remember when i said i was trying to quit smokingâŚ
âŚyeahhh
anyway ghost has a cigarette settled between his chapped lips all while staring up at you. youâre riding him, although your movements are sloppy.
one massive hand sits atop your thigh, relaxed but every so often he gives it an encouraging squeeze cause âyouâre doing such a good job for me, darlinââ
youâre sensitive. barely able to sit up straight as your pubic bone grinds against the patch of hair at the base of his cock. heâs buried so deep you donât know where you end and he begins.
he has a hand resting behind his head, his biceps and the fat of his arms bulging each time he tenses. your inner walls drag along a vein that makes his eyes almost roll back into his skull.
âthaâs itâŚthaâs my girl. use me. i know that pussyâs missed me. letâs make sure she gets her fill.â
hmmm kĂśnig acting like an excited but desperate puppy, asking you âdoes that feel good? do you like it? tell me, is that the spot, my hase?â constantly because he has slight doubt. except he underestimates his size and already, his seemingly âslowâ pace is drilling into you so youâre unable to answer him.
now youâre being fucked dumb and you havenât said anything, by his own knowledge of sex, he simply assumes heâs not pounding you good enough. his âslowâ pace becomes almost impossible to take when his thrusts begin to speed up and fuck you deeper.
still, kĂśnig is asking if that feels any better but youâre face first burying into the pillow, biting the sheets, given up on asking so you just end up taking his fat cock til you both cum. (aka til you feel like youâve met death)
"good girl," kĂśnig coos, his voice thick with praise as he watches your drool-slick lips struggle to form words. your thighs tremble around his waist, his cock so deep it feels like heâs rearranging your guts with every brutal thrust. "so full, huh? canât even think straight with me stuffing you like this."
your answer is a broken, high-pitched whine, your fingers scrambling for purchase on his sweat-slicked chest. heâs hugeâstretching you obscenely, the thick drag of him punching out little gasps and moans you didnât even know you could make.
"shhh, i know," he murmurs, leaning down to lick a stripe up your throat. "just take it. gonna fill you up so good, make sure you remember who owns this pretty cunt."
your brain whites out when his hips snap forward, the wet slap of skin echoing in the room. kĂśnig groans, his hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head back. "look at youâfuck, made for this. made to take my cock, my cum. gonna breed you so deep youâll feel it for days."
you babble something incoherent, tears pricking your eyes as he fucks you through the oversensitivity. his thumb swipes over your bottom lip, smearing spit. "such a dumb little thing now, arenât you? just a hole for me to use."
heâs not wrong. your thoughts are liquid, your body his to ruin. and when he finally spills inside you with a guttural groan, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, you can only sobâoverwhelmed, owned, perfectly fucked stupid.
"thatâs it,"Â he purrs, nuzzling your hair as his cock twitches inside you. "good girl."
Simon Riley really delving into his oral fixation.
See, you'd asked Simon to stop smoking after reading that it would damage his sperm. Trying for a baby apparently meant he needed to give up his vice.
But you were his missus, and he'd learned a long time agoâdon't fucking argue with the missus.
Already by day three Simon was buying multiple packs of gum a day. Grumbling around base and the house. But he wouldn't take it out on you, never on you.
Your tits? Different story.
Simon had been sucking on your tits for almost an hour, switching between your now swollen and spit slick nipples. Yes, it felt fantasticâbut Jesus Christ what was his obsession tonight?
"Simon." You murmur, tugging at his hair to pull him up. "You're usually inside me by now."
Simon grumbled, licking his lips. "You had me quit smokin' my fucking mouth needs to be doin' somethin'"
After that confession, Simon was always on you.
He comes home from work, and he pushes your shirt up while you read some book on the couch. His mouth immediately locking around your nipple. The tension built throughout the day leaving his body.
He'd suck on your tits of a morning instead of going for his usual smoke. Though you point out that he spends a lot longer on your nipples than he ever did his cigarettes.
You can't even take your shirt off around him without Simon pawing at your tits and sucking on you for at least five minutes before you finally batt him off to go cook dinner.
After a long weekend though, you went to work with sore tits. Your coworkers getting excited after hearing you'd been trying for a baby and now you were adjusting your bra all day.
Simon only chuckled when you complained to him that afternoon, letting you frustratedly throw your bra at him. "Just tell them that your husbands helping you practice for when you're actually breastfeeding."
Simon is impossibly deep inside of your warm, wet pussy, thrusting so hard you scoot up the bed as he knocks the air from the lungs while the headboard bangs against the wall. A pillow is strategically placed under your hips so every time he slams inside of you it hits your sweet spot, and your clit catches on the wet material without fail. Your nipples drag across the soft fabric beneath you, your hands clutching at the pillows in front of you, all while youâre being fucked dumb.
âFuckinâ slut. Wish you could see the way your pussy sucks me in,â he growls, his grip on you turning punishing, his face never faltering as he continues to drill into you from behind.
His fingers are tangled in your hair, yanking on it hard and keeping your head in place so your moans arenât muffled against the mattress. His other hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your airway just enough to make it more pleasurable as your choked sobs ring out around the room.
His thick, long cock slides through your walls as he molds your pussy to be perfect for him. The veins and ridges leave imprints the faster he thrusts, the deeper he reaches, the harder he grinds. Every knock to your cervix leaves you breathless, every brush against your sweet spot has pleasure shooting through your body, and the longer he abuses your poor pussy, the more you beg for it.
âP-please Si, please,â you manage to say, gripping onto the sheets for dear life, lifting your hips to meet his every thrust but trying to run from it all at the same time.
Simon fucks you harder, the sound of your sweet voice begging for him enough to bring him to the brink of his orgasm, but not until you unravel on him for the umpteenth time tonight. His hand smacks down against your ass, your skin burning raw immediately, and he yanks your hair so hard that stars burst behind your eyelids.
âPlease what? Be a good girl and use your fuckinâ words,â he says through gritted teeth, biting back an obscene moan that wishes to fall from his swollen lips.
His fingers press into the delicate skin of your neck, your pulse fluttering around his thumb, and the adrenaline of knowing that youâre at his mercy makes your walls clamp down tight around him, earning you a hiss from the man behind you. When you donât respond in what he deems as a timely manner, his hand strikes your ass again, harder this time, but somewhere in this moment he still feels guilty for it when his thumb brushes over the scorching skin to soothe you.
âMore, p-please Si,â you continue to beg, completely consumed by the feeling of his cock inside you, bullying your insides with no pity.
His hand moves from your throat to the pillow in front of you as he steadies himself. Leaning over your back, his cock pressed against your cervix with the utmost amount of pressure, he positions himself to watch your face while he fucks into you like a rabid animal as if he has no compassion or love for the woman under him what-so-ever.
You know he would apologize after. Apologize for being rough, apologize for saying mean things, apologize for acting as if he has no respect for you, but it makes your pussy so fucking wet all you can do is beg for him to be meaner.
âYeah? Beg for it. Look at me and beg me to make you cum, beg me to make you feel good slut.â
Your gaze lifts to his, and the way his pupils dilate from the sight of you so undone solely because of him has a groan rumbling out from the depths of his chest. Drool drips from your chin while your mouth hangs open ever so slightly. Your eyes are half-lidded and dazed with tears staining your cheeks, your lips swollen and pigmented, and he watches how every single time his cock thrusts until thereâs no more space inside you the air from your lungs comes in short, ragged gasps that sound like music to his ears.
âMake me c-cum Si- f-fuck- make me f-feel good, p-please,â you stutter, tripping over every other word, trying your hardest to form sentences coherent enough to beg for it like he asked.
He growls, deep and low, animalist almost, and he shoves your face into the pillow while spreading your cheeks with his other hand to watch your pussy swallow him whole. He fucks you, deep and hard and fast, it is almost too much. Your juices leak out around his cock, coating his length of your arousal, and he watches how tight you get the closer your orgasm gets.
âDo it,â he says, the words coming out strained, âcum on my fucking dick then since you beg so pretty.â
Every movement of his hips is hitting a spot inside of you that bursts into pleasure. Your cervix, your sweet spot, your nipples drag against the sheets until theyâre hard and sore, your clit grinding against the pillow beneath you until it all pushes you over the edge. Your body becomes rigid, your muscles draw taut, and your screaming sobs fill the room, and no other sounds can be heard.
âIâm c-cumming-â
âWho makes you feel this good? Who do you belong to,â he asks, fucking you harder, fucking you through your orgasm, fucking you into overstimulation, waiting for the words to fall from your pretty, swollen lips before he allows himself the same release.
âYou! F-fuck itâs always you Si,â you whimper, your body twitching from your walls being rubbed raw, from your clit grinding against every last nerve, from your nipples peaking beyond belief.
With a few more thrusts and a guttural groan ripping from his throat, Simon buries himself to the hilt, spilling his seed into the deepest parts of you. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out against your cervix with every twitch of his cock, coating your walls in all he has to give as the man behind you stills while he fills you to the brim. When nothing else will fit it leaks out around him, your cum mixing with his, making a mess between your thighs and spreading against the sheets.
âFuck,â he groans, collapsing on top of you, trying his hardest to catch his breath.
His face is buried between your shoulder blades, his warm breath hitting your skin and sending shivers down your spine, his hands moving from their previous positions to caress up your sides as if asking for forgiveness through touch before asking verbally. He kisses against your spine, all the way down to your ass where he licks the raw handprint burning against your skin, and when he reaches your pussy, he licks up the mess before flipping you over with ease.
He hovers above you, wiping a stray tear before placing a feather light kiss to your lips. Admiring you, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, watching the way you give him the softest yet brightest smile he has ever seen, and he canât help but cover your face in the same kisses.
âYouâre not a slut, and you never have to beg for meâŚ,â he mumbles in between kisses, and before he can keep rambling on you pull him down until your forehead is pressed against his.
âIf you say sorry⌠I swear Simon.â
He laughs softly, âI know, I know. Iâm sorry- shit- sorry. Fuck. Iâll just stop talking now, yeah?â
Your legs are spread, pussy glistening in front of his face. He had been at it for hours already. His mouth hot and desperate against you, making you writhe and scream in pleasure.
It had been months since he was last home, a hard deployment keeping him away. He had been so desperate for you. Each day an agonizing ache in his chest, yearning for your voice, your touch again. He was on you in an instant, eager and ready to pleasure you until you were shoving his face away.
You quiver and clench around nothing, begging him for more.
âChrist, Lovie. So good fâ me hmm.â He grumbles into your wet skin, eyes nearly rolling back at the sound of your moans.
You cry out, legs shaking around his head, âoh god⌠mm fuck- SI!â You didnât think you could come this many times, but heâs already worked you through three before this one.
âJusâ one more fâ me, Love. Jusâ one. Know you can.â He coos. Itâs almost cruel the way his fingers work you open, tongue lapping at you with hunger.
With one more curl of his fingers youâre coming, back arching off the mattress and fingers gripping his sandy hair for dear life. God, heâs perfect.
Simon is impossibly deep inside of your warm, wet pussy, thrusting so hard you scoot up the bed as he knocks the air from the lungs while the headboard bangs against the wall. A pillow is strategically placed under your hips so every time he slams inside of you it hits your sweet spot, and your clit catches on the wet material without fail. Your nipples drag across the soft fabric beneath you, your hands clutching at the pillows in front of you, all while youâre being fucked dumb.
âFuckinâ slut. Wish you could see the way your pussy sucks me in,â he growls, his grip on you turning punishing, his face never faltering as he continues to drill into you from behind.
His fingers are tangled in your hair, yanking on it hard and keeping your head in place so your moans arenât muffled against the mattress. His other hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your airway just enough to make it more pleasurable as your choked sobs ring out around the room.
His thick, long cock slides through your walls as he molds your pussy to be perfect for him. The veins and ridges leave imprints the faster he thrusts, the deeper he reaches, the harder he grinds. Every knock to your cervix leaves you breathless, every brush against your sweet spot has pleasure shooting through your body, and the longer he abuses your poor pussy, the more you beg for it.
âP-please Si, please,â you manage to say, gripping onto the sheets for dear life, lifting your hips to meet his every thrust but trying to run from it all at the same time.
Simon fucks you harder, the sound of your sweet voice begging for him enough to bring him to the brink of his orgasm, but not until you unravel on him for the umpteenth time tonight. His hand smacks down against your ass, your skin burning raw immediately, and he yanks your hair so hard that stars burst behind your eyelids.
âPlease what? Be a good girl and use your fuckinâ words,â he says through gritted teeth, biting back an obscene moan that wishes to fall from his swollen lips.
His fingers press into the delicate skin of your neck, your pulse fluttering around his thumb, and the adrenaline of knowing that youâre at his mercy makes your walls clamp down tight around him, earning you a hiss from the man behind you. When you donât respond in what he deems as a timely manner, his hand strikes your ass again, harder this time, but somewhere in this moment he still feels guilty for it when his thumb brushes over the scorching skin to soothe you.
âMore, p-please Si,â you continue to beg, completely consumed by the feeling of his cock inside you, bullying your insides with no pity.
His hand moves from your throat to the pillow in front of you as he steadies himself. Leaning over your back, his cock pressed against your cervix with the utmost amount of pressure, he positions himself to watch your face while he fucks into you like a rabid animal as if he has no compassion or love for the woman under him what-so-ever.
You know he would apologize after. Apologize for being rough, apologize for saying mean things, apologize for acting as if he has no respect for you, but it makes your pussy so fucking wet all you can do is beg for him to be meaner.
âYeah? Beg for it. Look at me and beg me to make you cum, beg me to make you feel good slut.â
Your gaze lifts to his, and the way his pupils dilate from the sight of you so undone solely because of him has a groan rumbling out from the depths of his chest. Drool drips from your chin while your mouth hangs open ever so slightly. Your eyes are half-lidded and dazed with tears staining your cheeks, your lips swollen and pigmented, and he watches how every single time his cock thrusts until thereâs no more space inside you the air from your lungs comes in short, ragged gasps that sound like music to his ears.
âMake me c-cum Si- f-fuck- make me f-feel good, p-please,â you stutter, tripping over every other word, trying your hardest to form sentences coherent enough to beg for it like he asked.
He growls, deep and low, animalist almost, and he shoves your face into the pillow while spreading your cheeks with his other hand to watch your pussy swallow him whole. He fucks you, deep and hard and fast, it is almost too much. Your juices leak out around his cock, coating his length of your arousal, and he watches how tight you get the closer your orgasm gets.
âDo it,â he says, the words coming out strained, âcum on my fucking dick then since you beg so pretty.â
Every movement of his hips is hitting a spot inside of you that bursts into pleasure. Your cervix, your sweet spot, your nipples drag against the sheets until theyâre hard and sore, your clit grinding against the pillow beneath you until it all pushes you over the edge. Your body becomes rigid, your muscles draw taut, and your screaming sobs fill the room, and no other sounds can be heard.
âIâm c-cumming-â
âWho makes you feel this good? Who do you belong to,â he asks, fucking you harder, fucking you through your orgasm, fucking you into overstimulation, waiting for the words to fall from your pretty, swollen lips before he allows himself the same release.
âYou! F-fuck itâs always you Si,â you whimper, your body twitching from your walls being rubbed raw, from your clit grinding against every last nerve, from your nipples peaking beyond belief.
With a few more thrusts and a guttural groan ripping from his throat, Simon buries himself to the hilt, spilling his seed into the deepest parts of you. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out against your cervix with every twitch of his cock, coating your walls in all he has to give as the man behind you stills while he fills you to the brim. When nothing else will fit it leaks out around him, your cum mixing with his, making a mess between your thighs and spreading against the sheets.
âFuck,â he groans, collapsing on top of you, trying his hardest to catch his breath.
His face is buried between your shoulder blades, his warm breath hitting your skin and sending shivers down your spine, his hands moving from their previous positions to caress up your sides as if asking for forgiveness through touch before asking verbally. He kisses against your spine, all the way down to your ass where he licks the raw handprint burning against your skin, and when he reaches your pussy, he licks up the mess before flipping you over with ease.
He hovers above you, wiping a stray tear before placing a feather light kiss to your lips. Admiring you, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, watching the way you give him the softest yet brightest smile he has ever seen, and he canât help but cover your face in the same kisses.
âYouâre not a slut, and you never have to beg for meâŚ,â he mumbles in between kisses, and before he can keep rambling on you pull him down until your forehead is pressed against his.
âIf you say sorry⌠I swear Simon.â
He laughs softly, âI know, I know. Iâm sorry- shit- sorry. Fuck. Iâll just stop talking now, yeah?â
Giving Simon Riley the silent treatment during sex (18+)
You are drunk and pissed all because Simon decided it was time to leave the bar. He threw you over his shoulder, patted your ass, told you that you have had way too much to drink and walked out like nothing was unusual about the scene. On the way home, you sat angled towards the window, giving him the silent treatment, and every time he tried to touch your thigh you dramatically pushed his hand away and huffed in annoyance.
Such a brat.
Simon knows exactly how to take care of his bratty lady, which is why the second the two of you walk into your shared apartment, heâs throwing you over his shoulder and walking towards the bedroom.
What he doesnât see is the sly smile spreading across your face when you think of the best way to fuck with him.
Youâre face down, cheek smooshed against the pillow, ass up, pussy bare to him behind you, and ready to get on with your evil plan. His hands find your hips, and he nudges his cock at your entrance. Your folds are soaking, glistening under the soft glow of your bedside lamp, and the second his tip pushes through your entrance, youâre biting your bottom lip and shoving your face even further into the pillow.
This will be harder than you thought.
A groan rumbles out from his chest, vibrating through your body, as his cock slides impossibly deep inside of your pussy. He knocks against your cervix, resting there to give you time to adjust, but he notices you not making even a single sound, not even moving a little bit and you usually are trying to squirm away from him right about now.
He tilts his head to the side in confusion, sliding his cock back out, and thrusting back in once more just to make sure his eyes and ears arenât deceiving him. It knocks the air out of your lungs, it makes you want to run from his fat cock, but the alcohol sitting low in your belly gives you enough bratty will to keep up the act.
âWhat kind of game you playinâ at lovie,â he coos, rubbing one rough, calloused hand down the length of your back.
Simon rolls his hips against yours, his balls smacking against your clit ever so slightly, his cock stretching you out while your walls mold to his length. His hands spread your cheeks, watching the way your pussy swallows him with ease, watching the way slick leaks from your entrance and wets his skin.
âGotta fuck the brat outta ya or what?â
Simon isnât a man with much patience, although he has a lot more when it comes to you, but you are really pushing his buttons. When all you do is shove your face further into the pillow as he grinds his tip against your cervix, he knows what he has to do.
He grabs both your wrists, pulling your arms back towards him, forcing your face to lift from the pillows and he slams into you with one deep, rough thrust. Your mouth falls open instantly, a moan ripping free from your throat, and tears well up in your eyes from the force of his cock bullying your insides.
âSi⌠f-fuck- âs too m-much,â you whine, squirming your hips against him, trying to pull your arms from his grasp because you know heâs about to fuck you as punishment.
âThere ya are. You can take it, canât you lovie?â
And just as you thought, his pace becomes impossibly fast, his cock sliding in and out of your pussy with little effort from how wet you are. Moans and whimpers fall free from your lips, your breathing coming in short, ragged gasps as every thrust knocks the air out of you, and you canât help but arch your back and silently beg for more.
âFeels good, donât it? Thought you could get away with that when youâre this wet and tight around me,â he says, voice low and rough, his thrusts only picking up speed the more sounds pour into his ears from you.
The veins and ridges of his cock slide through your walls, filling you up to the brim, leaving no parts inside of you empty for too long. He pulls out and your pussy tries to drag him back in, he pushes all the way in and your pussy clamps down on his as if it never wants him to leave. He laughs quietly, watching your resolve crumble under a few hard thrusts, and he angles his hips with precision to hit every last spot you have.
âSo g-good,â you manage to mumble out, your words cut off by an obscene moan.
He fixes his grip on your wrists when your skin grows warm and sweaty, keeping you in the perfect position with your ass arched and mouth uncovered. His balls slap against your clit, your body jerks from the sensation, and you feel the heat pooling in your lower belly faster than usual.
âYeah? What about here,â he coos just before angling his cock right up against your sweet spot.
Stars burst behind your eyelids, and your climax immediately crashes over you. Cum gushes from your entrance, leaking out around his cock, dripping down his skin and onto the soft sheets below. Your pussy pulses around his length rhythmically, clenching down tight over and over again until your body begins to jerk with overstimulation as he rides out your high for as long as possible.
âSi⌠canât t-take it,â you stutter, trying to catch your breath, but his pace never once let up on your poor pussy.
âOh câmon. Give me one more.â
He drops your wrists, watching as your fingers curl into the fabric below you, and his arm slides around your waist. He presses against your lower belly, groaning from the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of you so deep before two fingers find your clit and begin to rub fast, tight circles onto the sensitive bundle of nerves.
Your face is smooshed against the pillow once more, but this time, moans and whines fall from you. Your eyes are shut tight, tears stain your cheeks, and your mouth hangs open ever so slightly as drool drips from your chin while Simon fucks you dumb. All the sensations bring you close to the edge again for a second time: his fingers against your clit, his cock rubbing your walls raw.
âGo ahead. Cum on my dick again, yeah? Be a good girl for me,â he coos, pounding into you faster, harder, deeper, anything to make you feel good.
His voice rumbles through you, landing right in the heat pooling in your lower belly the same as before, and you cum all over his cock for the second time tonight. Cream coats the base of him, each thrust spreading it further along his length, and he begins to drive himself towards his own release.
âSo good fa me⌠gonna make me cum so deep in my lady.â
âPlease, Si. Cum in m-me,â you beg, looking back over your shoulder, watching him fuck you relentlessly.
Spreading your cheeks apart, he watches your wet pussy suck him in, and with a guttural groan and a few more thrusts, heâs spilling his seed so deep inside of you. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out against your cervix with every twitch of his cock, filling you to the brim and leaking out when thereâs no room left for anymore. It drips down your thighs, pooling with your own on the sheets below, and when his movements come to a stop he collapses on top of you.
He kisses the soft skin of your shoulder as he catches his breath, his warm, slick skin against your own, his hands roaming up and down your sides while his thumb draws slow, comforting circles. You melt into the bed, feeling satisfied, and sleepy with his weight on you.
Simon stands and walks to the bathroom, running a rag under warm water before bringing it to you and wiping up the mess he left. Tossing it into the laundry basket, he slides into bed beside you and pulls you into his chest where you instantly fall asleep and the bratty attitude is gone just like that.
âMasterlistâ
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Price who pins you down with that heavy meaty weight of his body, thick cock buried deep inside, stretching your cunt open so good just like he used to. Got one of your thighs shoved up against your chest, fingers digging into the soft spill of your flesh, slow grinding of his hips dragging broken whimpers out of your throat that you hate yourself for making.
Years. Fucking years he was gone, vanished like smoke, and the second you finally started piecing yourself back together, he showed up at your door with that same damn cigar between clenched teeth and (cruel) blue eyes that always saw too much.
âMissed this tight cunt,â he grunts, voice rough as honeyed gravel, beard scraping your neck as he bites down, sucking a fresh mark into your skin. âKnew youâd still open up for me.â
You whimper, fingers digging into his shoulders, half pushing him away and half pulling him closer. He feels it, chuckles low, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours as he grinds deeper, the fat head of his cock kissing that spot that makes your vision spark white.
âShh, easy love,â he murmurs, all honey and smoke, the manipulative bastard. One big hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing into your bottom lip to keep your mouth open for him, dirty fingers pushing down onto your slick tongue. âDonât fight it. You were never good at pretending you didnât need this.â and you hear the need me go unsaid, implied.
He pulls out almost all the way, just the tip stretching your slick hole, then slams back in hard enough to punch the air from your lungs. âLook at you. Already creaming on my cock again. Bet no one else could make you this wet, could they?â
His pace picks up, heavy balls slapping against you with every thrust, the wet obscene sound of it filling the room alongside your desperate gasps. Heâs watching your face the whole time- hungry, possessive, a little mean.
Trying so hard to ignore the look in his eyes that says he knows exactly how much he wrecked you when he left, and exactly how easily he can do it again.
He tried once- some lean bird with sharp hips and delicate wrist bones that looked like theyâd snap if he squeezed too hard. She was pretty in the way fragile things are: all long lines and hollow shadows. When he gripped her waist, his thick fingers overlapped easily, too easily, and the thought hit him like ice water: he could crush her if he forgot himself for even a second. When he buried himself deep, she gasped sharp and tight, her whole body tensing like it hurt more than it pleased, fighting to take the stretch of him. Every thrust felt like walking a razorâs edge, one wrong move from snapping her in half.
It left him cold. Detached. Fucking her was like handling fragile ordnance- too much awareness, too much restraint. Her flesh bruised too easily, blooming purple under his grip like overripe fruit splitting open in the summer heat if you squeezed just right. Her thighs shook from strain instead of pleasure, barely able to wrap around his waist without trembling.
There was no soft give when he pressed his full weight down, no warm overflow of flesh to sink into. Just sharp bone digging back at him, quiet winces she tried to hide behind bitten lips, and moans that sounded more like endurance than ecstasy. She didnât beg for harder. She just took it, eyes squeezed shut, surviving him.
And Simon Riley had spent too many years surviving on endurance already. He didn't want a body that reminded him of fragility every time he fucked it, one that made him feel like a brute, something dangerous that needed to be leashed. (Something that made him feel like his father.)
The first time he sank his fingers into your soft, overflowing hips, something deep in his chest unclenched like a rusted lock finally giving way. No brittle bones under his palms. No fear that one rough thrust would bruise or break you. Just warm, yielding flesh that took every brutal snap of his hips Cushion. Give. A body that could handle his full weight.
He loved the way your belly pressed soft and warm against him when he folded you in half, how your thick thighs tembled and squeezed around his waist. He liked burying his face between them, smothered in heat and softness while they shook and soaked his face.
You could take him, cock pounding so deep it punched the breath from your lungs and still look up at him with heavy lidded eyes and moan "Harder, Simon, please."
Heâd never say it out loud. Never explain the way your body made the constant roar in his head go quiet. But the truth was brutally simple:
Delicate things broke under his hands.
Soft, heavy, generous bodies didn't.
And Simon Riley was a man who needed something- someone- that could survive him.
hard of hearing!simon riley who comes home from a long op to you already mid-rant about your day, talking at full volume while you cook. He doesnât flinch at the noise like he does with everyone else. Instead his shoulders drop, he leans against the doorway, and just watches you with that unreadable stare. Youâre the only sound that doesnât make his head hurt.
hard of hearing!simon riley who leaves little notes on the counter when his hearing is especially shot, but still pulls you into his lap on the couch so he can feel your chest vibrate while you yap. He rests his good ear against you, eyes half-closed, letting your endless chatter and giggles rumble through him like a balm.
hard of hearing!simon riley who fucks you with one hand cupped behind your head, tilting your mouth right against his better ear. He wants every broken whimper, every loud âSimonâfuckâright thereââ, every single rambling praise you canât stop spilling while he pounds into you deep and slow.
hard of hearing!simon riley who flips you onto all fours and presses his chest to your back, mouth right behind your ear. He rails you with one hand gripping your jaw so your loud, desperate moans go straight into his better ear. âLouder,â he grunts every time your voice starts to crack. âNeed to hear you fall apart.â
hard of hearing!simon riley who discovers he can make you scream by curling his thick fingers just right while eating you out. He sucks on your clit and pumps two fingers deep, eyes locked on your face as you yap and cry and moan loud enough that the neighbors probably hate you. He doesnât care. The louder you get, the harder he works you until youâre gushing on his tongue.
hard of hearing!simon riley who fucks you against the wall with your legs wrapped around his waist. He keeps one hand behind your head so your face stays buried against his neck and shoulder. Every time you moan and babble right into his good ear he slams into you harder, chasing that perfect pitch in your voice when youâre about to cum.
hard of hearing!simon riley who, on nights when the tinnitus is brutal, puts in earplugs on purpose just to heighten everything else. He fucks you in complete silence for him â only feeling the slap of skin, the way your body vibrates with every loud moan, your nails raking down his back. When he finally yanks the plugs out and your wrecked, screaming orgasm floods his ear, he cums instantly, burying himself to the hilt with a broken groan.
hard of hearing!simon riley who keeps you plugged full of his cock after he cums, lying on top of you while youâre still yapping sleepily. Youâre mumbling about how full you feel, how much you love when he fucks you stupid, how his cum is leaking out already â soft, cockdrunk rambling right against his ear. He stays buried inside you, eyes closed, letting your voice lull the ringing away until he falls asleep.
hard of hearing!simon riley who starts waking you up with his head between your thighs just so the first thing he hears in the morning is your loud, surprised moan turning into endless yapping as he works you open with his tongue and fingers. Best sound in the world.
You can't prove it, but someone has been in your apartment
Stalker/Serial Killer!Simon x Reader.
You can't breathe.
The rain is preventing it, filling the space between your mouth and the sky so that every breath you drag in is half air and half water, and your lungs are working at a deficit, pulling overtime.Â
You're running. You've been running. And it feels the way running feels in dreams, the legs churning, the ground stretching, the distance between you and anywhere safe expanding with every stride like the earth is being fed through on a belt beneath you, and no matter how hard you push it is not enough. It has never been enough.
The rain has soaked through everything. Your shirt is a second skin, plastered to the curve of your spine, dragging at your shoulders, heavy and sodden, pulling at the hem. Your joggers are worse. Waterlogged from the thighs down, clinging to the backs of your knees, catching with every stride so that each step is between momentum and drag.Â
You're still in your slippers- your fucking slippers- because you didn't have time for shoes, didn't have time for anything except the door and the stairs and the rain, and the soles are tearing apart against the wet ground. Every stone and root and divot rips through what's left of them. The cold stopped being pain a while ago. Now it's just absence. Your feet belong to someone else.
The field behind your apartment building is open and dark and the grass is slick and knee high in places, whipping against your shins as you crash through it, and somewhere behind you something is moving at a pace that doesn't match yours.
You're sprinting. The thing behind you is not. The thing behind you is covering the same ground at a walk, maybe a jog, the unhurried gait of something that understands the end of the pursuit better than you do: that your speed is borrowed from adrenaline and adrenaline has a half life and the distance between you is a loan you're taking out against a body that will come to collect.
The tree line. You can see it in the lightning, ragged dark mass, oak and ash and whatever else grows in the scrubby, unloved patch of urban woodland the city council hasn't developed yet. You've walked past it. You've never been inside it.
The dark between those trees is absolute and unknowable and you are running toward it anyway because the open field is killing you. Open means visible. Visible means found.
You hit the trees and the world changes.
The rain doesn't stop but it fractures, breaking against the canopy and reaching you in fat, cold drops that fall from leaves instead of sky, landing on the back of your neck.
The ground goes soft. Mud swallowing your foot to the ankle on the first step, the earth making a sound around your slipper that is wet and when you wrench free the shoe stays behind. You keep going. Barefoot on one side, the mud pressing between your toes.
You can't see. The canopy hides the lightning. What was blue white and blinding in the field becomes a dim, grey flicker in here, enough to show you shapes, trunk and branch, before the dark closes back over.
You navigate by collision. Bark under your palms as you bounce off trees you don't see until you're hitting them. Your shoulder clips an oak hard and something tears and you catch yourself on a low branch and the bark strips the skin from your palm in a hot, wet line, blood bubbling between fingers, and you keep moving.
Behind you, a branch breaks.
Something heavy stepping on something small, and the crack travels through the trees with a clarity that cuts through the rain and the thunder and lands in the base of your skull like a nail. You don't turn around. Turning around means slowing down.
A root catches your foot- the bare one, the one with no slipper- and you go down hands first, and the mud is cold and deep and your fingers sink into it to the second knuckle and the impact jars through your wrists and into your shoulders and your chin catches a root knuckle and the pain is bright, a flare of white behind your eyes, a copper bloom across your tongue where your teeth meet the inside of your cheek. You're on your hands and knees in the mud and the rain is hammering the canopy above you and the thunder rolls through the ground beneath your palms.
You push yourself up. Your hands slip. The mud gives and doesn't give back and your arms are shaking, not fear, not just fear, but the muscles beginning to fail, the glycogen stores emptying, the body starting to make panicked desperations your brain won't: how much farther, at what cost, for how long.
You get up. You run.
The woods thicken. The trees are closer together now and you're weaving between them with a gait that's barely controlled, pinballing off bark with your forearms raised to protect your face, and the branches catch you everywhere else, across the collarbone, the bicep, the soft skin at the inside of your wrist, leaving lines of heat that surface as welts, thin red marks that swell and sting in the rain.
Your bare foot finds something sharp. Glass, maybe, or a stone with an edge, and the pain blooms upward from the arch and you feel the skin open and the heat of blood mixing with the cold of mud and you don't stop. You can't stop.
The trees thin. You stumble out of the dense growth and into a gap in the canopy where a tree came down years ago. Rain returns full and direct, hammering the crown of your skull and running into your eyes. The ground is more leaf litter than mud. Your feet find traction for the first time in minutes.
You stop.
Not because you decide to. Because your body stops. The quadriceps seize, the calves lock, and you stand in the centre of the clearing bent double with your hands on your knees and your mouth open and the rain pouring down your face and into your gasping mouth, and the sound of your own breathing is the loudest thing in the world, ragged, wet, the desperate bellow pump of lungs operating past their margin.
You listen.
Rain on leaves. Thunder, further now, rolling east. Wind in the upper canopy, moving through the branches with a long, low hiss. The drip of water from a broken trunk to your left, rhythmic, metronomic, almost soothing.
No footsteps. No branches breaking. No displacement of air or weight behind you. The woods are empty. The dark between the trees is just dark. You turn, slowly, a full rotation, and every shadow is a shadow and every shape is a tree and the clearing is a clearing and you are alone in it.
The seconds pass. Ten. Twenty. The thunder moves further east and the lightning becomes occasional, distant, a flicker on the horizon rather than a detonation overhead. The rain eases from hammering to steady.
The breath comes out of you.
Not a sigh. Something deeper, something that originates in the locked down muscles of your lower back and travels upward through the ribs and the shoulders and the clenched, aching vice of your jaw. Your hands unclench and the tendons in your fingers straighten with the slow, creaking reluctance of something that's been locked too long, and your shoulders drop a quarter inch, and the shaking changes, less adrenaline, more cold, the tremor shifting from survival to exposure, and you straighten up and push the wet hair off your face and you breathe. In. Out. The rain is cold and clean and tastes like nothing and you stand in it and let it hit you.
You're out. You're alone. Whatever was behind you is gone, lost in the trees and the dark and the rain, and you're going to find the edge of the wood and a road and a light and-
The hand comes from behind you.
It covers your mouth and nose in a single motion, a seal, the palm wide enough to close over the entire lower half of your face with no gap, no sliver of clean air, and the cloth against your skin is wet and cold and sweet in a way that is immediately, viscerally wrong. The other arm locks around your waist, and your back meets his chest and the air leaves your lungs in a scream that doesn't make it past the cloth.
His cock is hard. Pressed against the base of your spine, unmistakable, the obscenity of it, that this is arousal, that the chase and the catching and the feel of your soaked body pinned against his is doing something to him. His breathing doesn't change. That's the worst part. The breathing stays steady, metered, controlled, even as the evidence of what this is doing to him presses against you with a bluntness that is almost conversational, almost casual, like a fact stated without shame: this is what you do to me. This is what catching you does to me.Â
His arm around your waist tightens, a fractional shift of pressure that brings your hips flush against his, and the adjustment is small and deliberate and possessive in a way that has nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the specific, private, unhurried pleasure of a man pressing a caught thing closer because he can.
The cloth stays where it is. The chemical is sweet and heavy and it's in every breath now, saturating the fibres, filling your sinuses, coating the back of your throat with a taste like overripe fruit left in a closed room.
Your hands are on his forearm, both of them, gripping, pulling, nails digging into skin that doesn't give, and the strength in the arm is not reactive, not straining, just there. Your feet are sliding in the mud and you're pushing backward, trying to use his weight against him, but his weight doesn't move and your weight is leaving you, draining out through the soles of your feet.
Your knees soften, the tension that holds you upright dissolving. The chemical is fast. Faster than it should be, which means the concentration is high, which means the dosage was calculated, which means someone did the math on your body with an accuracy that implies knowledge of measurements you've never shared with anyone.Â
Your arms drop, fingers uncurling from his forearm one by one like petals off a dead flower, and your hands hang at your sides and your weight shifts backward into him and he takes it. He takes all of it. The arm around your waist becomes the only thing left in your body, the single point that keeps you vertical while everything else goes soft and dark and far away.
The rain is still falling but it sounds like it's happening to someone else, in a room you've already left. The thunder is just vibration. His chest behind you is just warmth. The cloth is just cloth and the chemical is just a taste now, fading, everything fading, the clearing going grey at the edges and then dark and then nothing, and the last sensory information your brain processes before the dark takes the rest is not the storm or the cold or the pain in your foot or the blood on your chin.
It's the smell of cigarette smoke. Old, stale, ground into the skin of the hand over your mouth- the same smoke that you swore you could smell inside your flat for weeks. And underneath it, faint, almost imagined: your own shampoo. On his skin. In the creases of fingers that have been inside your home, your bathroom, your bedroom, opening and closing around objects that belong to you with the slow, ritualistic patience of a man cataloguing a collection he hasn't finished building.
The dark doesn't fall. It rises. Up from the ground, up through your feet, up through the muscles and the bones and the blood, filling you from the bottom like a vessel being submerged, and the last thing you feel is his mouth against the crown of your head and then the vessel fills and the dark closes over the top and there is nothing left of you that is yours.
Simon Riley lifts you out of the mud.
The storm covers the sound.
No one sees him leave.
***
Several weeks agoâŚ
Finding your address takes Simon Riley eleven minutes. Â
You donât exactly do anything to hide your social media presence after all. Two photographs from your public account, backgrounds cross referenced. A corner shop's CCTV feed he shouldn't have access to and does and he has everything he needs. The flat number. The floor. Which windows are yours.
He parks the truck across the street one evening and doesn't move it for three nights. Doesn't need to. Does it anyway. Watches your lights. Learns the routine of your evenings- when you eat, when you shower, when the last light goes out. Flies it all away, memorized completely, until it's as indistinguishable from the air.Â
He waits until he sees you leave for your shift. Watches the way you pull the door, checks the handle twice, a thing you probably don't know you do. Watches until you round the corner and are gone.
Then he crosses the street.
The lock takes nine seconds.
(Wet ground. Gravel digging into a bleeding back. A sky the colour of poured concrete, no depth, no distance, just grey pressing down. The sound his own breathing made when the next one becomes a question of âifâ not âwhenâ.)Â
The flat smells like vanilla lotion and laundry still holding warmth from the dryer and coffee that brewed hours ago and hasn't fully left the air. He stands in the doorway for a moment longer than he needs to. Just breathing it. Then he closes the door behind him, cock twitching, heat pooling low, infatuated hunger.
He moves through the living room slowly. No urgency. Your place is small, everything in reach of the sofa, everything angled towards comfort for a person who comes home tired and wants to stop. An empty mug on the coffee table, lipstick on the rim. He picks it up. Holds it for a moment, turns it in his hands, brings the stained edge to his face and runs his tongue across the porcelain.
Sets it back in the ring of condensation it left.
(Pressure. Hands. Small, delicate. Pressing down. Warm against his skin.)
The bookshelf. He runs a finger along the spines without pulling anything until he finds the one with the broken spine, the cracked glue of a book read too many times in the same place. He opens to the bookmarked page. Reads filthy words about a man taking what he wanted. Hums when he imagines you touching yourself, fingers sinking into your cunt while you fantasize about strong hands pinning you down.Â
Every room feeds the obsession and heâs rock hard by the time he reaches your bedroom, the air thicker here, soaked in your scent. The bed is unmade on one side only, the pillow still holding the impression of your head, the duvet pushed back, the small evidence of a morning abandoned to the alarm. He stands beside it and looks at it for what is probably too long and then he steps inside.Â
(You hadn't spoken to him the way people speak to someone who might be dying. No performance of calm. No hollow reassurance. Just looked down at him like his death was just a minor inconvenience in your day.)
He finds the vibrator tucked inside your nightstand, still faintly sticky. A low, guttural groan rumbles in his chest. Naughty thing, fucking yourself after a long day. He turns it on for a second, the quiet buzz making his cock strain against his pants, before switching it off and returning it as if he was never there.
He opens the hamper, his own little treasure chest, and finds a worn pair of your panties- soft cotton, crotch still damp and stained with your slick, makes his mouth water. He brings them to his nose and huffs deeply, eyes rolling back.Â
(Stay with me. Maybe you said it. Maybe he built it later. Memory at the margins of consciousness is unreliable, the brain filling negative space with what it needs. But the hands he would know. Would know the specific weight and purpose of them anywhere.)
âFuckâŚ,â he mutters, voice rough and depraved, takes a step backwards, then another, another, until heâs sitting on your unmade bed. He lays down, presses his face into your pillow, grinds hips until heâs rutting against your bedsheets, imagining you beneath him.Â
Pulls out his thick drooling cock, veins pulsing on the underside, and fucks your pillow hard enough that the headboard taps onto your wall. Imagines your face right there, flushed and needy, lips pulled wide around the head of it, so pretty under him, taking every inch down your throat every night. Pre smears across the fabric and his breath comes heavier, more animalistic, huffing your panties again, again as he chases the high.Â
(You hadnât looked scared of him. He remembers that specifically. Whatever youâd seen when you found him- the mask, the gun, the scars- youâd moved past it in about a second and a half. Inconvenient details. Not your problem.)
The pressure builds fast. He grabs the bottle of lotion from your night stand, the one you slather on your soft skin every night- He wants his teeth in that skin. Wants to bite down to the bone and hold on- and unscrews the cap with shaking hands.Â
At the last second he pulls his cock off your pillows, presses the swollen head onto the bottle and cums, ropes spurting heavy. He milks every drop, stroking himself through the aftershocks, watches his cum mix with the bottle youâll use later, rub onto your skin without even knowing, carry him with you.Â
(The way you'd sighed through your nose. Not fear. Not shock. Just the exhale of a person whose evening had just become more complicated and who was already calculating the cost.)Â
He straightens up.
Tucks his dick away. Buttons his trousers. Stands in the centre of your bedroom for a moment, just looking- the pillow, the nightstand, the lotion bottle returned to its exact position- and something in his chest settles.
He checks the room once. Twice. Leaves nothing out of place. Tucks your panties in his pocket and leaves.
(Civilian hands. No calluses in the right places, no muscle memory of this. Tearing fabric without being asked to. Figuring it out as you went.)
He lets himself out. Pulls the door closed behind him until the latch clicks soft. Stands in the corridor for a moment, existing in spaces he was never invited into.
Lights a cigarette on the way down the stairs.
He doesn't smoke it inside.
He's not a fucking animal afterall.Â
***
The man outside the pub doesnât know Simon Riley exists.Â
Thatâs fine. Thatâs usually how it goes.Â
He's been watching him long enough to understand what kind of man he is. The type. Broad in the shoulders and soft in the middle, who moves through the world with the loose, unexamined confidence of someone who had never once been made to feel small. The kind who followed women to their cars and called it a compliment. Who'd saw you existing after a late shift and had decided that constituted an introduction.
Simon had watched him outside the chippy a week ago. Had watched you clock him from twenty feet out, the way your pace adjusted, fractional, barely perceptible (How loud. How fast. How much trouble.) Had watched the man's hand close around your wrist for just a moment, fingers wrapping with the casual presumption of someone who had done this before and found it went fine, before you'd pulled free and he called you a fat bitch in response.Â
(The torch in your teeth while both hands worked. The angle of your head. Completely absorbed. He'd been a problem to be solved and you were solving him and the indignity of it had been the most alive he'd felt in years.)Â
You hadn't reported it. Simon had waited three days to be sure, watching for the signs of someone who had- the variation in route, the hypervigilance, the particular flattened stillness of a person who has filed a thing and is waiting to see what happens to it. Nothing. You'd absorbed it and kept moving.Â
He understood that too, in a way he couldn't have put language to, couldnât have articulated.
He follows the man from the pub at closing. Last out, loud with his friends until he isn't, splitting off at the corner with the bac slapping ease of men who don't think about walking home alone at night because they never have to. He navigates with the rolling gait of someone three pints past sensible, loose in the joints, nodding to himself about something, unbothered.
The night is cold and damp, the pavement still wet from earlier rain, the street lamps doing that particular thing they do where they light the ground directly under them but not the spaces between.Â
The man doesn't look up. Doesn't look behind him.
(You'd told him to stay still in the tone of someone who expected to be listened to. He had- god he had- a soldier through and through.)Â
The man makes a sound, at the end. They usually do. Something small and bewildered, the realization a person makes when they understand all at once that the night has a different direction than they thought it would go. Simon holds on until the understanding passes.
Then he steps back.
(The quality of your silence. Not frightened silence. Not careful silence. Just⌠you had nothing to say, so you said nothing. He hadn't known what to do with that for weeks.)Â
The van is parked at the alley's far end. Simon had left it there this afternoon. He'd known, by then, how the evening would go.
The man is breathing when Simon puts him in the back. Zip ties at the wrists, tape across the mouth, a canvas hood that smells like other jobs in the city. Simon closes the doors without urgency.
He drives for forty minutes.
The lockup is on an industrial estate that stopped being used for anything legitimate around 2019, the kind of place that gets planning notices taped to the fence for months before anyone acts on them. Simon has used it several times before. It has a drain in the floor and the walls are thick enough.
(At some point youâd sat back on your heels and just waited. Watched the wound. Your breathing had been even throughout. His hadnât.)
The man is awake by the time Simon drags him out of the van. Awake and making sounds behind the tape. His eyes above the tape are blown wide. Simon looks at them for a moment.
Finds he has nothing in particular to say as he drags him inside and straps him down.
It's quiet work. It always is.
(Afterwards, you wiped your hands on the back of your jeans, methodical. Then youâd stood up and that had been that.)
Checks his hands. His jacket. Rolls his neck once, the vertebrae popping in a slow sequence from the base up. His breathing hasn't changed. It never does, the body learned a long time ago that this doesn't warrant elevation, settled it into the same category as any other task completed, any other problem resolved.
He looks at whatâs left of the man for a moment; eyes above the tape still blown, chest still instead of panicked, a body now and not a person.
And finds he has no particular feelings about it.
(Left without waiting to see if he'd be alright. He'd watched you go from the ground. Decided something then that he hadn't put words to until later.Â
Hadn't needed to.)
***
PresentâŚ
The first thing that comes back is smell.
Cold metal. Old damp. Something chemical underneath it, industrial cleaner, thick and lives in the back of the throat and doesn't leave when you swallow.
The second thing is the surface beneath you.
Not soft. Not a bed. Something hard and flat and slightly raised at the edges, the metal seams pressing into your shoulder blades and the backs of your thighs through your wet clothes, and the cold of it has been working its way into you long enough that you can't feel the distinction between the table and your own skin anymore. Just cold. Just hard. Just the weight of a body that hasn't been moved in a long time.
You open your eyes.
The ceiling is wrong.
High. Concrete. A single bulb on a wire, the light it throws pooling down onto you in a jaundiced circle and leaving everything past its edge in deep, pressurised dark. Something hangs from the rafters. You blink. Focus.
Chains. Heavy gauge, looped through iron rings bolted into the beam above you, hanging in loose coils, some ending in hooks, some ending in nothing. Just chain. They catch the light in segments. They don't move.
You sit up.
Too fast. The room tilts, the chemical still moving through your blood in slow pulls, your vision lagging behind your head by a half second, and you put both palms flat on the table and look at your hands and think: table. You're on a table.
You look down at it.
Metal. Stainless steel, or close enough. Dull with use and age. A drain at one end and channels running toward it, worn smooth, the edges of them a colour the rest of the surface isn't.
The walls.
You make yourself look at the walls.
Covered. Arranged, and that's the thing that takes a moment to process, that it isn't chaos, that there is a system here and someone maintains it. Metal implements on pegboard hooks. Shapes you have names for and shapes you don't. Coils of rope hung in neat loops. A length of heavy plastic sheeting folded into a rectangle with creased edges. Zip ties in three sizes on three separate hooks.
Your brain moves through it. Moves past it. Files it somewhere it isn't going to open right now.
You get off the table.
Your bare foot touches the concrete floor and the cold shoots upward through your ankle and you remember the wood and the root and the skin opening on the arch and you look down. Someone has wrapped it. Gauze, tight and clean. You stare at it for a moment longer than makes sense.
You wrap your arms around yourself. Your clothes are still damp, stiffening now as they dry wrong against your skin, and the cold is bone deep and total.
Somewhere behind you, a door opens.
You turn.
He's bigger than the room should allow for. That's the first coherent thought- not fear, or not only fear, but the lizard brain focusing on the right thing or the wrong thing or the only thing that matters in that half second delay. Tall. Broad. The balaclava still on, the eyes above it catching the yellow light. He's not moving fast. He's not moving with urgency at all. He steps inside and closes the door behind him and stands there for a moment, looking at you.
You say nothing.
He says nothing.
The chains hang in the space between you. The drain sits at the edge of your vision. The table presses cold against the backs of your thighs and you are standing in the middle of all of it in stiff damp clothes with a wrapped foot and a mouth that tastes like chemicals and copper and your heart in your chest is doing something loud and relentless that you are not going to think about right now.Â
He takes a step toward you.
You take one back and your hip catches the edge of the table and you stop, your hands coming up not quite in front of you, not a fighting stance, just the instinctive, trying to make yourself account for the space it needs.
He stops. Looks at your hands. Looks at your face. Something in the set of his shoulders changes, a small adjustment, a fraction of something releasing that you couldn't have explained if asked.Â
"Sat up on your own." His voice is low. Manchester flat, the vowels worn down, consonants that don't waste themselves. The voice of someone for whom speaking is a tool and not a pastime. "Good."Â
You stare at him.
"Where am I." Not a question. The grammar of a question with the punctuation of a statement, because some part of you has already decided that the answer is less important than the act of speaking, of making the room contain your voice as well as his.
He looks around the space briefly. Back at you.
"Somewhere no one's lookinâ fer you."
"That's not an answer." The chains catch a draft from somewhere and shift, a soft metallic sound, barely there. You don't look at them. You keep your eyes on him and your hands where they are and your back against the cold edge of the table and you breathe.
In. Out.
"No," he agrees. He says it without apology, without particular interest in your objection. Just a fact acknowledged and set aside.Â
The rain outside hammers the corrugated roof in waves, loud then quiet then loud again, and the single bulb swings a half inch in the draft and the shadows move and then settle.
He takes another step toward you.
You don't move this time.
"You wrapped my foot," you say.
He says nothing.
"Why."
He looks at you for a long moment. The pale eyes move over your face with the same unhurried attention he brought to the room, to the door, to everything. Like assessment is just how he exists in the world. Like everything he looks at is being filed.
"Didn't need it gettinâ infected."
"You chloroformed me in the woods."
"Mmm."
The flatness of it. Not defensive. Not guilty. Just the confirmation of a man who sees no contradiction between the two facts and isn't going to pretend otherwise.
Your hands are still between you. You lower them slowly. Not because you've decided anything. Just because holding them up is starting to feel like a performance for an audience that isn't here.
"What do you want," you say.
He takes another step. You stay where you are this time, hip against the table, and he stops close enough that the space between you is no longer large. Close enough that you can see the pale of his eyes properly now, the way they haven't moved off your face since he came through the door.
"You know what I want," he says.
Your heart does the loud thing again.
"I don't," you say. "I don't know you."
Something moves across his expression. Not quite a smile. The ghost of something that might have been one in different circumstances, on a different face.
"You've known fer months."
The rain. The chains. The single bulb throwing its yellow circle down onto both of you now, the shadows pressed back to the edges of the room.
You look at him.
He looks at you.
The table is cold against the backs of your thighs and the gauze on your foot is tight and professionally done and the room smells like metal and old damp and somewhere underneath all of it, faint and almost imagined, cigarette smoke.
You don't say anything.
Neither does he.
The silence stretches, thick and charged, until the air between you feels like it might snap. The single bulb sways overhead, dragging yellow light across the sharp cut of his jaw beneath the balaclava, across those pale eyes that havenât left your face once. Heat rolls off his massive frame in waves, bleeding into the cold of the room, into the cold of your soaked clothes, until your skin prickles with it.
Your heart slams against your ribs like it wants to crawl out and hand itself over. The metal table bites into the backs of your thighs, the gauze on your foot is tight pressure, but none of that matters when he finally moves.
One big hand curls around your wrist, rough calluses scraping over your racing pulse. His thumb strokes once, like heâs tasting the fear and the want underneath it and then he lifts you like you weigh nothing and slams your back down onto the table.Â
The impact jars through your spine, cold steel shocking against your skin as your soaked shirt rides up and your joggers bunch at your hips. Heâs on you in the next breath, caging you completely, the thick, heavy ridge of his cock grinding hard against your cunt through the wet fabric.
You gasp- half protest, half broken moan and his mouth crashes down on yours, claiming, devouring. The balaclava is shoved higher now, just enough for his lips and teeth and tongue to bite through your skin, blooming blood against your tongue. He tastes like stale tobacco and rain, and he kisses like heâs starving, tongue fucking into your mouth in time with the harsh, obscene roll of his hips.Â
His cock is massive even through his trousers- thick, burning hot, the fat head already leaking and smearing precum against the soaked seam of your joggers.
One massive hand shoves under your shirt, palm rough and scalding as it palms your breast, callused thumb dragging over your nipple until itâs aching and peaked. He pinches hard, twisting just enough to make you arch and whimper into his mouth, tears splashing down your cheeks and then heâs yanking your joggers down your thighs, wet fabric catching at your knees; he doesnât bother pulling them off all the way. Just rips them down far enough to bare your dripping cunt to the cold air.
âFuckinâ hell,â he breathes, pulling back just enough to look. Two thick fingers drag through your folds, spreading the slick mess, circling your swollen clit until your hips jerk helplessly. âSoakinâ already. Knew youâd be a greedy lil thing fer me.â
He frees his cock with his other hand, the thick, veined length springing out heavy and flushed dark, the head glistening with precum, a fat drop beading at the slit.Â
Itâs obscene how big he is, how it throbs in his fist as he strokes himself once, twice, smearing the wetness. Then heâs lining up, the blunt head nudging against your entrance, stretching you open before he even pushes in.
Your eyes widen, panicked. âWait-!â
He drives in, bottoming out in a single stroke that punches the air from your lungs in a high pitched whine. The stretch is vicious, burning, your walls forced wide around the thick girth of him until you feel every vein, every ridge dragging against your insides. A broken cry tears from your throat as he bottoms out, tears spilling, balls heavy and tight against your ass, the head of his cock kissing so deep you swear you feel it in your throat.
âChrist, thaâs it,â he groans, hips grinding deep, holding himself there so you can feel every inch of him pulsing inside you. âTakinâ every fuckinâ inch. Been dreaming about this tight cunt swallowinâ me whole.â
He starts to move slow at first, dragging out until just the fat head is stretching your entrance, then slamming back in so hard the table creaks beneath you.Â
Every thrust is wet and filthy, slap of skin on skin echoing off concrete walls, your arousal coating his cock and dripping down to soak the metal beneath you. His hips snap harder, faster, the thick head battering that spot inside you that makes white hot sparks explode behind your eyes.
Your hands fist in his jacket, nails digging in as he pounds into you. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head, the other grips your thigh, yanking it higher so he can drive even deeper. His mouth finds your throat, teeth sinking in.
Your orgasm crashes over you, walls clamping down around his cock so hard he snarls. Your back arches off the table, cunt gushing around him, soaking his balls and the metal beneath you as wave after wave rips through you.Â
Youâre crying out, shaking, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, and he fucks you through it, chasing his own release.
âFuck- good girl, squeezing me so fuckinâ perfect- â His rhythm stutters, turns sloppy and desperate. He buries himself one last time, grinding deep as his cock pulses and throbs inside you. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your cunt, spilling deep, so much it leaks out around his shaft and drips messily down your thighs onto the table.
He stays buried inside you, heavy and twitching, one hand sliding up to cup your tear streaked cheek almost tenderly. His thumb brushes the wetness away as his breathing slowly evens out.
The chains overhead sway softly in the draft, clinking like theyâre keeping count.
***
Several weeks agoâŚ
You canât prove it, but someone has been in your apartment.Â
You stand in the doorway of your own flat for a long moment. Coat still on. Keys in your hand.
Then you step inside and close the door behind you, and you don't change anything about your face.Â
You notice the mug first.
Not displaced⌠that would be too obvious, and whoever came through your door is not obvious. It's the ring. The condensation ring on the coffee table is wrong, slightly, the way a thing is wrong when it's been lifted and replaced by someone who understood the importance of replacing it but didn't account for the fact that you always set it down on the same quarter inch of worn lacquer, the same groove. You've been setting it there for two years. The ring is two millimetres off.
Your shampoo. The bottle on the shower shelf that you could swear was turned slightly. And underneath all of it, you stop in the middle of your bathroom and just stand there, breathing in something like cigarette smoke. Old. Ground into skin.
You are not scared. That's the thing you keep examining, turning over, looking at from different angles. You have every reason to be scared and the feeling that surfaces instead is something more likeâŚÂ recognition. The specific recognition of something that has been true for a while finally making itself legible. Someone has been watching you and the part of you that should be running is instead sitting very still and watching back.
You think about what kind of person does this as a matter of course.
You think about this more than you should.
(And then you stop thinking about it altogether when your landlord- the one with the master key and the habit of using it âaccidentallyâ when youâre showering or laying on the couch with your vibrator between your legs- goes missing on a Wednesday and turns up dead in a Birmingham car park on a Friday, and the police use words like opportunistic and random and you use no words at all, just stand at your kitchen window with your mug and watch the street below and breathe. And then the man from HR who cornered you in the stairwell stops showing up to work, and a week later someone finds him in a canal in Leeds with his wallet still in his pocket. And you stop thinking about it when the pervert who harasses women on the way to work and who rubbed himself against your ass for seven stops isnât on the bus one morning and doesnât get on it the morning after that either. You think âhuhâ and stop looking for the stories in the local paper after that)
You put this information somewhere quiet inside yourself and you close the door on it.
Then you make decisions.
The next morning you put on lipstick before your coffee. Not the lipstick you wear to work, the dark one you only put on when you're going somewhere worth the effort, a rich, specific red that leaves a clean mark on porcelain. You drink slowly. You set the mug down in its groove. You leave it on the table when you go. (Smeared now when you come back)
You buy a new book. Cracked the spine yourself, deliberately, over the place you wanted him to open to. Bookmarked the right page. (And the book mark is not exactly where you measured it when you put it in the pages, tucked down three millimeters more.)
The panties took more consideration. You stood in front of your drawer for a long moment, the particular cold logic of the thing settling through you. Then you put on the soft cotton ones, the worn pair, and you wore them for a full day, and you touched yourself in them until the gusset was soaked, and you left them near the top of the hamper. (Gone when you change out of your work clothes and go to throw them in the dirty laundry)
Rewards, you were beginning to think of them as, for the ledger that someone was keeping on your behalf, without your asking, without your knowledge of the specific terms, but not, you were becoming increasingly certain, without your participation.
You hadn't asked for any of it.
You hadn't not asked for any of it either.
This is the part you sit with. The part you turn over in the small hours when the flat is quiet and the street below has gone still and the cigarette smell has faded but not entirely left.
You are not innocent. You are not sure you want to be. You put on the lipstick and you left the mug and you walked close to the city drunk long enough that the message was legible, and three days later he ceased to be a problem.
The ledger exists. You are on it. The question you haven't answered- the question you keep not answering, keep setting aside- is whether you are the subject of it or the cause.
The night you saved his life is the night the ledger tips.
You don't think of it that way at the time. At the time it is simply a matter of logistics: a man bleeding out in the alley behind the Tesco Metro, the specific dark of blood, a wound that is going to kill him in four minutes if someone doesn't intervene, and you are there with your hands and your knowledge and the particular absence of panic that your colleagues have always found slightly unsettling in you.
You don't think about the balaclava. You don't think about the gun- empty, or he'd have used it- that you'd stepped over to get to him. You think about the wound and the pressure and the count.
Stay with me.
He lives. That's the metric.
Afterwards when the sirens got close and radio chatter from the paramedics were nearby, you stood up and wiped your hands on the back of your jeans and the calculation is already running somewhere below the level of words: he owes you something now. Not gratitude⌠you don't want gratitude, gratitude is soft and symmetric and what exists between you is neither. What exists is something that runs deeper than the ledger of your landlord and the others, something that reorganises the terms entirely and youâll take advantage of it for as long as heâll allow you and youâll reward him for it for as long as he does.
He watched you go.
You knew he was watching.
You didn't look back.
(And you do not let yourself think about what happens when crumbs stop being enough. When the man who has been living on the edges of your life decides the edges are no longer satisfying and wants th full thing, everything you can give to a man like him.)
The storm comes on a Thursday. You've been watching the weather for two days, the way the pressure dropped, the way the air went close and electric and tasted faintly of iron- meteorological preconditions for a power cut in this part of the city, the grid unreliable, the substation two streets over that goes out whenever the rainfall hits a certain rate.
You go to bed with your phone charged.
The lights go out at half past eleven.
The thunder is already overhead, close enough that the flash and the crack arrive almost together, and you sit up in the dark and breathe and wait for the backup on the hall light to kick in the way it usually does and it doesn't kick in this time, and the flat is completely dark, and then lightning fills the window for a single white second-Â
-and there is a shape in your bedroom that is not furniture.
The thought arrives lie lightning does: total, white, gone before you can hold it. Whether your name was always on the ledger too. Whether you were ever the one keeping it.Â
Your body moves off the bed, through the door, navigating your flat entirely by memory because the dark is total and the thunder swallows the sound of your feet and somewhere behind you something large and patient shifts its weight and doesn't rush, and that is the worst of it, the not rushing, because it means he already knows how this ends-
You hit the stairs. You hit the rain. Your slippers begin to fray.
You canât breathe.
artwork for this piece by the lovely @auberghyn Iâm crying it looks so pretty. The woman is actually me! I sent the artist pictures of myself and everything. It should not be used to indicate Readerâs race though! Go view her post for the uncensored version. :]
you know when men slap their dick on your pussy a few times before they put it in? i feel like the 141 each have their own ritual.
simon? he slaps with weight. his cock is heavy, girthy, and he sort of just lets it drop against you, wet, blunt smacks across your lips and clit until youâre slick enough that every smack sounds obscene and youâre whining for him to just put it in already.
price slides his. he doesnât tease so much as he just wants to watch his cock coat with your come. dragging the length of himself through your lips slowly, getting himself nice and wet until his fat head finally catches at your entrance on its own.
kyleâs the kind to feed you only the tip just to pull it out and drag the whole length of his cock up to your clit and back down, notches the head in again, pulls out, drags it back up. heâll get lost doing it too if you let him, ten-fifteen minutes of it.
johnny slaps your cunt with his cock because he likes to watch. eyes locked on the way you twitch every time it lands, bringing it down in quick, smacking succession. distantly wondering where the hell he left his phone.
John Price who insists the day starts with you dry humping his cock because you're easier to handle when you're worked up and whiny. "C'mon then, behave."
Vs
Simon Riley who gives sloppy kisses as his heavy hand guides your face to his raging morning wood. He even remembers to say please. "Luv, please. S'bloody painful."
summary: your boyfriend loves feeling the bulge he makes in your stomach
masterlist!
"this feel good, baby?" your boyfriend asks you, kissing your cheek. he was pounding menacingly in your pussy, absolutely abusing your precious cunt.
he had you in a mating press, your legs sat on his shoulders. his body completely rested on top of yours, the sound of his balls slapping your ass echoing throughout the room as he thrusted in and out of you. your moans sounded horrifying, almost like the man was harming you.
your pussy always had to stretch so much to fit simonâs cock, a large bulge printing your stomach.
simon was intoxicated. the sight of your stomach moving, knowing it was from his cock, made him all the more feral, pounding into your cunt even more, your little body shaking under his.
he moved a large hand to rest on the bulge, your eyes rolling at the feeling of him occasionally applying pressure. your toes were curling from the pleasure, your boyfriend bruising your poor cervix at this point. he wouldnât even let you have a little break!
the water works started, your body not knowing how else to respond to the stimulation.
âthaâs a good girl,â you boyfriend says, watching you come down from your orgasm.
you were certainly mistaken if you thought simon was done with you for tonight. he hasnât even cum yet!
you've been pawing at simon's bulge for the past few minutes, in awe of the way it reacts depending on how you touch him. when your fingers stroke delicately from base to tip, it gives a few twitches. when you cup his balls, he throbs. when you squeeze the shaft, pre-leaks out and soaks the gray cotton containing it. it's just so cute, it's as if it's got a mind of it's own.
a funny question for him to ask you, when it's clear you just want to play. he's been in this awful study of his for the past two hours, working on something you don't care to fake interest in. you just miss him, and you want attention. you've gotten bored of sitting on his knee and holding his hand, so you've slumped under his desk to play with his cock.
"nothin'." you respond coyly, eyes shining with fascination as you watch him grow and chub up in his shorts. you're glad it's so hot today. he never wears them unless it's too fucking hot for anything else. these are the shorts that "air out m'balls proper" as he says himself. he grunts and reaches down to adjust the fabric around them now that it's clinging to his cock.
"look at what y'did." he mutters to himself, shaking his head and nudging your head gently. "can't focus with you here. be a good girl and do something until 'm ready to pay attention to you, hm? fix this problem you caused."
you huff and look up at him from under the desk, pressing your cheek to his bulge. "why can't i take care of it now, si? i promise it'll be quick..."
simon scoffs at your faux-innocence, seeing right through you clear as day. sex with you can never be quick. once you get him started, he'll need at least two hours with you until he's satisfied. if you attempt a quickie his cock won't go down even after he spills his load.
he pinches his eyes shut and shakes his head slowly, trying to avoid eye contact with you or he'll blow his load in his pants. there's no other way out of this, he knows it. even if you suck him off or keep trying to palm him while he works, he won't be able to concentrate. the level of restraint he has for you is low. he shakes his head and spreads his legs, freeing his cock and letting it slap up against his belly, drooling translucent rivulets of slick out of his slit and down his thick length.
"fine then. have at it."
your eyes sparkle as they land on his cock, admiring how swollen and mouthwatering it looks, and you make quick work of shimmying off your panties and climbing up into his lap, excited to ride him silly on his office chair.
just another day of him giving you whatever the hell you want.
You couldn't help but giggle as Simon adjusted the sleek black frames on his nose for the umpteenth time this evening.
At 38, your boyfriendâ the infamous Ghost, skull-masked operative and all-around badassâhad finally admitted defeat to his aging eyes.
The glasses suited him, in a rugged, intellectual way, sharp lines framing those piercing brown eyes, making him look like a grumpy professor who'd just stepped out of a war zone.
"Oh my God, Simon, you look so cute!â you teased, lounging on the couch in your shared flat, a half-eaten pizza between you. "Like a total nerd. What next, a pocket calendar?"
He shot you a glare over the rim of his reading glasses, the ones he'd grudgingly picked up after squinting at mission briefs one too many times. "Watch it, lovie.â he grumbled, his deep voice laced with mock warning as he set the glasses aside.
But you didn't stopâoh no. Every time he reached for a book or fiddled with his phone, you just had to poke the bear..
"Nerd alert!" or "are you gonna grade my grocery list professor?â
It was playful, harmless even!
Until it wasn'tâŚ
âSi-â
"Not a word.â he growled, cutting you off as he flipped you onto your stomachâfull prone boneâone hand fisting your hair to tilt your head back, the other guiding himself in. He sank into you in one slow, deliberate thrustâstretching you wide, filling you to the hilt. You gasped, fingers clawing the sheets, but he didn't let up. His hips snapped forward, building a brutal rhythm, the kind that had your toes curling and your breath hitching.
"FuckâS-Si!" The words dissolved into a moan as he pounded deeper, his free hand pinning your hip, keeping you immobile under his weight. He was relentless, each thrust hitting deep inside you, making you mewl out. The glassesâstill onâslipped down his nose, but he didn't care, his focus was you unraveling beneath him.
You came first, hard and sudden, walls fluttering around him. "Tha's one.â he rasped, voice gravelly with strain, not slowing for a second.
He draped fully over you now, chest to your back, his breath hot against your ear as he rutted into you like a man possessed. Sweat slicked your skin, the bed creaking under the force. Your moans turned into incoherent babbling as the second orgasm built fast, coiling tight in your core.
He angled his hips just right, grinding against your g-spot with every plunge, his cock dragging out every pulse of pleasure. "Not so mouthy now, are ya?" he taunted, lips brushing your shoulder before he bit down, marking you.
The third climax hit like a wave, your body shuddering, vision blurring as you cried out his name. But he kept going, pace unyielding, fucking you through it until you were a trembling mess.
By the fourthâfourth?âyou were dumbstruck, mind hazy, body limp and oversensitive. He finally chased his own release, groaning low as he buried himself deep, spilling hot inside you. You felt every twitch, every aftershock, collapsing fully as he eased out and gathered you close.
After about twenty minutes, you managed a weak laugh. "Okay... not a nerd."
Simon smirked, adjusting his glasses with a smug glint. "Damn right."
