're purring, eyes glazed over and slurring, “Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Daddy?”

“Princess,” he leers but you moan louder at that, arms wrapping around his tattooed broad shoulders.

Call and fucking response, the ends of Ghosts lips curve up. Such a sweetheart, checking to see if he was there, and he would always be right there.

“Sweet baby, learning to be greedy?” He hummed and you’re slowly nodding that clueless little head of yours, your walls clenching a few times, “-hmph want you, want it.”

“Gooood girl, my good girl. Gonna fill your little cunt, yeah? Just how you want, just how you need, right Kitty? Gonna take all of it?”

It doesn’t take much for you to fall off the edge of Simons words, back arching off the bed and Simons holding you tight, still slamming into you while leaving a tender kiss to your forehead. Till you feel those big fat globs of milky cum hitting your cervix.

Simon looks at the state of you, glowing, breathtaking even in your exhausted state, he could’ve moaned at the sight of you, pushing your curls out of your face and licking up the tears that once fell.

Gorgeous kitty, Simon would take care of you now.

a/n: this took forever. I love blackcat!reader the most. Lmk what you think pls

most recent masterlist more meanie!simon

𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱<3: @bruisedfig @tessakate @sevikasblackgf @mocha-the-muse

[sweetestsong]

scapegoat / tucked tail - john price

nsfw. ao3. ~4k

s. the old bruise in his eyes is gone. in its place, blue charcoal ignites, licking at his pupil in a dilated, focused anger. “doesn’t feel good, f'your space to be invaded,” his cigar breathes embers over the bridge of your nose, “does it?”

or, you and your boss get stuck in an elevator.

cw. fem reader. pnv. fingering. power imbalance/inappropriate work dynamics.

for @tobeholyistobeempty <3 thanks for letting me rant about him, love being abhorrent with you.

The world feels odd today.

Tectonic shift. An onslaught of rubble plateaus at your feet as you stand in the elevator. You taste the disquiet in your coffee and try to find its source in the tile grout. This anxiety is an old knife, sweating against a whetstone and the back of your neck.

Your mind searches for a scapegoat- forgotten papers, an unlocked door, perhaps the stove top was left on. But you come up empty-handed and are left to swim in these troubling waters alone and wondering.

The elevator bell brings you back to the morning. Opening doors reveal grey carpet and China blue walls. Clouds with silver linings that shade over the windows. Ceiling lamps. The familiarity should bring you comfort, but the knife is still at your throat as you walk to the main office.

Rounding the corner, it cuts.

The blue in Mr. Price’s eyes is bruised and the pupils have shrunk into capsizing ships. Purple grows beneath his lashes like swollen grapes, where his crows’ feet pick at sunspots. Exhaustion has seized the bridge you spent a year building between the two of you- made from iron, coffee runs and polite banter.

It’s seemingly been burned sometime between the elevator and his office.

“Good morning, Mr. Price.” You say. He stares.

Time takes a drag of its cigar and puts it out on your back while you wait for his reply.

“Morning.”

The answer to your unknown anxiety stamps itself to the slam of his door.

8 AM

He’s not in the office for your first delivery.

His absence is disturbing- abnormal. Even when he isn’t there he lingers- a man who frequently shadows the space and people around him. A wall of force.

You find that his room is similar. Swallows you, despite its minimalism. Mahogany flays the skin under your nose as you survey the small space.

Barren walls aside from a few framed accolades. Tobacco torn carpet. And a desk in the center of the room, framed by a small bookshelf and a single leather chair. Whiskey, neat.

“Excuse me.”

You flinch and spin around. Mr. Price has his hand on the door handle, paused as he glowers at you from the threshold. You smile, but it only seems to wrinkle what little patience he had left.

“Paperwork,” you clear your throat, nerves sparking down your spine “I…have some paperwork. ‘Was leaving it on your desk. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He takes a long stride to the corner of his desk, hands folded behind his back. Sits in his leather chair with a huff and then holds his hand out expectantly. It takes you a second to understand, before you slowly lower the papers into his palm.

Usually, this is where he thanks you. Says he likes your hair “done like that”. Compliments the color of your shirt. It’s an arguably meaningless moment.

But not to you.

The way his voice purrs over your name, a small sentiment that brightens the dirtier, drawling parts of your day. John Price hand feeds you your own importance, and you hardly understand what you did to earn it.

But you don’t have to- the moment beckons content sleep anyway. Because someone- he- believes you did something good.

He says nothing to you today.

10:30 AM

Your knock on his door is timid at best.

“Come in.”

You poke your head through the crack. “I made some coffee…” He waits for you to make this worth his time, and both of you are skeptical that you’ll be able to, “I have an extra cup- black, how you like it. You seem tired today so I-“

“Just…leave it by the door.”

Your eyebrows draw. “…On the floor?”

He looks up at you from over his glasses. “Is there anything else to set it on?”

You look around to give your throat the opportunity to unclose. “No, sir.”

He looks back down. “Then yes. On the floor.”

You stand under the top of the door and watch tantrums manifest themselves around his torso. Small cracks in a meticulously built machine, where enflamed sores spit steam. Alloy lighthouse that searches for labor even when there is none.

Rusts when stagnant.

He does not look at you when he speaks again. “Today would be preferable.”

You’re already walking before your mind can stop you. Foot in front of the other to reach the corner of his desk, and the journey feels twice as long when you register the way he watches you. A fridged gloss over his iris- numbs an anger that squints when you place the cup next to his pen holder.

 He lets out a long, dry, sigh.

“I told you that you could-“

“One less trip for you…” You remember yourself when his eyebrows raise, “sir.”

Your words echo. The walls corner your shoulders. The air he exhales chokes you, and everything slows until it’s just the Atlantic of his eyes and the unshakeable sense that you are drowning in them.

He opens his mouth, but you leave before the words come.

1:00 PM

The seat in the breakout room next to yours is empty. He ate lunch in his office.

When you return to your desk, his mug is on its corner.

It’s empty.

5:25 PM

He calls you into his office this time.

You close the door with your back, hands folded in front of you.

He rubs the bridge of his nose when you walk in, evidently already annoyed. Takes his glasses off with a sigh, interlacing his fingers and rests his elbows on the desk. Greek statue still, with all the imitation of their Gods to match.

“I went through the reports.”

“About the covert?”

“What else,” he grits, “would I be talking about?”

You nod dumbly and stay with your back to the door.

“Do you w-“

“It’s missing pages.”

You swallow a rock. “What?”

“I said,” he stands, straightening his spine, “if you could listen the first time,” a frequent tactic you’ve seen him use on his subordinates- “It has,” but never you, “missing. Pages.”

He’s in front of you and he brings with him a particular quiet that triggers your fight or flight. The pause before an explosion, after a gun fire, or the sound of a casket closing. All of these buries you six feet under- still alive and restlessly terrified of living at the same time as his temper.

He pushes the paper into your chest, and when he removes his hands, he takes your breath with it.

“Fix it.”

5:28 PM

You fight tears at the printer.

When you’ve triple checked that all the pages are there, you return to his office.

You slide the report under the door.

It’s dark when you let your aching bones stand to leave.

Collecting papers, fixing your desk, shouldering your bag…a routine that feels uncharged without Mr. Price to talk with you. Funny, how much you miss his presence.

It’s hardly appropriate, but you pretend that it is.

The lights are off in his office, shades drawn. You didn’t see him leaving, but after your last interaction you hadn’t really been watching. You stare at the room, desperate for it to burst into flames, rot to the floor, melt into wax and metal and dread. Do something that isn’t absurdly empty.

None of those things happen.

So, you wave your white flag. Tomorrow, it’ll be better. You’ll be better.

Your day ends where it began- at the steel doors of the elevator. It looks frosted in the evening; the fluorescent lights above you casting a sick yellow hue over the China blue walls and grey carpet. It looks as stale as you feel.

It opens, and you let out a long sigh as you step in. And for a blissful moment, the day is over.

And then a hand slams between the closing doors.

They jut open, and reveal John Price standing at full height. He does not soften like he usually does when he sees you- in fact he goes ridged. It haunts you, how guiltless he looks.

“Good evening, sir.”

Your nicety falls on deaf ears. He hums and fishes out a lighter from his pocket, sticking a cigar between canines as he steps through the doors. Lights it as they close, and the room fogs.

Within seconds, you’re swelling in the familiarity of cigar corpse. Buried under the nickel smoke that clips to the heels of his boots and stagnates above the slope of his shoulders. Vaguely expensive, like it’s a luxury to be near him and his vices.

Your nose burns, a cruel itch that nudges your sinuses and overwhelms the place behind your eyes. Suffocating as Mr. Price and his cigar smolder beside you, watching the floor numbers decline with your tolerance.

Your peripheral renders embers- fizzles at his facial hair that rests over its barrel, and the fixed position of his jaw when he takes a drag. Calm blankets his silhouette, and you can see his attitude begin to repair itself.

It halts when you cough.

You don’t dare look at him when you feel a shift beside you. “Somethin’ the matter?”

You hold your breath, and when you exhale it’s shaky. “N-no si-“

“Speak up.”

“No sir.”

You cough again.

“Not used to these yet? For how long you’ve been workin’ f’me that’s pretty damn insulting.”

You’re blinking back tears, shifting in your heels. “I- it’s just because we’re in a-“

His hand is on your jaw, yanking it to look up at him.

The old bruise in his eyes is gone. In its place, blue charcoal ignites, licking at his pupil in a dilated, focused anger. Stikes quickly enough to paralyze you in his grip, stone as he squeezes the soft out of the base of your cheeks.

“Small space? Doesn’t feel good, f’your space to be invaded,” the cigar still sits between his teeth and breathes embers over the bridge of your nose, “does it?”

“No sir.” You can’t tell where he ends, or the cigar begins- all you know is that you’re burning in the subsequent ash that follows them both. Tears well up in the corners of your eyes as you become horrifically aware of how much he overwhelms you. How it’s always been this way- the kindle to his fire. A match to paper.

Just took him force feeding you secondhand smoke to see it. Or, rather, taste it.

“Been doin’ this t’me all fuckin’ day. Hoverin’ like a damn heli.”

“I’m sorry-“

He squeezes until your teeth mark the inside of your cheeks. “Can’tcha tell when a man needs his g’damn peace? When he’s fed up? What about today made’ya think I needed-“

The car convulses with the intensity of thunder. Mechanical earthquake sends you forward and into his chest, and you tense at the abrupt loss of gravity. You feel his back hit the wall, and the way he grunts as you follow close behind. Instinct moves his hand to cover the curve of your head, and you inhale into his shirt.

It’s quiet for ten long seconds. In that time, you realize the elevator isn’t moving.

Mr. Price speaks first. “You alright?”

“Yes.” You breathe.

You slowly part, and the light flickers over your head. Mr. Price curses.

“Not claustrophobic, are you?” You shake your head, and he runs a hand through his hair.

“Good.” He makes his way to the operating panel and clicks the emergency open. Theres a whine from somewhere in the front of the car, but nothing budges. He shakes his head and tries to pull the doors apart.

He grunts, but the effort is futile. He doesn’t quit, though.

“Mr. Price.” No response.

“Sir-“ He tries again.

“John Price.”

He turns to you, and for the first time today you see all of it. How his hand-built dam broke, and the surrounding bridges collapsed, and somehow and for some reason, the blame is on him. The blood in the water and the festered rage clogs up his senses until all clarity dies.

How when he softens, it’s the first time he’s seeing you.

You dig your water bottle out of your bag and hold it out to him. He takes it silently, and you press the fire department button.

You slip off your heels and set them next to your bag.

The closed door turns you into a gauche- softly painted in the flickering, orange lights. Theres a halo of static around your figure- as if the curves of you had been smudged. Your face is made up of vague features- shapes that follow its structure but feel slanted. A disorienting, surreal reflection of yourself.

You want to laugh at how fitting it is.

Next to it, is an equally detached painting of Mr. Price. The color of your shirt and the cream of his collect in the middle. It’s fuzzy, and you must squint to see it, but the tether is still there. If only, in the dull steal of an elevator door.  

Price is already looking at you when you glace in his direction. You lean against the side of the elevator wall. “What happened today?”

He lets out a sigh- like he knew you were going to ask. Props himself against the other wall and crosses his arms. In your peripheral, you see how the reflections are no longer on the door.

“A mission did not go as plan.”

You look at him as if to say that cannot possibly be all, and he drops his cigar and puts it out on the tile. “We lost two of our men.”

Your heart twists. “I’m so sorry.”

He nods solemnly, and you pinch your skirt.

“…was it the one I gave you today?”

He shakes his head, and you’re relieved. “No. I found out last night.”

You pause and begin to walk towards him. “Did you sleep?”

The question crosses a boundary, like your body is now. The invisible wall all employees and their bosses have. The absence of real empathy, loyalty without attachment, and the hard rule of never involving yourself in their outside.

The places beyond the office- his home, his habits, his thoughts. The places you so desperately want to be inside.

He watches you approach him, and his shoulders slouch. You’re in front of him now, the smoke still burning at your nose, but it fizzles from below your calf and travels up and between your legs. An awareness follows it- of just how large he is too you without the aid of your heels.

When you look at him, you’re cognitive of why you asked, why you stepped forward, and why you haven’t back away.

And how dangerous that is.

“What do you think?” The question is rhetorical, but your thumb comes to trace the dark space beneath his eyes anyway.

“Not a wink.” You whisper. His breath draws and comes out ragged. His eyes watch you carefully, and despite how hunted they make you feel, your other hand holds his shoulder. When you speak again, your question is genuine.

“Can I do anything to help you, sir?”

His kiss comes to you like an epiphany.

Evens out the grass in your yard that grows awkwardly. Dissolves the spots in your vision after you look at bright lights. The puzzle piece that fell under your desk. All the trifling anomalies that coexist with your ignorance. Orphaned calamities that, until now, it felt futile to repair.

But his mouth pulls it out of you. Biting your lower lip tipping your chin so your lips mold together and you can feel his breath- the thing that keeps him alive- burrowing itself into yours.

Put simply- he was the thing you didn’t know you needed until you had it.

His hands push your hips to the wall, and you inhale, lifting onto your toes and steading yourself by gripping his shoulders. He mutters something incoherent before running his tongue along your gums and you freeze.

He dips to your neck, and you stifle a moan, feeling his hands grab the back part of your thighs and pulling them forward to lift you up-

“Sir- wait-”

He looks at you- almost as angry as he had been about the missing report pages.

“For once,” his right hand comes back up to hold your chin, “let me do what I need to do.”

He doesn’t let an argument form before he slams his lips on yours again- this time it’s violent. Holding your face still so he can shove his tongue down your throat. Your mouth is his ashtray, swallowing his depravity, his rot, the injuries that kept him festering in a locked office. You widen your mouth to fit all of it, so when he groans your name, you swallow that, too.

His left hand relinquishes his grip on your thigh and slips it under your skirt. When you try to pull away, his other hand is there, holding your face still until he runs his index and middle over the wet patch on your underwear.

He smiles against your mouth. “Been wantin’ this, huh darl’?”

You gasp when his thumb presses against your clit through the cloth- “P-Pri-“

His hand falls away and you whine. Tuts, looking you in the eye. “Sir, sweet’eart. Say it.”

“Sir.” You breathe, rolling your hips forward to find fleeting relief against his limp fingers.

“Tha’s a girl.” Kisses behind your ears, before slipping his fingers past the lace to wander between your folds. You sigh, gipping his shoulders for balance, rocking your hips. His thumb returns to its small ministrations against your clit, and a curious finger slips into the sleeve of your cunt.

You groan. “S…sir the f-fire depart-“

He hushes you with a second finger. You yelp, and he takes your surprise as an opportunity to knock your planted foot out to let him stand between them. Shoves his fingers deeper, and you bend forward, moaning as you try your best to see straight.

“Tight lil thing, isn’t she,” his pumps become purposely cruel, and you’re resting your head against his shoulder, mouth agape with drool pooling on the white of his shirt, “have’ta warm her up, hm?”

You don’t know why you find yourself nodding. You’re long past an appropriate work relationship. Employee contracts don’t include riding your superior’s fingers in a stranded elevator.

But it’s been in the fine print, hasn’t it? In the lingering hands, careful eyes, the way you watched his mouth when he talked, and he let you. Even today, you weren’t upset with what he’d said and done on principle, but because it was done to you. It tore down the selfish, callow notion that you were removed from his cruelty- that you had and always would be an exception.

You think in some twisted way; this is him proving you right. The apology you’ll never hear said aloud.

He’s always been a man of action, anyway.

He adds a third, and you’re choking back a sob, shivering like you aren’t burning. Searing where he touches you, while the rest of him crowds everywhere else. Entirely aware that he’s stretching the sensitive tendons of your body and the bones that hold you together so he can watch himself put you back together. Molding you, for him.

Like you haven’t done so already.

“C’mon now, ‘can feel you getting close, sweet’eart,” he purrs in your ear, “give it to me.”

And he’s right. It’s building, the slow and pulsing anticipation your body cannot save itself from- pinpricks of lightning before the thunder. Shuddering breaths as you become desperate- echoed in the curls of your fingers and toes and the mantra you repeat against his neck,

“Please, please, please, ple,”

Your orgasm (you think for the moments that everything whites out) makes you a witch. Burns you at the stake, flays you alive, the mob of your own consciousness jeering from somewhere and nowhere. The limbo where the thunder finally rolls in, but too quickly disappears when he removes his soiled fingers.

“Stay with me,” the tap on your cheek pulls you back to the crammed elevator and the arms that hold you still, “open.”

You do, unlatching chattering teeth and flattening your tongue until his fingers are bed there. He doesn’t move his eyes from you.

“Ain’t that a sight…”

You close your lips and taste the beginning of the end. The torn tapestry yarn of your professionalism, your impulses, your desires. Congregated on the digits that have signed your reports, touched the small of your back, and have now been deep inside your cunt.

He grunts and pulls his hand away with a quiet pop, and steps back to put his hands on his belt.

Your mind is only now beginning to catch up with reality. “Pr-Sir I don’t…“

He draws his cock from the waistband of his pants, and you’re quiet. It holds all the same weight he does, and the hair. Thick swirls that brush over heavy flesh, where it blossoms in an angry red at the tip. You swallow thickly, back pressed to the wall and cunt aching for something your mind isn’t ready for.

“I’m not-“

“You’re prepped enough, darl’,” he steps forwards, running his tip between your folds you wince, “Be a good girl for me, hm? ‘S gonna feel,” he groans when he pushes in further, knocking your lungs up to your throat, “Christ…good.”

He wraps his palms on the underbelly of your thighs and lifts, pressing you against the wall of the elevator. You breathe in the infant relief, before he bottoms out.

You sob, gripping onto his dress shirt as your walls stretch. It’s all lost to the current of his own curses and ragged breaths into your neck. “Fuck, still tight huh?”

You try to reply but it’s lost to the waves that cascade under your ribs with every thrust you’re forced to take. Only able to focus on how full you are, the rest of your body hollowed out in comparison. Light, feverish shivers unfurl up the base of your spine, and you wrap your legs around his hips. He doesn’t mind your silence.

He starts with slow thrusts, letting you bounce on his cock in a rhythm that makes you squirm. When you put up a fight, he grabs your hips and pulls them against his, and you lean your head against the wall at the new depth that should be impossible.

His hand finds your clit and you’re quick to fold back into his shoulder, letting out another ugly moan.

“Tha’s it, knew you needed this,” his hips snap against your ass and your grip beneath his shoulder blades, “I see how you look at me,” grabs your face and tips his head to look down at you, “like you are right now.”

You sigh when he plunges deeper. “Y-you wha…wanted it too..?”

He adjusts your hips and answers with a hard jerk of his own. “’Course I did. Knew you’d be…hah..” leans his head into your neck, where he bites and you gasp, “made f’me.”

You’re flooded with a strange sense of ease.

Nothing about this is normal, but it’s warranted. Signing yourself to him with leather sticking to the underside of your thighs, shaking his hand and feeling a life richer than your own hold you with gentleness. How he’d look at you in the first week mornings and smile, so you adjusted comfortably. How he still did months into the job.

You recall an evening when he walked you to your car. You asked him when he’d be going home. He responded, “late,” and you had said “not too much later, yeah?” He had looked at you like you’d be the one waiting at home for him.

Then said, “For you, I won’t.”

You’ve been wanting it since then.

The collision shatters glass and other fragile things you’re made of. Lifted by his arms so you cannot collect yourself as he spears into you, until you are unsure where you begin, and he ends.

Didn’t hear yourself begin to speak, but you catch the butt-end of your incoherency when he steps forward and puts your back flat against the wall. “-ir so good…uh..hah good please, gonna- gonna cum’ah.”

He doesn’t relent, chasing your orgasm like he’s starving. “I know, I know sweet’eart, doin’ so well…” cages you between his elbows, “Show me how good I make you feel.”

You cling to his back like a lifeline. Drowning in him again, but now it’s beyond his eyes. Its his chest, his arms, his cock and every other part of him that makes you desperate enough to fuck him in an elevator.

Equally terrified and thrilled by his reciprocation. A follower returning to their alter, where their food has been eaten and wine swallowed and you simultaneously realize your god is real, and he knows you.

That he’ll eat you too, given the chance.

Your second orgasm is a cigar. Burns fast once lit and lingers until the smoke finds your lungs and the clenches your walls. Where the tobacco is you, your boss, this elevator, and the sprout that grew until its nicotine leaves bridged them together.  

Where Price can fit his mouth back over yours and groan, spilling himself into you and bucking until his spend kisses your cervix, and you see stars.

The come down is slow. He doesn’t move for awhile and you are grateful- entirely sure that the moment he steps away you’ll collapse to the floor. Feeling his chest inhale against your own, and kisses you like he didn’t just fuck you raw against granite that you will never look at the same again.

He peels himself from you at a snail’s pace, and when he pulls out, takes a finger and pushes his spend back into your swollen cunt. When you shift, his places a burly hand above your pelvis and holds you against the wall. Rises, and swipes the hair out of you face.

“Still with me?”

You can only nod against the hills of his palm. He smiles for the first time that day.

“Let’s get cleaned up before the firemen get us out.”

Tomorrow, Price will smile the whole day. He will get you a coffee from the break room, and you will ask how he knows the amount of cream and sugar you like. He will remind you he’s an observer. He’ll notice you did your hair differently. He will say he likes it.

At 5, he will call you into his office again. But this time, it’s not about missing pages of a report, but the missing undergarment from under your skirt.

He’ll then ask you to lift it, so he can properly see how soaking wet your cunt is.

[sweetestsong]

Fat girls are hot.

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