Simon had a habit of manhandling you, to put it simply.
You'd be practicing your shooting when suddenly you'd feel large hands on your hips, shifting you into a better position. A low "Even out your weight." murmured into your ear.
Sometimes you'd go to Price's office only to be stopped just before you open the door, an arm around your waist pulling you back. "He's busy with Johnny, Love."
Countless occasions like this had your mind almost ditzy. The low tone in your ear sending shivers down your spine. The touching making your breath hitch. And you knew the large bastard got off on it.
Eventually it came to a head when Simon pulled you to his barracks one night. The two of you tugging at each other's clothing.
It shouldn't have surprised you when Simon grabbed your hips and pushed you to lie on your stomach, tugging your ass up so you were presenting yourself to him.
"Fuck" Simon drawls out as he takes in the sight of you. A deep chuckle rumbling in his chest as you wiggle your hips impatiently.
Finally Simon grabbed your hips and practically speared you onto his cock. Causing you to moan uncontrollably. Grabbing the sheets as he thrust into you.
"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck Simon!" You whine loudly. Simon groaning as you clamp around him. Cunt fluttering over and over.
You gasp as Simon grabs your waist, letting him flip you onto your back and push your legs up until your thighs were almost against your chest. Eyes rolling back as he presses even deeper into you.
"So fucking tight f'me." Simon huffs, nearly hammering into you now; reaching down to your clit and rubbing tight circles.
Your body attempts to squirm, but you were locked under Simons weight. It strangely aroused you, not being able to move because of how large Simon was.
Your breath then hitches as you suddenly reach your orgasm. The pleasure sparking up your spine as Simons hands squeeze the flesh of your ass, a sound you didn't know you were capable of ripping free from your vocal chords.
"That's it. Fuck fuck!" Simon moans, thrusting again and again before filling you with his cum. His hips moving slowly as he rides out his own orgasm. His head burying into your neck. His hot breaths fanning against your skin as he calmed down.
he hates it. he loathes it. what, you think he's not good enough to satisfy you?
arriving at your door, he can hear small whirs and moans coming from the other side. at first, he thinks you're cheating on him but it's much worse.
the door opens rapidly, the sound startling you badly. then, he sees the obscene sight before him.
you're using a fucking toy? over asking him?
he doesn't know what kind of conundrum you're in, but he doesn't like this situation one bit. honestly, it's a bit traitorous to trust a stupid silicone toy that vibrates over your own man that's literally fucked you into oblivion a million times before this.
"really? a bloody toy?" he asks, accent heavy.
you stare at him dumbfounded and the vibrations of the device inside you seemed to have stopped, when it really didn't. but, all you could do was watch in shock as he walks over towards you, shutting the door behind him, both offended and angry.
your legs are spread, hand right against your folds that are filled with the thing he hates so much. there's a tinge of humiliation that makes your cheeks turn pink.
then, without warning, he presses against your clit with the pad of his thumb, sending a huge wave of pleasure over you.
"i-i thought you were busy..." you mutter, back arching in heavenly pleasure.
"me? not if it was for you," he replies.
he pulls the toy out, tossing it across the room, sending your slick pretty much flying everywhere. he doesn't think twice before putting his hand back between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you mewl.
"ngh— i'm sorry!" you yelp.
"and i'm sure ya' are," he says. "now, do you want me or the stupid toy?"
you're quick to answer: "you,"
it doesn't take long for him to fill you up with his huge fingers, one already stretching you out more than the sex object you used previously. you let out a loud moan when he enters another finger, adding more to the burn.
you squirm, feeling him start to move, the friction helping you continue approaching the orgasm. he's so mean. he doesn't let you adjust before finger-fucking you to the next world, digits pushed in and out of you rapidly, pace consistent.
the room is echoing to your moans endlessly, the lewd sound of his fingers squelching accompanying it. your noises grow louder, more desperate.
"you wanna cum?" he asks, watching as your facial expressions change from one of fear to overstimulation.
you nod frantically, drool travelling down your chin.
"use your words, baby," he says.
"y-yes!" you yell.
and he quickens, faster than you think was possible, the tips of his fingers hitting all the right spots exactly. you can feel the roughness and warmth of his hand, feel it moving in and out. then, you feel it.
you release, letting evidence of your orgasm coat his fingers fully, watching as he pulled it out and held it right in front of your eyes to see before licking it off in one go.
"next time, just call me," he says, leaving the room.
♱ leland coyle, who is certain he's entitled to you. in his warped mind, because he caught you, survived the trials with you, or simply decided you were his, you are now his official property. if you try to remind him that you are a person with a name, he will laugh it off, tap his badge, and remind you that "the law owns the criminal, sweetheart."
♱ leland coyle, who would totally flip out if he noticed any other prime assets taking a liking to you. it's not nice to steal the property of somebody else, and coyle is for sure convinces that you're his. if he catches mother gooseberry looking at you for a second too long, or if franco makes a suggestive comment your way, coyle’s reaction is immediate and explosive.
♱ leland coyle, who won't just get mad at them, he will take his rage out on you first for "tempting" them, dragging you away by the hair or the arm while shouting about how "thieves get the chair."
♱ leland coyle, who would almost never call you by your name. to him, you're just honey, sweetheart, dollface, or even whore and good girl.
♱ leland coyle, who, because he considers you his property, conducts "inspections." he'll roughly handle you, checking your face, your neck, and your body for any marks left by others. if you look too clean, he’ll leave his own marks — rough grip bruises or the lingering smell of his cheap hair grease — just so any other prime asset, ex-pop or guard knows exactly who you belong to.
♱ leland coyle, who never uses protection. if he comes, he comes inside your pretty cunt. the only way to get him not to is to suck him off and make him release into your throat. it's not like there's much of a chance for condoms at sinyala anyway.
♱ leland coyle, who won't let as much as a drop go to waste. if he cums in your mouth, you gotta swallow it all, if he cums in your cunt, he'll make sure to stuff it right back inside you.
♱ leland coyle, who uses the lightning rod as an aphrosodiac and sex toy. the crackling of electricity and the smell of ozone turn him on anyway, but getting to use it on you? oh, you best bet he's smirking while doing so!
♱ leland coyle, who, if you are too slow to open your mouth, or if you hesitate to spread your legs when he demands it, won't hesitate to give you a very low-voltage shock. usually, he’ll press the tip of the unignited baton roughly against your clit or inner thigh, sparking it just for a second.
♱ leland coyle, who is at his most violently horny immediately after a trial where he has successfully hunted down and beaten reagents. he'll drag you into a dark supply closet, covered in sweat, dirt, and blood, demanding that you strip and take him right there on the cold floor while he is still riding his adrenaline high.
♱ leland coyle, who is a heavy chain-smoker. while you're blowing him, he will often keep a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. he finds it hot to blow thick smoke directly into your face while you are choking on him, watching you gasp for air between his thrusts.
♱ leland coyle, who never eases into it. whether it's your throat or your cunt, he enters you dry, fast, and rough. if you cry out from the friction or pain, he’ll merely muffle your mouth with his hand, whispering filthy, degrading praise like, "that's it, take it all like a good little whore. you're built for this."
♱ leland coyle, who will strip you entirely naked, but he almost never takes off his own uniform completely. he will unbutton his trousers, pull his cock out, but keep his shirt, his blood-stained badge, his boots, and his sunglasses on. seeing himself fully clothed and authoritative while you are completely bare, vulnerable, and messy underneath him reinforces his delusion of legal immunity.
♱ leland coyle, who's almost got a one-way mirror fixation. if he takes you in an observation room or a security booth, he will intentionally press your face and body flat against the glass overlooking the trials. he will pump into you from behind, holding your hips so hard he leaves black-and-blue finger marks, forcing you to watch the chaos outside. he gets off on the twisted fantasy that the murkoff scientists or other variants might be watching him claim his prize.
♱ leland coyle, who refuses to use actual lube, viewing it as "soft" or "civilian." if you are too dry or tight, he will roughly spit directly into his hand or right onto your entrance, using his fingers to aggressively shove it inside you before hammering himself in.
♱ leland coyle, who loooves it when his badge leaves a print. during rough encounters against the cold concrete walls, he likes to press his chest flat against your back or front, deliberately digging his metal murkoff/police badge into your skin. he gets a twisted sense of satisfaction seeing the red outline of it stamped into your flesh for hours afterward.
♱ leland coyle, who carries real, heavy-duty steel law enforcement handcuffs, and uses them frequently. he doesn't just use them to restrain your hands, he likes to cuff one of your wrists to his belt loop while he walks around his private quarters or security booth, forcing you to shuffle along beside him like a leashed animal while he goes about his business.
♱ leland coyle, who uses a lot of twisted legal and police jargon during sex. he’ll tell you that you are "under arrest," that your body is "evidence," or that you are serving a "life sentence" with him.
♱ leland coyle, who, if there is a cracked or dirty mirror in the room, will grab you by the hair and force your face toward it. he wants you to look at yourself while you are disheveled, crying, or covered in his sweat. he will whisper in your ear, asking you who you belong to, refusing to continue or let you go until you look yourself in the eye and say his name.
♱ leland coyle, who loves utilizing the wooden desks in the courthouse or administrative areas. he will sweep entire stacks of paperwork, clipboards, and files onto the floor with a violent swing of his arm just to clear a space, slamming you down onto the hard surface before you can even register what is happening.
♱ leland coyle, who is absolutely convinced that all of this is right. after all, the law around here is what he wants it to be, because he is the law, and if he wants you bent over, taking him from behind, then that is the law! you wouldn't go against the law, would you?
i think... i miss writing for jensen... my second coyle post in a row, i need to finish my dbf beau arlen request its dropping soon ive just been a bit busy, filling in with some quick headcanons in honor of project boneyard dropping recently.
Pre-Murkoff! Coyle who pulls you over late one night because you were “speeding”, asking you to get out of your car for a routine traffic stop before cuffing you and bending you over the hood of his police cruiser. Your head is pushed against the cool metal, cheek scraping lightly with every rough thrust as he fucks into you from behind. “You better thank me sweetheart, thank me for using this tight pussy instead of writing you a ticket.” You choke out a helpless “Thank you-“ as he continues his relentless assault on your pussy. “Atta girl. Young sluts like you always need to be taught some manners.” His grip on your hip tightens, fingers bruising as he drives into you harder, the sound of skin slapping skin loud in the empty night. “You kids think the law’s a joke. Somebody’s gotta remind you what happens when you forget who’s in charge.” He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, breath hot against your ear. “This is what happens when you ignore the law.” And with a few more harsh thrusts you feel the warm ropes of his load flood your womb. “You’ll remember this the next time you think you can ignore the rules,” he mutters. “That’s what people like you need. A reminder. A little fear. Something that finally sticks.”
Standing before you in nothing but his boxers, his arms crossed over his chest as he smirks down at you. You try to keep your eyes on his, but it's like there's a magnet drawing your gaze to the obvious erection hung between his legs.
"i can handle it."
You don't mean to sound as petulant as you do, but it's obvious that your claim seems like nothing but a determined whine to him. He tuts, huffing out a quick puff of air as he looks off to the side.
“uh-huh," He sounds completely unconvinced, but he steps forward towards you anyway. He pulls you closer, dipping his head and nudging the tip of his nose against yours “i don't wanna hear you crying and begging when it's too much, alright? ain't got no fuckin' time for that."
You nod quickly. “I promise”
You’re already sprawled out on the bed, bare for him. Your legs are spread, thighs and cunt glistening from when he was eating you out earlier. You looked like fucking sin, a meal begging to be devoured. Ruined.
He stands between your thighs, his cock throbbing visibly as he watches you. Your eyes are glassy and your skin is flushed from desire. He finally hooks his thumbs into the waistband and of his boxers and pulls them down. His cock springs free, tip red and flushed from arousal. It curves slightly upward, angry veins running down its length. "there ya go,"
His girthy cock presses against your slick entrance, the tip nudging your clit. You watch as he just... pauses there, teasing. "still think you can handle it, bunny?" his voice is a low rumble, dangerously smug.
A pathetic gasp leaves your parted lips, nails digging into his arm, your eyes glued between you. “y-yes”
He pushes inside slow, stretching you around him inch by thick inch. Your back arches off the bed, a broken whimper slipping out before you can stop it. "that's what i thought," He smirks against your neck, not stopping, not pulling back. He just sinks deeper until he's balls-deep and you're trembling beneath him. Your mouth falls slack, your eyebrows furrowed. You feel him in places you didn’t even know existed.
He pulls back slowly, watching your face contort with pleasure and discomfort. When just the tip remains inside, he snaps his hips forward hard, burying himself to the hilt again. You cry out, hands flying to his shoulders. He starts a brutal pace, using his strength to hold you down and pound into you relentlessly.
You look like you're struggling just to breathe, eyes fluttering as he fucks into you with brutal force. His heavy balls slap against your ass, his dick filling you so thoroughly it hurts a little. You’re making these tiny, pained mewling sounds that are honestly way too cute. “Thought you said you could take it?” He grunts, loving how tight you are around his cock. He knows he's too big for you to take— but, fuck, your little cries and whimpers are so fucking hot. “can't even moan right… just a dumb little thing, ain’tcha?“
You whine pathetically, writhing and clawing at his back and arms. You can only lie there and take it, the stretch making your mind short circuit. All coherent sentences and thoughts melt away with each thrust of his hips against yours.
He actually laughs at your state, amused and turned on by how completely overwhelmed with pleasure you look. "there ya go, that's a good little slut. Can't even form words, can ya? Fucked ya dumb, dolly?" He leans down, bite your shoulder hard as he continues his punishing pace, pulling away to grunt in your ear. “yet you were begging for my cock like a desperate whore”
You just nod and moan, or cry— you’re not sure what the difference is anymore. Can’t focus on anything but the feeling of him, the pleasure and fullness.
He chuckles darkly, reaching down to grab your hips tightly as he starts fucking you even harder, faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixed with your weak little cries and his harsh grunts. “fuckin’ stupid girl, askin’ for this. Gonna ruin this tight little cunt for anyone else.”
(I love it when they’re mean about it. Also another one for those who asked!! If you have any requests send them. Inspired by an ask!! I don’t remember the user if you do please @ them)
plot: while exploring the town, you find yourself incapacitated in the worst possible position — themes: warning for non con, dark smut, gender neutral reader, size difference, monster fucking, horror, gender neutral smut — w.c: 700ish
kinktober masterlist • main masterlist • ao3
You were incapacitated.
Trapped in between the barely pried open iron bars, providing just big enough of a gap for your upper body to squeeze through and then… stall. In a way, it was humiliating, but in another sense, it was also terrifying because existing within the town as a whole was a death sentence in its own right. From one little miscalculation—you had potentially doomed yourself.
You tried to dislodge yourself again but the bars were too narrowly placed and you couldn’t push or pull yourself neither back nor forth and in doing so, you only found yourself more stuck than before. Panic quickly swept through your being in violent waves, abandoning all sense of rationality in favour of a hurried escape but nothing was working—but then finally, you heard it—the all too familiar scrape of metal, the thud of staggering footsteps—oh no, no, no… he was here.
You turned your head slightly back to just about catch a glimpse of him filling out the doorway, blocking all gaps of light that otherwise cut into the cell. In an attempt to avoid your flesh likely meeting the blade, you strove to push yourself forward, to at least nullify his efforts to strike you down… but then something else followed suit.
You froze as you felt his calloused hands brush around the soft contours of your exposed flesh; his fingers breaching the torn fabric and tearing away the cloth from the skin, readily exposing you to him. You remained statued in place as you feared for the worst, unable to quite comprehend what he was actually doing to you; almost delicately feeling you up—pushing—spreading your legs apart, ripping away at anything that acted as a barrier between you and him.
You tensed as you quickly understood what was following suit; feeling the tip of something very obvious poke against your most vulnerable parts. You writhed around and squirmed under his grip like a fish out of water, only to remain caught and hooked in his presence, feeling him drive into you in a near hungry pursuit. You gritted your teeth as you felt him force himself inside of you, feeling overwhelmed by his monstrous length that completely filled you out to the brim.
With shuddering, quaking cries, you softly wept as he continued to take in his brutal girth, feeling his cock slide in and out of your insides and stretch you out beyond a recoverable limit. With an unforgiving pace, Pyramid Head continued to hilt himself into your core, feverishly bucking into your body as a radiating, almost scalding pain akin to searing agony settled within the confines of your form. Of course however, he showed you no mercy, pounding into you with a near primal fervour; his hips slamming against your behind with each sawing motion.
Somehow, he grew needier as he continued to violate you—his fingernails digging bleeding crescents into the soft peaks of your ass, kneading against the cushioned skin and spreading you open as far as you could physically handle. It was as if he was trying to force you to accommodate the entire capacity of his impossible length, taking advantage of the limiting position, knowing that you couldn’t just pull yourself away.
Nearing his impending climax; his movements soon became more erratic and maybe even sloppy. He leaned his towering form closer wherever he could press against your bare back—causing the iron bars to crack open further—growling out heated breaths that rolled hot down your spine. Each passing thrust caused for you to shake, prompting you to involuntarily roll your eyes to the back of your head and perhaps even see stars from just how overwhelming it all truly was.
Just as you were about to pass out however, the monster finally came undone with one final violent rut of his stuttering hips. You gasped as you felt a stream of hot oozing warmth fill your senses to such an extent that your stomach nearly bulged from his pent up release.
Thinking it was all over, you tried to close your eyes to recover—but then you were promptly taken out of the cell, readily carried around like a rag doll, to be used and paraded around per each of his passing whims.
In a way you were thankful that he wasn’t going to end you outright.
But then you realised what your life was about to become and that much had otherwise terrified you.
Not quite a mercy after all and worse yet, rather a sentence in the hell you found yourself in.
﹙ ¹⁸⁺ ﹚ ₊ ❜୧ A QUICKIE WITH YOUR HUSBAND SIMON.
you're sorting through what feels like the millionth tiny sock when simon comes up behind you, large hands settling on your hips. "kids are occupied," he murmurs against your neck, and you can hear the suggestion in his voice.
"si, i have to get this done," you protest weakly, but you're already leaning back into him. wash day waits for no one with three kids, and you're drowning in tiny clothes. "and they won't stay distracted for long."
"exactly why we should be quick about it." his hands slide around to your stomach, pulling you flush against him. you can feel he's already hard, and your resolve wavers. "been thinking about you all morning, luv. watching you bend over sortin’ laundry..."
"you're terrible," you breathe, but you're already turning in his arms. seven years of marriage and three kids later, and he still looks at you like he wants to devour you. "we have maybe ten minutes before someone needs something."
"can work with that." he's already lifting you onto the washing machine, hands pushing up his sweatshirt that you wore around the house. "fuck, no panties? you trying t’kill me?"
"it's wash day, baby," you remind him, wrapping your legs around his waist. "everything's in the dirty hamper." but your explanation dissolves into a moan as his fingers find you already wet.
"fuckin' convenient," he growls, working you open with practiced efficiency. there's no time for slow and sweet; not with three kids in the house. "always ready for me, aren't you, swee'eart?"
you bite your lip to keep quiet as he replaces his fingers with his cock, pushing in with one smooth thrust. "simon," you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. "fuck—w-we have to be quiet."
"then you'd better keep that pretty mouth o’yours shut," he says, setting a punishing pace immediately. the washing machine rocks with the force of it, and you have to brace yourself against the wall. "can't have the little ones hearing what daddy does to mummy."
the filthy words in his rough accent make you clench around him. he notices, of course he does, and smirks against your neck. "like that, do you? knowing i'm fuckin’ you while our babies play down the hall?"
before you can respond, there's a loud bang on the door. "mommy! mommy, open!" your five-year-old's voice cuts through your haze of pleasure. "need you!"
simon doesn't stop, if anything going harder. "mummy's busy, swee'eart," he calls out, voice impressively steady for someone currently railing you against major appliances. "go play with yer sister."
"but mommy!" another bang. "daisy took my doll!"
you try to answer but simon chooses that moment to hit that perfect spongy spot inside you, and all that comes out is a strangled sound. he covers your mouth with his hand, eyes dark with amusement and lust.
"mummy's folding clothes," he lies smoothly. "she'll be out in a minute, go tell daisy t'share."
"don't want to!" your daughter whines, and you can hear her stomping her little feet. "want mommy now!"
"ella." simon's voice drops into what you call his lieutenant voice — gentle but brooking no argument. "go play. we'll be out soon."
there's a moment of silence, then you hear her stomp away muttering about simon being unfair. the second she's gone, simon removes his hand from your mouth.
"such a good girl," he praises, but you're not sure if he means you or ella. "keeping quiet while i fuck you senseless. though i bet y’wanted to scream, didn't you?"
"simon, fuck, please," you gasp, feeling your orgasm building embarrassingly fast. the combination of his cock and the thrill of almost getting caught has you on edge. "i'm gonna-"
"i know, luv. she's fuckin’ squeezin’ me." his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles. "c'mon then. cum all over my cock before another one starts bangin’ on the door."
as if on cue, you hear your two-year-old calling from somewhere in the house. "mama?"
the use of your married name plus the perfect pressure on your clit sends you over. you bite his shoulder to muffle your cry as you cum all over his cock, whole body shaking with the force of it. he follows right after, groaning low in your ear as he fills you.
"mama!" your toddler's voice is getting closer.
"shit," simon pants, pulling out and quickly fixing his clothes. he helps you down, steadying you when your legs wobble. "y’good?"
"just peachy," you breathe, smoothing down his sweatshirt. you can feel his cum starting to leak and clench your thighs together.
"though i'm going to need to shower before i finish this laundry."
Now imagine a soulmate au where your soulmates name is written on you, right?
You've known the name "john price" long before you knew how to write your own, child fingers tracing the letters on your arm, reverent.
You tried finding him, of course you did, but as it happens john price is far too common of a name. You give up on your dreams eventually. life demands you to actually live it instead of waiting for the signal to go.
As it happens, on one of your nights out you stumble upon him.
John price. You had noticed him in the bar earlier, drawn to him in a way you couldn't explain, and now it's him approaching you. He nods at your exposed arm, body between you and the rest of the crowd, almost possessive. "You are my soulmate, yes?"
Your name rolls off his tongue like honey, has your soul thumping at the thought of the one.
John price is big, strong, and dangerously handsome. He smells like whiskey and smoke and expensive cologne that tells you the gold around his neck is real. He keeps glancing at your mark with a smile, awestruck the same as you.
"Can i see my name? I want...I want to feel it." You tug at his leather jacket impatiently.
"Ah, bad idea. I was...hurt. left a scar right next to it, looks quite gruesome." He frowns, redirecting your hand to his lips for a kiss. You understand, soulmarks are personal, add in insecurity about scars and...you decide not to push.
Still, when his hand slides low on your back, eyes lidded in desire, you follow him home.
God are you thankful john is your soulmate, you're not sure how you could enjoy another man after the night he gave you. Entire body sore and pleased, face-down on his bed.
That's the exact image nikolai sends price, your soulmark clear in the frame. Followed by the message "warmed it up for you, john ;)"
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
“What?”
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”
Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone else’s blood.
Graves’s blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesn’t.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”
“There she is.”
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
“You liked that.” He croons.
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
“N-no.”
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
“Liar.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
“You should be callin’ me reckless.”
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. “You can’t—”
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
“I can’t what?” He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”
“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”
You can’t.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
“Too far gone to scold me now?”
You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.
And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.
“So am I.”
“Simon—”
“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”
“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”
His eyes flash. “There she is.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
“Try that again.”
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”
“Probably.”
“Price is going to—”
“Already did.”
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
“Read me the riot act.”
Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”
God. You think he’s lost his mind.
“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”
You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”
“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
“And if he talks about you like that again?”
You barely manage the whisper. “What?”
Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
“Leave it.”
Your breath trembles. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.
Pornstar!Simon who’s been told he can’t fuck you anymore because the way you sound when he’s inside you makes every other costar you’ve had in the past look bad.
The Director pulling him aside with the footage still looping on the monitor, voice low, telling him it was obvious your moans dripping out wet and broken were real in a way you’ve never given the cameras before, obvious now that every gasp and whimper you’d faked with the others was thin and breathy and hollow compared to this and your former costars were bound to complain.
Said it made the lads before him look like they couldn’t even get you properly wet, let alone fuck the sense out of you. Said pairing you with Ghost again was asking for trouble. Too risky. Too fuckin’ real.
Swinging the monitor around to show Ghost the way he had angled his hips so the camera caught his cock stretching your silky cunt half an hour before, thick enough that your walls flutter around him without any acting, slick spilling out around the base every time he bottomed out.
Your fingers scrabbling along the bed every time he ground himself down, too fucked out to really run from the pleasure the way you wanted to, body shaking brain reduced to static goo.
You having a hard time remembering the scripted words you were given, eyes rolling in your sockets, little whimpers and moans punched out “hn-hn-hn-“ every time his hips met yours and the head of his cock kissed your cervix.
Ghost cooing down at you when you miss your cue for the third time, hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other kept your thigh shoved wide, voiced amused when he asks “wha’s amatter? Cat got your tongue, dove?”
Ruined any possibility of you answering when he fucked you deep, making your cunt visibly pulse around him on the monitor, arousal drooling down his balls.
You tried. You really did. You mouth opened, some broken attempt at the first word, but it dissolved into another punched out moan the second he angled just right, letting the camera see the way your eyes rolled in their sockets.
His thumb stroking once over your clit, almost gentle, almost fond. “Tha’s it,” he murmured, “take it. Fuckin’ take it.”
Another missed cue. Another low, rough chuckle. He didn’t really give you room to think. Just kept you pinned and full and dripping while the cameras roled and the script stayed forgotten on the floor somewhere behind the lights.
The director was still talking but Ghost wasn’t listening, instead, just reached over and rewound the tape instead. Watched the part where you tried to speak again. Watched the way your body gave out for him and only him. Watched his own hand on the screen, thumb stroking your clit.
He hit play once more. Let it loop. Thumb hovering over the button, already deciding he didn’t give a fuck what the director had to say about it, he was gonna fuck you again no matter what.
for everyone asking for a part two of the Ghost putting reader in a headlock drabble. Here you go as a little treat for us because we deserve to be put in a headlock and fucked stupid:
He’s behind you, chest to your back, one thick, scar mapped arm looped under your chin and slanted up across your cheek, biceps and forearm flexed to cradle your throat enough to lock you in place, to let you feel every fiber and tendon, the brute heat of him all along your spine.
Ghost hooks you into him like you weigh nothing, spreads his thighs under yours, and sinks another inch just to hear the little noise you make.
You suck air in ragged little pulls, dizzy on the pressure and the way his bare skin slicks against your sweat. God, the size of him. Shoulder like a slab under your ear, bicep swelling against your jaw every time he flexes. His body is massive behind you; he dwarfs you, cages you. Your head is tipped back on his chest, eyes half lidded, lips parted, drool slipping over your tongue, because every time you suck a breath you get him: the underlying musk of man who’s been working, fighting, fucking for hours.
You’d have been happy with just the headlock while you grind yourself happy and stupid on his cock.
But Ghost doesn’t do “just.”
He ruts up into you from below; hips snapping, the thick length of him driving deep at an angle that knocks little ah-ah-ah sounds out of your open mouth. The headlock tightens as his forearm drags you tighter to his chest, forcing your head to the side until your tongue lolls, a slick line of drool sliding over his bicep. He groans when it hits his skin, low and pleased. “That’s it. Make a mess on me.”
Your eyes roll back on a hard thrust. You try to find the rhythm and he steals it, bucking up in short, brutal strokes that make your thighs shake. The hand at the back of your head holds you where he wants you; the heel of his forearm anchors you to his chest so there’s nowhere to go but down on him, again and again, taking every inch.
Ghost’s other hand is locked around your waist, palm spanning almost the entire plane of your stomach, blunt fingertips digging into the curve of your hip as he pins you back to him, thumb catching your clit. He’s rutting up into you from behind, cock thick and heavy, spearing deep with each brutal roll of his hips. Every thrust rocks your body forward, only for the choke of his arm to anchor you; keep you right where he wants you, strung out on the edge of pain and bliss.
“Look how you take me,” he grits, thrusting up, grinding when he bottoms out just to make sure you feel the whole width of him. “So fucking deep, yeah? Tell me.”
“So- deep,” you hiccup, voice wrecked, drool slicking his arm as your lips part around another helpless sound. “Feels- ngh- better than- than anything- ”
He laughs, quiet, gravelly, smug. “Better than your own fingers?” Up, in, drag- your walls clamp and his thumb circles meaner. “Better than your toys?” Another punch of his hips and you squeal; he covers your mouth with his forearm so the sound goes soft and filthy against his skin. “Thought so.”
You can barely do anything; arms trapped, hips locked, voice gone weak and high and wrecked. Your toes barely touch the floor; your body bows with every stroke, pleasure washing up your spine in wild, helpless bursts. You’re mewling, keening, so far gone that your tongue slips from your mouth, drooling, eyes fluttering back as he rails you, pressure at your throat and in your belly all tangled together.
You’d be happy to stay here forever; just his arm, his cock, the heat of his chest pressed to your sweat slicked skin. But Ghost is relentless. He leans forward, presses his mouth- half masked, his breath hot and damp- just under your ear.
“Look at you” His voice is a gravel scrape, thick and breathless, the growl vibrating through his chest and straight into your bones. “Fuckin’ ruined on my cock.”
You can’t even answer. You only manage a broken moan, saliva glistening on your lower lip, eyes glossy and rolling, body shuddering in the circle of his arms. His bicep bulges against your jaw, hard and impossibly strong. You try to move, try to twist, but he tightens just a little, crooking his elbow up so the world narrows, pleasure sparking white hot in your skull.
He fucks you rougher, rutting up into your cunt with a punishing rhythm that shoves you toward the edge, hips slapping, thighs flexing against your ass. The sound is filthy, echoing, the room stinking of sweat and the sharp, animal edge of his arousal. Your eyes roll back; you can’t help it. More drool slips from your mouth to his arm, and he only growls, pleased, hips snapping faster, chest sticky against your back.
“That’s it. Take it. Take all of it,” he grits out, arm flexing, forearm pressing into your cheek. “God, you look so fuckin’ pretty like this- just drooling, brain gone, tight as a fist around me-”
You feel the orgasm building, bright and wild, helpless. Your body clenches down around him and your vision swims, the pleasure too much to hold. He feels it, thrusts deeper, grinding into you, keeping you held in that perfect, inescapable hold.
You come undone with a scream, body bucking, muscles clamping down so hard he curses, his own release crashing through a moment later; hot and thick, pulse after pulse, hips jerking as he holds you pinned against him, nowhere to go but where he puts you as he empties his heavy balls into your cunt. Your body is limp, boneless, head lolling in the crook of his bicep, mouth open, drool streaked on his skin. You’re utterly, deliciously wrecked.
Only then does he ease the pressure a fraction, palm stroking your jaw where his forearm pinned. “Still with me?”
A dazed smile, a little gasp. “Yeah.”
“Good. Again.” He says, then tightens the headlock, wicked. “Still got more in me.”
The cuffs bite into Simon’s wrists under the table, cold steel against scarred skin. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they always do, but he’s not seeing any of it. Simon’s staring straight at you.
You sit across from him in that crisp blouse, skirt just modest enough to be professional, legs crossed at the ankle. Your voice is calm, clinical, asking about his “adjustment to the facility” like you always do. But Simon isn’t listening to a thing you have to say.
Fuck, look at her mouth when she says my name.
In his head he’s already got you bent over the metal table, that pretty blouse ripped open, buttons scattered across the floor. His hand fisted in your hair, dragging your head back so he can growl in your ear while he hikes that skirt up around your waist. No panties in his fantasy—just bare skin and the wetness he knows is waiting for him. He’d spread you with two thick fingers first, make you gasp his name like a confession instead of a diagnosis.
She’d be so tight. So fucking warm. Bet she’d try to stay quiet at first, try to keep that therapist voice… until I’m balls-deep and she’s moaning like she needs it.
He shifts in the chair, the restraints tugging as he tries to get some relief. His cock is half-hard already, pressing against the rough fabric of his prison uniform. You’re still talking—something about coping mechanisms—and all he can think about is how your thighs would tremble if he dropped to his knees right here, shoved your legs apart, and buried his tongue in you until your clipboard hit the floor.
She’d taste sweet. Wouldn’t be able to stay professional after that. I’d have her begging. “Simon, please—” like she’s the one locked up.
His eyes drop to your lips again, then lower to the modest neckline of your blouse. He imagines marking the soft skin there with teeth and stubble, leaving bruises only he gets to see. Imagines you crawling into his lap in the middle of a session, sinking down on him slow while the guards outside the door remain blissfully unaware. Your hands in his short hair, nails scraping his scalp, riding him while the cuffs rattle with every thrust.
She wants it. I can see it in the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She gets wet thinking about the monster in orange. Dirty little therapist.
Simon exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight behind the mask they let him keep. You lean forward slightly, concerned, asking if he’s all right.
He gives you the smallest smirk beneath the fabric, voice low and gravel-rough.
“Fine, doc. Just… thinkin’.”
In his mind he’s already fucking you against the wall of his cell, one hand over your mouth, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, pounding into you until you forget every clinical term you ever learned, leaving you with only thoughts of him.
You have no idea how many times he’s imagined ruining you in this exact chair.
And he’s not planning on telling you..
Not yet, anyways.
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a/n: nonny who requested this bless you for getting me out of my writers block funk <3
Simon Riley who's still too insecure to show you his face, but agrees to blindfold you and take the mask off during sex.
Feeling his skin on yours, his bare face pressed places for the first time. Buried in your neck, or his nose against your cheek. Hearing moans that weren't muffled, feeling breath fan your skin.
He lets you hold him, mold him, trace his scars and features with your hands as if painting an image in your mind.
One would think that after Simon Riley’s childhood, he’d be the last man on earth who wanted kids. And for most of his life, that assumption held true. The beatings. The screaming. The way his father had turned every thing into something that bled.
Simon had learned early that love was a weapon and children were collateral. He’d carried that lesson close in his ribs for decades. No kids. Never. He was too much like the old man in the worst ways, and the world didn’t need another Riley built on rot.
Until you opened your mouth.
“If I ever have kids,” you said, almost offhand, “I want to raise them in every way my parents hadn’t. Safe. Kind. No conditions. No walking on eggshells. Just… loved properly.”
Simon went still.
For a long second he couldn’t breathe. His mind flashed, unbidden and vicious, through every memory he’d spent years burying.
His father’s face, red and bloated with drink. Thrown objects whistling through the air. The way young Simon had curled around Tommy, trying to be a shield when he was still just a boy himself. The constant, grinding fear that had lived in his bones. You’ll never be good enough. You’ll never be safe.
He’d spent his whole adult life assuming the only options were to become that monster or to stay alone so he couldn’t pass it on.
He had never- never- let himself picture the third path.
The opposite: The father who broke the cycle on purpose.
The idea felt obscene. Impossible. Like trying to hold water in his fists.
And then it hit him, sharp and spiteful and viciously clear:
He could.
With you.
You, with your soft, plush body that never made him hold back. You, who took every rough thrust of his cock even on days when every dark thought spiral out of him and he took it out on your cunt and still looked at him like he was worth something. You, who wanted to raise kids to be everything parents weren’t. And he-
The realization burned through him like cheap whiskey and battery acid. For the first time in his miserable fucking life, Simon Riley let himself want something good.
And the only way his broken, spiteful brain knew how to claim it was to breed it into you.
Spite curled hot and ugly in his chest. Spite at his father. Spite at every Riley who came before. Spite at the blood in his own veins that had always felt like a curse. Fuck you, old man. I’m gonna take your rotten name and make something good out of it.
The obsession locked in tight.
He could already picturing it.
You on your back beneath him, thick thighs spread wide, that soft belly rising and falling fast as he dragged the heavy head of his cock through your folds, smearing precum over your clit while you whimpered.
Teasing you until you beggedz Pushing in deep, bottoming out, groaning at how perfectly your plush cunt swallowed him. No condom. Never again. He’d fuck you in long, grinding strokes, one hand splayed over your lower belly, feeling himself there thrusting under there.
And when he came- fuck, when he came- he wouldn’t pull out. He’d stay buried to the hilt, hips jerking as he pumped load after thick load straight into your cunt. Keep you plugged with his cock until every drop had nowhere to go but deeper.
Do it again. And again. Until your belly started to swell with the sheer volume of his cum. Round and tight, sloshing every time he pressed down on it with his palm.
Roll you onto your hands and knees next. Grip your wide hips, the soft give of your arse, and fuck you from behind while he watched his previous loads leak out around his cock.
Fill you all over again, keep breeding you till it takes.
He could see it so clearly it hurt. Your tits getting fat and heavy with milk because of him. The way they’d hang lower, fuller, the nipples darker and sensitive. He’d suck on them while he fucked you, groaning at the first sweet taste when it finally came in. He’d keep you bred and leaking and soft.
By the time you stood up from the couch, still talking about something completely unrelated- some about new bread recipe you wanted to try tomorrow, or whether you should order takeaway- he was already half hard and breathing hard through his nose.
You walked toward the bedroom, casual, still chatting over your shoulder about whatever domestic thing had caught your attention.
Simon stood.
He followed you in and closed the door behind him.
price who’s got you under him in the dim light of the bedroom, the heat of his body pressing you into the sheets, cock buried deep, moving in these slow, grinding thrusts that make your breath hitch every time he rocks forward.
thick head dragging against the walls of your cunt, making your toes curling against the backs of his thighs. can’t help but feel the way your fingers dig into his back, holding on tight. slick slide of sweat between your chests, pace that lets him savor every hot flutter and clench of your cunt around him.
soft little whimper that slips out when he angles just right and lingers there, grinding deep so you can feel the stretch and the heat of him pulsing against your walls before he pulls back slow.
mumbling against his mouth between one kiss and the next, lips brushing his as your voice comes out all hazy and wondering, asking what’s gotten into him because he’s never like this, never this gentle with it, never this sweet about the way he’s touching you and kissing you, tongue warm and familiar when he dips in to taste the question right off your lips.
and price just smiles into the kiss, that low warm rumble vibrating through his chest where it’s pressed tight to yours and right against your mouth as he answers without missing a single beat of those slow thrusts, can’t a man just appreciate his girl?
warmth of his palm cupping your cheek, thumb stroking slow along your jaw while his hips keep that steady rhythm, deep and unhurried, letting you feel every thick inch of him dragging along your walls on every push, the heat building low in your belly with every grind.
body soft and pliant under him, melting when he kisses you slow and deep instead of biting at your throat, breath catching and fans warm across his lips. cunt fluttering hot and wet around him, squeezes like it’s trying to pull him in deeper, like it wants more of the slow drag and the way his pubic bone presses firm against your clit on every thrust.
eyes going soft and glassy when he tells you how good you feel, how perfect you are for him, how much he loves having you like this, the little tremor that runs through your thighs when he shifts and sinks even deeper.
keeps you close, chest to chest, one of your legs hooked high around his waist so he can grind in on every thrust, slick heat making the slide easier, wetter, the sound of it mixing with the low creak of the bed and his heavier breathing.
hand stroking down your side, your hip, your thigh, anywhere he can reach because he can’t seem to stop touching you, can’t get enough of the way your skin feels under his palm, warm and damp with sweat, the way you shiver when his calloused fingers brush over a sensitive spot.
doesn’t rush. doesn’t push you toward the edge with rough hands and filthy words. just loves you through it, slow and sweet, swallowing every little gasp and whimper you let out like they’re his favorite sounds, tasting the salt on your skin when he dips his head to kiss the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck, your breast.
and when you start to tighten up around him again, body trembling as that slow building pleasure finally crests into something overwhelming, price just holds you through it. murmurs quiet little praises against your mouth about how good you are, how beautiful you look coming apart for him like this, how much he appreciates his girl.
the way your cunt pulses and ripples hot and tight around his cock in gentle waves that make his own breath catch. stays buried deep while you come around him, riding it out with those same slow rolls of his hips until you’re boneless and clinging to him, until the tight flutter of your cunt pulls his own release from him in warm, pulsing waves that fill you up and make you whimper at the fullness, the heat of it spreading inside you.
stays right there after, cock still nestled inside you, bodies pressed close and slick with sweat that cools in the air between you, kissing you lazy and sweet while you both float down from it, the taste of each other lingering on your tongues until you drift off to sleep.
later you stir when the mattress dips and the warmth at your back disappears, the soft sound of fabric rustling as price moves quiet through the room getting dressed.
can’t help the questioning noise that slips out of you when you blink awake and see him sitting on the edge of the bed lacing up his boots
he turns at the sound, that familiar low rumble in his chest as he leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, lips warm, beard scraping lightly against your skin, murmuring that he has an errand to run, go back to sleep love before you can even form the question properly.
the bed dips again when he stands, the door clicking shut soft behind him, and you drift back into sleep with the ghost of his kiss still tingling on your skin and the sheets still warm where his body had been.
only to wake the next morning to the violent crash of the front door being forced open, the wood splintering under the weight of booted feet as armed figures pour into the flat while you scream “what the hell” and scramble to yank the blanket up over your bare chest.
ghost following the men, moving silent through the space with the others, clearing rooms with heavy footsteps echoing off the walls and the sound of doors being shoved open while gaz takes one look at your state and heads straight for your closet, rifling through and pulling out clothes without asking.
kate stepping up to the side of the bed as you clutch the blanket tighter and demand answers, her voice calm but firm when she asks where price is.
telling her you don’t know, the words tumbling out in a rush, and demand to know what the hell this is about only for her to meet your eyes with a steady look and say “he’s wanted for questioning.”
“for what!?” you demand, voice sharp and panicking.
and she just looks down at you for several long seconds, the silence stretching thick in the air between you while the sounds of boots and doors continue in the other rooms, her expression unreadable as your heart pounds hard against your ribs and the blanket feels suddenly too thin against your bare skin, before she finally answers, voice even and steady, “the murder of general shepherd.”
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex
Note: I’m on Instagram now (kinda), come say hi :-)
Word count: 2.1k
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.
You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.
By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.
That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.
And things had only been official for a week.
You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.
He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.
Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move
Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.
You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.
“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.
You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.
“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.
Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”
He slid deeper for emphasis.
You didn’t.
You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.
“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.
Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.
This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.
Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.
“Better?” The man’s question was simple.
Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.
You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.
Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.
“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”
“I—I know, I just can’t—”
At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.
You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.
“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”
The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.
“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”
“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”
“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”
But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.
Maybe you’d never found that place after all.
This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.
You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.
Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”
“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.
Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.
With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.
You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.
“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”
Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.
It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.
“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.
“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”
Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.
Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.
He still held onto your other hand tight.
Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.
Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:
“Higher.”
“Higher?”
“Um, to the…to the left.”
Simon tilted his hips left.
Yes.
That was just it. So close.
Almost…
Or, maybe…
“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”
Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.
Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…
“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”
The grin above you stretched even wider.
“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.
“Right there.” You nodded furiously.
A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.
“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.
“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”
Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.
The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.
Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.
You realized as much when he whispered it to you.
“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”
Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”
Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.
“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.
“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”
The ones that you’d been with before.
You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.
Simon was back inside you in a blink.
Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.
He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.
Vindicated.
“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”
You nodded in agreement.
You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.
“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”
When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.
And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.
Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.
“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.
His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.
You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”
“Feel good when I hit it?”
“Fucking perfect, Si.”
You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.
“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”
“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”
“Go on then, love.”
And, shortly, you did.
Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.
Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.
It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”
You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.
“Thank you,” you murmured against him.
Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.
He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.
