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soleminisanction
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jilbabnakal
Jilbab.Nakal
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a very good angle of Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Prices laps..enjoy
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i can't express in words how visceral my reaction to this was. listen, la. my heart belongs to the coast. gross, nasty fishermen are a dream. my kryptonite. this hit on that and sooooooo much more. holyyyyyy. got me pacing around my room. so, so, so good!!!! ahhhh!!!! no good terrible and mind of mean Simon + the sea + "i can't see without my glasses" reader being hunted by "i'll give you something to remember me by" Simon is sheer perfection. i love this so much. i genuinely can't put it into words, but this is IT. it's everything.
Simon was so horrible in this. i need carnally.
Deckhand
Simon Riley / female reader
18+ mdni, dubcon. Simon is very no good terrible and kind of mean. Predator/prey. Excessive alcohol consumption, manipulation. Spitting, size, praise, a little bit of breeding/daddy - kink.
Simon arrives to town on the last summer wind.
It’s cold for the shoulder of the season. Not the coldest he’s ever felt, but cold enough his scars become rigid, inflexible swaths of skin littered across his body pinching at every hinge.
He can already feel the burn. The stretch and strain of his upper back, his arms, his legs. Can already feel the weight of the pots, sharp metal slamming and crashing, teeming with things that look more like creatures than they do delicacies.
Hook. String. Pull. Block.
The people stare at him, wide, wind whipped eyes peeking out underneath knit wool hems, gagged and confused, whispers passed back and forth like children with a lolly.
Did you see him?
Look at the size of ‘im-
Is that Ernest’s new deckhand?
Fucking monster of a man, I tell you.
He keeps his head down. Eyes fixed to the floor, old instinct still churning in his blood, shoulders stiff and squared. Captains are all the same, whether on land or at sea. Says “yes sir” as Ernest sizes him up, asks about his previous two seasons, and then sends him away with a perfunctory nod and a departure date.
The Old Man leaves in two weeks. See you then.
King crab fishing is the closest he’s felt to having a foot in the grave since he was actually in one. Opponents in a firefight are known, predictable. Monsters of their own kind, but ones he knows intimately. Minds of a killer, the lot of them, a certain subset of consciousness nearly shared.
The ocean shares its mind with no one. Its secrets are its own, buried in the briny deep, never to be revealed.
And the Bering-
The Bering is its own horror. Savage and cruel to those who would tempt it, willing to swallow anything offered and pull it down into fathomless black water. Cold enough to kill a man in seconds. Violent enough to toss them all to sea.
He’s seen it happen. More than once. The environment is uncontrollable, unpredictable, lethal, and the work is arduous.
The company is tolerable at best. The season is short, yet taxing. Deckhands live dozens of years, in a few short months. They stare off into nothing, watching the horizon, long gone look in their eye.
Still, he sees familiar flickers in them, same firelight he’s seen in the many men he’s killed, or worked alongside of.
At the base of it, these types of men, his kind, are all the same.
Rabid and dangerous in packs.
The cove is nearly derelict. The town spills up into white and black spruce, houses nestled in the grove of tree trunks twice Simon’s size, all doors facing the warped and tilted wooden slats of a long-loved dock.
There isn’t much here, a small grocery, a liquor store, a petrol station and of course-
A pub.
Aptly named The Wharf, the bar is as old hat as they come, seedy and sticky, sunken into the soft earth. It’s everything he’s come to expect in a fishing town this far up north, where the season is variable, and the money is too. Dark wood from floor to ceiling, over polished oak horseshoe, neglected stools and booths. Everything creaks, and The Wharf is no exception. The pub, the dock, the trees. Wind whistles and bark groans, a rasp you can only find here, in these places where time is too slow, and the world forgets.
There are rooms above the bar, usually rented to his ilk, deckhands biding their time, greenhorns rattling with excitement. They all filter in weeks before the season opens, and when he checks into his, he’s not surprised when the woman at the desk tells him he’s got the last one.
There are only ten, after all.
The Wharf’s side door swings open in a gust of blistering wind, yet not a single person turns their head.
None except him, though he doesn’t need to look to know it’s you.
He can smell you. Can feel you, clear across the floor. Sea salt and lavender, it whirls in your wake wherever you go, and when he lingers on the sidewalk outside of your little workshop, he swears he’s standing in a cloud of it.
“If y’need jackets, bibs mended from last season, there’s a place on the corner, next to The Wharf. She’ll get ‘em done before season.”
You’re the bloody seamstress. The tailor. Nimble fingers twisting and tying, threading and looping inside a faded light blue storefront, working into the small hours of the night. Your workspace is small, and overflowing with bright orange polyurethane covered clothes, long lengths of neoprene, socks, shirts, wristers. A mass of work, it seems, one that keeps your light on after all others have gone dark.
Except The Wharf’s.
It’s the second time he’s seen you here.
He doesn’t count the times he’s seen you without you realizing it. Doesn’t count the times he’s finished a cigarette on the street at the perfect angle, a solid perch to peer right in through your window. He doesn’t count the times he’s watched you from The Wharf’s one dark window, when you step outside to take a long breath of air, stretching your back and shaking your arms out, rolling your head in a circle-
and baring your throat for the slaughter.
The first was days ago, close to zero hundred, when you swung in to settle on a barstool with your back to the door. You look like you’re made from spools of silk, even underneath all of your winter layers, big coat, knit wool hat. There’s a coruscated dapple in your eye, one that manages to shimmer even in the darkest shadows of the bar, voice saccharine as he’s ever heard, dipping into a melody as you go back and forth with the bartender.
He hears it now when he closes his eyes at night, awash in a sea of bourbon, cigarette stench sunken into his skin. A gentle rhythm, a syrupy voice, saying his name.
Screaming it.
You catch his gaze across the bar. Catch him watching you, peeling you, picking you apart, but you say nothing. Blink a few times, glance down at your beer, pretend to busy yourself with something else. It’s not a flinch, but close enough to it.
He knows what you see. What you should see.
A monster. Licking his lips at a girl. A fire breather bearing down on top of a princess.
If he crossed this room right now and yanked you off that barstool, who would interrupt? Intervene? They’re all men of the same vein, born from different battlefields. The rules of engagement become status quo, regardless of whether you’re baptized by the Bering, or by fire.
Rabid, dangerous in packs.
Eleven days left, and he’s finally found something worthwhile to occupy his time, besides lurking in the dingy corners of The Wharf like an old, decrepit sailor.
You.
You live above the shop, an old fire escape leads to a wooden door with a big window, one covered by a curtain hung from the inside.
The Wharf’s rooms have a fire escape too. A metal catwalk.
Metal. Who’s the idiot who decided metal anything would be good in a place like this? Iron nearly turned red, rusted to all hell. One shift, and it all falls down.
He takes his watch there, at night. A gargoyle at his post, waiting for the flicker of your kitchen and bedroom lights, shapes and shadows dancing behind the thin drapes, a ballerina on stage for the masses.
For him.
He brings you his gear. Looms over you at the desk where your sewing machine is grinding out an industrial stitch thicker than what he’s seen on parachutes.
“H-hi.” Hi. Aren’t you cute? A little lamb, alone in the woods.
He nods. Stays silent. Enjoys watching his catch twist herself up on his hook.
You glance at the noxious orange pieces draped over his arm, and half timidly reach.
“Need those patched? Er, like… have any tears or rips?” Not really. He keeps his gear in good condition. Throws out his underclothes after every season- can never get the stench of fish out of em, but his outer gear is well cared for.
It almost pained him to rip them apart last night.
“Simon.” He gives it expectantly, jogging your manners to the forefront. You have the good grace to look embarrassed with how fast you spit out your own name.
“Bibs have a few holes. Big ones. Jacket’s got a rip under the armpit.” You reach, tiny little fingers stretching across the barren space between him and you, and he lashes down the urge to snatch your wrist out of midair and bring it to his teeth.
Do you taste like lavender? Sea salt? Is your cunt briny like the Bering, slicked sweet and brackish?
“Okay, well, I should have them done before-“
“You better.” You startle, eyes wide and confused, before they find your feet, cowed little girl before an awful man. “Jus’ need em, is all.” He softens the approach, not willing to cut you down just yet (that comes later), and you respond well, perfectly, pushing your glasses up onto the bridge of your nose with a genuine smile.
Live bait on the line. Set, cast, hook.
“Got it.”
His control is becoming a house of cards.
You’re in The Wharf earlier tonight, asking Jimmy for a double, whiskey over ice and nearly to the brim of a rocks glass. Just one, you say. Neck is sore as hell.
He maintains a distance. More inclined to watch you devolve, fascinated by the way you unravel with each sip. Lightweight. Figures.
You pull your glasses off and rub your temples, hopping off the bar stool with a quick word over your shoulder, a request for another drink. “Just goin’ to the bathroom.” You explain, walking away with a hardly detectable sway in your step-
directly into the side of the wall the bar juts out from.
Someone, a woman who never so much as looks up the entire time she’s here, furrows her brow at where you’re rubbing your forehead and tsks.
“Your glasses!” You turn, embarrassed, downright mortified, and sheepishly slide your fingers across the bar until you find them.
“Oh, right. Thanks Laurie.” Laurie, says nothing. Not until you’ve turned away and almost disappeared into the bathroom. Then, she mutters to herself, into her fresh pint.
“Damn girl is blind as bat without those things.”
He buys Laurie another round before he leaves for the night. An eventual thanks.
"Can I bum one?"
His neck nearly snaps. Where did you come from? You're timid in the mouth of the alley, lichen washed red brick flanking you on either side, your hands folded together at your navel.
"Little girls allowed to smoke 'round here?" Now your neck snaps.
"I- I'm not a little girl, thank you." It's like you're trying to turn your nose up at him, but he's a giant above, and it's hopeless.
"Sure you're not." He plucks the cigarette from his lips, and then holds it out to you. Your breath hitches, top teeth digging deep, an instigation, invitation. His hand whips forward, too fast for you to realize, gripping your chin, pressing his thumb into the flesh of your bottom lip. "Want a drag or not?"
"S-sure." He's got your cheeks squeezed together, just so, enough that the fat of them crowds your mouth and makes the s sound more like a whistle.
He doesn't let go as he feeds it to you, stopping just before the filter touches your teeth. "Go ‘head then." You draw, deep, eyes closing as that first hit of nicotine rushes your blood, undoubtedly making you light headed, and his cock thickens with dreams of his fat head pushing between your lips instead of this cigarette, dreams of you split open on him with a soaked pussy, neck bared for his teeth.
Hook. String. Pull.
He squeezes himself overtop his jeans, heavy weight pulsing between his legs, a dangerous affliction growing larger and larger with each second. He could rock against his palm, right here in front of you, and it would feel worlds better than the last measly meal he had, months and months ago. Nothing will compare to you, he already knows.
You see it all. Frozen like a deer in headlights, your lips part, transfixed, confused. Will you run? Will you shout? Will you tell?
"I uh, I better... get going. Have a lot of work t-to finish." Good girl. He nods, letting go of his aching cock, slipping the cigarette back in his mouth, searching for even a hint of lavender and sea salt lingering in the filter.
"Goodnight."
Four days left, and his gear is finished.
You leave a message for him, letting him know he can pick up whenever is convenient. During shop hours. Cash or card accepted. What a dutiful business owner.
You’re in the back when he arrives. It’s long past close, but no one locks their doors here. Anyone could walk right in.
“Be right out!” You yell, slightly muffled. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t opt to give himself away, just waits at the front desk, where a mug of fresh coffee sits, still hot, still steaming.
Desperation for claim, for possession, claws up his throat to his tongue, thrashing in a fit until saliva pools in his cheeks. He sucks through his teeth, rolling the pockets behind his molars forward, pulling as much as he can, his soul even, up and out, landing it in a glob on the surface of your evening caffeine fix.
It sits there, tiny bubbles and all, an island in endless ocean, unable to break apart or disappear. Blatant. Obvious.
So, he sticks his finger in it and gives a quick swirl. For good measure.
There’s rustling in the back, and then you pop through the doors, glasses sliding to your nose. “Hi! So sor-“
You grind to a halt, spine curling forward, as if you’re trying to protect your precious organs from his fingers, avoiding his grip around your ribs, his urge to rip you open and devour you whole.
He smirks. “Got a message my gear is done? Nick o’ time.”
“Yeah, it’s… it’s done. I’ve got it, one sec.” You fidget, gun shy and shuddering, flitting away on the turn of a heel, eager to escape where he hulks in front of your desk, no doubt.
When you come back, you’re a bit more put together. Polished. Glasses in their rightful place, you place his bib and jacket on the counter unceremoniously, lips pressed together. He hands you a wad of cash, and you count it carefully, keeping your eyes pinned on the bills as he inspects the stitching, taking stock in your sharp attention to detail. “Like new, great work. Thank you.”
You go doe eyed, demure, flattered, and then confused, trying to reconcile this man, this version with the one from last night. “T-thank you.”
It all comes to a head, two days out.
There’s a party of sorts, a gathering. Entire boat of deckhands crammed into The Wharf, plus others, town residents and even some from the next over.
Too many, for Simon’s tastes.
Too many, except for one.
You’re crammed between the wall and someone’s shoulder, occasionally saying hello, accepting thanks for work well done. You keep your idle hands busy, accepting drink after drink, a shot of tequila, another of rum.
You’re even dressed up, cute as a button. Sweet as cream, honey on the hive.
Your hiccups ring out from across the room directly to his ears, chest shaking with each one. The bar is at max volume, shouting, cheering, chattering, but he can hear you crystal clear. Can hear the high pitch echo of each one, can hear your throat bobbing, the long exhale singing from your nose after trying to hold your breath. “I need some air,” you say to your neighbor, “be right back.”
He downs the last of his bourbon, subtle fire in his throat, and then makes for the back door.
Your arms are crossed, leaning against the brick with your head tipped back, eyes closed. Wearing a knit sweater, a skirt, and wool leggings, for fucks sake. “Dangerous place to be, a little girl all alone.” Your eyes snap wide, startled.
“Simon,” you don’t stutter his name, liquor easing your nerves, sweetening you up to a slaughter like the little lamb you are. Your ability to assess risk is long gone, and when you peek over at him, head rolling, the usual skittish haunt of your gaze is nowhere to be found.
“Out for a smoke?”
“No, just some fresh air.”
“Poor lamb. Drink too much?” You shrug, steadying your balance against the wall. Trying to appear more with it than he knows you are.
He stalks closer, closer than you should be comfortable with, but you only sigh, wilted as the grass withered by the impending winter.
He tests. Probes. Brushes a hand against yours, watches how you tip a little to the side, his side, eyes glassy between hard blinks. “You’re so sweet, little lamb.”
“Oh,” you make an o with your lips when you say it, like you’re suprised. “T-thank you.”
“Do you taste sweet, you think?” You jolt, but he handles your hip like he’s afraid you’ll fall, though you have a better grasp on your balance than you think you do. “Hmm?”
“I’m… I’m not sure.” It’s a race now, one you’re desperate to catch up in, but falling behind faster and faster.
Hook. String. Pull.
“Open your mouth.” You do, on instinct, and he hums with approval. “Good girl.” He sticks his thumb inside, depressing your tongue, and shoving back and to the side, hard enough he stretches the corner of your lip, and then tugs.
Hooked.
You’re too drunk to process it, not really. Enflamed with a rollercoaster of shock, shame and disgust. But beneath it all, something else rises, breaks at the surface for air. Desire.
He doesn’t waste the moment, hands splayed at your ribcage, shoving you back against the wall, your shoulders slamming into it. He’s on you, rabid, wolf at the throat of a lamb, tongue forcing its way between your teeth without permission. You jerk, tense, muscles shifting like you might put your arms up, but instead they fall limply to your sides, and you moan.
String.
The length of his torso, chest and stomach press against you, hold you in place, allowing him free rein to wrap his fingers into the fine fabric of your wool stockings and rip. The shocked little gasp falls from you as expected, but you’re too far gone to fight. Prize on the line, he tugs them aside and strokes over your folds, already wet for him, dipping into your cunt, tight and fluttering around his invasion.
“Si- Simon- stop.” You push at him shoulders, trying and failing, squirming and whining. He shoves deeper, one nearly too much, two an impossible fit.
“Why would I stop when you’re so wet f’me little girl?” He presses the swell of his cock against you, your walls clenching at the contact, and he chuckles darkly. “Gonna say you don’t want this, sweet lamb? Gonna lie when this little pussy is dripping all over my hand?” You’re scandalized. Ripped from your comfort and thrown ashore, a fish out of water, gasping on land. He breathes into your neck, biting and sucking his way back up to your mouth where he distracts you for a brief moment, long enough to tip your balance to the side, a stutter step disrupting your focus, and delivers an opportune strike to snatch your glasses off your face so fast you flinch backwards in the confusion. He manages to cup your head just in time and cushion its bounce against the brick.
Pull.
“My glasses.” Your voice trembles, and he’s surprised to feel a twinge of guilt. Don’t worry little one. He’ll pull you apart, but he’ll put you back together. Eventually. “Simon… my- my glasses, do you see my glasses?”
“No, sorry. It’s too dark, sweet thing.” You tear up, horrified, and they spill down your cheeks, fat and wet, leaving tracks all the way to your neck.
He licks them with glee.
“I need to-“ he pays you no mind, returning to his work, his meal, shoving your knee to the side and lifting you up the wall, until the smear of you cunt weeps all over his jeans. “I need-“
“Know what you need, little girl.” He shreds your leggings wider, tearing a hole big enough to expose your thighs, your lower belly. Later, when he has you pinned to his bed, he’ll eat you until you can’t speak or see, but for now, bludgeoning the entirety of his cock into this too tight space will have to do.
You hiccup again. It’s too sweet, rots his soul. He wonders if you’ll be here, when he gets back. If you’ll run, or if you’ll wait. Maybe he’ll give you something to remember him by, knock you up, nice and fat by summer, heavy with a piece of him. Maybe.
He slides his zipper now, pulling the weight of his cock free, sliding the head through your slit as you look down. You can’t see, how big, how thick, how insane it looks, head trying to push into you, your body unyielding, spasming as he batters his way inside. You claw at his shoulders, spitting out a half moan, a half sob, and he taps his forehead to yours. “It’s too m-much, too- hurts-“
“Don’t fight it. You’ve got plenty of room, be good.” He soothes with a lie, probably. You’re so tight he can feel you in his bones, restricting, bearing down. He pushes, heat and slick closing in around him, making him dizzy, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Fuck- that’s it. Feel that?” He drags your hand to the root of his cock, splaying your fingers around the base. “Feel yourself splittin’ open on me?” You moan some nonsense, some sort of garbage mixed with a yes, and a no. “Perfect little pussy, stretchin’ for me, yeah?” Only for me.
He fucks you so hard you’re shoving higher and higher up the wall, cunt choking him with each thrust, your fingers twisted in his sweatshirt, clinging on for dear life, a sailor in a storm. Lost in the fuzzy, blurry world without your glasses, he gives you a port in the dark, a lighthouse calling you home. He spreads you wide, rolling over your clit, pinching, thumbing, finding the rhythm that makes your buzz, hips starting to jerk, swallow him up.
Unbelievably, you tighten up even more, eyes slamming shut, and he holds you steady at your hips, driving deep, mouth on your ear. “Gonna be good and cum? Gonna show daddy how good you can be and cum all over his cock?” You gasp, and he drags you to it, pushes you over, rolls your shoulders back against the brick when you curl forward, pussy so tight it tries to force him out. You scream with it, but he covers your mouth, palm to your tongue, elbow at your collarbone. He’s relentless now, shoving himself until there isn’t a space inside you not filled with him, as fast as possible, body like a ragdoll. When he’s on the edge, teetering so close, he pinches your cheeks. “Open up, little lamb.” Your brow furrows, but partially blind, you’re more trusting, and you do as you’re asked. His hips piston, a rough saw, chasing, sprinting towards the end, heat climbing down his spine and across every muscle until he’s shoved so deep inside you he thinks he’s in your belly, and rears back, sucking a glob of spit to his lips and launching it into your mouth, just as he floods your pussy with cum. He jerks inside you, slow strokes, and you hang limply against him, fucked out, still drunk, docile as a lamb.
You hiss when he pulls free and lurch forward against his chest, not able to stand on your own. “C’mon, let’s get you a bath.” He murmurs into your hair, and you protest weakly.
“My glasses.”
“I’ll find ‘em.” He vows, patting their safe spot in his front pocket. “Don’t worry.”
#this is incredible and im in love#ill be reading this over and over again until i can recite it from memory#gorgeous writing simon was awful actin like the sort of man back home who'd dip their hands in the ocean#give em a little shake and call it clean#gross nasty horrible men#i bet for every breath he takes he has this compulsion to smoke at least two cigarettes
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Appetite was...a revelation. An experience. I love the way you wrote Ghost. Will you ever do a sequel? I'd love to see more of him and reader's life together 😭😭 even if it's just a crumb!
ahhhhh, thanks!! i'm glad you enjoyed it! i try to make my fics pretty conclusive so when it comes to part twos or sequels, i really struggle with trying to find a reason or a plot point for it. i don't think there would be a sequel to this, but i do kinda have an idea on where these two end up.
i think their life together consists of Reader hissing at Simon whenever he gets too close like a feral cat lmao he boards up all the windows and doors so now Soap has to squeeze his ass through a doggy door just to say hello.
it's a rocky honeymoon phase. he's an absolute bastard. mean, patronising. the dry sarcasm has you clawing at the walls. but he's content. probably the most sated he's ever been. and sees nothing wrong with what happened. he got himself a little mate. what's the problem? it's morally reprehensible? borderline illegal? considered kidnapping in several provinces and jurisdictions? he thinks you use a lot of fancy words for someone who is technically to blame for all of this. he was protecting you. so, be a little grateful, maybe?
but at least he's there to bail you out when you get caught foraging where you're not supposed to. avoids some hefty fines (but they keep taking away the poisonous mushrooms and berries you pick for dinner. rude). he's also incredibly loyal. you now have two shadows. he's an overprotective guard dog at his core. you're stuck with him for life. sorry.
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would it be okay to ask what you think Ghost looks like for you personally? Is there a piece of art, do you prefer his actor, or are their bits and pieces of him that you like to put together?
oooohhh all bits and pieces of various artists' interpretations. general size is probably somewhere around 6'5, 300 lbs. big dude. nice layer of padding over his muscles because he has to eat a lot for his size and his job, like he needs the calories to function. blond buzz cut. scars and burns and nicks all over his face and body. like he looks like someone tried to jam him through a wood chipper - he's just fucked up. brows kind of sloped over his eyes a bit. thin lips. nasty scar that almost tore off half of his upper lip. cauliflower ear (at least one). not VERY hairy, but definitely keeps whatever hair he can grow, except his face, which he keeps shaved.
he's right down the middle of kind of ugly and super hot. there's just something brutal and off-putting about him that keeps most people at bay, but man he walks like he has something heavy between his legs :((
#i love ugly Simon#looks like he was chewed up by a pack of wolves#rides a FINE line between hideous and hot#built like a rugby player would fit in so well on the all blacks roster#belly has a little fold when he sits#a pelt hiding his muscles#love this
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one day i'll write something not inspired by mythology. but today is not that day, and now this Price fic has edged into post-abandonment/breakup Ariadne (reader) meeting Dionysus (Price) on the shores of Naxos (some cringe Dom/sub website) after being left by Theseus (ex-boyfriend). all for literally for no other reason than i was staring at my Dion fig and thought to myself, Price would make a good Dionysus so someone should jot that down.
#i need someone to “AH-AH!” me like a bad dog being warned off from getting into the trash again every time i do this#like this is a cry for help
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i don't think there's any trope in this fandom that i like better than butcher ghost just inserting himself into someone's life and refusing to leave
cw: dubcon (tiptoeing the line of noncon), alcohol, hair pulling (head and pubic), slapping, minor threat of drowning, completely unnegotiated d/s dynamic, manipulation, ignoring request for a condom, allusions to cigarette burns (doesn't happen), self-doubt (e.g. thinking you might be overreacting to something when you really, really aren't) as a form of self-harm
it all begins when you start jonesing for a really good steak. things have been shit lately; work is eating up your free time, you haven't worked less than 60 hours a week in a good while, and every day you worry if you're going to get laid off. you've been a ball of stress for the past few weeks, and it's eating you alive. what you need is a good meal, a hot bath, and a stiff drink. the drink, thank god, you already have on hand- a lovely bourbon you've been saving for an emergency, and, boy, does it ever feel like a fucking emergency. it feels like you're going to crack, just absolutely lose your mind for good if there isn't some sort of intervention. your little self-care night is just a stop-gap measure, you know this. real change is going to need to happen, and soon.
you grab some groceries at your regular market, and decide to splurge on the meat. there's a cute little independent butcher's shop near the square where they hold farmers markets, tucked away between larger shops on either side. you walk by there all the time, it's the kind of place you wouldn't know was there except for the sign above the door reading "downright offal".
you push open the door and slip inside the small shop. the only other person there is a giant man behind the counter that's staring you down like you already owe him money. he's absolutely huge, broad shouldered and barrel chested, with blonde hair that's unevenly cropped short in a way that leaves little doubt that he does it himself. there's pink and white scars all over his pale face, bisecting his eyebrows and narrowly missing dark eyes before dipping down beneath the edges of the black mask he's wearing over his mouth and nose.
"hi. uh, sorry if this is a silly question, but what's the nicest steak you have?" you ask as you nervously clutch your shopping bag full of potatoes, carrots, and a small slice of cake.
"ribeye." he says curtly through a black kn95. the name 'simon' is engraved on the black plastic badge pinned to his white shirt.
"oh, great. uh, may i have one ribeye, please?" you figure it's best to err on the side of politeness when it comes to very large men with lots of knives at his disposal. the man behind the counter makes no move whatsoever to fetch you anything. his dark eyes very obviously scan over your body from head to toe, and it makes your cheeks warm up. your experience as a fat girl has taught you to be wary of those looks. sure, he might think your cute, or maybe he's just trying to decide how much he hates you for being fat. he's probably cycling through some awful jokes in his head right now, something comparing you to a barnyard animal, or how black isn't all that slimming. maybe if you're lucky he'll just refer you to a gym or something.
"you know 'ow to cook a ribeye?" he finally asks after what feels like an entire lifetime of awkwardly staring at each other in silence. you just blink at him in surprise. you hadn't really planned on doing much other than sticking it on a skillet, flipping it a few times, and pulling it off when it's hopefully cooked how you like it.
"i was gonna look it up on youtube. you know. before." you lie, badly, and 'simon' closes his eyes and sighs, giant shoulders heaving as he huffs in audible annoyance. when he opens his eyes again, he just continues to stare at you, emotionless and silent. it makes you nervous, intimidated, and you fidget with the ends of your sweater sleeves.
"uh. so. what do i owe you?" you say after a long, uncomfortable silence. just say your shitty fat joke so i can leave already.
"wait 'ere." he instructs, one gloved finger in the air as he walks to the back, pulling his apron off over his head. he comes back a moment later, wearing a black hoodie with a black backpack over his shoulders and carrying a large paper bag under his arm. he strides past you to the front door, flips the sign to 'closed', and fiddles with his key in the lock.
"uh," you say, just to say something. you're not entirely sure what's going on, he's clearly closing shop but you still don't have your steak and he hasn't taken your money. is he refusing you service so hard that he's closing for the day? jesus christ, you'd felt like you were being awkward, but this seems like an over the top response.
'simon' doesn't say anything, just holding the door open and staring at you expectantly, although you're not sure what he's expecting. probably for you to leave, right? yeah, you should go. you're not even going to ask about the steaks, just go home, order a pizza, and drink your bourbon in the bathtub like the sad-sack you really are. that's good enough, probably.
"...ok." you say quietly as you pass him in the doorway, wincing a little as your wide, soft hip brushes against the man leaning against the open door. you scurry back onto the busy sidewalk, humiliated, staring down at your feet and trying to fight off tears of frustration, nerves, stress, and embarrassment. maybe you'll eat your pizza while you're in the tub. why not? that might be the cure for this rotten month.
it takes you a few blocks to realize 'simon' is following you, his shadow almost eclipsing you, and when you step to the side to let him pass... he doesn't. just stops, waiting next to you to see where you take him. you look around, although you aren't sure what for. cameras for a prank show? someone to help you? godzilla, so you'll know for sure that this is just a weird and uncomfortable dream?
"i don't- what's happening, right now? i don't know what's happening." you blurt out, too exhausted and too confused to have much of a filter left. 'simon's eyes crinkle into a wry smile above his mask. he leans in, face so close to yours that you nearly take a step back.
"i'm givin' you the best cuts of meat in my shop, and you're lettin' me go 'ome with ya to make sure they're cooked properly." he says in a teasing tone that you don't trust. this is, on it's surface, a very altruistic thing to do... but something in this man's voice and mannerism is screaming that it isn't.
"that's... very nice of you-" you say cautiously.
"innit?" he practically taunts, and you can't help but think of cats that play with mice before killing them. he glances down your shirt for a beat before his eyes meet yours again, and that motherfucker winks. "come on, love. take me 'ome."
lies and excuses to get you out of whatever this is evaporate in your mouth as he pulls you back to the sidewalk by the arm and urges you back on your way with a quick pat to your lower back, his fingers just skirting the top of your ass. you look at the people you pass on the sidewalk and wonder if maybe you're the crazy one for being freaked out. he's just doing something extremely nice, even if he is going about it in a really, really alarming way. maybe you're just being too sensitive again, people always tell you that about yourself.
"uh, this is me." you say as you approach your building. 'simon' looks around at the neighborhood, seemingly scanning everything around where you live, and merely hums his apparent approval.
the panic starts to really set in when you both get into the lift, him staring at the floor you press like it's going to be on a test later. you're already not a small person, but 'simon' is fucking huge. it's already a little cramped, but your companion keeps leaning into your space more and more. by the time you get to your floor, you're practically sandwiched between 'simon' and the wall. when the doors finally open, you can't get out of there fast enough, the sound of a low and rumbling heh heh heh following you down the hall.
as soon as you let him into your flat, 'simon' makes himself at home immediately, dropping his heavy bag on the floor and taking off his boots. it's wild to see a man that big in your house, roaming around your kitchen and immediately pulling open every cabinet and drawer, apparently taking stock of what you've got. you put your bag of groceries on the counter and start to unload it's contents to the fridge.
"leave it, i'll get oll that." he says dismissively, like he's giving an order to a dog to drop a toy. "so. what'd you want the steak for? celebratin' somethin'?" 'simon' asks as he takes inventory of your spice rack. it's the most words he's ever said to you in one go, and it almost takes you aback.
"i- i just wanted something nice for myself. just a little treat for no reason. that's all." you say honestly as you sit at the kitchen table, staring down at the scuffed wood. you should really refinish this table someday. that might be a fun project when you're unemployed. you don't notice how 'simon' freezes at the small, frail tone of your voice.
"i'll give ya somethin' nice, pet. don't you worry." he assures you, but his tone makes you feel like you're missing a double-meaning or a joke somewhere. you're overthinking this, probably. he crouches down to look at your heinously unorganized cabinet of pots and pans, and tuts at you.
"should have somethin' cast iron." he chides, and all you can do is shrug. you're so fried, between the bone-deep exhaustion of your lack of work/life balance, the unease of having this big stranger in your kitchen, and the general low-grade irritation of being judged by sed stranger, you can't really do much more than shrug apologetically while you bite your tongue. just sit there, get through this, and afterwards you can have a nice hot bath and not think about this weirdness anymore.
he's being nice, why are you being so mean to him? a voice in your head pipes up. you wanted a break, and now the universe has handed you free steaks and a man to cook them for you. you're being too sensitive again, too picky. just let him treat you nicely. that's what you've been begging your bedroom ceiling for at night, isn't it? and now you're dismissing him as a weirdo? you're so fickle, so sensitive. you don't even deserve to have him feed you for free.
you sit in silence with your thoughts as he cooks, meat sizzling in the pan and filling your kitchen with a mouthwatering smell. he definitely knows what he's doing, getting the veg roasted while cooking the steaks. he's got that look in his eye your auntie used to get, an almost battlefield determination, and you know better than to get into his way or distract him while he's in the zone. he glances over at you as he hovers over the stove, turning the steaks consistently.
"'ow you take it? don't say well-done or there's gonna be a fight." he doesn't sound like he's kidding.
"medium rare." you say, unsure if that's the right answer. he hums in vague approval as he continues to tend to the cooking meat.
"good girl." he purrs, and you feel your cheeks warm up. it felt like genuine praise, but. you don't know. this guy is a little weird, and odds are decent that he's making fun of you, the way he keeps looking you up and down. you don't even care if you're being too delicate about this stranger's presence in your home, you just want this to be over.
"you seem like the kind of girl who knows 'er place." 'simon' tells you bluntly, apropos of nothing, and you nearly choke on the air you're breathing.
"excuse me?!" the shrill words pierce the air and he rolls his eyes at you.
"untwist your knickers. wot i mean is, you're not underfoot tryin' to 'elp out. know it's not where you belong, don'tcha?" he says simply, like you're the silliest girl in the world for being bent out of shape over his phrasing... and maybe you are. you don't know, your head hurts and trying to think too hard about it is exhausting. you can only hope he's as good at cooking as he is at being an offputting, trolling, dickhead.
"you're the professional, apparently." you acquiesce as politely as you can, irritation simmering. "best i can offer in terms of help is moral support."
"grab plates instead." he orders, and you can't help the way you get up from the table immediately, quick to do as you're told like always, pretending not to notice the way he adjusts himself through his black jeans at the sight of your instant obedience. oh jesus, this better be the best meal you've ever eaten.
he loads up the plates in your hands with steaming veggies and sizzling steaks, following close behind as you set them at the table, immediately hooking his foot behind yours the second you're both sat down to eat. you're about to pull your leg back, say something, react in some way, when he completely distracts you by taking his mask off and setting it down on the table.
shit, he's kind of handsome, even with the busted nose and the scars that cover his face. he's got a rugged, asymmetrical, unconventionally good looking thing going on, and it's really working for you. something about it just throws you even more off-balance.
you bite at your lip at you look at the meal in front of you. it smells incredible, cooked to perfection and much better than anything you could have managed on your own. swallowing down your dignity, you muster up the gumption to speak.
"thank you so much, for all of this. i, uh, i really appreciate it. it was very kind of you to do. i'm grateful." you tell the man sat across from you, because you weren't raised by wolves.
"couldn't risk you burnin' it." he says simply, a small, curious smile on his face as he cuts his steak. you just bite your tongue, holding back the annoyance at his condescending, patronizing way of speaking to you. if this is the true cost of a very nice free dinner, so be it. it'll be a weird, funny story later.
he's right, though. that horrible voice pipes up again. you would have ruined it, just like how you ruin everything. you can't be trusted with anything nice. look at your life, for example.
your phone chimes, and you give 'simon' a tight, apologetic smile as you pull it out to see what's up. it's an email from hr, letting you know your position has been terminated immediately, thank you for all your hard work, best of luck on your future endeavors, you can pick up your final check and any personal items at the front desk during business hours, yadda yadda. fuck.
see? the voice in your head taunts. you're suck a fucking mess, and it's only getting worse by the minute.
"do you drink?" you ask, shoving your phone back in your pocket. you're gonna shut that nasty little voice up, one way or another.
"sometimes." 'simon' watches you intently while he eats, only breaking eye contact when he has to fork another bite.
"you want a bourbon? i've got a bottle stashed away, hang on." you say as you get up, not waiting for an answer.
"you tryin' to make me fall in love, pet?" 'simon' asks over his shoulder as you walk through the flat, tone teasing.
"no." you laugh, trying to play it off as a joke as you duck into the bedroom and pull the bottle out of your closet, too far away to hear simon's mumble reply of 'too bloody late'. you come back and pour for the both of you, and he smirks at you over the glass.
"s'pose this right 'ere-" he gestures between the two of you with his steak knife, "would qualify as a 'meat cute'?"
it takes two seconds for the terrible pun to click in your brain, and you can't help the groaning laughter that comes out of your mouth. it's so bad that it's almost kind of charming. maybe you were just overthinking and being weird to him. this isn't so bad, really. even if the jokes are corny and terrible, the food is still really good and your company is nice to look at. a little brash, sure, but, again, you're known to be too sensitive. it's probably a 'you problem'.
the rest of the meal goes much easier with a little bourbon in you. you bitch about getting fired, he complains about his job a little, you tell him a little more about your life, and about your plans to treat yourself a with a steak and a drink before you shatter apart. all the while, he keeps asking you questions, steering the conversation in all the ways he wants it to go. you don't recognize it at first, but by the time your plate and half the bottle of bourbon is empty, he knows a lot about you, and all you know about him is that his name matches the plastic tag on his shirt and that he hates when people touch the glass on the display case. that's pretty much it.
at the end of your meal you start to feel a little antsy. simon's making no moves to leave, and you're not sure how to politely give the boot to someone who just gave you a fantastic meal for free. especially not someone so physically intimidating.
"wot's eatin' you?" simon asks, reclining back in your kitchen chair, watching you like he's studying you.
"nothing." you say a little too quickly, and he scoffs.
"come off it. not just the sudden unemployment that's got you scowlin', and it sure a fuck wasn't the food. right?" he cocks a blonde eyebrow that immediately has you shaking your head.
"no, no, of course not, it was really good. thank you again." you demure, and he seems to enjoy the instant deference. "i think i just, uh, want a nice, relaxing hot bath and to go to bed."
simon smirks, and it's not exactly friendly looking... but maybe that's just his face. it's obvious to you that he knows he makes you a little nervous and uncomfortable, and it's becoming clear that he likes making you a little anxious, keeping you on your toes. oh, god, did you fuck up letting him follow you home? maybe you should've gone with your gut instinct and told him to leave, that you were fine, that you didn't need someone to cook for you.
quit freaking out and assuming the worst in him, the voice in your head slurs, apparently still there despite your efforts to drown her in bourbon. that's so rude, you're being so rude to him for no reason!
"so do it." simon stands up suddenly, grabbing your plates and stalking back to the sink. you sit at the table, blinking at him in disbelief, before he looks back over his shoulder at you, shooting you a grin that looks sharp and a little vicious. "go on. take your bath, pet. i'll clean up."
maybe it's the liquor in your stomach, the commanding tone in his voice, or the fact that his glances up and down your body look significantly more appreciative than mocking when he has his mask off, but you do as he tells you. you slip into the bathroom, lock the door, and sit on the toilet with your face in your hands as the bathtub fills, praying to a god you haven't spoken to in years that the giant in your kitchen just leaves without a word once the dishes are done. hopefully he'll be long gone before you have the chance to make a fool of yourself in front of this extremely charitable man that you've been nothing but suspicious of from the get-go.
(y'know, after a few stiff drinks, it's really becoming clear that the voice in your head is right- you were too harsh on simon earlier. it's not his fault he's big and physically intimidating. he's just being nice, even if he is a little rough around the edges. he's been so incredibly giving to you for reasons you can't quite discern. you're just being weird because he has a different sense of humor than you do. that's it, right? that part of your brain that's telling you to run, that this is weird and something is wrong, is clearly just paranoid and oversensitive. in that case, you're glad you drowned it out with kentucky's finest.)
once the tub is full, you slip into the hot, bubbly water with a sigh. fuck, it hurts so good, the ache of your tired feet dissolving as you soak. you might be boiled like a lobster when this is done, but if it melts any of the stress you've accumulated, it'll be worth it. you close your eyes and slide back into the tub, the overflow drain gurgling noisily as you make the water level rise. it's so loud that you don't even hear the lock on the bathroom door being fiddled with. it isn't until you open your eyes that you see simon looming over you,
"jesus christ!" you shout, flailing around and spilling water onto the floor.
"simon, actually." he jokes, that fucking shithead.
"you can't be in here!" you shriek, pulling your knees up as you try to cover your bare, soapy tits with your arms.
"fuck me for tryin' to make sure you didn't drown in 'ere after a few drinks, eh?" he says, arms crossed as he stares at your wet, glistening body, rivulets of water getting lost in your side rolls.
"most people would knock first!" you retort, hunched over an a vain attempt at modesty in front of the stranger looking down on you.
"oops." he deadpans, blatantly unrepentant. "not lookin' so relaxed in there, pet. i gotta do this for you, too?"
what the fuck is he talking about? do what? he huffs a laugh at your confused face and kneels beside the tub, rolling up the sleeves on his hoodie, exposing dense, dark tattooing on one arm. soldiers and skulls, bombs and barbed wire. depictions of violence upon violence upon violence finding it's home under his skin. if there's a story behind them, you don't think you want to hear it.
faster than you'd expect a man of his size to move, he grabs you by the throat. your fingers shoot up to where he has his grip on you, trying to pry him loose as he slowly pushes you back against the end of the tub. the pressure isn't enough to choke, but oh, god, you think he's going to fucking drown you.
"be good, stay still, and i'll 'elp you out." he says as he grabs a fistful of hair at the crown of your head with his free hand. "put your 'ands down, stretch your legs out, and relax."
"please don't hurt me." you whisper, panic rising in your throat as your heart beats hummingbird fast. you try to tilt your head a little to keep your head above surface, and the grip on your throat gets tighter as he groans a little.
"oh, you don't want to talk like that 'round me, pet. you'll get me all worked up." the hands on your throat and tangled in your hair press down, pushing you down further into the water. "i like 'earin' pretty girls sob and beg, that shit gets me fuckin' 'ard. you want me to make you cry so i can show you 'ow much i like it?"
you shake your head silently, biting back the 'no no please' that you're sure would only wind him up more as the water reaches your ears, your face just barely above the water. the press of his hand is steady, deliberate, and you're desperately afraid that he won't stop until you're underwater. you want to fight him, to kick out with your legs and try to sit upright, to hit him, bite him, something... but you can't. he's strong and huge and you're powerless, naked and half-drunk, and under simon's complete control.
he says something that the water and the pounding of your pulse in your ears doesn't quite let you hear as he lets go of your throat, hand trailing down into the water to squeeze at your tits as you tilt your head back to bring your head above the surface. simon leans over the edge of the tub and kisses you, holding your head still as he licks into your mouth. you can feel the scars that bisect his thin lips, taste the bourbon on his tongue, and feel the jagged edges of broken teeth against the soft skin of your mouth. a yelp explodes out of you when suddenly he digs his thumbnail into your nipple, and you hate the way it makes him smile at you.
"oh, you're a fun one, aren't you? bet you make all sorts of pretty noises when you're gettin' fucked, eh?" his hand slides further down, over the soft rolls of your belly, fingers wriggling to make space between the press of your thick thighs. you can't help but go rigid when you feel him playing with the hair between your legs, the cruel smile on his face getting sharper before he gets a decent grip down there and tugs, sending you howling and thrashing against his hold. your pussy stings in pain, making you jam your knees together, and that bastard has the nerve to laugh.
"what the fuck?!" you hiss, eyes watering in pain and fear. god, please don't let them turn into tears. you don't want to see what happens if you cry in front of him.
"couldn't 'elp myself, pet. you're just so fun to play with. so pretty when you're upset. bet you're fuckin' stunnin' when you cry your eyes out." roughly, he grabs your leg and throws it over the edge of the tub, giving him enough room to shove a finger roughly into your pussy without any preparation or preamble. you can't help but gasp and squirm, your hands scrabbling at the fist in your hair, trying to loosen his grip so you can get away, but no dice. his grip is firm and unyielding, and you bite the inside of your cheek to try to keep from crying. you want to beg and sob and barter for your freedom, but you know it's quicksand, that it'll only make things worse if you struggle like that. just get through this and don't wind him up.
"settle." he barks, shaking your head with his fist in your hair while roughly adding a second finger inside your cunt. he curls them forward on on the downstroke, making you gasp and buck your hips involuntarily with a large splash, bathwater soaking his hoodie. the stretch of his fingers is already intense, but the pressure against your inner wall has you breathless and seeing stars.
"what do you want? i don't know what you want from me!" you demand, unable to hold in your protests any longer. involuntary tears roll down your already wet face as you continue to try to pry his fingers out of your hair, and when he laughs at you, it sounds mean.
"what i want is for the soft, fat arsed girl that walks by my shop three days a week to soak my cock and maybe cry about it. that's what i bloody want." simon slides a third finger inside of you, finger fucking you with enough frenzy to churn the water as you shake and whine. "we just 'ave t'warm you up first."
the fingers pumping inside of you are overwhelming, filling you up and stroking you just right, making you feel even more weak and helpless. simon's fully in control right now, biting at his own scarred lip as he stares down at you, watching your face intently as you feel your eyebrows draw up on their own. fuck, despite the horror and the throbbing pain from where he pulled your hair, you're getting close. it feels so wrong, so completely filthy to have this strange man insert himself into your home and take control of you. he's the one in charge of this situation, all you can do is just try to hang on and take what he gives you.
the warmth between your legs takes off like a wildfire, a desperate heat that expands and consumes. you don't even notice when your breathing becomes panting, or when your toes start to curl.
"s'olright to like it, pet. feels nice, don't it?" simon coos mockingly above you, and all you can do is nod frantically, because, yeah, it does. "what a good girl, takin' my fingers so pretty. won't even make you beg to cum this time, just do it when you need to."
"thank you, thank you, thank you-" you pant as you slowly lose your mind, the heat from your core traveling up your spine and licking at your brain. your mind is nearly blank, wiped clean with pleasure, with only simon's thick, stroking fingers and dark eyes left to occupy your thoughts. he grins at you with crooked, gapped teeth as he stares down at you, watching you start to come undone in the water. you're so afraid of him, but you need him, you need him so bad. if he stops right now you'll wither away into nothing, you just know it.
"yeah, thassit right there. my soft, grateful pet. such a good girl f'me, knew ya would be. c'mere." he leans over again to kiss you, and you blame the alcohol and your cum-desperate mental haze for the way you suck at his lips, slide your tongue against his, and moan into his mouth when he starts grinding his palm against your clit, making you gasp and keen into his mouth, thrashing in his grip until finally the fire inside of you takes over. your orgasm is like an explosion, barreling out of you at full force. by the time you come back down, you feel boneless, brainless, and a little senseless. holy shit, that was intense. it's been a good while since you've cum like that. you haven't had a partner in a hot minute, and what with how stress has been eating you alive lately, you haven't had the time or inclination to take care of it yourself. it's almost good enough to make you forget about the pain and terror he's caused you. almost.
simon gently brushes some hair out of your face, letting you go so suddenly that your head flops back a little, which makes him laugh with another low heh heh heh.
"come on, pet. up." simon helps pull you to your wobbly feet, toweling you off while simultaneously groping you. he kneads at your tits, your ass, and your stomach, and all you can do is stare at your feet. the floor is covered in spilled bathwater, soaking simon's socks. a big hand grabs your jaw and makes you meet his gaze.
"my turn now. show me the bed."
"simon, please, i don-" you start before he slaps your cheek to cut you off. it's not painful, but there's just enough force behind it to let you know he's taking it easy on you when he doesn't have to. you're getting off lightly.
"you've been playin' so nice with me today. don't 'old out on me now that you've gotten yours, that's selfish." he growls in your face, and you can't help the pathetic whine that crawls out of your throat.
"i'm sorry, i'm sorry, please stop hurting me!" you whimper before he cuts you off again, shoving his thumb into your mouth as far as it'll go and pressing on your tongue.
"who's 'urtin' you? eh? just made ya cum all over my hand, didn't i?" he barks, and all you can do is drop your gaze to the floor. he coos mockingly. "aww. s'olright, i get it. you're all embarrassed because you let this bit o' rough between your legs so fast, that it?"
he pulls his thumb out of your mouth so you can answer him, but you just nod silently, cheeks burning with humiliation as you avoid eye contact.
"o' course it is. you're a real good girl, aren'tcha? bet you never bring men 'ome so quick." he coos patronizingly, chuckling when you nod again. "thought so. go on then, pet. be a good girl and give back a little. show me to your bed."
your feet move on their own accord, and you can't decide if it's out of obedience or a need to put space between you. not that he lets that happen, of course, his hand resting on the damp small of your back as you walk naked down the hall to your bedroom.
"hands and knees on the mattress." he instructs as he starts to strip, and, jesus. the scars on his hands and face go all the way down his body, criss-crossing over his hairy barrel chest and soft stomach. what the fuck kind of man are you dealing with? you climb onto the bed before he catches you staring, trying to position yourself how you think he wants. you're not really sure if you want this, but considering how good his fingers were, you admit you're curious. hopefully if you just do what he tells you it'll all be fine. right? you hear the telltale clink of a belt being undone and the purr of a zipper, and you can't help but look over.
oh. oh lord. that thing's not gonna fit. man's proportional, sure, but considering he's probably 6'5" and 300lbs, it means he's still got a goddamned battering ram in his pants. jesus christ, you can feel your pussy throb at the sight of it, that thrilling heat starting to pool between your legs again, making you feel insatiable. simon sees you staring, open mouthed in shock, and laughs a little as he strokes himself, foreskin sliding back and forth over the drooling head of his cock.
"it'll fit." he says like he's reading your mind, his tone not at all reassuring. he climbs onto the bed behind you, hands roaming your body. broad hands with thick fingers squeeze your ass, kneading at the backs of your thighs and your soft hips. he plays with you a minute, rubbing the head of his cock up and down your already wet folds before he starts to push in.
"condom, condom!" you yelp, brain suddenly coming back on line for a hot second, as you try to scramble away. simon just grabs your hair again to hold you still while he ignores you, continuing to shove himself gracelessly into your cunt. fuck, the stretch is intense, and he has to rock a little, advancing forward to immediately draw back over and over again, before he's able to settle all the way inside of you with a satisfied groan. he lets go of your hair and runs his hands over you, cupping your swinging tits and pinching your nipples just to make you squeak.
"good think i stuffed you with my fingers first, eh pet?" he taunts as he starts to rock his hips a little, pushing the air out of your lungs with every inward thrust. "might've torn you right apart otherwise."
"thank you, thank you, thank you," you chant down at the mattress, because you definitely believe he would have ripped you apart. your head lols downward as you try to brace yourself for what you assume is going to be an absolutely brutal fucking. simon chuckles from behind you, and it makes you go rigid with apprehension.
"oh, pet. love me a cryin', beggin' girl, but grateful's becomin' a new favorite. s'nice to be appreciated f'once." he says with a throaty grunt as he starts picking up the pace, fucking into you so hard that you feel the need to dig your knees and the heels of your hands into the bed so he doesn't push you forward across the mattress.
a big hand snakes around your thick waist, trailing down your body and between your legs, playing with your clit at simon pumps his fat cock into your pussy at a rough pace. you can't repress the full body shudder that comes when he starts rubbing tight, fast circles against that bundle of nerves, shooting electric pleasure through your body while he fucks you like some sort of mindless animal. there's something delicious about the way he's using you, like he can't get enough of your body. it feels equally brutish and reverent, like when a stray dog snaps up an offered up piece of meat and follows you home with big, expectant eyes.
"gonna cum on my cock, sweet'eart? go on, show me 'ow much you like getting your cunt stuffed. felt so bloody good on my fingers, go on, give it to me." simon grunts through grit teeth as he bounces himself off of your ass.
it doesn't take too long for that heat in your core to come back, fire trailing up your spine like you lit off a line of black powder, making you ball your hands into fists and drool on the bed as he drapes his body over you, fucking you like the desperate brute that he is. in only a few moments you come on his cock with a scream, eyes rolling back as you shake apart, fully whiting out as you collapse on the bed, ears ringing as you clench down on the fat cock that never loses pace. a bomb could go off in your bedroom and you probably wouldn't even notice. simon's responding groan melts into a dark chuckle, one that would alarm you if your brain hadn't dissolved into goo and begun subsequently leaking out your ears and onto the mattress you're currently drooling on.
"mm, yeah. could get used to this." he smacks your ass hard to get your attention. "wot you think? i take care of you, and you keep my balls empty? you want that, softie?"
you're too cum-dumb to reply, just whimpering softly as he continues to pound into your sensitive pussy without mercy. you're not some revered thing- you're just a toy to him at this point, you realize. right now you're just a warm, wet hole for him to cum in, a soft body to play with. he leans over you, reaching around to grope at your tits, squeezing and pawing at them a bit before he leans back fully digs his fingers into the plushness of your hips and picks up the pace to an inhuman speed. the man's a fucking jackhammer, and you wince every time he slams painfully into your cervix. you can feel every part of your body jiggle with each meaty slap slap slap of his hips against your wide ass.
"fuck you feel good oll over. love this nice soft cunt and big fat arse bouncin' offa me. no 'ard edges to you at all. every bit as good as i imagined." he open-palmed smacks your ass, the sting and jiggle of the impact immediately melting into a hot, throbbing ache, and you resent the moan it pulls out of you as he fucks your still-sensitive pussy.
there's no warning when he cums, just a loud grunt and a large hand on the back of your skull holding your head down while you feel his cock throb inside of you while he floods your pussy. he pants loudly as he holds you still for a few moments, before wordlessly pulling out and crawling off the bed, padding naked down the hallway, leaving you to shake and leak cum by yourself. maybe he's finally leaving, you think to yourself, but you doubt you're that lucky.
down the hallway you can hear him turn the sink on and off, and soon he's back with his backpack and a warm, damp washcloth, rolling you onto your back and wiping away the tears from your cheeks and the cum from between your legs. the tenderness in contrast with everything else you've seen from simon is confusing, giving you emotional whiplash. he catches you staring and gives you a crooked smile.
"somethin' on your mind?" he asks, and it almost feels like a test, like there's a wrong answer he's expecting.
"i don't- i don't understand anything that's happened tonight." you admit, leftover bourbon in your bloodstream keeping you honest. simon huffs out a laugh as he fetches a crushed looking pack of cigarettes and a lighter from a side pocket on his bag. the click of the lighter and sizzle of the first drag of a cigarette are loud in the quiet room as you wait for his response.
"been a bit bored lately and needed a project, somethin' to keep me busy. figured i'd fix myself up a fat little wife, and fuckin' 'ell do you need fixin' up, pet. can't cook a steak, can't keep a job, can't even relax without my 'elp." he teases with a shrug after a smoky exhale. goddamn this man, smoking inside your fucking apartment without so much as a 'do you mind'. you might voice your protests about it if you had any idea what to expect from a man like this. as it is, he's a big, brutish wildcard. someone you don't think you want to test.
"i'm doing fine," you mutter grumpily. "and i don't need your help relaxing."
"yeah? when's the last time you came so 'ard?" he asks, blonde eyebrow cocked as he takes another drag of his cigarette. once the shock of his bluntness wears off, all you can do is bite your lip and look away, and he huffs out a laugh. never. the answer is never, and you absolutely hate yourself for it.
"see? so don't pout. i'll take real good care of ya, just gotta train ya up first, 'aven't i?" he looks around for a moment. "think i'll move in 'ere. bigger than my place, better neighborhood, too."
"wait, hang on-" you protest. sitting up, flinching back for moment when he holds his cigarette straight up in the air between his thick fingers, the glowing cherry acting as a silent threat. you don't know for sure that simon is the kind of man to burn you for fun, you also don't know for sure that he isn't.
"don't know what you're fussin' about, pet. you've 'ad a good meal, a 'ot bath, and you came twice. soft, silly thing like you needs to be looked after, and that's exactly what i'm gonna do." there's a finality in his voice, something that says 'don't push it or else' that you can't ignore.
your hands are tied, really. who would you even go to about this? cops are fucking useless, and anyone else you might tell will probably just chide you for looking a tall, employed, big dicked gift horse in the mouth. god, are you being too sensitive again? all you can do is sigh and slip out of bed, opening a window and padding back to the kitchen, fetching him a mug that says 'rmnb is for everyone'.
"ash in that." you say, setting it next to him on the nightstand, and he chuckles around his cigarette, holding his arm out for you to obediently craw into. you're too tired, too tipsy, and too drained to argue, tucking yourself in against his side as he slowly finishes his smoke in silence before you both fall asleep.
in the morning he shoves his cock down your throat, makes you breakfast, and takes your keys when he leaves for work.
"was goin' to get a copy made, but since you've got nowhere to be, s'pose i don't need to, do i?" he says with a mean smirk and a biting kiss before he pulls his mask on, pockets your keys, and heads to the door before your stunned brain can form the sentences to protest this new and horrifying development.
"see you tonight, pet. be good." the door closes behind him with a horrible finality, the metallic slide of the lock clicking into place feels like the final nail in your coffin.
maybe you should've just gone to sainsburys for your steak.
#the way you create such rich worlds in so little time is so mesmerising#the smut knocked me flat on my ass but the characterisation?? the world building??? the tension#ohhhhhhhhhh#that was the finisher#cod casually bringing some of the best writers ive ever encountered together to just make these men so so so much grosser and awful#is incredible to me
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lev i am being so deadass i just read and re read that somno ghost fic about three times ohm y GOD. oh my god. it was so fucking good. you’re like a fucking smut wizard you’re incredible
smut wizard stoppp i love that so much!! if that was a badge, i'd wear it proudly lmao and i'm glad you enjoyed it!!! 🖤
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Ghost has a thing for fucking you when you're asleep—
(—and maybe one day he'll get around to telling you about it, too.)
noncon/dubcon somnophilia. spit kink. brief anal.
He likes you like this. When you're soft, pliant. A malleable little doll under his hands that he can shape to his will. Bend.
You're so small compared to him. Tiny. The difference unmoors the chains keeping his vile, nasty urges at bay, until they spool—horrific and depraved—around him. Unleashes the need in the back of his head that screams, howls, and tells him to own, possess. Claim.
Ruin you—
And you belong to him. Everything. Every part of you is his, down to your goddamn marrow. Your bones are marked with his name, false starts carved into milky bones.
he doesn't really see the problem with taking what is his.
—and so, he does.
His sweet, sweet girl who can barely take his cock when you're awake—too much, too fat—and so he makes do with slaking his hideous, bestial need on your body when you're asleep. When he can fold your knees up to your ears, and fuck you as deep, as hard, as he wants without worrying about you seeing the want rotting in his eyes, and run—
The stretch, you whine. He's too much for you. The biggest you've ever had. It isn't meant to stroke his ego, he knows this, but still. He preens when you add, liquid and pained, by a considerable margin, Simon—
Like this, asleep, you're relaxed. Liquid.
And with the sleeping pills crushed into your bedtime tea you always (always) take an hour before bed, he can do whatever he wants to do. However he wants.
Splits you open with his tongue, fucking into you until you're sloppy and wet. Spitting on your cunt and pushing the foamy glob into your tight hole at his own leisure without having a rain of indignant fists come down across his shoulders, disgusted by the degrading action. Don't spit on me, Simon, that's gross—
(but you swallow it like a good girl when he grabs you by the neck, thumb digging into the dent of your larynx until you open nice and wide for him, tongue sliding out like you're begging for it—)
His little hellion awake. But asleep?
He gets your pussy messy with his spit, fucking it into you with two fingers—another benefit to fucking you asleep is that he doesn't have to bother with building up, can stretch you out on two fingers without those breathy little mewls spilling out, telling him it's too much. Then three with his mouth glued to your clit, feeling your cunt clench down on him as he bullies it with his tongue. The pressure is too much, too intense. You'd be howling if you were awake, but—
You're not.
The only sound is the lews squelch of him fucking you open with three fingers, sucking noisily at your pebbled clit.
Music to his ears.
And if he's in a hurry. Well. Skipping foreplay all together is fine. Just has to spit on his palm, coat it over his shaft, and make you open up for him. Splitting you open on just his cock. All tight—agonizingly so—around him.
You can take it.
He knows you can. You take everything he throws at you—knees pushed to your ears, cock bulging out from your belly. Head buried in a pillow as he flattens his body over yours, and ruts into your cunt while he smothers you under his bulk. Indescribably tight like this with your thighs squeezed together between his own. On your side with your leg thrown over his hip, or held high in the air.
He likes it best when you're on your back, though. Soft and sweet. Little hiccups leaving your slack lips as he forces you to take every inch he has to offer. Bullying his fat cock into your pussy. Over and over again—
Quenching his unbearable lust on you until it's slated on your flesh, cunt stuffed full of his cum.
Or your ass.
You're wary about him burying his fat length into your ass. It'll hurt, is the biggest excuse you like to give, hands tucked against the swell of your bottom as if that would be enough to keep him away. You've never done that before and taking him in your pussy was already a lot, you couldn't imagine taking him there, too—
It's a problem. Too bad for you, he has always been task oriented. Someone who likes the squash issues under his thumb.
And that's exactly what he does.
Starts with his thumb shoved inside your hole when he's fucking your pussy. Then a finger. Two. Likes to lick at your cunt before shoving your knees to your chest, lifting your ass in the air, and devouring it with the same rapacious appetite. Tongue fucking into you, getting you all sloppy and wet, stretching you open so he can seat you down on his cock. All the way to the base. Stretching your rim wide around his girth. Pounding your tight little ass until he cums inside of you. Filling you over and over again until it leaks out, soaking into the sheets below.
His pretty little doll. All fucked out and messy.
With you asleep, Simon can take from you—as much as he needs to fill this greedy, gaping maw inside of himself—without burdening you. Scaring you away.
And he'd rather not have to chase you down like a dog—
It's the perfect arrangement that lets him exorcise himself of the horrible, awful, things he wants to do to you. Quench the bloodlust, the violence, that drums up in the back of his head, ugly and noxious, that leaks poison into his blood. Makes him see you torn to pieces by his enemies, wrenched away by the people who think they know what's best for you. Taken. The urge to claim you is animalistic. Primal.
This—
This is bloodletting. It's spilling the rot from inside himself so it doesn't fester. Turn septic. Gangrenous. Eating at his tissue until his hands no longer belong to himself, but to the mercy of his monstrous need.
It lets him ruin you, tear into you like a beast, without worrying about you running from him. Fleeing from this rapacious green he holds deep in the fibrils of his chest. Hewed into his essence, subsumed into his marrow.
Simply put: he needs this. Just like you need him. Simon. Need him like the air you breathe—
(And sometimes, sometimes, you get this peculiar look on your face before bed. A frisson. Unease, pensive. It splits over your brows, an evanescent tremor. He thinks you might be more aware than you let on. That you know about this hideousness inside him, this putrid greed that sloshes around the edges of his eyes sometimes, trying to bleed in, trickling down over his periphery before he can stop it.
But it dissolves into complacency before he can chisel into it, leaving nothing behind but a faint stink of stale smoke. Acrid—like doused embers. Burning his nose, his lungs—)
And when he's had his fill—stuffed that chasm inside his belly with your flesh—he cleans you up, and pulls you tight to his chest. Satiated for the time being. Falling asleep with the taste of you on his tongue, locked tight in his embrace. Tenders to your aches the next morning, as soft and supple as he can ever allow himself to be.
There’s a place for him, he’s sure, when he lies to you, and says that you must have slept the wrong way. That maybe he was a little too hard on you the night before. And maybe if he were a better person, a better man, he might have felt some sense of guilt for it. Shame.
But instead, he coos at you and says:
It’s his fault, pet, but don’t worry he’ll take such good care of you. Licking your sore cunt all day until you grab him by the scruff of his neck, and tell him no more, please, Simon, stop, stop—it doesn’t hurt anymore, please—
He relents an hour before bed and takes you to the kitchen where you sit and drink the tea he made without a word.
Like a good girl—
And then you slip into bed in nothing but his old shirt, curling up against his chest, and whispering—soft and sweet—into his ear, "good night, Simon."
(his sweet, sweet girl.
like you're fucking begging him for it—)
#bored at a party so i wrote this instead of socialising#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#hes grossssss#simon ghost riley x reader
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more dubcon/noncon below, im so considerate
Also I GOTTA write “just the tip” with price someday like sorry the other day I was randomly on a babysitter x older dad kick out of nowhere and now I want price making you cuddle with him on the couch while the baby sleeps upstairs and softly pressuring you into getting naked. One thing leads to another and suddenly it’s all “won’t put it in too much, sweetheart; just wanna make you feel good” and “you keep squirming like that and I’m not gonna be able to control myself” :((( said all stern like it’s your fault when he pulls you all the way down onto his cock
#ohhhh this is hitting on such a favourite of mine#him making you sit on his lap to watch tv after the kids go to bed restless and obv has his cock out#like making no move at all to hide that fact lmao#and moving you around until your panties are “accidentally” pushed to the side#(because its deffff too late for you to go home wear a pair of his boxes instead and stay the night its wayyyyyy safer than walking home)#and through NO fault of his#“just the tip” “accidentally” catches#oops#guess he better fuck you now that hes got you alllllll worked up anyhow#as man of the house it's his responsibility to take care of his little wife#uhhhhh#babysitter#he def said babysitter#(turned wife/mother)#whatever semantics#just be a good girl and let dad take care of his wife
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noncon/dubcon
thinking horrendous thoughts about price and ghost ordering a girl for themselves to enjoy but you (for completely unrelated purposes, like you got the wrong door delivering for DoorDash) show up at their motel room door first and they drag you in without any explanation, immediately wrestling you out of your clothes and gagging you (their usual routine - it would be all well and good if you were the girl they hired but instead all it means is you can’t scream or tell them that they’re made a mistake)
also DP for price/reader/ghost is a given; poor girl does black out for a second unfortunately for her
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“But unlike them, you're worth something. Even as the moral antithesis to his utilitarian dogma, he sees your potential. How you can shape this world dangling on a brittle thread if you lay down your senseless principles and follow him. Listen to him.”
This paragraph really hit me for some reason. I’m not a huge reader outside of tumblr but this was just so beautifully written it made me breathe weird for a second. I’m not usually someone to pick up on the poetry in stories, but i do pick up on emotion. And this paragraph hit me so hard it forced me to see the poetry, so thanks for that experience 🤎
seeing the stuff i write impact people to any a degree has been such a surreal experience, truly, but this genuinely has me over the moon. i can so vividly remember the moment a poem connected with me, and the idea that a moment like that happened to you because of something i wrote?? yeah. i'm gonna need to take the next week off, chief. i need to lay down in my bed and stare at the ceiling until i feel real again.
and the fact that it's this little fic too is so wild!!! ahhhh!!!!! thank you so much!! 🖤
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Simon Riley spits in your breakfast or morning coffee if he hasn't pumped you full of cum earlier because he has to make sure you've always got a piece of him inside you.
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read this once. sat in stunned silence. and then had to go back for seconds, thirds. this is just so incredibly good!!!
the way you describe Simon is so devious. so diabolical. it melts me into a puddle each time.
and the imagery you use???
He has a face carved from marble or granite, subject to some horrific fate. A statue pulled down from its pedestal and hauled into the river, now dragged out waterlogged and barnacle-crusted. Something terrible happened here and now something else wears its face.
and
You’ve let a wild animal into my house and now it won’t leave. In fact, it’s pissing on my sheets to mark its territory. You let it in knowingly, and even though you know something’s wrong, you’re letting it get worse.
are particular faves of mine because it's so visceral. edging into something primordial, godly/godless, and grotesque. i love it. i love it the most when Simon is a little bit monstrous, and you nail it like no one else. esp the line: You’ve never felt more like meat than under his gaze because this is expectly how i imagine being the focal point of Ghost's attention must be like. beautiful.
and Johnny. just absolutely having a ball over here. best of both worlds. wearing his collar proudly and absolutely dumbfounded that his girlfriend won't do the same. practically sacrilegious.
You can’t imagine Johnny without the half-shadow cast over his face.
he's living his best life.
and the smut, too!!! greedy, selfish, and punishing - my beloved trio. he's so, so awful!!! but at the same time, his the scope of his actions bleed through and you can almost trick yourself into thinking that he's just trying to keep the harmony between his found family instead of an old dog resource hoarding (at least!!! that's how i see it, and i could be wrong! i do genuinely think Ghost has affection for them both (probs more than he's ever felt in his entire life) but at the same time, it feels like the affection one must have for a continually replenishing food source after starving for ages lmao).
scorchingly hot, and poetic. incredible.
also major shoutout to the moment that made me have to get up and do laps:
“It’s always gonna hurt a little with me,” Simon says, and you almost mistake it for apologetic until he pulls you into an open-mouthed kiss that makes you twist your neck and ignores the way you whimper into his mouth.
godddddd. i am sick. i am unwell. i need to lay down.
sirius c
prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 7; ghoap x reader)
[tags: noncon, implied cheating (in the context of Ghost's refusal to be a negotiation king lol), very nsfw]
first part >> last part
-
No one tells you what to do when you finally notice the larger animal watching you from the thicket.
It's been awhile now, you suspect. So long that it's managed to follow you all the way home.
Now they insist on helping you around the shop while you try to work. Try being the operative word. It’s hard to get much done with Simon scaring off all the customers and Johnny dogging at your heels, practically glued to your hip. You briefly consider stabbing him with the snips but then think the better of it. Simon’s stare follows you too closely for you to think you’d get away with it.
Plus, after this morning—you cut that thought off at the root lest embarrassment make your eyeballs burn right out of your head. Despite the fact that he never brings it up, you can’t shake the thought that Simon knows. His face is just as expressionless with the mask off, which rests like a heavy weight on the kitchen table, imbued with a meaning too potent, too loaded, for you to fully digest or, really, understand in any concrete way.
But the glint in his flinty eyes flirts with amusement. Brushes close to it.
“What?” you snap, eggs dangling precariously from your fork.
His stare hasn’t wavered once since sitting you across from him. He doesn’t smirk nor snicker, but you can feel the laugh like a phantom limb that aches until you try to scratch it. He has a face carved from marble or granite, subject to some horrific fate. A statue pulled down from its pedestal and hauled into the river, now dragged out waterlogged and barnacle-crusted. Something terrible happened here and now something else wears its face.
His knees knock against yours under the table again, forcing one leg to spread to accommodate him. You stare at the elbow resting on your table as he chews off the end of a strip of bacon.
He doesn’t say anything, but you know he must have heard you and Johnny in the washroom earlier in the morning. Simon hadn’t even attempted to feign sleep when you’d come out flustered and turned around, stomach in knots.
You can’t even look at Johnny for help because he stands behind the two of you at the counter, no space for him at your small kitchen table. Your life isn’t built to accommodate two men of their size; it’s hardly able to hold space for just the one.
Nevertheless, they stretch it to fit their needs.
Begrudgingly, you have to admit that Simon does help you out around the flower shop. He fixes the door to the supply closet that always jams, hoses down the sidewalk in front of the store where someone vomited near the entryway the night before, and even gives you a couple hours alone to yourself when he drags Johnny with him to do the bouquet deliveries.
They come back with coffee in takeaway cups and pastries in a waxy bag and you nearly moan when you notice the label on the cup. Coffee from the good coffee shop across town. You actually moan when you sink your teeth into an almond croissant and then blink your eyes open wide when you hear Johnny groan in response.
You steel yourself to keep your knees from knocking together.
It’s been a week since you saw him last. Hard to believe. You’ve been distant, rightfully so, contemplating the state of your relationship and coaxing yourself to the brink of texting him that it’s over, only to give up at the last possible minute. The tides receding again.
You don’t think about how much you missed him.
Since this morning, you’ve been on edge. Half tempted to corral Johnny into your apartment upstairs for some alone time. You don’t think Simon would allow that though, whether out of some sadistic glee in seeing you squirm or out of jealousy. It doesn’t seem unlikely. He acts like Johnny is his to do with what he pleases, and Johnny beams up at him like the sun and lets him.
You hadn’t realized there had been a third person in your relationship. Now it feels like his presence has always been felt. You can’t imagine Johnny without the half-shadow cast over his face.
All day, you wait for Johnny to break. Part of you hopes that it’ll be sooner rather than later. Unless he’s been entertaining someone on the side—and, for reasons unbeknownst to you, you discount that thought the second it comes to you, sure that you’d know if there was another woman—it’s likely that he hasn’t fucked in a week. He acts like it too, hovering close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. Every accidental step back comes with a chance of landing straight into his arms.
When you touch his arm gently to ask him to help you move a heavy flower pot, he looks down at you with irises gone black, ready to fuck on a dime. It’s not the right place or time, and you’re still tremendously pissed at him for letting his superior grope you in front of their whole platoon or whatever, but you’ve also gone a week without his dick, and you’re starting to think that your pride shouldn’t get in the way of good dick.
But then he looks over at the hulking figure haunting the doorway and draws back. The shadow on your relationship again. The tension breaks. Even though he postures and flexes when he helps you move the flower pot, it doesn’t come with an invitation to sneak away to your apartment upstairs. Johnny grits his teeth and holds himself back because Simon tells him to; because, in Simon’s own words, he’s a good lad.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask Simon when Johnny goes to take a leak, but he just stares at you with eyes still darkened by poorly wiped off eye black.
The oxygen is sucked out of the room when it’s just the two of you. He’s imposing from afar, accentuated by the innate knowledge—gleaned just from looking at him, nothing more than that, just the size of him in his line of work—that he’s the most dangerous thing around, but with no one else to hide behind, you can’t help but feel like a trapped animal.
“Means he knows who’s in charge,” he says.
Like that’s supposed to tell you anything.
The air still crackles with tension when Johnny comes back. He glances around almost nervously, pupils dilating.
“The two of ye finally gettin’ on?” he asks.
There’s a moment where you consider ripping the veil down and saying, no, we aren’t, Johnny. You quisling. You can see exactly how uncomfortable I am. It’s more than visible; it’s oozing from my pores. You’ve let a wild animal into my house and now it won’t leave. In fact, it’s pissing on my sheets to mark its territory. You let it in knowingly, and even though you know something’s wrong, you’re letting it get worse.
Simon’s smile is severe and whetted when he cuts off your train of thought. “Reckon we're getting on like a house on fire, eh?”
You can’t muster more than a weak smile and nod in response to that.
Around mid afternoon, a regular client calls in with a large, last minute order. You accept it because it’s nothing you don’t already have in stock, but it means you have to close the shop early to work on her order and then load up the van to drive to her place to drop the flowers off.
“I’ll come with you,” Simon grunts when you flip the sign and tell the two of them about your plans.
You freeze, a shudder rippling down your spine. “That’s not necessary—I can do it myself.”
“Don’t care.”
“I do it all the time when you’re not here!”
“It’s not up for debate,” he says, eyes going hard. Daring you to argue.
You’ve been getting the sense all day that he’s been trying to corner you, trying to get you on your own. You evade his efforts like a prey animal, but all that does is make him work harder for it.
You look to Johnny for any kind of reassurance, someone to back you up and agree that you’re more than capable since you do this all the time, but he just grins from behind the counter where he helps cut lengths of cellophane and ribbon for the bouquets. “Aye, hen, let him help. Ye cannae carry all of that yourself.”
Your brain clicks back on when you’re barrelling towards your client’s place at breakneck speed, far too fast for a residential road. It’s not you driving though. Simon has himself parked in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other dangling loosely out the window. His driving makes your stomach churn, nausea brewing. You bone-knuckle the grab handle reflexively.
“Could you slow down?” you hiss out through clenched teeth.
Simon ignores you until you start to scroll through your phone to distract yourself. He transfers the hand on the wheel to jostle your knee with his free hand. “Eyes on the road.”
“I’m not even driving you,” you squawk, heart thudding in your chest when his hand doesn’t lift off your knee.
“Tell me when to turn, doll.” The pet name makes your stomach jump. When he says it, his hand tightens over your knee, thick fingers with scraped up knuckles curling around, the width of his palm wider than your kneecap and you stare down dumbly, rabbit heart careening at the same speed as the van.
You’re so dumbfounded that you nearly miss the street. He takes the turn suddenly when you mention it instead of making the sensible call to go up the next street and then come back down, and you swear and yell when he nearly takes the van onto the right two wheels.
The sweat is still dripping down the nape of your neck when he parks in front of the client’s venue.
Simon ignores any attempt of yours to help unload the van. All you can do is watch helplessly as he carries multiple arrangements into the venue at once, leaving you to handle the contract and payment collection. The situation is spiraling rapidly out of your control.
Your client, a housewife about a decade or so older than you, eyes him as he passes with two flower pots tucked under his arms.
“I didn’t know you changed staff,” she murmurs, eyes following him into the next room and lingering on the backs of his thighs when he bends down to deposit the flower pots, making the material of his pants strain tight around his glutes and hamstrings.
“I didn’t,” you protest, shaking your head. “That’s—he’s my boyfriend’s coworker. Um, his boss, I mean. I think. He’s just helping out for the day.”
“Well, I know how I’d like him to help out,” someone else giggles. One of the venue staff, judging by her uniform. Even your client titters at that.
Simon’s more approachable with the mask off, it seems. Still verging on the preternatural, but at least without the mask he seems more human. All six-foot-five-inches of him, arms and legs packed with a generous helping of muscle and fat; a square jaw must be appealing to any sex-parched person within range. It makes your jaw clench.
“Here’s your receipt,” you grit out before ripping it off the payment terminal and handing it to her. She blinks at your dour mood, unused to a less than professional version of you, but that’s what Simon’s presence does to you. Sours you right up. A lemon squeezed right into the mouth.
He’s posted by the van when you come out still scowling and itching for a row. He frowns at the look on your face. “Fix your attitude. You’ve already upset Johnny enough.”
You halt in your tracks, dumbstruck. “I’ve upset Johnny?”
“Yeah. So fix it before we get back.”
You’ve officially reached your limit. All day, you’ve been waiting to go nuclear, bad mood settling deeper and deeper into you because you’ve never been good at managing your anger. The audacity to blame you for this whole situation nearly makes you lose your head.
Simon looks almost bored when you stomp up to him and stab a finger into his chest. You pointedly do not let yourself focus on how little his chest gives beneath your finger. “All of this was your fault for sexually harassing me in the first place. I don’t even think you were ever sorry for that—this all just feels like some fucked up attempt to break me and Johnny up.”
He stares down at you. “You think I want Johnny for myself?”
Heat flares under your collar, but you push on. “I do. And you know what? You can have him. I don’t need this. Johnny clearly values your approval more than mine anyway or none of this ever would have happened once he caught you groping me in broad daylight. If you want him so bad, nothing I do is going to work, so why even bother? He’s yours. The both of you can fuck off when we get back—I’m sick of having you in my space.”
The tirade leaves you panting by the end of it, and then you look into his eyes.
You wonder if it’s a universal phenomenon to sense the moment when you’ve made a grave miscalculation. It must be. The feeling is overwhelming; for you, it throbs in your very bones.
Simon’s expression never changes, but the light behind his eyes starts to flicker in a different way, and you are suddenly conscious of him not just as a man but as a man paid to kill. A professional at that. At least a dozen bodies under his belt and likely more, and yet you stand chest to chest with him like you’re somehow tougher than that; like all those bodies mean nothing, like his knife hasn’t quenched its bloodthirst ad infinitum, like his arms haven’t felt a neck crack until it’s become a habit, an easy kill, a morning fix.
You’ve never felt more like meat than under his gaze.
“Get your ass in the van,” he commands, and you listen because your mouth has gone dry and you understand now, somewhere deep in your reptile brain, a little creature hissing at you to turn and run, that he doesn’t warn. He just does.
Humiliation festers under your skin when he buckles you in. Your mouth opens on a smart remark until you catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye and it’s all anger leaking tar, mafic lava dark and flowing, smooth and lobed and striated with hellfire.
You think at first that he’s just going to drive you home. Your words might have offended him, but the lack of refutation makes you think that at his core, he must agree. Simon is just another man with an unholy allegiance to ego, an ugly incarnation of desire and pride that you might have briefly mistook as a person as complex as yourself until he snuffed that inkling right out with a hand on your ass.
Then, lost in your thoughts, you miss when he pulls over and puts the van in park.
You hear the click of your seatbelt, but your head doesn’t have time to turn before Simon hauls you over the center console and into his lap, a hand already clamping over your mouth to muffle your scream.
“I’ve had enough of the fuckin’ attitude, girl,” Simon snarls into your ear, shoving his hand down the front of your pants without any preamble, the stretchy jogger fabric not putting up any resistance. “I haven’t got the patience for it. We’ll sort you out and knock these stupid notions from your skull.”
You must shriek under his palm because his fingers tighten, digits pressed into your jaw to the point of aching. It’s hard to tell under the white hot fear that washes over you, nearly blinding you.
If it bothers him to find you dry under your panties, he doesn’t say anything. Calloused fingers spread your labia wide and trace over your clit lazily, trying to coax the slick out of you. You squirm in his hold, desperate to somehow wriggle out, but Simon chooses now to give you a glimpse of his strength, holding you tight to his chest. No matter how much you squirm, there’s no way out of his hold. Shouting behind his palm doesn’t help either; Simon just curls his hand tighter over your mouth.
Horror blooms in your chest when your core starts to warm up at his touch. The first traitorous bead of wetness nearly has you apoplectic with rage. His fingers saw up and down over your slit until he thinks you’re wet enough to handle two fingers shoved knuckle deep.
“Enough of that,” Simon grunts when you yelp and knee the underside of the steering wheel in your haste to get away. “It’s just two. You’ve been fucked before; you can take it.”
Your knee aches from slamming into the steering wheel, but it’s nothing compared to the ache of his fingers stretching you open, the skin around his knuckles delicate and febrile. For all his flaws, Johnny loves getting his mouth on your pussy before trying to cram his cock in, addicted to the taste of you on his tongue when he’s got you folded in half and taking his dick like a champ. Simon seems like he wouldn’t mind railing you in the back of the van without any prep whatsoever.
“Can’t wait to break you on my cock,” he growls, his breath hot over your neck, and lust stinking up the van so bad that the air is nearly rancid with it. Sulfuric. “You think you’ve had it rough with Johnny? You don’t have a fuckin’ clue what you’re in for with me.”
His hunger is a noxious, billowing cloud. Miasma like. It threatens to smother you. His shaft is hard under your ass, evident when he thrusts his hips up. Your ensuing yip makes him grunt, gratified, like his pleasure comes part from your shock.
“I’m not explaining this shit anymore. This is the way it’s gonna be from now on—no discussion, no arguing, no nothing. It’s not up for negotiation.”
Simon’s fingers piston into you without remorse, brutal hunger foisted off on your body. You again try desperately to push away from him, almost levitating out of his arms until he forces you back down and bites down hard over your clothed shoulder. The horn stays silent when you try to honk it, mocking you somehow. You wonder if anyone would hear your muffled cries from beneath Simon’s hand if they happened to pass by, or if they’d chance a glance into the van and see the devil himself playing with your pussy in his lap and keep on walking.
Your body plays you for a fool though, sweltering under his touch. When he growls in your ear, your pussy clenches up nice and tight, and slick drips down your inner thighs.
A third finger nearly makes you choke on your gasp. You go quiet after that save for the occasional whimper, all of your energy concentrated on accommodating his fingers, each as wide as almost two of yours. A fourth almost doesn’t feel fathomable, but then he sinks it into you and every thought leaks out of your head.
“Christ, you’re a dream when you shut your mouth, aren’t you, doll?” Simon breathes, nosing the corner of your jaw. “Johnny picked a nice little cunt for himself.”
He doesn’t pick up on the irony somehow. Even shaking in his lap, your brows furrow at his words, a barb on the tip of your tongue until a glob of slick leaks from you and wrenches you back out of your head.
He clicks his tongue against his teeth all condescendingly when your breathing goes hitched and panicked, so close to coming that you feel a hairsbreadth from it. When you jump at the sound of his tongue snapping in your ear, he chuckles, the broad chest at your back shaking with his laughter.
“There we go,” Simon murmurs, rubbing a soothing hand over your belly. “Tired, eh? Just need to come and have a nap. I know Johnny left you hanging this morning. Poor girl.”
You hadn’t even noticed that he’d dropped his hand from your mouth to your stomach, but there’s nothing to do about it now. All you can do is lean back against him and stare at the fine, blond hair on his knuckles as he drags it over your belly button in slow, languid strokes.
“Oh god—” you groan when he thumbs your pearled clit and sinks his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, your hole stretched too tight.
Sweat beads on your hairline. It feels like tears might be leaking down your cheeks, but it’s hard to say. The only thing you can do is focus on not coming apart at the seams.
The air in the van is moistened by your breath, the windows almost completely fogged up. Your lower back aches from arching into his hand. When it comes out in a sob, he tells you he’ll have Johnny massage it when the two of you get home.
“It’s always gonna hurt a little with me,” Simon says, and you almost mistake it for apologetic until he pulls you into an open-mouthed kiss that makes you twist your neck and ignores the way you whimper into his mouth.
You nearly black out when he finally makes you come, your head tipping back and resting on his shoulder. You tense in his grasp and open your mouth on a soundless moan when your walls spasm around his fingers. Nothing you can do but let it happen. Like splintering down the middle. It hits you so hard that your belly cramps.
Shame hits you so much harder. A half second after, like the sky splitting open and a voice thundering down, you know what you did.
Your leg gives a feeble twitch when he pulls his fingers out, his palm soaked with your juices. You’re a limp mess of sour sweat and come in his lap, reeking of sex musk and a warm, spicy scent.
You squeal and jolt back to awareness when he pushes a finger back in, sensitive to the point of pain. “Simon, I can’t—”
“Hold still; m’not done yet,” he cuts you off, irritation layered in his voice again.
You don’t have to endure it for as long this time at least; he paws at your overworked sex and pants in your ear like a bear. Luxuriating in the soft, wet folds of your pussy. His touch isn’t clumsy, but it feels like he’s making up for lost time. It almost makes you wonder how long he’s wanting to get between your legs, but that thought evaporates when he reaches further down to press his fingers against the rim of your other hole, chuckling into your hair when you clench up.
Then, after a few minutes, he pulls his hand out of your joggers and pats your belly with his wet fingers, leaving dewy strands of your juices on your skin before helping you back into the passenger seat. You don’t even have it in you to protest when he buckles you in again. You even accept it when he leans over to plant another wet kiss on your mouth, one with too much tongue and too much teeth, come drunk and aching for any kind of affection.
“Sweet as pie, eh?” Simon rasps, eyes half-lidded and heady. Almost lovesick. “Couldn’t have asked for better.”
You stare at the side of his head as he drives the two of you back to the shop, eyes glued to his cauliflower ear. Rough son of a bitch. Brute strength hewn into his bones, covetous need in his veins.
And this is what your boyfriend thought was appropriate to bring home.
He stops one more time to feed his cock down your throat before you make it home. Your tongue curls around the mushroomed head of dick when he drags your head down, the wiry hair at his crotch tickling your nose. The scent of him here is pungent, musky. Old lichenous rocks and rust like blood on your tongue. You’re so pliable that you hardly even gag when it touches the back of your throat.
His come is still hot and tacky on your tongue when he pulls you into his lap to let you cry it out, wiping up your tears with a rough thumb. It’s a while before you manage to settle down again.
Johnny’s still beaming behind the counter when you come in, Simon at your rear to keep you from running, his hand planted firmly at the small of your back. You can barely look your boyfriend in the eye. You’re afraid he’ll see it plain as day on your face, hair mused and lips swollen from sucking his lieutenant off in the van on the drive home.
“The two of ye have a good time all by yourselves?” he asks, either deliberately ignoring the obvious or naively trusting. You don’t know which would be worse.
You can hear the dry grin in Simon’s voice. “We had a nice chat, didn’t we, doll?”
All you can muster is a weak smile and croak, “Yep. We did.”
You hold off a flinch when Simon’s hand slips down and grabs a handful of your ass.
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i keep rereading your recent (beautifully written) alpha!ghost fic like it’s the daily newspaper.
i am not quite right in the head i Think
thank you!! i'm glad you enjoyed it because i had a lot of fun writing it! and ahhh, i do the same thing w my favourite fics and writers and usually come back to them pretty much weekly lmao so i think you're fine!! 🖤
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Brain went brrrrrrrr
Price and the new 141 member getting into an argument. Price is all like if you don't behave ill take you over my knee girl.
She's all like I fucking dare you or you'll have to catch me first or even you don't have the balls.
🫠🫠
i’ve always wanted someone who was super by the book to clash with John “i routinely tell my superiors i’m going to maim/murder/hang them” Price. this gave me the perfect opportunity to do so.
noncon spanking. abuse of authority. power imbalance. size kink. mean, dom!Price. forced submission.
You have this way of getting under his skin.
An impossible itch. No matter how many times he picks and prods at his flesh, you worm beneath the dermis, burrowing deep. Sitting pretty against his goddamn bones. Festering.
Incurable.
He turns to vice to stem the irritation. Cigars. Whiskey. His hand shoved down his trousers like he's a fuckin' boy and not a man on the wrong side of forty.
Thinking of you—of breaking that smart mouth of yours on his cock.
It's the way you saunter around with your head held high, balancing golden eggs on your crown, that irks him something awful. The patronising drawl when you huffily remind him that what he's doing is breaking seven, no, ten, different laws, Price. You can't just do whatever you want, there are rules—
And that's the crux of it.
A difference of ideas. Experience. You still see the world in shades of black and white. Good and bad. Unwilling to acknowledge that the line between is saturated and blurred. A putrid muck that traps all. Bogish.
He knew it was a mistake when they sent him your file, asked if he needed the additional help. Hostage negotiator. He's heard of you. By the fucking book. You recite passages like it's gospel, turning printed words into a knife. A terrible fit for a team that works in the pivotal no man's land you claim doesn't exist.
Yet—
He takes you on. Brings you in. Buries his anger at your fucking gall deep in his chest where it rots. Grows. Swallows down the rage, apoplectic fury, when you undermine him at every opportunity, citing laws and regulations like it's a fucking prayer.
A calamitous decision, he knows. Terrible. But—
Despite it all, you're good at what you do. Brilliant. A budding rose germinating in fecund soil. You'll grow into something wild, won't you? Something untamed.
Under his hands, you'll bloom the prettiest. He knows this deep in his bones. But—
“You're breaking the rules, Captain—”
—pedantic little thing, aren't you?
Obediently following the wrong master.
It irks him. He's been known to step on the toes of his superior officers for less, caustic words hissing foul from between his teeth.
But unlike them, you're worth something. Even as the moral antithesis to his utilitarian dogma, he sees your potential. How you can shape this world dangling on a brittle thread if you lay down your senseless principles and follow him. Listen to him.
But of course, you don't.
And he supposes he ought to have known better. It's dripping gasoline over an open flame. The sequence of events is easily premeditated, seen, when you refuse to listen to what he says (“it's against the law, Price!”), walking away from him, his team, the mission, and take matters into your own, morally righteous hands. Bringing his underhanded methods to the desk of your superior officer, demanding he be investigated for crimes. The result is a loose warning from someone in a suit several sizes too big for them, and your fury when he pulls you back, has you assigned to another mission with the 141, with himself. Preens at your glower when you march back into his office, into his hands.
In the fallout, he has no one to blame but himself, really. Anyone could have seen this coming. But the thing about shirking his morality in favour of a better outcome—above all else—is that he doesn't have to.
And so, he doesn't.
No. He blames you.
(How perfect for him, then, that there's no one on base except you and him.)
“If you think I'm not going to report you again if you do something illegal, Price, you're wrong.”
He scoffs, shaking his head at your fucking audacity.
"Better watch that mouth of yours, Sergeant, or you won't like what happens next."
His palm itches when you look up, offering him a slow, feline blink. Leonine eyes creasing at the corners.
"And what is that, sir? I'm just doing my job—" it's whispered breathlessly, all faux professionalism even as jest leaks down your brow. They pinch, then. Drawing together in a mockery of confusion. "Isn't that what you wanted me to do?"
"What is that, mm?" He mocks, arms folding over his chest. He has to breathe through his nose for a moment. Gather himself together before he does something reckless, something like—
It's the defiant little jut of your chin that does him in. That unravels this fraying knot of control until threads slip through his fingers. Falling too fast for him to clench down on them.
He's threatened his superiors for far less. His kin, teammates. You have no one to blame but yourself for this, really. No one at all when he pulls his hand from where it's tucked under his armpit, curling rough, worn fingers around your wrist. Pulls you close, wrenching you into his chest until your nose bumps the buckle of his vest.
"'m'gonna take you over my fuckin' knee, is what's going to happen."
Your swallow is a gunshot. “You—you wouldn't dare—”
He leans in close, closer still. Breath scorching over your cheek. Preening when you bare your little teeth at him. “Wanna bet on that, Sergeant?”
It's easier than he would have expected to wrangle you over his knee, pinning you down with an arm across your lower back. The height of his chair keeps your front bent, belly pressed against his thigh. Ass seated perfectly in his lap. Precious gem.
He hums low in his throat, teeth sinking into the butt of his cigar as he locks you tight against him. Grabbing your wrist, twisting it up behind your back. Holding steady. A warning.
The dangerous twinge in your bone stills you.
One wrong move and he'd snap it in half.
This has you taking a different approach, legs falling limp over the armrest. Head dropping over the other side. Malleable in his grasp—however artificial it is.
“Price—” you breathe, winded. Panic on a spindle. “What are you—what do you think you're doing—?”
He hums, mouth tense around the cigar. Words muffled, slurred. “What I should have done a long time ago.”
“What—hey!”
Your words pepper off into a choked scream when his other hand falls to the hem of your pants, grabbing the fabric in his fist. The shock fades into indignation. Anger. He tastes it in the air as your hips squirm, legs kicking at nothing. Furious little growls spilling from your lips as you thrash, unconcerned by the ache in your bone.
“Better keep still, love,” he taunts, mouth curling over his teeth as he twists his hand high, higher, up the small of your back until your fingers brush the skin between your shoulder blades. Any more and he'll break it—
“I'm going to fucking—!” It ends on a whine. A whimper. The pain makes you shiver. “Fuck, fuck—stop, stop, ow, stop—!”
“Not a fan of a little pain then, mm?”
Your breath is ragged. Paints the air in a fine mist of defeat. He has you. The only option out of this is breaking your bone, a threshold no one is willing to cross.
Price purses his lips back around the cigar, inhaling once, thrice, before he slips his fingers out of the hem of your trousers, reaching up to take hold of the cigar. It's all so matter-of-fact. So nonchalant when he places it in the ashtray. When he brings his heavy, warm hand back to your ass, curling his fingers beneath the fabric. Pulling. Tugging.
They come off easier than he'd expected. A harsh tug, and the cleft of your ass is revealed. Plush skin curving enticingly as he rips them down to mid-thigh—panties and all.
The shock fades back into indignation. You hiss something foul under your breath that makes him huff out a chuckle.
“Not really in the position for that, are you, love?”
“Shut up—”
He likes the way you sound like this. Feral. Furious. There's ash in your throat. It blots soot around each word, giving them weight. Gone is the woman who barged into his office, sniffing like you smelled something foul. Backing him into a corner. Sputtering in his face about rules. Regulation.
Now you're bare-assed, panting, in his lap. Small little fawn in the maw of a bear. But oh, do you fight back—
Teeth bared, indignation bleeding into embarrassment, blotting pink in the whites of your eyes.
The sight is hewn into his hindbrain.
“Look at you,” he purrs, petting your cheeks. “Been beggin’ to be bent over my knee since you got here, haven't you?”
“Begging? Don't be—ahh!”
He brings his hand down with a small huff, eyes glued to your flesh. Watching it shake under his hand. The width of one swallowing up an entire cheek. So big is he that you're nearly made infinitesimal in his clutch. The thought makes him groan.
You squirm more in shock than discomfort. Head craning over your shoulder, eyes misting over with tears. Glaring at him.
“What the fuck, Price!”
He strokes your skin, feeling the heat of your flesh bleed through his palm. Resilient little thing, aren't you? He huffs again, blood buzzing. Electric. There's a kindling fire in his guts. Embers sparking, catching.
He can't deny how badly he's been wanting to have you like this. Craving your tears, your agony, your submission.
“Count,” he barks out, rough. Abrasive. “You're getting ten. Count ‘em for me, and if you miss one, I'm adding two more.”
“You're crazy, you're—!”
His hand comes down again. The impact shakes the fat of your ass. The strike makes you yowl, thrashing to get away. You don't get very far, still trapped in his hold. The threat of a broken bone keeps you from lashing out too wildly, and all you can really do is sit in his lap, and take it—
The notion has him groaning low in his throat. Something wicked spooling in his veins. Wanting. The sight of you heaving, bare-assed, and begging for mercy unleashes something inside of him. Something primal. Starving.
Price takes a breath to steady himself, head buzzing. Heart pounding. It feels like the euphoria of nicotine—all bliss, sedation. Ease.
Cathartic.
“I said count,” he rasps, words cinder in his chest. Smoke. Dragged up from that burning pyre in his belly. Nocuous, hungry. “That's an order, Sergeant.”
His hand is scorching against your skin. Thoughts turning over themselves as you hiccup in his lap. So pretty, he thinks, eyes flitting over to you. Taking in the sight of your shock, your denial. It tastes like fine wine on his tongue. Heady.
“Here comes one—”
“One?”
“I told you, didn't I?” His nail rakes across your skin, cruel. Mean. Something preens when you gasp. Your pain perfuming the air. “M’addin’ two more if you don't count. Thought your speciality was listenin’?”
You scowl, twisting back to level him with an awful sneer. “Oh, fuck you—!”
His hand comes down again, harder this time. Vicious. The scream is tangled in your throat, gagged. He feels pleasure—dark and ugly—bloom in his chest, dripping, liquid, down the length of his spine. The twist of agony on your face is beatific.
“Not gonna count?” He taunts, pinching your inflamed flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “We're gonna be here all day at this rate, love.”
He leans down, broad chest curling over the small of your back, hand cupped possessively over your cheeks. “But maybe you want that, mm? Maybe all this, mhm, insubordination has just been for show. You wanted this. Wanted to be taken over my knee—”
“You're wrong. I haven't—” it tapers off into a squeak when he pinches your flesh again.
Price pulls back, breathes shallowly through his nose.
“You and that smart fuckin' mouth. Told you it was gonna get you in trouble—”
He doesn't wait. His hand rears, and comes down with a loud smack that echoes in the sparse office he has you trapped inside. Your howl races alongside it, curling up the walls. Beautiful in all its agony.
“Christ—” it's a dagger to his resolve. You sound so fucking good howling like this. Oscillating between feral anger and pain, hissing vitriol between clenched teeth. Choking on sobs.
The first few are experimental. Testing the waters. Feeling. You're combative during it all. Fighting. Screaming. Each strike is uncounted, echoed only with a plea for help. One he knows won't come—
The only person on base is his Lieutenant. Ghost knows better than to barge in on his affairs.
“No one's comin’, love,” he grunts, sweat beading along his hairline, dripping down his temple. The room heats along with the blood in his veins, stifling and oppressive. He reinforces each hit with more strength, increasing the tempo until you're screaming on his lap, begging for mercy, mercy, please, please, Price stop, stop—
Your skin raises with each new strike. Swelling. Becoming inflamed. The perfect imprint of his handprint sits on each cheek, edges intumescent. The globes shake, shuddering deliciously under each hit.
He gets to eleven before you break. Tears streaming down your face, voice a threadbare whisper. Hoarse from screaming.
His hand rains down, slaps your left cheek so hard it stings his hand. Burns. You whimper. Mewling. Squirming on his lap, and then—
“O–one—”
He grunts, feels himself thicken in his trousers. “Good girl.”
You shudder, body breaking out in goosebumps. “Price—”
“Ah, ah, love. You're not allowed to speak unless you're counting.”
He hits you again, cock throbbing when you tense up, sniffling. Grinding out a soft two between trembling lips.
You don't break the way he wants you to. There's a glare on your face despite the tears, the sniffles. A defiance that burns over the bridge of your nose.
But that's fine. He has eight more strikes to ruin you, doesn't he?
He sets to it with a low moan, your pelvis pressing taut to his tumid cock, the friction raging in his guts.
But that, he finds, isn't really the point. No. The pleasure, the arousal, is secondary to the way you fall to pieces at his hand. Flesh stinging his palm with each loud smack that rings out sharply in the room. Uneven breaths. Shuddering little ah-ah-ahs that tumble out through clenched teeth.
It's addictive, this. Therapeutic.
There's static in his head. White noise. It renders everything else mute. Moot. Molasses drips down, thick and entrenching, congealing over every churning thought in the back of his head. There's a sense of peace, ease, he hasn't felt in years. In decades.
He feels his belly knot each time your ass jiggles, skin bulging up from the trauma of being hit so harshly. Chafed under his palm. Welts forming in the shape of his hand. A tattoo you'll have for weeks when he's through with you. Aching each time you try to sit. And fuck—
You'll think of him. Of this. Being taken over his goddamn knee like the bad fucking girl you are. Broken in over his lap. Helpless. Submissive.
The whimpers fade, replaced with shallow hiccups. Your throat is torn. Raw, ruined, by your screams, yowls. Each rasping whine sends jolts of pleasure down his spine. Liquid want molten in his marrow.
“S–seven, nngh—”
The moan slips out—scorched, bleached—and drills deep into his loins.
He peels his gaze away from your blistered skin, glancing at your face, but you duck from his view. Hide. Dropping your head over the armrest. Evading him.
It's new, this. This meekness.
You were so combative, so feral before. His gaze rakes down the expanse of your spine, over the curve of your cheeks, before settling, hot and heavy, at the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis. You squirm in his lap, thighs sliding together. Rubbing. It's no different from before when he'd spank you, but—
He catches it.
It glints in the soft light when you move, and he feels something dark, ruinous, curl in the tar-stained fibrils of his chest. Congealing in the crevasses. Hardening.
Price flicks his tongue out, swiping over his lower lip. The bristles of his beard graze the soft flesh, prickling across it. His throat is suddenly dry. Parched.
His hand comes down again, notably softer than the other hits he subjected you to. Almost—
Tender.
This isn't meant to hurt. Not this one.
He strokes his finger over your skin, cock throbbing with the rasping gasp that spills—a twisted amalgamation of pain, skin still smarting, burning to the touch, and—
His lashes flutter. Nostrils flaring.
Your slick, wet, between your inner thighs.
He slides his hand down, down, until your ass cheek is cupped in the bracket of his thumb and forefinger. Nestled tight. A perfect fit. The sight of your skin—soft, so soft—against his bearish, hirsute paw is sickeningly addictive. He grunts, pressing his thumb into the crease between your cheek and thigh.
“P–Price—”
And then he pulls, moaning deep in his chest as he peels the fat of your ass away, unveiling your cunt to his rapacious gaze. Fuck—
“What’s this?” He taunts, breathless. Pinched. You squirm, trying to press your thighs together. Hiding your pussy from his scorching stare. He doesn't let you. “Gettin’ off on me spankin’ your arse?”
“N–no, I'm—”
He pushes his thumb up, sliding it over your skin. Gathers your slick on the tip. “Don't lie to me, mm. You're fuckin' soaked.”
The air is punched from his lungs. Spills out in a wretched grunt. In the vacuum, something grows. Knots. Festering inside his chest. Animalistic. Primal. There's an itch in the back of his head.
He lets go of your arm, knows you won't run. Won't try to escape. No.
You're a good girl, aren't you? One who does what they're told. Follows orders. It tangles in the soporific slurry of his head, pitching a bivouac of need when you bring your arm down, curling it through the gap of the armrest, holding tight.
Bracing yourself.
His hum breaks in his throat. He drags his hand away from your cunt, reaching for the snuffed cigar idling in the ashtray. There's a fever in his veins. It makes his hand tremble. Shake. He needs the blunted drag of nicotine to quench this heady anticipation blooming in his guts. A brumous storm gyring inside him, an incipient maelstrom of want thickening. Intensifying. Threatening to spill over.
He needs something to steady himself before he tears into you like a beast—
You cock your head over your shoulder, staring at him with eyes drenched in midnight ink. There's a flicker across your tear-stained expression. Something coy. Feline. Leonine.
There's nothing said. Nothing needs to be. He finds what he's looking for in the fracture of your mien, and scoffs under his breath at your sheer gall. Little fuckin' minx.
Tobacco proves to be a paltry facsimile when he draws in a bursting mouthful. The restive glow of it dulled under the adrenaline coursing through his veins, heady. Syrupy. A roaring deluge of anticipation broiling in the balmy air, crackling around him like a storm cresting over the horizon. Ozone saturates in the thickening atmosphere.
Something will break. Shatter.
He tenses, waiting for the first stormcloud to breach, and drops his hand back to your tender ass. Stroking over the raised welts just to make you gasp. Your hips flex under the shocks of pain riveting down your spine, undulating in his lap. Pitched perfectly over his cock.
His breath shudders through a needlepoint. The friction is electric.
In petty retaliation—and just to see you squirm—he trails his knuckles over your heated skin, luxuriating in the way you shiver. Head falling back down over the armrest, beautifully alluring in your vulpine submission. His fingers dip between the cleft of your cheeks, feeling the slickness sticking to your soft, sensitive skin. Soaked between your thighs. Wretched girl.
His index and middle finger slide over your slit, parting your folds. He feels the small pulses of your drenched hole against his flesh when he slides over it with the press of his fingers. Eager little thing.
He hums under his breath at the sight of his hand seated across your hand, fingers shoved between the globes of your smarting ass. Soft and tender to worn and gnarled. The cropping of dark hair over his knuckles, his hand, against your bare skin is obscene. The picture of sin with your stricken flesh and his thick veins. The contrast curdled in the back of his head, morphing into something ugly and wanting.
Idly, he thinks of making you bounce your sore ass on his lap later, your pussy swallowing up his fat cock. Taking it all the way to the root. Over and over again. Breaking you on it until you're begging for mercy, until this little attitude of yours is crushed between his teeth.
Slick gathers against the rough pads of his fingers, drenching them. The hair on his knuckles is matted down, wet with your arousal. Naughty girl. He'll make you pay for that.
And for the puddle seeping into his trousers.
You mewl when he slips, sliding over your clit. The noise spilling molten over your lips, bludgeoning into his loins.
He drags in another mouthful of smoke. Lets it rot between his teeth as he drops the cigar into the ashtray once more, attention riveting to the slip-slide of your slick thighs rubbing together for friction against your aching clit. Cunt pulsing needily against his hand.
You haven't learned a damn thing at all, have you?
Smoke funnels out of his nostrils when he growls. “Spoiled, aren't you? Need to be taught a lesson in respect.”
“I, ah, am respectful, Captain—”
He sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. This lippiness of yours grates on his nerves. He wants you begging for mercy, limp in his hold. Pretty doll. Waiting obediently for him to put you back together again. Soft and submissive at his heel.
“Got three more to go, love.” You shiver when he strokes over your ass. Petting gently with wet, tacky fingers. “If you're a good girl and take it for me, I'll play with your pretty cunt, mm. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”
Price brings his hand down, grunting when you moan out his name. Sharp and needy. Your plaintive posturing is a spark inside a tinderbox.
“E–eight.”
The next one is harder, sharper. The force twinges his joints. Rattles through his bone.
It's unexpected, and the pain makes you yowl, body drawing tight like a bow. There's no pleasure when it's like that. No friction against your cunt. It's just—
“Price—!” You yelp, shrill and distressed. The lead up to this has been child's play. A soft hand to tender a nervous mare.
His old man taught him to never strike with the whip first but to wean them slowly.
He waits, humming mockingly to your pettering whimpers as you heave, tremulous, into the air. Shuddering in his grasp at the aftershocks of agony rippling through your body.
Waits. Waits. And—
“Ah, ah,” he tuts, cooing low and condescending when you gasp, craning your neck to level him with an imploring, pleading stare as you stammer out a frenetic nine in a breathless rush. Tears soak your lashline, clumping them together when you blink through another deluge pooling against the rim. Your lip wobbles. The stream breaks, spilling over. Fresh tears run down your wet, sticky cheeks.
There's real panic in the whites of your eyes now. That haughty, pedant gleam buried under pyretic desperation. Gone is the coy twist to your lips. The wily little bloom of amusement in your gaze.
Aw, poor thing. But—
Too late. “You didn't count. You know what that means, love.”
That knot in his chest unfurls, and leaks acid into his lungs. This want is corrosive. A poison. The sob breaks through your chest. The first thunderclap. He relishes in it. Leans back in his chair to bask in the potency of your unmaking.
“Good girl,” he husks out, burning lungs spewing black smoke into the air. “Just ten more now, love. Know you can take it for me, can't you?”
Pretty thing. He'll have that haughty attitude snuffed out before the end of the night. Have you begging for his touch, his cock, him, before the sun draws across the horizon.
Your ruination at his hand. The thought strokes along the kindling smouldering inside of his chest. Burning away at the pyre he's been building since the day he met you. When you looked up at him, pretty in your scorn, and disobeyed his command. Undermined him. So righteous in your fury. A burgeoning flame he wanted nothing more than to snuff out under his heel, and now—
Wide, wet eyes plead with him. “Please, Price. Please, please. I'll be good—I promise I'll be good, sir—”
—ash in the palm of his hand.
He strokes over your searing flesh, humming softly under his breath. “I know you will, pretty girl—” basks in the hiccup of relief you let out, lets it glue in his ears, echoing over and over again. So sweet.
He lets your relief live for a moment. Take its first breath of air through aching lungs—
“But I told you, didn't I? That I'd take you over my knee.” Price pats his hand over your cheek, shushing you when you startle, squirming on his lap.
“Now. Be a good girl and count for me, mm?”
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