ultravio-bunny

[ultravio-bunny]

I believe what this lowk rude anon is trying to say is for like the banner thingy for blurbs to try to include poc, idk I’m probs wrong. You’re not obligated to write for a race that isn’t your own.

why the fuck don’t you write for black girls?? every pic you use is so tonedeaf dafuq

first hate comment or whatever it is… (kinda nervous..)

anyway i really hope this is rage bait cuz it’s giving rage bait which is so weird to do on a random post lol.. and also im not a poc and it feels tonedeaf for me to write for them when it’s not my culture. hope this helps !!

[ultravio-bunny]

How would sexist!rafe react if reader tried listening to like rock and stuff?

i feel like reader in general is very into lana and 50s-60s elvis, beach boys, the ronettes type. but she has one very rogue “rock rock” song she likes that deeply confuses rafe. cherry bomb by the runways.

he’d probably turn the volume down himself, muttering something like, “that kind of music makes girls angry, baby. you don’t need to be angry…”

[ultravio-bunny]

…DBF!RAFE X SWAN!READER AU

⋆𐙚₊˚🦢⊹♡

DBF!RAFE X SWAN!READER who started the beginning stages of their secret relationship behind her father’s back when he found her crying one day at home. thinking she was all alone, she was hysterical as she paced the halls, her chest heaving as she tightly wrapped her arms around herself, a mix of both shame and rage weighing heavily on her heart. her parents promised her that they’d both be in attendance for what was supposed to be her big solo number that she put literal blood, sweat, and tears into, only for them to be nowhere to be found in the crowd of people watching the show. on top of her not having her ‘support’ system there, she was especially mortified at the fact that she messed up her routine as a result of not seeing their faces amongst the audience. rafe followed the sound of hyperventilative breaths until it lead him to find her curled up in the corner of her room, the soft pink tulle material of her tutu concealing her from his view. “y/n?” she jumped at the voice, her bloodshot eyes shooting up to meet dbf!rafe’s. he took one look at her mascara smudged face, and felt like he knew exactly what was going on.

DBF!RAFE X SWAN!READER who stayed in her room talking until her tears dried, dbf!rafe sitting across from her on the floor with his back resting against her bed frame. “they don’t understand how hard i worked for this. i just needed them there, and they couldn’t even do that.” rafe zeroed in on her slippers, his eyebrows knitting together as he spotted the red patches adorning her tippy toes. “is that blood?” he reached for her foot, her body tensing as he softly stroked the satin material. the last thing she expected from him was to be so tender, the unfamiliar gentleness of his touch making something stir in her chest. “yes.. it happens all the time though, it’s fine.” she hissed, pulling away from him. rafe’s jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling as she avoided his burning gaze. “you’re overworking yourself, don’t you think?” she scoffed, resting her face in her hands as she shook her head. “no, no, you don’t get it— i have to be perfect,” she swallowed thickly, “it’s the only way they’ll look at me.” rafe felt his fists clench at his sides, her words bringing him back to when he was her age and desperate for ward’s approval.

DBF!RAFE X SWAN!READER who have to cut their conversation short when they hear her father’s voice boom from downstairs, both swan!reader and rafe scrambling up from the floor as if they were getting caught doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing. rafe left her room and snuck back downstairs where he pretended to walk out of the restroom, both him and swan!reader’s dad greeting each other as she listened in on them through the small crack of her door. “hey, man, thanks for waiting for me here, did y/n get dropped off from her recital already?” rafe cleared his throat awkwardly, his eyebrows knitting in faux confusion. “oh, i’m not sure—” swan!reader’s father waved a dismissive hand, motioning for rafe to follow him into the bar area. “it doesn’t matter, i heard she stumbled and took a fall,” he scoffed, “i pay thousands of dollars a year for her to be in that academy and she can’t even twirl and spin on a stage, ‘you believe that shit?” swan!reader felt like stomping downstairs and telling him that she only messed up because he wasn’t there, but instead she shut her door and let the tears flow again. it took everything inside of rafe to bite his tongue and keep his mouth shut.

DBF!RAFE X SWAN!READER who start having regular ‘talks’ when no one is home. it starts with him dropping by ‘accidentally’ when her parents are out, both of them sitting a safe distance away from each other on the couch, the space between them lessening with each visit. he’s then giving her his cell phone number, telling her that she could reach out to him anytime.. and she takes full advantage. it isn’t until they start sending photos of random things to each other throughout the day that rafe starts thinking about whether or not he should be engaging with her like this. considering he has known her father since their college days, he only feels a smidge of guilt before she’s calling him one day in tears, her voice shaking as she could barely get out a clear sentence. “just hold on—” rafe was already rushing out of his office when he heard her broken sobs, “i-i’m coming for you right now, alright? don’t worry.” in no time, he was pulling up in front of her academy, his heart lurching in his chest once he spotted her crying on one of the nearby benches, her pink duffle bag hanging off of her shoulder.

DBF!RAFE X SWAN!READER who end up back at his place due to swan!reader not wanting to go home, her arms crossed over her chest as rafe tried to talk her through her emotions. “i’m not going to justify what he did, because quite frankly, i know he’s an asshole, but your father just wants you to focus on your studies more—” her head shot in his direction, her eyes narrowing at his words. “so you think it’s fair that he has me taken out of my lead role?! he’s always saying that i’m not good enough but once i earn the chance to prove him wrong, he snatches it away from me?! i hate him..” rafe studied her for a moment, the adam’s apple in his throat bobbing as he fought the urge to pull her into his embrace. he couldn’t understand why swan!reader’s father was the way he was, but it definitely wasn’t fair for her to be the one to take all the blows. “no, i don’t think you deserve that at all.” his voice is soft when he talks to her, it’s nothing like the harsh tone of her father’s when he’s barking out lectures. swan!reader can’t help but feel the overwhelming desire to feel him close, her feet moving before she can think. “can i?”

DBF!RAFE X SWAN!READER who find themselves approaching the line between right and wrong, dbf!rafe reaching for her hand as she stood between his thighs. pulling her down onto his lap, the two of them stare at each other, neither of them saying anything as rafe notices her eyes flicker down to his lips. “you’d make a really good dad,” she whispered, her hand feeling small in his, “you’re sweet and understanding..” rafe blinked, “..you don’t yell at me, you talk to me. i wish my dad was like that.” she pecked his cheek, her lips feeling pillowy soft against his skin. she continued pecking his face until she pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips, both of them sharing a look as the air grew tense. “we shouldn’t do this.” rafe was already giving in to her advances, his hands snaking down to her waist as he dragged her hips up the growing bulge in his slacks. “so take me home, then.” she lifted her arms up as rafe slipped off her top, leaving her in nothing but a white lace bra and powder pink leggings. “you are home.” was all he said before lifting her up and taking her to his bedroom.

[ultravio-bunny]

I LOVE THE OUTSIDERSSS!!!! THEREFORE I ADORE YOUUUUU💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗

things i’ve been thinking of

- next level chef

- the outsiders

- dance moms

- dehydration

- haunting the narrative

- the restaurants in pulp fiction

[ultravio-bunny]

DBF!DOCTOR!RAFE X SUGAR!READER ♡༊·˚

˚₊ ·˚ 𐔌 " 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒊 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓… " 𐦯 ₊˚ˑ

ε๑з more about sugar!reader

꒰ — dbf!doctor!rafe x sugar!reader ꒱ who hide their relationship in hopes of avoiding sugar's dad, whom is rafe's best friend, from finding out. they can barely keep their hands off each other, whether lingering touches or sneaking a kiss when no one is looking. they know they have to tread carefully, especially when rafe is invited over, yet it doesn’t stop sugar!reader from teasing rafe under the table. he ignores her hand on his thigh, trying to remain engaged in the conversation at the table. she joins in on her parents worried looks with faux concern as rafe splutters and coughs while her hand palms his clothed cock, “oh my god, are you okay, mr. cameron?”

꒰ — dbf!doctor!rafe x sugar!reader ꒱ who argue over sugar!reader being a "spoiled little brat" when she doesn’t get her way, to which she never fails to say, “i’m not spoiled, just well taken care of.” it's no surprise to rafe that she’s used to getting everything her heart desires; she's always had things handed to her without question. she thinks she has rafe wrapped around her pretty manicured little finger, but to her surprise, he's the first person in her life to ever tell her the one word she's never heard before, ‘no’. rafe refuses to give in to sugar!reader, knowing she would never learn. she rather beg, something she refuses to do, instead of working for what she wants.

꒰ — dbf!doctor!rafe x sugar!reader ꒱ who spend time together at rafe’s for their privacy. sugar!reader never fails to use the excuse of spending the night at a friend’s before throwing her duffle bag over her shoulder and heading out the door. by the time she arrives at rafe’s, she’s greeted with a candle-lit dinner. when sugar!reader spends the weekend with rafe when he's on call because he rarely gets called into the hospital. on the rare occasions he’s paged to go in before the sun rises, he ensures not to wake sugar!reader while he’s getting ready, only to find her awake, moving around the kitchen to make him breakfast. “you’re sweeter than sugar,” rafe hummed appreciatively, grabbing the cup of coffee she made before taking her lips in for a gentle kiss.

꒰ — dbf!doctor!rafe x sugar!reader ꒱ who often see each other when sugar!reader stops by the hospital to visit her dad, using it as an excuse to visit rafe. sugar!reader can't help but stare at rafe, trying to stop her mind from wandering when she sees him in his scrubs...until she sees one of the nurses being touchy. just as she's about to leave, rafe finally notices her, pulling her away from prying eyes to kiss her like he had been craving to do all day. "what’s wrong?" rafe cups her cheek when she dodges his kiss. "i don’t know, why don't you ask your little nurse over there?" she huffs, making him chuckle, "are you jealous, sugar? you got nothin' to worry about, you’re my girl, and if i have to show you then i will." rafe doesn’t give her a second to ask what he meant before pulling her into an empty supply closet…leading for many surprise visits to end with them sneaking into the same room for a quickie.

DBF!DOCTOR!RAFE X SUGAR!READER WORKS...

[ultravio-bunny]

— NYMPHOMANIAC / Rafe Cameron!

content WARNING: Rafe Cameron × Bimbo!Reader, smut, chastity belt, punishment, edging, +18 MDNI.

♡ based on this ( 2K celebration ) request!

Rafe had always known his girl’s sex drive was through the roof, a wildfire he could barely contain. She’d ride him like a woman possessed, her hips slamming down on his thick cock, her pussy gripping him so tight he’d growl, “Fuck, baby, slow down.” Her moans would fill the penthouse “Rafey, I’m so close!” as she chased her orgasm, her ass bouncing, tits jiggling, until she came hard, her pussy pulsing around him, slick dripping down his shaft. The second she did, she’d lift off, her release still coating him, leaving his dick throbbing, veins pulsing, as she sighed, “That was so good,” and rolled over, ignoring his frustrated, “You fuckin’ serious?” If he gripped her hips, trying to keep her impaled on him, she’d squirm, whining, “Rafey, I’m done!” Or she’d beg for his mouth, spreading her thighs wide, her pussy glistening, clit swollen, guiding his head down. “Eat me out, please,” she’d moan, and he’d dive in, tongue lapping at her folds, sucking her clit until she squirted, her juices soaking his chin as she screamed, only to shove him away after, yawning, “M’too tired now,” leaving him rock-hard, balls aching, forced to stroke himself to finish.

When he wasn’t there, she was relentless... humping pillows until they were damp with her arousal, grinding her clit against the bed’s edge, the friction making her whimper, or using the showerhead’s pulsing jet, legs spread as the water pounded her pussy, her fingers spreading her lips to let it hit her clit just right. She’d fuck herself with her vibrator, the buzz filling the room as she moaned, or use her hands, three fingers deep, her other hand pinching her nipples, cum dripping down her thighs. Rafe loved her neediness, but he was done. She needed to learn.

One night, after he’d eaten her out, his tongue buried in her cunt, flicking her clit until she came with a scream, her thighs clamping around his head, her squirt flooding his mouth, she’d rolled over, mumbling, “I’m too tired, Rafey,” and passed out. He’d groaned, fisting his cock to finish, thinking she was done. But at 3 AM, he woke to a slick, rhythmic pressure on his thigh, her pussy, hot and soaked through her panties, grinding against him, her clit rubbing his skin as she humped him, soft, needy whimpers spilling from her lips, her hips rocking like she couldn’t stop.

“What the fuck, baby?” he growled, voice thick with sleep, grabbing her hips to still her, his fingers digging into her soft flesh.

She jolted, eyes wide, her cheeks flushing as she stammered, “I—I didn’t mean to wake you, Rafey, I just…”

He pinned her with a look, his voice low, demanding, “How often you doin’ this?”

She bit her lip, voice trembling, “All the time… I hump you when you’re asleep, or the pillows, the bed—I can’t help it, I need it so bad. This is just the first time you woke up.”

His jaw clenched, arousal and frustration warring inside him. She couldn’t just keep acting like a bitch in heat all the time. So a few days later, while she slept, he slipped a chastity belt on her, a sleek, black leather one with a metal lock, the band snug around her waist, a curved plate pressing against her pussy, blocking her clit, her entrance, everything. When she woke at 7 AM, her pussy already throbbing, wet and aching, she felt the tight constraint, her hands flying down to the belt, fingers tugging uselessly at the lock.

“Rafey!” she whined, her voice high and bratty, tears springing to her eyes as she sat up, her thighs squeezing together, the pressure unbearable. “What is this? It’s so mean—take it off, I need to touch myself, please!”

“No,” he said, voice cold, leaning against the headboard, his arms crossed, biceps flexing as he watched her squirm. “You’re keepin’ that on ‘til you learn you can’t keep acting like a total whore. My cock, my bed, my fuckin’ pillows aren’t your toys, princess. You’ve been a selfish little brat, and I’m done.”

She sobbed, her lip trembling, doe eyes pleading as she writhed, the belt’s plate rubbing her clit just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy.

“Rafey, it hurts, I’m so horny!” she cried, her voice breaking, tears streaming down her face as she tried humping the air, the belt’s edge digging into her thighs. “Please, I can’t—I need to cum!” She rubbed her pussy against the plate, desperate for friction, but the smooth surface gave her nothing, and she screamed, “It’s not working, Rafe! You’re so mean!”

“That’s not my problem,” he said, smirking, his tone mocking as he leaned closer, brushing a tear from her cheek. “Try rubbin’ harder, baby. See if that belt gives you what you want.”

She glared, her voice rising in a bratty yell, “It’s not working, you jerk! I hate this—I hate you!”

Hours later, after endless whining, she crawled to him, all pouty lips and big, teary eyes, her hands tugging at his shirt.

“I learned my lesson, Rafey, I swear,” she begged, her voice soft, desperate, her fingers clutching him. “I won’t do it again, I’ll be so good, please unlock it—I need you so bad, I’m dying.” Her thighs pressed together, her pussy throbbing, slick leaking down her legs even with the belt on.

He sighed, brushing her hair back, his resolve cracking at her pleading.

“Alright, princess,” he said, unlocking the belt with the key, pulling it off to reveal her swollen, dripping pussy, her clit red and begging for attention. “But if you cum before I say—or before I do—I’m puttin’ it back on. Understand?”

She nodded, whimpering, already climbing onto his lap, her pussy soaking his thigh as she straddled him. But Rafe wasn’t letting her off easy. He teased her mercilessly. His cock sliding through her folds, the tip nudging her clit, her entrance, but never pushing in, her whines loud and broken. He’d rub her clit with his thumb, slow, torturous circles, her pussy clenching around nothing as slick dripped down his hand, her hips bucking.

“Rafey, please, let me cum!” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face as he slapped her pussy hard, the sting making her yelp, her clit throbbing even more. He’d push just the tip inside her, stretching her entrance, then pull out, watching her pussy flutter, desperate to be filled, her cries turning to wails as he edged her over and over.

“Look at this fuckin’ pussy,” he growled, his voice thick with lust, his fingers spreading her lips to watch her hole clench. “So needy, cryin’ for me. You wanna cum that bad, huh?” He finally thrust into her, his cock stretching her tight walls, her pussy gripping him like a vice, her moans raw as he fucked her slow, deep, his fingers pinching her clit, pushing her right to the edge again.

Her thighs shook, her nails digging into his shoulders, her voice breaking, “Rafey, please, I can’t hold it!”

And she couldn’t... she came hard, her pussy squirting around his cock, a gush of wetness soaking his lap as she screamed, “Oh fuck, yes!” Her body convulsed, her walls pulsing, milking him, but he wasn’t there yet, his jaw tight as he watched her fall apart, his cock still hard inside her.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growled, pulling out, his dick slick with her cum, veins throbbing as he grabbed the belt again, locking it back on her despite her weak, teary protests. “Told you not to cum ‘til I said. Guess you need to keep this on ‘til you learn for real.”

Her pussy was still dripping, the belt pressing against her oversensitive clit, and she whined, “Rafey, no, I couldn’t help it! Please, I’ll be good!”

He smirked, kissing her forehead, his voice firm but laced with love.

“Then you’ll learn, princess. ‘Til then, this stays on—maybe next time you’ll wait for me.”

[ultravio-bunny]

𝐈 𝐁𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐨𝐠𝐬’ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

(I always want you when I’m finally fine.)

Part one - here

Two weeks.

Fourteen days of silence. Fourteen nights of staring at the ceiling, your phone glowing next to you with messages you didn’t open.

| Rafe [1:14 AM]: “Please, just talk to me.”

| Rafe [7:49 AM]: “I fucked up, I know. But you mattered. You still do.”

| Rafe [10:02 PM]: “You’re not answering. Are you okay? Please just say you’re okay. Please baby.”

You never responded. You couldn’t.

Because the second you opened your mouth, it would all come spilling out: the pain, the betrayal, the part of you that wanted to scream at him and the part that still wanted to curl into him and believe it meant something.

And when the gifts started showing up — first a necklace you’d once admired in a store window, then your favorite perfume, then a leather-bound journal you’d mentioned needing — you didn’t know whether to cry or throw them all in the trash. You left the boxes stacked in the corner of your bedroom. Untouched.

You didn’t want his apology to come in the form of expensive distractions. You wanted the truth. You wanted to believe he could say it to your face.

But he didn’t. Not right away.

When you blocked his number, you started getting calls from random ones. Unknown. No voicemails, just silence. Like he couldn’t bring himself to say anything unless he knew you’d hear it.

You didn’t tell anyone.

How could you?

Kie would’ve lost her shit. Pope would’ve judged you before you finished the sentence. John B would’ve looked at you like you were someone else entirely. And JJ—

You couldn’t bear the thought of JJ knowing. Of the look he’d give you. Not anger. Disappointment.

So you kept it buried. Pretended the dull ache in your chest was nothing. Told everyone you were fine.

And when Kie suggested a night out at The Wreck, you finally said yes. You needed air. You needed music and drinks and people. Even if your hands still shook when you poured your makeup into your bag and zipped your jacket.

Damn,” JJ said when you climbed into the back of Kie’s car. “You sure you’re okay? You’ve been off.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, smiling too tight. “Just tired.”

Kie glanced at you through the rearview mirror but didn’t push.

The bar was warm, crowded, familiar. Shots were poured, beers cracked open, and you laughed a little — even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Then you saw him.

Across the room, with Topper and Kelce. Leaning against the bar in a white button-down, hair pushed back, like he hadn’t been unraveling your life thread by thread for weeks.

Rafe.

He saw you almost instantly. You tried not to look back, but you felt it — the weight of his stare, the tension in his jaw. His drink stayed untouched in front of him.

JJ noticed too. “Ignore him,” he muttered, steering you toward the pool table. “Fucking Cameron’s not worth the oxygen.”

You laughed a little, nodded, played along. But your heart wasn’t in it. Rafe’s eyes stayed on you all night. Quiet. Steady. Like he was waiting for something.

Eventually, it got to be too much.

Your throat was tight. Your eyes burned. You didn’t want to cry in a bar bathroom.

“I left my wallet in the car,” you told Kie as she threw back a tequila shot. “Can I grab your keys?”

“Yeah, sure. In my jacket, right pocket.”

JJ handed it over. His brows were pulled together like he didn’t quite believe you. “You good?”

You smiled. Lied. “Yeah.”

You walked out the back door alone.

The air hit your skin cold and sharp. You crossed the lot toward Kie’s Jeep, trying to breathe. But just as your fingers brushed the handle—

A hand clamped over your mouth.

You screamed into it — fought, twisted — until the voice hit your ear:

“Hey—hey—it’s me. It’s just me. It’s Rafe.”

You froze. His hand loosened.

He turned you around gently, both palms up now like he was trying not to scare you.

“Jesus,” you snapped, your voice shaking. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I—I didn’t mean to grab you like that. I just—I needed you to listen.”

“You could’ve texted. Called. Oh wait—YOU DID. And I blocked you for a reason.”

“I know,” he said, breathless. “I know you hate me. But I didn’t know you were there that night. I didn’t know you heard me. I swear, if I’d known—”

“You would’ve what?” you shot back. “Lied better?”

“No.” His voice cracked. “I would’ve never said that shit. I was drunk and I was pissed off and—fuck—yeah, I was being a coward. I was scared. Scared of what people would think. Scared of my dad. Of Topper. Of everyone. But not of you.”

You didn’t speak.

He stepped closer. “I was ashamed, yeah. But not of you. Of me. Of what it meant to feel this much for you and still hide it.”

“Don’t do this now,” you said, but your voice was thin.

He reached into his pocket and pulled something out. A silver ring. Thin. Simple. A wave etched into the metal.

“It was my mom’s,” he said quietly. “Before she died. She used to wear it when she took me to the beach. Said it helped her feel grounded.”

He pressed it into your palm, closing your fingers around it.

“I’ve never given it to anyone. Never even taken it out of the house. But I’ve been carrying it since the day you left.”

Your chest caved. Tears pressed behind your eyes.

Rafe leaned forward. Pressed his lips to your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For what I said. For how I made you feel. For all of it.”

You didn’t move.

He cupped your cheek. Kissed you. Soft at first. Then deeper. Slower. The way he used to when it was just you and him and nothing in the way.

And then, without words, he opened the back door of his truck and pulled you inside.

Your back hit the seat. His mouth was on yours again, desperate now, hands everywhere your waist, your thighs, your hips. His voice broke against your lips.

“Let me fix it.”

He dropped to his knees on the truck’s floorboard, tugging you down with him. Your skirt rode up as he spread your legs, dragging your panties off like he couldn’t bear another second between you.

“Let me say sorry the only way I know how,” he breathed.

You gasped when his mouth met you, slow at first, then deeper. Tongue working in tight, practiced motions, hands gripping your thighs to hold you still. He knew you. Knew how to touch you. Knew how to make your back arch, your fingers tangle in his hair, your body tremble with every flick of his tongue.

“I missed you so fucking much.”

Your back hit the seat. His mouth found yours again rough now, teeth dragging over your lower lip, fingers sliding beneath your panties.

“Say you still want me,” he whispered.

“I’m still mad,” you said, breath hitching as his thumb found your clit.

“I know,” he murmured. “Let me say sorry.”

He slid down, settling between your legs, spreading you open like he was starving.

He groaned when your hips bucked. “God, I missed this pussy. You taste the same. Better.”

Your hands tangled in his hair, body arching into his mouth. You moaned his name, and he growled hands gripping your thighs, keeping you still as he devoured you.

It was worship. Desperation. Guilt and love and hunger all tangled into one.

And when you came thighs trembling, breath shattering he didn’t stop. He kissed his way up your stomach, up your chest, over your collarbone, until his forehead was pressed to yours and his hand was still wrapped around the ring he gave you.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean what I said. I swear to God, I’ll never hide you again.”

You looked at him flushed, pupils blown, voice broken and saw the boy beneath the Cameron name. The one who once kissed you in his bed and said you made him feel human.

You didn’t say anything. Just kissed him again.

Fifteen minutes later, you walked back into the bar.

Hair tousled. Lip gloss smudged. Kie raised an eyebrow.

JJ narrowed his eyes. “You good?”

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you said. “I think I am.”

[ultravio-bunny]

caging a wolfdog

Simon Riley x Babysitter!Reader

18+ | groping. dubcon. infidelity. blue-collar Simon in a loveless marriage finds another way to entertain himself when his wife is too busy fucking her Pilates instructor to come home. victim blaming. future wife grooming. breeding. implied contraceptive tampering. spitting/spit kink. gross/mean Simon.

It's something to mend the gap between paying for college tuition, and surviving on more than air and the stale crackers they give out at the food bank. A job that takes up less space in your calendar than studying for finals or finishing up last-minute projects due before the end of the term.

And, in all honesty, the kid makes it easy.

Tommy doesn't fuss like most his age. He sits on the couch with his iPad perched on his knees, watching grown men scream in front of a camera for hours. Sometimes he stirs, asks for snacks. Something to drink. But mostly, he just scrolls YouTube Shorts, and puffs out peals of childish laughter at whatever he finds amusing.

It's the easiest job you'd ever had, really. He has no complaints about eating chicken nuggets and Kraft dinner on the nights when you stay later and have to cook something for him. Even when you try to make it healthier by chopping up celery with homemade ranch on the side, it barely makes him whine.

He eats. Scrolls. Pouts about his bath. Negotiates bedtime for ten more minutes with his iPad. And then he's sleeping by ten, hugging the device tight to his chest as a man hollers about Minecraft beneath him.

And that's the extent of it.

An easy job. An easy kid.

The problem, really, is his father.

And more specifically, the way he can't seem to stop touching you.

You're not sure why it happens, just that it does. Becomes some strange staple in this arrangement where you never leave his house without having his hands on you at some point.

But maybe the writing was always on the walls because even as he was showing you Tommy's bedroom, he folds himself over you, spine pressed against his chest, and murmurs in your ear about bedtimes and baths and all the things a babysitter is meant to hear—

But not with the hard, firm outline of their employers cock against their ass.

You should have said something then. Put your foot down. Rained hellfire and retribution over this man and his gross, foul perversions.

Should have done a lot of things, probably. But in the end, the span of his hand over your belly, so wide it threatened to swallow you up, kept you quiet. Docile as he shifted his hips—wife down the hall, flatly informing him she has a class tonight and probably won't be home, so don't bother waiting up, Simon—and rubbed his cock against you, grunting in your ear about how pretty you are. Such a sweet girl, too.

So good for his baby boy.

Keeping quiet seems to spur him on. Spreading the thick, heavy length of his body against your spine isn't enough to quench whatever sticky, awful desire brims in his chest. Insatiable now that he's had a little taste, he gorges himself on what he can get away with.

What you let him get away with.

(if you didn't want this, pretty thing, you'd have said so, wouldn't you? big, strong girl like you. you can 'andle yourself. but you ain't because you want this—)

Broad hands cupping your breasts as he leans over your shoulder and pretends to instruct you on how Tommy likes his lunches. Little more, he rasps, calloused fingers slipping under the band of your bra, and pinching your stiffening peaks between a too-big thumb and forefinger. The rough, dry graze of his scarred skin was some awful amalgamation of stinging, abrasive pain and pleasure. Likes his sandwiches cut up jus' like tha'—

Grabs a handful of your asscheek on the way out the door, pinching the flesh so hard, it aches when you sit down. Rutting into you like a beast when he comes home, and Tommy's already in bed. C'mon, he grunts, hefting you up from the couch. Gotta go an' check on 'im. But it's just an excuse to bend you over banister as you peer into Tommy's room, groaning as he shoves his clothed cock against the cleft of your ass.

Husks in your ear about how good you are for him. He and Tommy both. Such a good girl, ain't you?

It's strange. All of it. And maybe that's why you let it carry on. Continue even though you know he's married, and has a child. And—

He's odd. Intense. Weird.

Looms in the corners of the room sometimes, content to just watch you. Eyes dark, endlessly black. Fixed on every move you make. A wolf wearing a man's skin. A monster in faded blue jeans and black steel-toed boots.

Uncanny.

Scary.

Massive in a way that stole your breath the moment you laid eyes on him. A full body bloom of dread at the scale, the size, of him. Like staring at the face of a mountain, mind reeling over the incomprehensible height of it. Vertiginous. Dizzying.

Thinking about him always makes you feel a little bit sick. Lying on your back and staring up at the sky. Cosmic quasiness. Unease that trickles down from your ancestors and fills your pores with the bitter, acrid tang of fear.

But between the noxious, rolling worry—the unmistakable feeling of a starving man staring at you like you're nothing but a scrap of tender, fresh meat—is a heavy, sick sort of heat congealing in your belly.

It was easier, at first, to lie and say you stayed for the money. Broke college student with a sinkhole of debts already growing on the periphery, biding its time before it sucks you into an unfathomable, inescapable chasm. Bled dry. Used up. It'll crush you.

But this—

Simon works around your schedule. He's gone for most of the day—pulls twelve-hour shifts Monday to Saturday at the oilfield—and is fairly lenient when you have a test, sending Tommy to his uncle's instead. Staying the night is an unorthodox arrangement, you're sure, but it works itself out in the end. Being here to take Tommy to school before heading to your morning classes (the rest all available online), and then free to pick him up after and wait for Simon to come home eases the stress of a long commute to your dorm and then here, to the dorm and then back again. A small respite, sure.

And if he pushed, insistent, that you sleepover, well—

You can hide it behind a wall. Pretend he's just looking out for his son even if you have to lock the door in the spare bedroom at night, and wake up sometime to the sound of the knob rattling.

He lets you use his spare truck whenever you need it. There's always a pot of coffee waiting for you in the morning. He keeps a tidy house and a strict schedule, but money is always in your bank account or tucked into an envelope on the counter a day ahead of when you agreed he'd pay you.

But living on top of each other like this is almost unbearable.

You see more of Simon than you do your own family. Friends. Even his wife. A woman made of contradictions, it seems. Dutiful mother, but only when it matters—parent teacher conferences booked in advance, the darling starlet of his birthday party that passed—and you try to keep out of her way. Shame, maybe.

Do you know what Simon does to me when you're in the next room? Do you know what he says when you're bent into downward dog as your Pilates instructor fucks you on the matt?

Or just the knowledge that both of you, in your own way, are adulterers.

But having something in common with the woman who is more of a guest in her own home, her child's life, than you are is a sickening thought. So you squash it. Ignore it.

All of it—

His hands on you, rough and proprietary. The foul, dirty things he whispers in your ear—Tommy's been askin' for a baby brother, 'bout time we gave 'im one, don't you think? Spread your pretty pussy around my cock and keep ya nice an' plugged until it fuckin' takes—when no one is around. How these incidents keep getting progressively closer to his bedroom door, his marital bed, and one day, you think he might drag you in there and not let you out again until those promises he forced from your lips are fulfilled.

You bite your tongue. Taste blood between your teeth hours after he leaves for work, and curl into the couch as the minutes tick by until Simon's supposed to come home. Trying to distract yourself as much as you can, but there's no escape from it. From the way there was something different about him this morning. Something heady. He didn't touch you, but just quietly observed you with those strange, unfathomable eyes of his. Sinkholes wanting to swallow you down.

Hungry.

And when you asked him if he wanted breakfast, he'd just said, oh, I'll eat, birdie. You can bet on that, and then left out the door without another word.

It takes you until noon to unravel the knots in his expression, and what you find makes your heart jump like a trapped rabbit in a snare.

Possessiveness. Want. Hunger.

But most damning of all—

Anticipation.

In the room over, Tommy giggles, high and shrill, at a video. The noise jars you back into reality. A car drives down the lonely street. The timer on the oven dings. Tommy gurgles again, the sound pasted over a loud, pitchy shout that rankles down your spine. Slowly, achingly, you unfurl your body from the tense crouch you collapsed into, head thick. Underwater. In a fog. Thoughts dripping down the sides of your skull in a slow, syrupy crawl.

Your eyes dart to the clock. Three hours.

oh, I'll eat, birdie.

"Come on, Tommy," you warble out, gingerly moving towards the kitchen. Three hours. There's a buzzing inside your head that grows louder, more restless with every step. "The pizzas done."

On the fridge, a neon pink post-it note mocks you. PILATES TONIGHT AND DRINKS WITH THE GIRLS!!!! DON'T WAIT UP!!

Three hours.

You lick the blood off your teeth.

oh, I'll eat, birdie—

He doesn't bother cleaning up before he goes home.

Caked in grime, sweat, dust from the fields, crudeoil glued under his nails—a walking biohazard of filth, but he lumbers into his truck the moment he's finished, cock already thickening, straining against the harsh fabric of his jeans. Sticky on his thigh where it lays, twitching at the thought of his little birdie sucking his dirty fingers clean.

And you'll do it. He knows you will.

You've been so good for him, haven't you? Sweet little thing.

He scrapes the top of his tongue against his teeth, pulling up the taste of stale, bitter coffee. It's acrid, sour in his mouth. Swallowing around it, he grips the wheel tightly and sifts through the multitude of things he wants to do to you as he navigates the familiar path home. Muscle memory, but there's an emptiness in his belly. An itch under his skin. If fizzles, cracks; want and desire thick in his throat.

He's been thinking about this all day. You—laid out on his bed, fingers gripping the sheets tight as he folds you in half, kneecaps to your ears. Feet kicking out behind the heft of his shoulder. Bearing all his weight down on you. Crushing you.

Pumping you so full of his cock, his cum, that you whine afterwards—too empty, Mr Riley—and he has to stuff you full again just to shut you up.

Whiny little thing, he'll coo, nasty and mean as he fucks you again and again and again—

Another scrape. Tongue against teeth pulling over tastebuds. Sourness in the back of his throat. So bitter, so nauseating, he can't wait to make you swallow it down and beg for more as you try not to dry heave all over his dirty boots and onto the clean floor.

More, please, more even as you gag.

He's too hyperaware for the drive to pass in a blur—it's all startling present, each second ticking down in technicolour—but when he finally slows to crawl in front of his house, he has everything he wants to do to you laid out in a neat, concise list. Left you a defiled mess in his head, leaking cum and begging for more.

Anticipation is a maw in his gut that growls and snaps its jaws, too eager to sink inside the pretty thing that's been playing House in his mind. In his home.

He left it unfed for too long.

And now, it's time to eat.

You're not in the living room when he enters.

It's silent. The idling television paints the room in a pale, neon pink.

The clink of his keys, the thud of his boots, are the only sounds popcorning through the dim, quiet room. He casts his gaze towards the stairs to the left, sees light spilling out from Tommy's room down the hall. The nightlight burning away.

He shifts on the balls of his feet, hums something under his breath. A relic from a bygone era when the man Tommy was named after might have pulled him aside and said man, this isn't you.

Simon keeps his boots on as he trudges through the still, winter night of the house, eyes shifting past each corner, every crevasse. More muscle memory he can't shake. All filed away. Catalogued. Meticulously scoured as he shifts through the hall, pausing only to crack Tommy's door open and steal a glance of his son. Knows he won't be able to sleep without it.

He finds him tucked safe and sound in his bed. iPad on the floor connected to the charger. The screen is frozen with the image of some brightly coloured game that'll hold his interest for another day before it becomes yet another thing Simon packs away. More memories on shelves. Something to feel scraped out, hollowed, when he grows another inch and Simon starts to see more of Tommy in him than he can stomach.

The air stings his nostrils when he breathes in. The burn gives him time to shift around the potent ache of fatherly affection he never thought he'd feel back into the guarded lockbox he keeps it in whenever Tommy isn't in view. With it tucked back in, safe and sound, he lets the thrill of the pursuit fill him again.

Another hum. He peels away from the door.

"Hidin' on me, birdie?"

He knows you're here. Your boots are still drying by the front door. The air still clogged with your scent. He follows it like a bloodhound until he reaches his bedroom door where he finds you on the bed. Waiting. Uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin he can't wait to peel off, run his fingers through the bloody mess until you're raw and aching; shiny new toy stripped bare just for him.

Your mouth pops open. The inside a pretty ring of pink. He thinks about it, about sinking inside that soft little hole, making you gag around the thick of him as he feeds you his cock.

Clean it up f'me, birdie

But it's clear from the way you flit nervously on the comforter that he'll have to work you up to that.

Slow and steady. It's not his usual approach—he's in the habit of taking what he wants. Still. He slows. Glacial. Notches his shoulder against the doorframe, staring. Waiting. Waiting—

And finally:

A shift. You tense. "Mr Riley—"

"Take your clothes off."

Your throat shifts when you swallow. "Mr—"

If you didn't want it, he reasons, you wouldn't be in his bed. Waiting for him.

"Now, birdie."

There's that pause he expects. The hesitation as you stare, searchingly (pleadingly), at him, trying to take a measurement of just how serious he is about this. But he knows he gives nothing away. Just stares with streaks of dirt on his brow, washed down by thick trickles of sweat. Eyes lazy, lidded. Mouth flat. Even.

You demure after a moment. Hands falling shakily to the hem of your sweater, curling beneath the fabric. Gaze downcast, staring wide-eyed at the curve of your jean-clad knees. Bemused, maybe, that it got this far. That you let it get this far.

He doesn't give you time to think about it. Cocks his head to the side, puffs out an impatient breath. "Hurry up. Ain't got much time before my wife comes back."

It's a low blow. He feels it skim his knuckles, a sucker-punch.

You suck in a sharp breath. He wonders if you'll make things difficult now. Fight back. This isn't right. What you're doing to me isn't right. We should stop, Mr Riley—

Instead, you peel the sweater off.

It's artless. Clumsy. Each movement wracked with nerves, uncertainty. There's no coyness to the action. It's not even sexy, or coquettish; nothing about it is done to entice, to seduce. This is an action completed twice a day, every day. Routine. It's mundane, perfunctory.

And yet—

"Fuckin' hell, birdie—"

Something about the latent unwillingness of it all chokes the air from his lungs.

Cock thick in his trousers, throbbing like a wound, he steps into the bedroom, making his way towards you in nothing short of a prowl. It's been building up since you first appeared at his doorstep, eyes wide and bright and scooped Tommy up into your arms until he squealed with laughter.

"I got him," you chirped when he reached out reflexively, dancing artlessly out of the way of his snatching claws. "Don't worry. He's fine with me."

This is your fault, of course. For looking the way that you do. For burrowing under his skin like a parasite. A festering itch. Being close to you always felt like a toothache. Dry socket. Something that made his head split.

"On the bed, birdie," he grunts, hands falling to his belt with a urgency he hasn't felt since he was a clumsy, knobby-kneed teenager. "An' spread your legs f'me."

You give a startled gasp that makes his cock throb, and he groans low in his throat at the waxen look in your eye, the slight quiver to your lip. You look queasy—torn between disgust and fear, eyes slipping to the scarred hands that yank hard on his zipper, cup the bulge that splits through the spread seam, dirty fingers gripping himself tight—and he has to roll his head back to keep from snapping at you to roll over.

A noise does spill out—an impatient rumble gnashing between jagged teeth—when you sit there, bared from the waist up, and watch him with wide eyes. Making no move to show him that pretty pussy he cupped in his palm before. That soft, wet heat in his hand that felt too delicate, too sweet, to be touched with his dirty fingers. Something that rankled down his spine, buzzed in the back of his head when he pulled them free—stained, nails blackened with dirt, crude oil, and glistening in the low light of the kitchen.

He wants it again—on his cock this time. Wants to see that soft pussy get him all wet as he ruins it. As he peels back, sitting on his haunches, and takes in the awful mess he left you in. Poor cunt swollen and abused from from being forced to take the full, fat length of him as he bullies it inside over and over again; puffy lips all sticky with his cum. Sore and stretched and used. Raw after such a vicious pounding—

"Pants off, birdie," he bites out, yanking his jeans down beneath his aching balls. "Ain't gonna like what 'appens next if I 'ave to ask again—"

You give a startled gasp at the rough, callous growl hewing his words, and he wonders if anyone has ever spoken to you like this before. So demanding. With an edge of cruelty slithering out. Demeaning—

No. No one but him, he decides, stroking his cock as he watches you clumsily kick out of your pants, demurring in a faux show of bashfulness as your fingers skim the hem of your panties. The picture of coy shyness as you drop your chin to hide the wobble in your lower lip, the glistening wetness in your eyes as you grapple with indecision. Child's play of modesty.

A farce.

Just the mangled growl of your name is all it takes for those trembling fingers to inch into the hem of your panties, tugging them clumsily down your thighs.

He could come, he thinks, to just that. This. The bloom of fear etching across your brow, panties tangled against the knob of your knees. Unwilling to bend down and push them off the rest of the way. Scared to, maybe.

It buzzes in the back of his head. The idea of paralysing you with nothing more than a sharp bark and crook of his finger; your fear as delectable as that little sliver of skin he can see peaking out at him.

"ain't go' all night," he cuts in with only a quarter of the ice he uses on the field, and feels a deep thrum of satisfaction purr through his chest when you squeak, flinching at his rough, brassy tone.

Your panties fall to the floor in a rumpled pile between your feet, toes curling into the carpet as you try to close your knees as tightly together as you can get them to hide yourself from his heavy-lidded gaze. A last play at modesty. Gaze inward, nervous. A skittish little rabbit with nowhere else to run.

The way you stand before him on shaking knees, trembling like a leaf, makes him want to sink his teeth into you and shake. Little virginal offering to a rapacious god. A feast all for himself. He wants to chew you up. Eat you alive.

But he opts, instead, to bite his tongue until he tastes blood, and bark at you to get on the bed as it oozes between his teeth. Feels something animal split open inside his chest when your eyes widen as he steps into the room, a slow pursuit, a prowl, and has to bite down on the urge to give chase when you flinch, backing away from him quickly. Naked and scared. Running from him with a nervous tremor, but he doesn't miss the way you make, quietly, for his bed.

Eager. Obedient. Fleeing from him like a scared little animal unaware of just how enticing you are.

"Good girl, birdie."

It takes three fingers to open you up, but even that doesn't feel like it's enough.

Not when he knocks your knees apart, wedging his too big, too thick body between them (and then stares, and stares, and stares at your bare cunt, slick and sticky from his hand; flesh left swollen from the brutal spear of three thick, dirty fingers shoving inside—less of a stretch and more a carve: he carved you open) and spits.

You weren't expecting it. Nothing could have prepared you for the suddenness of this degrading act—the nasty, demeaning way he spits on your pussy, and huffs, amused, when the foamy mess slides down your swollen clit to pool between your folds. His finger chases it, rubbing it into your skin, pushing it into your hole.

Ain't got lube, he says, words bordering on a strange equinox of bluntly nonchalant and utterly caustic. Should be thankful m'doin' this much.

Thankful.

Your fingers curl into the sheets, and you try not look at his cock again when he grips himself tight in his big, dirty hand.

He's too big. Too fat. It makes you a little nauseous to stare at it, him—his cock. Marbled like a bruise. Thicker at the base. Veiny. The head is swollen. The tip is soaked in a thick, paste-like spill of precum, and for a horrible second, you almost thought he would make you lick it off.

(later fills the empty space in your head, and you try to mould yourself around the idea until you can decide whether or not the feeling that blooms in the pit of your belly is really dread.)

His hands were rough. Scarred. Dirty. Caked in oil. Stained. He didn't even bother to clean up before he lumbered onto the sheets behind you, one hand falling to grip his cock through his dusty pants, the other heavy on your neck, pushing you down into the mattress that reeks of fabric softener and stale cigarette smoke. Old sweat.

He doesn't need to tell you that she doesn't sleep in this bed anymore, but the idea of it prickles in the back of your head as he pushes you against the sheets and undoes his jeans with an ease that's more muscle memory than thought. Practiced.

You don't have the right to be jealous, but it hums through you like a sickness when you think of him doing this to her. His wife, you add, just to make it hurt. A knife in your gut that aches when you breathe—

"keep breathin', birdie," he grunts, spreading his fingers wide apart inside of you. "Don't get all tense on me now, or I'll have to start over."

You're not sure what that means, but you think you know better than to test his tenuous patience anymore than you have, and so you still. Go quiet. Breathe as he spears you deep, deeper still, and carves a space for that monstrous looking cock to fit—

where it belongs, he'd said, hunched over you like a nightmare in the daytime. All shadow and sinew. Stitched from broken daydreams of a brassy voice in your ear murmuring soon, birdie as his wife pretended to pack a lunch in the kitchen and he rubbed your nipple through your shirt before he slipped off to work.

But it's over too soon. His dirty, stained fingers slipping free from your aching, sopping cunt, leaving you empty—bereft—for a moment as he shuffles up the bed, splitting your knees wide apart to make room for the asburd width of him to fit.

An impossibility, really, but as Mr Riley—call me Simon—is wont to do, he makes it so. Wedges his wide thighs beneath yours until your hips tilt up in his lap, opening you wide. Obscenely so. And—

A grunt.

He stared. And stared. And stared.

Just looked at the split of your cunt sitting invitingly in his lap, wet and messy from his fingers, the cruel push of his palm against your clit. Swollen. Aching already—

"Want it, huh, birdie?"

The words I'm not so sure anymore hitch in the back of your throat, rearing up as he reaches between your legs to grip himself tight, too tight, until he turns a sickly shade of purple around the head that looks wider than anything you'd ever had inside of you before. But he doesn't give you a second to think before notching himself against you, giving a little push that forces the swollen head to sink inside of you—

Just the tip, really, and it already hurts. Stings like a papercut as he stretches your cunt around him, sharp and sudden.

"Too big—" you whimper, tossing your head to the side, breathing in the tang of fresh linen and musk as he grunts above you, pushing and pushing—

Something has to give.

It doesn't surprise you much when it ends up being you.

"Tha's it, birdie. Open up f'me."

It's not so much an opening as it is a siege. A conquest. And with him perched above you, heaving like bull and bathed in shadows that glue alone the mismatched asymmetry of his face, making him look less like a man and more like a figment, a statue—this Stygian being that swoops down and presses his palm against your throat, the other digging into the pillow beside your head, grunting—you feel ever bit of the battered receptacle he turns you into.

Forcing himself into you with a rough grunt, a brutal shove that—for one dizzying, awful moment—you swear you can feel inside your throat, taste on the back of your tongue. Choking on it. But then he's sinking in. Splitting you apart with brute force and that little bit of slick that you know must be stained pink—

"Good girl," he's grunting again, shoving another inch into a space much too small for him to fit. Savouring it. Relishing in the whimpers, the hiccups punched out of you with every flex of his hips. Eyes rolling a little, just a touch, when you feel something warm tickling your cheek and realise you're crying. Shush, birdie, he says, a quiet coo, but he looked delighted. Don't cry. Not yet—

another flex. two more inches. it feels like being speared open; flayed alive. it hurts. it hurts so much, you can't even begin to think through the pain, but he's huffing. groaning low in his throat as he adds:

"—'cause m'not even halfway in yet, pup."

The admission shocks you so much, you barely notice him spreading his knees beneath yours, squaring his stance, until it's too late.

"Wait—!"

If it weren't for his hand tightening around your throat before he speared the last several inches into you, you're sure the wail you might have let out would have woken Tommy. A good thing, you think, dazed, still soundlessly howling around the burning ache of him using his absurd weight to drive into you (balls deep, birdie, he grunts, and sounds so ridiculously proud, you nearly preen—), making you take every last inch. Selfishly carving more space for himself inside of you. Hollowing you out until his whole cock is drenched in your pink-stained slick—

"Makin' me all pretty, aren't you?" Huh, birdie? Nice and fuckin' pink.

A sob bubbles up beneath his palm, and he coos when he feels it, shushing you with a groan as he keeps an awful rhythm, flexing into you. Grinding deep. Carving and cutting and hollowing you out—

"Tha's it, pup," he grunts, eyes masting in leonine pleasure as he bucks into you without respite, taking his bliss from the burning stretch of your cunt. And stupidly, you think about preening. Smiling wide and big and lying to yourself about how bad you want this, him, even as the tears dribble down your chin.

Siphoned satisfaction, maybe. Or just the press of his fingers against that little thing inside of you that made you turn your cheek to his touches. Letting a married man shove his hands down your pants while you made breakfast for his kid and his wife called out to him from the next room about not waiting up for her too late.

Giving in.

That's what this feels like. A slow corrosion from the moment you knocked on his door and said you were here to help him with Tommy to now, buried under his bulk as he batters into your aching cunt, splitting you apart.

Sweat drips down his nape, pours off his face, and when it hits your skin, it feels like battery acid against your cheeks. But with his hand still lodged around your neck, there isn't much you can do except take it. Like his cock, his spit, his sweat. Let him ply you with all of it, every inch, until your body becomes accustomed to the ache.

"Fuckin' stranglin' me."

His cock hits something inside of you, and it isn't really pleasure that blooms in the pit of your belly, but something like a panacea. A wound that's soothed through touch.

Like a knife that hurts more coming out than it does stuffed inside.

But it' saws and it splits. Tears flesh. Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him, throbbing like bruise against the thick of his cock. A tight fuckin' fit, he says, and inches his fingers up to grab your cheeks. Squeezing until your mouth pops open, mewling at the deep, aching pain, and then he spits.

You don't need him to tell you what to do this time. You just close your mouth and swallow what he gives you, whimpering around the sudden ruck of his hips, a harsh jerk that slides his cockhead against the seal of your womb, dredging up a wave of pain that's soothed by the kiss of that fattened tip pressing against the sting once more. Soothed by touch. By the flood of endorphins.

Fitting, you suppose, since it feels a little bit like being eaten alive when he fucks you, grunting and snarling like a beast as he pounds into you, half-mad and starved, and you remember reading somewhere that people rarely experience any pain when they're bitten by a shark.

An oddly serene experience, out of body almost, as they're taken apart by razor-sharp teeth.

That's how you feel looking up at him, feeling the drip, drip, drip of his sweat splat on your cheeks. Warm, milky breath ghosting over your forehead. A barely there kiss when he bends down, growling into your hairline that he's gonna fill you up, pup; that Tommy's been begging for a little brother, 'asn't he? and ain't it time we gave 'im one?

You think no and don't. please don't, please, but your hands stayed curled into the duvet instead of reaching up to push him away. Knees dropping further apart as he bends down with a brassy grunt that you feel in your belly, between your hips, like molten lead. A pulsing flutter—sore muscles gripping tighter and tighter as he grunts again, and tells you to keep opening that pretty cunt up for him, birdie. Let him get even deeper.

The collar of his shirt dips low, unveiling a mass of moulted flesh suffused together in a pink ribbon array of crisscrossing scar tissue and burns. It's an odd time to notice that he hasn't bothered to undress, just shoved his jeans down his thighs and pulled his—monstrous, ugly—cock out, and forced it into you. But you do. And you feel it so acutely in your chest that even without his hand on your throat, you doubt you'd have been able to breathe. It just—

It says something, you think. Means something.

And maybe it hits you like a fist, too. A bludgeon to that little thing in the back of your head that keeps reminding you this isn't okay. That you're not supposed to be in this bed, with this man.

Marital vows, it says, all wrapped up in the scent of stale sweat and detergent. A whisper of Candy Kiss peppering the room when you arrive; a sweet sillage that tickles your nose whenever he leans down, cupping your breast in the palm of his hand. The flash of metal sitting snug on his thick ring finger. Cold and dry against your damp skin.

It crumbles under the sway of his big, thick body sawing away between your hips; turns to dust, dissolving into soot as the growls spilling out his chest tremble through your bones. The ring doesn't matter. It never did.

Not when he's decorating the space he hollowed out inside of you with these dizzying daydreams—weaving a damning tapestry with fingers bleeding from cuts made by the knife of his own artifice. Staining it red.

Pretty pink.

And eventually the ring warms between his hand and your heated skin until you can't tell the difference between metal and flesh.

(but in the smeared residuum of ash and rust, something stirs, asks if you ever really could at all—)

"Gonna make me a dad again, ain't you, pup?" Huh? He growls, rough and mean. Gonna have t'start callin' me daddy soon—

You're not sure when it started building, but the edge is suddenly there. Within reach. And he tells you in rasping groans that he feels it too. Gonna cum, biride, he says, and it sounds like a threat. A warning. It's a razor scraping against your nerves, pooling heat between your hips.

No, you think again, but your hips roll as much as they can with him bearing down above you, cradled between your slick, damp thighs—roughened up, chafed by the repeated scrape of denim. Eager for it. Hungry. Like you're starving.

And what did he say before? Oh, yeah—

Oh, I'll eat, birdie.

You feel that gnawing, gaping emptiness in your belly as he huffs, breath sticky and warm, glueing to your skin as he pants his desire over your flesh, inside your body. Pace stuttering on his next exhale, morphing into a choppy, clumsy grind—just the desperate, furious graze of his cockhead digging into that bruised, tender spot inside of you where pleasure and pain suture themselves together until one is almost indistinguishable from the other. Fear and desire warping around the edges until you're trembling from the urge to flee, but bearing your neck at the vicious spread of teeth gaping open above your caught jugular.

Simon presses his face against the side of yours, smearing sweat and spit over your heated, damp skin from where a cut in his upper lip leaves his teeth in a constant snarl, bared to the world in a vicious, brutal display of aggression, and the nudge of it against the softened, ripe apple of your cheek is what sends you over the edge before you're ready.

It's mean. A nasty, ugly climax that throbs more like a wound than a satisfying end; pulsing and spitting fire as you yowl into the bubble bulging along his ear, clawing at the duvet, and bringing your other hand up to twist into the wet fabric clinging to his broad back. Needing to hold on. To find purchase as he grunts into your skin with each brutal plunge of his hips, and then sinks his teeth into your pulse, drawing blood—

You're still clenching around him, throbbing like an infected wound, when he lifts his pinked up muzzle, bearing his crooked, bloodied teeth, and grunts with his release. Filling you with a burning, stinging heat. Painting the tapestry he hung on chiselled flesh. A home of his own making. The apex of your being is a crevasse for him to sink his desire inside until something grows.

Tommy wants a baby brother, he'd said, and as you knot your hand tighter around his sweaty shirt, you wonder if maybe you should have paid more attention to the pills you shoved into your mouth each morning, making sure they all looked exactly the same—

"Fuck, birdie," he snarls into your neck as he throbs inside of you, cock jerking until it lodges against the battered, bruised seal of your womb—soothing the ache, you think, giving a weak pulse, a little, desperate clench around him—grunting like this is all your fault.

And maybe it is. But he doesn't give you much of a choice when he ruts into you still in rolling, feverish humps that knock your teeth together each time you unhinge your jaw to tell him to stop.

(But you won't, of course—)

His hands are hot against your clammy skin, searing and rough as he pulls you back into his chest with a grunt, mumbling something about a cigarette as you pant into the sweat-slicked nook of his arm, trying to make sense of what happens next.

You should leave. And really—you're a little surprised he hadn't kicked you out already. Shoved you off of him, told you to pack your things. He'll call when he needs you next because with this burning desire of his sated, what else does he need you in bed for?

But he tightens his grip when you try to wiggle away from him with a salt-crusted, sleep-drenched noise of dissent.

He isn't done with you, he mumbles, pawing at the end table for the carton of cigarettes he left there this morning. Blue Zippo still tucked neatly inside.

It's something you'd noticed during the first week when you opened a drawer looking for Tommy's iPad charger and found his hidden stash—along with the rest. Little clues that piled up until the pieces fell, and you realised this was a strange, habitual thing of his where he needs to leave things lying around the house—a carton of cigarettes with a lighter; a duffle bag full of clothes for him and Tommy. Non-perishable food stuffed inside a rucksack. Cash. Knives. All within reach.

Most people live in their homes. Clothes in the drawers. Shoes on a rack or piled by the front food. Food in the cabinets. They carry their smokes with them or keep them in a convenient place for whenever they need them next. But Simon seems keen to uproot himself at a moment's notice. Bags within reach. Necessities all packed by the front door, ready to go. Each room has a satchel hidden somewhere. A carton of smokes. A lighter.

It means something, you're sure. Nestled between the layers of a restless, caged tiger circling its iron-barred domicile for the first chance at escape is a travesty written in spoiled ink. Chiselled into the bars, imprinted there like braille for you to run your fingers over until pockmarks make sense.

Like why Candy Kiss is left on the vanity, sitting atop a drawerful of untouched clothes. The smell of fresh linen. Pilates on a weekly basis. Don't wait up peppering the air; a soft echo cradled in the harsh snap of a door closing. Eyes barely blinking away from the flashing screen.

Or—why your clothes disappear each time you do the laundry. Lace panties and satin bras first—an almost banal perversion that barely made a gurn at. Then tights. Sweaters. Shirts. Jeans. All missing with a nonchalant shrug of a massive shoulder, and a stare that didn't much pin as it skewered. Flayed. A flat, even dunno, birdie. Maybe the ghost knicked it.

Tightly wound artifice you'll never make sense of beyond the bags and the cigarettes. The stares that make the hair on your neck stand on end—

"Fuckin' hell, pup," he grunts suddenly, pinching the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as the other slides down your curved spine, grabbing a handful of your asscheek in his palm, giving a vicious, painful squeeze. "Can feel your little cunt leakin' all over my leg—"

He slips the filter between his teeth with an appreciative hum when you jerk, a mocking huff spilling out when you try to clamp your legs shut around the thick split of his hip wedged between them. You can feel it, too—the thick, sticky ooze of him leaking out of your sore cunt, smearing pink-tinged cum all over his jeans. He hadn't let you get up after rolling off of you—just barked at you to leave it. Keep it, birdie. Gotta take, don't it?

A barb you hadn't said anything to, opting to ignore that, like everything else he does. Did.

Will do because you can tell, even beneath all those hidden layers, that this isn't a one-time thing. No. This isn't just a man stuck in a bad marriage fucking the nanny because he can. It's deeper. Worse, somehow, than a gross older man with a fetish for younger women he can financially control. Another pervert slaking his lust on whatever artless little thing falls into his web.

No. No—

This is missing clothes stuffed inside bags kept around the house. Pills that leave a strange aftertaste on your tongue of something a shade too sweet—

You think about running. Slipping out of his hands, this bed that reeks of stale sweat and sex, putting on your clothes, and leaving this house. Burying yourself in debt again, schoolwork, and limping (with your tail between your aching thighs) back to your landlord. Never looking twice at an ad for a babysitter in your life.

—and maybe spend your whole life wondering why people mix wolves and dogs to create something that never truly feels at home in the patchwork skin it wears; pieces of ancestors it can't relate to;

But you don't.

(—you never do.)

You lie there and take it. Like the leers he aimed at you when you first showed up on his doorstep, reeking of financial desperation and swallowed down the litany of things he said to you under his breath with a wobbly grin and your eyes fixed on the tile, convincing yourself it would pass. That you were more than just a pretty face he couldn't wait to cover in his cum. A soft ass he wanted to sink his teeth into before getting his cock in there next. Tight little pussy he was so eager to break in. Pantin' like a bitch in heat, ain't you, pup? can hear you gaggin' for it a mile away—

Biting your lip so hard it bled. Blood between your teeth. Your hands curling into the coarse, starchy fabric of his work shirt when he leaned down, permanent snarl on his face from the manmade cleftlip, and reached down to grab a handful of it. Testin' the merchandise, he cooed, low and mean and ugly. Words wrapped up tight in barbed wire. Brassbound. Said nothing as he pinched your nipples through your shirt, or when he shoved his hand beneath the hem and groaned at how soft you were.

Dirty hands leaving stains all over your skin you couldn't see, but felt like a fresh, weeping tattoo. Pulsing with infection.

(Such a needy little thing he trusts with his son while his wife is gettin' railed by 'er Pilates instructor, huh? But that's fine, ain't it? Need another one, anyway. A better influence for Tommy. Someone who'll give him that little brother he's been buggin' for—)

And so, you slacken your jaw when he grunts, barking at you to open up. Say nothing when he drags his hand back up your body to grip your jaw tight in his palm, squeezing your cheeks until they pop open. Let him spit in your mouth, and swallow down the foul, stale tobacco taste of him on your tongue.

Nod, like an obedient little pup, when he says good, ain't it? and let him roll you onto your back again, wrenching your thighs apart so he can see for himself the mess he made. The one you let spill all over his jeans.

Good ones, too, he huffs, eyelids slicing over the jaded edge of obsidian into a derisive pantomime of a contented cat squinting to show affection. Half-mast in pleasure as he says he'll wear them again tomorrow an' let all the boys see what a mess you make of me—

His gaze drills into the wet, slick seam of your puffy, bruised cunt, grip tightening—vicious, possessive—until his blunt nails sink into your skin. Branding. Bruising. His fingers clench down until it almost feels like he'll break through muscle to touch bone, but just when it starts to really hurt, pushing past that strange equinoctial point where pleasure and pain wrap around each other on a razor's edge, he peels back with a grunt. Leans over you to spit in your mouth again, a wet, foamy glob that hits your bottom lip before it oozes into your mouth, tasting of stale smoke and bitter tobacco. A flavour that reeks of permanence, and smells of an incipient wolfpack—all animal musk and wildness brimming up against stale sweat, laundry detergent, cigarette smoke, and sex.

Cruel, almost, like the gurns etched into his face by the missing chunk of flesh on his upper lip. Snarled and deadly. Mocking in a certain light. Like a constant sneer. Derisive and dangerous.

But not nearly as terrifying when he lists forward, dropping down to catch your jaw in his hand, the other planting itself in musty pillow beside your head, caging you in, and says:

"—and now you're makin' me a daddy again, birdie."

There's a taste in the back of your throat that's much too sweet for the dirty, oil-stained fingers he slips between your slack lips, scratching over your tongue. It reminds you of a spoonful of sugar. Grape-flavoured medicine poured over the top. And you wonder how quickly the pills you have been taking would dissolve in water when you sprinkled the white granules down the drain.

Something else you won't mention even as this house he burrowed inside changes shape—clothes in drawers, bags in the closet; the lingering scent of Candy Kiss a spoiled, stale sillage hidden under the smell of newborn and warm milk. Crushed animal crackers and Nicorette. The sound of a gaping, newly formed maw yowling for attention clashing sharply against the exaggerated screams of a grown man howling about a video game on Tommy's iPad.

thanks for hiring me and don't worry, Mr Riley, I can manage him morphing into a new sound, a continual echo of welcome home, and she called again asking about custody, daddy.

Something that throbs like a fresh wound before knitting itself together again into a thin, pink line; skin all shiny and new. Pulsing with the echoes of everything you dipped your chin again, mumbling around the malformed words of please, and don't, and now,

don't stop, please don't stop

What else are you supposed to do, really, other than lettingnhim slake the remnants of his lust between your sore, slick-stained thighs until he grunts, coming inside of you again to the damning symphony of a creaking bed, heels against the floorboards, and the sizzle of a cigarette burning away in an ashtray.

"Wait—" swallowed down by a mangled mouth. A hooked, crooked nose slides along your sweaty cheek as he all but purrs in satisfaction.

All his, he says.

And you don't fight it even as the blood pools between your teeth because you knew that from the start.

[ultravio-bunny]

Hi mootie <3

Hi babyyyyyy

[ultravio-bunny]

*Cough Cough* IM HAVING FUCKING BABY FEVERRRRRRR

this is so sexist!dad!rafe x reader coded!! ♡

[ultravio-bunny]

BOOOMSHAKALAKA!!!!! YESSSS GAWDDDD

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

[ultravio-bunny]

babydoll!reader and rafe going to the kentucky derby 𓃗♡

warnings: suggestive content / implied smut (soft, consensual) adult themes (sex, alcohol, cigars) light sub/dom dynamics (pet names, praise kink) references to crying (reader is described as a crybaby but it’s not framed negatively) romanticization of vintage gender roles (reader as a domestic housewife type)

the suite smells like strawberry lotion and hot rollers.

your powder blue dress is laid out perfectly across the bed, the tulle skirt puffed like a cupcake, the satin bodice shining under the soft morning light. you’ve been up for hours, you woke up with curlers in your hair and lipstick swatched across your hand, already nervous and giggly about today. your eyeshadow is shimmer-pink and pearly, your cheeks all flushed and dolled up, and your lips have been painted and repainted three different shades of red.

you hum as you slip into your vintage heels, little white kitten pumps with bows at the toes, and you pause in front of the mirror to clip your grandma’s brooch to your waist sash. the hat—white and floral, with lace and netting—sits just so on your head. you do a little twirl, tulle swishing.

rafe whistles low from the balcony.

“jesus, doll. you look like you walked outta a painting.” he’s in slacks and a crisp button-down, jacket draped over his shoulder and a cigar tucked between his lips. gold ring on his pinky, sunglasses on, sun hitting his jaw just right. he looks like trouble. expensive, rich boy trouble.

you skip to him on soft steps, leaning on the balcony rail with lace gloves tugged snug to your wrists. “you like it?” you ask sweetly, voice light.

“like it?” he grins, dragging smoke from the cigar. “baby, you look like a fucking 50s housewife on her honeymoon. you sure you don’t wanna just stay in and play house with me instead?”

you gasp, playfully offended. “rafe cameron, i have a dress code to uphold! the kentucky derby doesn’t wait for vintage girls in love.”

—

it’s busy. bright. loud.

but you’re floating through it all like a dream. lace parasol in one hand, rafe’s arm in the other, white gloves gripping him like a tether. every man you pass turns to look, and every woman either smiles knowingly or sneers a little with envy. your lipstick-stained julep glass never leaves your fingers.

you’re chattering endlessly, pointing out the horses by name. “that one’s moonlight darling! oh she’s my favorite. she’s sparkly.”

rafe, who’s already lost too much money betting on horses with pretty names, groans.

“doll. you gotta let me pick this one.”

you pout. “but moonlight darling—”

he groans louder. “fine. but if we lose again i’m selling your parasol for gas money.”

you win. of course you do. you squeal, jumping up and down in your tiny heels, wrapping your arms around rafe’s neck like a child who’s just been handed a puppy. he catches you easily, lifts you off your feet, spinning you once with a breathless laugh. he’s completely fucked. no one’s ever made losing money look so adorable.

“i wanna ride one,” you whisper later, eyes shining as you stare at the stables.

“you what?”

“just for a picture,” you say sweetly, tilting your head. “please, baby? for my scrapbook?”

rafe looks at you—dressed like a housewife, gloves dusty, tulle skirt caught in the wind, clutching a paper fan and smiling up at him like you’ll die if he says no—and he sighs.

ten minutes later you’re on a horse, absolutely glowing, gripping the reins with your skirt puffed out like a pastry, cheeks red from the sun and laughter. rafe stands beside you, sunglasses on, one hand holding your ankle to steady you, the other flicking his cigar.

“you look so fuckin’ stupid,” he teases. “but like, in a cute way.”

you stick your tongue out at him and almost fall off.

—

you’re still breathless from the high when you get back to the hotel.

your gloves are peeled off, your hat discarded. rafe’s already loosened his tie, shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes locked on you as you slip off your heels and sink into the velvet couch like a melted piece of candy.

“you were real good today, babydoll,” he murmurs, sitting beside you, hand sliding over your knee. “didn’t cry once.”

you pout. “not true. i got teary when the old man gave me the horse ribbon.”

“ah. right. almost forgot you’re a crier.”

you giggle, curling into him like a kitten, your lips brushing his jaw. “you said i could have a prize,” you remind him. “what if i want you?”

he chuckles darkly, pushing your curls away from your face. “you already have me, sweetheart.”

he fucks you slow. sweet. soft.

your vintage dress pushed up over your hips, white cotton panties stretched to the side. you’re lying on the hotel bedspread, legs wrapped around his waist, pearl earrings still on. your lipstick’s smudged and your hands are trembling, mascara threatening to run every time he murmurs something filthy in your ear.

he praises you the whole time. tells you you’re pretty. tells you you’re good. tells you that he’ll buy you a damn horse if it means he gets to see you all pink and pouty like this again.

you cry. of course you do. right on cue, right as you fall apart around him, clutching his shirt and babbling something about how much you love him.

“i know, doll,” he whispers, mouth hot against your cheek. “you love me. you’re mine. my soft little thing.”

the next morning, you’re in one of your old slip dresses, barefoot in the suite kitchen, making breakfast with a record playing in the background. you’re humming along to frank sinatra and scrambling eggs like a housewife, your lipstick already on.

rafe walks in shirtless, hair messy, phone in hand. “what’s for breakfast, mrs. cameron?”

you giggle. “whatever you want, mister cameron.”

he kisses you hard and says, “good girl.”

[ultravio-bunny]

˗ˏˋ now introducing . . . incel!rafe ˎˊ˗

daddy’s money superiority complex a full time red-flag

he’s not just heartbroken he’s hateful he’s misogynistic .ᐟ

⌨︎ incel!rafe who . . . watches porn religiously. claiming he hates it, claiming all the girls in them are ‘fake whores’ and ‘that’s what they deserve’ — and it never fully satisfies him. but still he does it again. and again. and again. it’s his twisted therapy. and he never finishes to the regular stuff — only to scenarios where the girl is being degraded, begging, crying. he searches for girls who look like you, a little too pretty and too soft, getting the worse shit done to them. sick nasty videos that would get him put on a list, like ‘girl crying during sex’ ‘forced orgasm compilations’ or ‘blackmail porn’ he knows it’s wrong, but it’s never enough to stop.

⌨︎ incel!rafe who . . . has an obsession with purity. it’s dark and dangerous, he sees women who experience any type of sexual freedom as ‘threats’ if they dont fit into his narrow view of what a woman should be. he’s disgusted by them for not catering to his desires or for having autonomy over their own bodies. he wants women who are innocent, untouched, and under his control — his way of proving he’s the one in charge. but the hypocrisy is glaring. while he condemns women for their sexuality, he’s consumed by fantasies of dominating, ruining, breaking them down, and making them submit to his twisted will.

⌨︎ incel!rafe who . . . has no sympathy for women. when he “loves” a woman, he might tell her that no one else will ever love her like he does—playing the long-suffering martyr, claiming that he’s the only one who truly understands her. but the love he offers is never pure. he’ll constantly tear her down, calling her worthless, stupid, or fat, all while claiming it’s for her own good. if she gets upset, he’ll accuse her of being “too sensitive” or “overreacting,” further alienating her. if a woman cries, gets upset, or expresses hurt, he finds it pathetic. he might mock her, call her weak, and tell her she’s just “looking for attention” when she’s truly in distress. his inability to comprehend or care about a woman’s emotional well-being only deepens his hatred for them.

⌨︎ incel!rafe who . . . uses sex as power. he doesn’t believe in mutual consent, he believes in ownership and if he wants something he takes it. he might try to guilt or manipulate a woman into sex, telling her that if she “really loved him,” she’d give in. if she says no, he twists it into a game of control, making her feel like she’s the one in the wrong for denying him. his need to dominate extends to every interaction, including sex, where he treats it like a conquest, not an intimate exchange.

⌨︎ incel!rafe who . . . has a fragile ego. when a woman shows she doesn’t need him, it triggers something deep inside him. he can’t stand it. he feels entitled to every woman’s attention, and when that attention isn’t directed at him, it makes him feel worthless. he’ll hide it behind a mask of false confidence, but internally, he’s seething. it’s like a personal affront to his existence, and he can’t stand it. instead, he’ll find ways to undermine her; through force, threats, or sabotage, even make her doubt herself, or try to control her until she becomes dependent on him.

⌨︎ incel!rafe who . . . craves humiliation. there’s a deeply destructive side to him, when he’s alone — he watches porn that makes him feel sick and helpless. it’s the only time he can let go of his need for control and let the chaos wash over him. but it’s also a form of self-punishment. he knows he’s toxic, and part of him wants to be punished for it. he’s caught between wanting to control and wanting to be controlled, and he’s too deep in the spiral to break free.

⌨︎ incel!rafe who . . . knows he’s a monster. part of him, the deepest part, has moments of clarity. when the high from his toxic behavior fades, he’s left with the aftermath—his reflection staring back at him, judging him. there are flashes of guilt, self-awareness, where he recognizes that what he’s doing is wrong. but instead of taking responsibility, he doubles down, justifying his actions, telling himself he can’t help it. he’s too far gone to fix himself, and that thought terrifies him.

[ultravio-bunny]

in the UK the snooker is on rn and all i can think about is snooker player!simon losing a game and fucking reader silly.

is there any chance u could write this?

snookerplayer!simon riley x wag!reader cw: MDNI. pinv, mentions of breeding, (sough rex?) a/n: heyy yes 100%. i'm american so i had to do my research about this sport before writing because this is the first time i've ever heard of the sport. i guess over here our equivalent for snooker is pool. anyway here you goo ♡.

You watched his games on TV every time they were on, it was the least you could do for him.

Your eyes were glued to the screen in front of you, watching Simon's body walk around the table for the perfect angle. He's potted every single ball in their correct sequences so far, he can do it. You know he can win.

Until he didn't. His opponent managed to win first and Simon was screwed.

And so were you when he walked inside the house. You glided your eyes to Simon and saw the way his biceps tensed up as soon as he walked in. He adjusted the tie on his neck at the door and muttered an annoyed, "Bloody stupid thing" before he yanked it off. You could feel the difference in the air the way your hands started to sweat and it became hard to swallow. He peeled off his waistcoat and all you could manage to do was peer from the couch at his mannerisms. His hair looked more disheveled compared to when he left the house hours ago and you could tell it was from running his hands repeatedly through it anxiously.

He finally takes a glance at you and strides on over. You could see the anger in his eyes from losing but also the hunger. He knows you watched his game, so there was no need to announce the verdict.

Before you could utter anything, he places his head under your armpit and his arms around your waist to shovel you up over his shoulder. He didn't waste the advantage of how you were picked up to slap a rough hand on your butt with a cheeky chuckle following the sound of the smack. "Missed you bad, lovie." He said breathlessly. "Lost that stupid game and now all I want is you."

It didn't take long for him to hike up the stairs and enter the bedroom. Simon continued his rough treatment, moving his hands to your waist to throw you on the bed. You gasped as your back and elbows bounced onto the mattress.

You spread your legs subconsciously, Simon noticed the gesture, "That eager for me?" He frowns mockingly, "Poor baby."

He uses the space between your legs to settle in between, kneeling on the bed. He yanked you closer by your ankles and started to strip your blouse off. The pink lace bra beneath it made Simon's breath hitch. "Beautiful girl." He takes the lace that settled over your bust between his pointer finger and thumb, knowing that he's teasing you.

"Simon, please." You whispered.

"Hm?" He climbs his eyes up from your breasts to your eyes. "Please what?"

You both knew he was teasing you on purpose. He was right in between your legs but not in the way you wanted. You whispered a response, "I want you."

"Want me where, pretty girl?" He knew the answer to his own question, but he wanted to hear it out of your mouth so bad.

"Inside of me. Please."

Your second plea makes Simon lose all control. In a moment, his shirt, trousers, and your leggings were off. Once he peeled off the last piece of your clothes, all you were clad in, Simon realized, was a pink lace matching set.

"You drive me crazy, love." He lowers his head to settle in between your already wet folds. "Did you do this on purpose?" He hooks a finger under the lacy material of your panties.

You shook your head in negation. "I like it when my bra and underwear match." You've been whispering for the time being, your vocal chords inept right now to talk in a regular tone. "It just makes me feel more put together."

He looked up at you, "You put yourself together today." He uses his forearm to spring up to you, whispering his next words inside of your ear, "Now that's why I'm here to break you tonight, sweetheart."

You thought you were already wet enough, but you thought wrong as soon as he said that.

He pulled your panties to the side and slid his boxers off, his cock springing up at the action. You could only manage to stare at his length, watching him position it right between your legs. He rammed himself inside, his hips slamming into yours. You gripped the sheets to find some comfort at the impact. "Oh, baby." He groaned in frustrated lust. One hand kept gripping your panties to the side, while the other crept up to cup one of your breasts, his thumbs crossing side to side over your nipple.

Simon continued thrusting rough and fast and your moans escaped every single time he would do so. You became a mumbling mess under him, so much to the point you could barely comprehend his words.

"Tease, you are. Bloody." Thrust. "Beautiful." Thrust. "Tease." Thrust.

Simon moaned at the pleasure. That snooker game doesn't matter anymore to him, not anymore because he's inside of you. You can hear his words through his gritted teeth. "Gripping me so well. I'll knock you up, sweet girl." You babbled something incoherently. "Do you want that?" His hand lets go of your breast, glides over the curve of your torso, and settles itself to rub your clit. "Do you want me to cum inside?"

You nodded and once again babbled. Your body kept moving up and down on the bed because of how hard he kept thrusting. Your breasts never stayed in place because this whole time, Simon has been rough. Not one moment did he spare to give it to you slow and soft. Your hand moved to grip the wrist of his hand that was circling around your clit. His other hand moved to smack yours off. Not hard, but authoritative enough to make you move your hand and accept the pleasure he's giving you.

Simon sighed at the view of you. Your hair was all over the bed, your eyes glistened with need, and your body glistened with your sweat. His gorgeous woman was crumbling right in front of him and it boosted his ego knowing it was all thanks to him.

You finally manage to let out a few words, "I'm gonna—," You swallow, "Si'." You shut your eyes at the thrusts and pleasure coursing inside of your core. You could hear the wet plaps and the tension building, all you needed to do was...

"Let go." Simon ordered. "Give it to me, sweetheart."

And so you did. You finally let go and gave into the pleasure that Simon was giving to you, reaching your high of pleasure. Your back arched at the final thrust. Simon came at the sight before him, keeping his cock stuffed inside of you and collapsing on top of you. The both of you laid there, panting and content at the end of it all. Simon plants a soft kiss on your neck, and glides a hand up and down the side of your torso to comfort you. "I love you, sweet girl."

You giggled at the sudden softness of his voice and gestures compared to the roughness of what he just did to you before. "Only after you probably got me pregnant?"

He chortles at your reply and lets his other hand rake through your hair to fix up the messy bits of it, "If I did then I can't wait to see you in nine months."

(i'm sorry i'm not good at writing smut please let me know if this is bad so i don't write it again LOL thanks yall)

~ yours truly, rani ♥︎

[ultravio-bunny]

simon doesn't have social media - he has a whatsapp to message exactly two types of people: military personnel (outside of their formal channels) and you. it was easier that way to keep everyone in one chat and the app was pretty handy.

you had never seen someone's phone storage be under fifty percent, but he didn't have much on the phone. most of the storage was taken up by the apps already pre-installed and photos - the man loved his photos.

his memory wasn't the best, he had his hunches as to why that was. so when he was home, he always took photos. especially ones of you. you hated when he sent you the worse ones - the time you tripped over your laces on a walk through the park, that time you just devoured your taco during a dinner date.

and all the photos of you asleep. so many photos of you asleep.

simon loved them all because they were photos of you. you didn't have to be all done up with the right angles or lighting. he wanted to remember you - so even when the distance felt large and unbearable. he could remember the times you two spent together. that exact walk in the park, that exact dinner date. a million little moments together, with the promise of a million more.

the whatsapp chat was like a scrapbook of your relationship - every i love you, the shopping lists, the times of returning flights and trains, the memes you sent (and he had no idea what they were meant to be), the pictures of wild flowers he'd take because they reminded him of you. a million messages flowed between you two - hundreds of photos and thousands of i love yous. good mornings in total different time zones, rants about work, the various emojis you sent and simon would respond with proper text. the i miss yous and the i love yous mixed together, yearning for return but keeping the love alive.

it was all mapped out through your frequent text messages.

and while you could map out your entire relationship through your whatsapp chat, there was a certain collection of photos that permeated through the chat. - simon riley didn't have social media. but he did love sending you some nudes.

you told him that he could have a thirst trap instagram which he replied with, "why would i? i don't want anyone else lookin' at what's yours." and for the first time in your entire relationship he used an emoji. the winking face one. <3

a/n: this got away from me- this was originally supposed to be about simon not understanding memes and you being the first to show them to him.... oops.

[ultravio-bunny]

PERIOD.

working 60 hours a week when you have a boyfriend is crazy girl, are you not embarrassed? why are you working at all?

i wasn’t going to answer this because it’s so out of touch and delusional.. but i’m convinced this is a troll because of how ridiculous it sounds. i didn’t work myself to tears throughout high school to get grants for college and go through the emotional hell that medical school was so that i could obtain a degree and become a licensed ultrasound technician just to quit and lose my ambitions the second a man started paying my bills and then some. i’m working hard right now so i can enjoy the fruits of my labor and retire early.. god forbid a girl actually girlbosses.. are you not embarrassed??

and just an fyi because you’re so concerned nonnie; i could quit my job and be financially covered because my parents worked hard for me to have that privilege. my boyfriend works more hours than i do and is always telling me to quit my job as well, but it seems like no one taught you the importance of having financial independence and freedom, ESPECIALLY as a woman. i’ll never be embarrassed for achieving self sufficiency and getting my money, thank you!

[ultravio-bunny]

MDNI 18+

snowed in with dbf! simon riley

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ in which your dad trusted his best friend, simon riley to look after you on his farm whilst he went on a business trip. little did he know what the opportunity of being snowed in with him led to.

cw: age gap (reader in early 20s and simon in late 30s/early 40s), vaginal sex, spanking, breeding kink, fingering

being snowed in with dbf! simon riley meant sex, a lot of sex.

“come on baby, gotta keep yer pretty lil body nice and warm,” simon grunted as he pulled you over his lap, his large tatted hand gently caressing your body. the only activity that the two of you had done was sex, the whole house rearranged because of how he fucked tou on every single damn surface. “so soft luvie,” he cooed softly before giving you a harsh slap on the ass, making you squeal in protest. “si!”

simon chuckled, gently tugging your body towards him before rubbing where he just spanked. “sorry baby, but i can’t have you squirming around.” it was clear that you were exhausted, his cum dribbling down your hole and making a soppy mess on your inner thighs. “jus’ one more baby please,” simon was a man who hasn’t touched a woman in years until you, and he was now addicted.

he was a man with needs, and now he was snowed in with his pretty birdie all naked.

he manhandled you, bending you over the couch before nudging your legs apart.

“this house isn’t known to have the best heating, and with the snow, well i can’t have you gettin’ all sick can i?” being with you felt like the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to simon, but sneaking behind your father’s back felt anything but it.

“still so wet for me,” his two thick fingers plunged deep into your cunt, your legs kicking up slightly as you muffled your moans. “so pretty baby,” he praised as you gushed all over his fingers, naming them glisten with your arousal. “yer lil cunnie is always so damn eager, after all of those rounds she’s still so fucking tight.”

simon loved your cunt.

he could spend hours buried deep into your gummy walls, his cock plunging so deep it could bruise your cervix.

“fuckin’ hell, she’s a greedy one huh?” simon grunted as his dog tag around his neck moved with each thrust. “grippin’ around me like she’s never taken cock before.”

he was a horrible friend and he knew it, after all - who fucks the daughter of their best friend who asked them to look after her? well, clearly him.

“i don’t even need a heater when i have yer cunt, so warm and tight.” years he spent on his shitty little farm, years he spent fisting his cock with his rough calloused palms instead of burying deep inside a nice warm cunt.

“since she’s clenchin’ so tightly how about i fill her up yeah? give her the love and attention she deserves.” simon was always a man who took precautions, but with you? he wanted to put a baby in you.

“m-mph! si, i’m gonna cum!” you whined as you drooled all over his couch, staining the flimsy material. simon didn’t care, he was going to have you come all over his cock until the snow finally stopped.

he didn’t care about cleaning up, making him cum leak out of you when he was done - he couldn’t mess up his masterpiece could he?

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