Aww, is someone feeling a little worn out, dear listener? Wouldn't it feel so nice to just let go of all of your worries, all of your stress and tribulations, everything that makes being a responsible adult so draining?
In this file, Vox gently takes you by the hand and helps you drift back through time, to a period of your life where colors were brighter, giggles were more plentiful, and the only choice that your mind had to make was what crayon to use to scribble into your favorite coloring book. You'll be lulled down into a soft sleepy trance, be asked nicely to help Vox pop your silly thoughts like bubbles, taught all about what makes that simpler softer stage of life so appealing and fun, and eventually be woken up with a nice 30-minute haze of sparkly sweet playtime wrapped around your mushy little mind.
This file deals with themes of regression, and therefore is free of any explicitly NSFW content.
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The day blisters over the motel pool. The sun shimmers soupy in the sky. Sweat draws up together and rolls from your scalp to your shoulders to the strings of your bikini.
You'd been strategic this morning, grabbing one of two pool shades. You weren't going anywhere, even if you needed to use the washroom and you were thirsting for something cold and icy. The ice would melt immediately in the dense heat but you wouldn't let it last long enough to get that far.
It's a dangerous sort of summer day, when the heat is a force of nature, pushing you. The idea of soaking up the sun and getting soused with drink is far too great a temptation. You didn't need to add in the beautiful man sitting across the pool in his own chair, the sun pouring down golden over his glistening brown skin. You'd spent the late morning eyeing him up behind your large sunglasses.
There's a mouth-watering bulk to his body; muscle taut under delicious fat. He looks like he eats his greens and then some. You'd cook him up big, hot suppers when it turns cool — gravy and sauces, buttery carbs, and perfect cuts of meat. He'd moan appreciatively, his mouth full of your cooking, eyes closed to absorb every morsel. You'd kiss the gravy off his beautiful mouth, lick butter from his teeth if you could. On a day like today, he'd come into your kitchen like a farmer, drenched in sweat and starving, ready to eat a huge plate of cold food, like a heavy potato salad and cold cuts sliced thin. You, in the kitchen, foot propped up on the other, smiling at him while he wolfs down your meals and chugs at his lemonade or iced tea, his throat working in earnest.
Your book, a pulpy paperback you'd grabbed from a gas station, is a wonderful cover for your ogling. You turn the pages to complete the theatrics of it all, but your body, saturated and buzzing with sugar-sweet liquor, is slowly transforming into a woman in heat.
Eventually, a younger family climbs out of the pool to go cool off in their air-conditioned room and eat some late lunch. A couple slips off, giggling, into their room.
You and the man are left alone, on opposite ends of the pool area, the hot-blue water stilling in between you. You sigh, laying the book face-down, and stand up. You grab the bottle of sunscreen, shake it, and squeeze a fat dollop into your palm. Rub both hands together slowly and then begin from your forearms, dark brown and radiant from sweat and sunscreen an hour ago, working the cream up into your shoulders. Throat tipped back, up to your ears, sending your dangling earrings swaying, and then down your neck, around to the nape. Another dollop, spread across the tops of your breasts where your bikini top is drawn together with string. Fingers splaying out under the string, lifting and shifting it, your breasts with it.
"Need a hand?"
You don't expect him to be English. Your fantasy burns into a new mirage of being in a small, rambling cottage, laying out cold ham and hard cheese; a ploughman's lunch for your sweating English farmer coming in from the croft. He smells like sheep's milk and stones and dirt, and you want him to wash up before he digs in. He'd take a clean rag, soak it under the cold running water, and wipe at his dirty throat, down to where his shirt opens at his chest.
"I'm doing just fine, thanks," you demur, smearing it across your tummy and tops of your thighs. If your thumbs drag at the bikini bottoms a little, so be it.
"You're missin' spots," he says leisurely, sprawling out in the lounger next to yours like a cat in a pool of sunshine, openly watching you behind his tinted sunglasses.
"Hm," you hum haughtily. Your fingernails are painted a cool cherry red, and you both watch as your fingers slide the lotion into the soft creases of your inner thighs where your flesh is plumpest. You wonder how hungry he really is. You're hot inside under his heavy gaze, but make no other sign of it.
Down to your toes, you work fastidiously, making a meal of it. When you glance over, you see that the man has gotten hard in his swim trunks, but his hands are laid out calmly on his thick, hairy thighs. Patiently waiting, for something.
As you finish, you stand back up and throw the bottle into his unsuspecting lap. He laughs abruptly in surprise, then hauls himself up. Instead of standing in front of him, you lie down on your own lounger.
He follows your cue, kneels down beside it, and puts some lotion in his big hands. You turn your face in the opposite direction of him, as coolly relaxed as ever. He huffs a short chuckle, and begins to drag his hands from the tops of your shoulders down your nape, across your shoulder blades.
"Undo them," you mutter boredly.
There's a slight hesitation, and then the strings at your neck and breastbone are released in sequence, his fingertips gliding across your skin.
More lotion, more drag, down your ribs to where the fat of your breast is plumped to the side. His hands are good, strong, sturdy. Every bit the farmer's hands holding his wife to fuck each night in their bed.
Down to your lower back, across the band of flesh above your bikini bottoms. He's not missing one single inch. You fight the squirm that your body wants to do, signalling the sites of interest for him to rove over. His hands massage and knead delightfully, and you sigh prettily into your towel.
Lower down now.
Cheekily, he undoes the side strings of your bottoms before you decide whether to tell him to or not. You inhale deeply, the anticipation suffusing through you like melted ice. One wayward finger of his will reveal that you've soaked your bikini bottoms.
He strokes over your ass, keeping the fabric mostly in place, and then, dreamily and hotly, his fingers tighten and shape your thighs, thumbs coming together as they encircle your flesh. The tips of his fingers are so close to your pussy, you hold your breath until he drags his hands up and off. Next thigh, same move. Back and forth until now you are twisting a little in your spot.
He makes a soft groaning sound, and then he moves on. He spends a longer time on your hamstrings, the damp underside of your knees, and the full curve of your calves. Ankles and feet to end.
You're wound tight and loosened all the same by the time he reties your bottoms and pats your ass firmly.
You fall asleep under the shade; wake up sometime later, the sun dipped low, casting its final beams on the motel room windows, hazy on the water. You're sweaty and overheated when you sit up, forgetting your top's still untied.
The pool area is empty. You dive into the water, which is unfortunately not cool enough to be refreshing anymore, but better than nothing. The sun disappears for good and you stay swimming, holding the heat at bay. You do some laps, then lay out on the shallow-end steps, listening to the rasping grasshoppers and buzz of cicadas. You have no desire to return to an empty motel room, alone and trapped in stale, recycled air.
"Got heatstroke, do ya?" The voice comes from above you. You open an eye to see the man standing so he's peering straight down at you. You can, almost, see up his shorts — different ones from earlier.
You shrug, picking at your nail. "Get me a drink then."
He wanders out of the pool area, comes back several minutes later with ice cold drinks for you both. He cracks them open and hands yours down to you, then sits down with his thick legs in the water.
You float back from him a little, taking a deep drink, using your big toes as your grounding force on the pool floor like some motel ballerina.
"Got a name?" He asks, a look on his face saying he doesn't really expect you to give one.
You do, but it's your middle name.
He gives you a big, earthy smile when he hears it. He leans back on his hands, elbows straight, legs lightly swishing. Watching you closely.
"So, where—"
"Can you hand me a smoke? From my bag." You point. He squints at you a little, then retrieves it. Sees your wet hands, lights it up for you. You toe your way to the edge of the pool and tilt your face all the way up.
He dutifully places the cigarette in between your lips, his gaze dark and low-lidded.
Then walks down into the pool, joining you.
You orbit one another like tentative lovers do, the string of teasing pulling and snapping tighter as your bodies circle, the radius getting smaller by tiny measures.
You drink and smoke, ignoring his questions about you until he gives up. He's getting restless. He begins to swim beneath the shadows and flickering neon from the motel sign, back and forth.
You idle between the shallow and deep end, watching him. Tracking him under the water until he resurfaces right in front of you. He looks delicious as he blinks off water, then rubs a hand down his face to disperse the rest. Shakes his hair a little. Then his arms are caging you in against the edge, his mouth lowering down to yours in increments.
His eyes are hot, dark with want, pinning you to the spot. Not waiting to hear your rebuttal.
You had none, anyway.
His lips are chlorine and beer and a smokiness you can't fully catch in your mouth. He plays with your mouth, teasing you open, his tongue meeting yours early. He's a pleasantly full mouth kisser, your heads tilting in tandem to accommodate one another, to find the groove of a good kiss. You're both making sounds up through your throats, a loop of noises that drive you both closer. His hand floats down into the water, and yanks the triangle cup of fabric down and away from your nipple.
His fingers are bold, tweaking and pinching while he mouths wetly at your neck, the spit and chlorine mixing. You gasp a little at the tug in your stomach from his fingers. "I wanna get my fingers inside you," he groans in your ear, sending a fizzy sensation through your body, anchoring in your pussy. "I wanna know how you taste." His hand curls against and cups you through the bikini bottom, and you push up against him tensely.
Logistics. Like sand poured over a fire.
You stare at him — figure it out.
He gropes your ass cheeks, head probably empty but scrambling for thought. "My room…my roommate's been passed out since dinner. Sleeps like a rock."
You raise your eyebrows. I know you don't think that's gonna fly.
He laughs a little, which actually resets you a little. "Trust me, I know how it sounds. But the man has slept through bombs going off—"
You stare.
He continues. "He drank himself into a dead mess at dinner and won't be up til at least 10 tomorrow, best guess. We—he's military, so he sleeps through anything."
You definitely don't want him in your room. There's no insidious reason for it; you just want to fuck the man and go back to your own, without needing to peel him off you and negotiate his exit. You'll be gone by the time the town's sweating tomorrow, anyway.
"Door stays unlocked."
He nods.
"No games."
He shakes his head.
He wraps you in a sun-warmed beach towel and leads you back to his motel room; he's on the second floor like you, although you don't tell him this.
By the time you've reached the stairs, his body is butting up against yours, his cock pressing into your hips and back before you can even climb properly. "Fuck sakes, woman," he mutters hoarsely.
You don't trust the iron balcony railing, but he does. He sits on it for a moment outside his door, grabs at your lush hips, pulling you closer into him. "C'mere. Let me just look at ya before we're in the dark," he groans. "You're so fuckin' hot."
You let him look, the beach towel yanked down a little so he can suck at the tops of your breasts, releasing small heated groans along the way. Your neck is the lightning rod and when he fastens on, with no pool water to dull the sensation, you feel your pussy tingle.
"What can you do to me in there?" You tease.
He closes his eyes in pain. "Tell me. Whatever you want. I'll eat you out. I'll eat that pussy so good for you. I'll let you do whatever you want to me." He's babbling now, a desperate thing in your palm.
You cup his cock through his shorts, sending his body into a jerk. "Fuck."
It always hurts in that big, bright way, like a thousand sticks of dynamite blowing a tunnel open through a mountain, giving you a way to pass to the other side. Like whispering the same wish over and over again until your lips go numb and your voice goes hoarse, your plea still unheard after all these years.
Perhaps it would hurt less to desire if you could fill that hole every once in a while. If you could wet your tongue with the taste of satisfaction, of a want fulfilled, of the opportunity to say to someone, “Oh, look what I got” or “Look at what all my work has amounted to.”
That’s never been the case though, has it? Never been lucky enough for a wish to come true. You work like a dog for the barest scraps of what you know you’re worth (what you know and what every day seems less and less true).
Vacations that you never had enough money to take, jobs that never came to fruition, mistakes that couldn’t be undone, memories that you could never remake, friendships that grew apart or that never materialized altogether.
It’s not all doom and gloom. You have a good job and a decent network of friends and acquaintances, parties you attend on occasion and warm nights at home curled up in bed. You have a roof over your head. There's more than enough in your life to be grateful for.
But the wanting never goes away. That, you have in spades. That, you have in heaps and bounds. That multiplies itself tenfold.
And it happens that way with your heart too.
There’s a coffee shop down the street from your office with a decent amount of seating and an app to order your drink ahead of time, and every day at around two, you order your coffee ahead of time and walk over to pick it up, rain or shine.
It’s always busy to some degree when you walk in, a handful of people waiting by the counter and a short line at the register snaking around the merchandise display. The whirr of the coffee grinder hums in the background, just a touch louder than the music, always filling the café with the rich, pleasing scent of freshly ground coffee.
The same chairs are always filled by the same people. Plenty of them you’ve even grown to recognize over time—students bent over thick textbooks, elderly men creasing newspapers in ink-stained hands, and laptop screens glowing with blank Word documents, scarcely a sentence added in the time it took to order and finish their coffee.
You recognize most of the takeaway regulars as well.
They’re harder to remember at first. Quick to come and quick to go. Hard to commit their faces to memory. But some give you no choice—some boisterously loud or ostentatious in dress, eye-catching enough to hook you like a fish, drag your attention down river with them.
Then, to him.
He, like you, comes in every day around two for his afternoon coffee. He, unlike you, comes striding in full-chested, confidence nipping at his heels, no world-weariness weighing him down.
Hard not to notice him. Of course you notice him. He takes up space like a living sun, all bright smiles and radiant energy, handsome in the way that, when men are, they draw people in like moths. You feel no better than a moth sometimes, particularly in his presence.
Tea-coloured eyes. What you notice at first is that there’s a beautiful man waiting for his coffee next to you, a tall man with the sculpted physique of an athlete, all long limbs and broad shoulders tapering into a lean frame, and what you notice next are those tea-coloured eyes, honeying under the sun.
You stare so long that you only realize how dry your eyes have gone when the door swings shut behind him.
It’s no wonder then, that you latch onto his presence like so, a little flutter in your chest on your way to the coffee shop every time after that first time, hoping that you’ll cross paths again.
And you do. Cross paths again, that is. Only a few times those first couple of weeks, and then seemingly all the time, the two of you always in at the same time.
That isn’t unusual. There are plenty of other familiar faces picking up their afternoon coffees at the same time as you, people that you recognize at the mobile ordering station and laptop stickers that you’ve come to memorize, the same people sitting at the same seats. People like routine; you’re no different. Neither is he.
It comes over you like an ague, a desperate, eager thing, quiet enough at first when you’ve only seen him in bits and pieces, not studied him at length yet, but it—
It grows.
It grows like a vine in your chest, weaving around your heart and squeezing until you can feel it with every beat.
You don’t entirely blame yourself. How could you? You swear you’ve never seen anyone even half as good-looking as him—broad-shouldered and lean, perfect smile, perfect teeth. Haircut always fresh, his edges neat. He squints with the force of his smile, always effusive with his gratitude and praise, so earnest in his kindness that it makes your teeth ache.
He’s objectively a handsome man. Perhaps the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. What else could you do but go a bit crazy?
Want may not be a strong enough word for what you’re experiencing. It’s more of a torsion of the soul. A desperate, yearning ache that both releases and constricts when he walks into the café to order his coffee.
You don’t know what to do with yourself when he doesn’t show up at the same time as you. Your schedules are so in sync that you’ve grown to expect him, fattened and spoiled by the timeliness of his presence. But he doesn’t owe it to you to show up, and there are days when he doesn’t, held up for some reason, or maybe simply not in the mood for a coffee.
You practically drag your feet on the walk back to the office, a sorry sight. Pathetically despondent. You hardly know what to do with yourself the rest of the afternoon, oscillating between dejection and self-reproach. It’s pathetic that the mere absence of your crush would reduce you to such a state, hardly able to concentrate on your work because the stranger that you’ve become infatuated with wasn’t at the coffee shop where you see him for a total of twenty seconds every other day.
Forgive yourself though. Nothing you’ve ever wanted has come without pain.
What you don’t expect is for him to finally notice you.
It happens on a day when you cross paths rather than arriving at the same time, him leaving the coffee shop as you’re about to enter. Your heart skips a beat when you look up and see him staring down at you, both of you taken by surprise when you go to pull the door open and he’s already pushing on the other side.
“Traffic jam,” he laughs when you both lean left and then right at the same time, trying to let the other go around. “Here, I’ve got you.”
He extends an arm to hold the door wide open and angles his body to let you pass through. You thank him as you pass, your heart pounding against your ribs. His gaze follows you as you step inside, and you nearly jump when his voice calls a farewell after you, leaving through the same door.
You stand near the doorway for far too long, other customers coming in and going around you, cutting you annoyed looks on their way to the cash. Your drink must already be waiting for you on the counter and still you can’t move. It takes someone actually stumbling into you to jolt you back into the present.
That wasn’t part of the plan. It’s thrilling, initially, a rush so overwhelming, so kaleidoscopic, that you ride it all the way back to the office and all the way home, replaying the memory again and again in your head until even you start to tire of belabouring it.
And still you roll around in bed that night thinking about it, heart racing even hours after your short little conversation, picturing it over again in your mind—the crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the smile nearly pulling across his face, all white teeth and soft, supple lips.
The only problem is—
Now he knows who you are.
You don’t expect him to remember you after such a quick encounter. He’s not the one that’s been pining these past few weeks. He’s not the one that’s been beating himself up for crushing on a stranger.
But he does remember you. And not only does he remember you, but he looks for you the next time he’s in.
It’s one of those days when you get there first, coffee already ordered and paid for by the time he walks in, in dark trousers and a quarter-zip today, and filling them both out nicely, the sweater clinging to the muscles of his arms. You expect him to head straight for the cash like he normally does, blessedly and lamentably unaware of your presence.
Instead, your breath hitches when his eyes drift across the café and settle on you, a spark of recognition glinting in them.
His gaze immobilizes you, stronger than any paralytic. It’s what holds you in place as he approaches, the distance between you halved in an instant, and then fully collapsed, the gorgeous man in front of you doing what Zeno’s Achilles never could.
“Hey stranger, no dance today, huh?” he asks, clearly addressing you.
You don’t know what to say. This is your worst case scenario, your category five emergency. In the weeks you’ve spent crushing on him from afar, you hadn’t considered the possibility of him ever noticing you in return.
“Sorry?” you croak.
He gestures with his thumb towards the door. “From the other day, remember?”
You don’t know how you’ll make it through this interaction without making a fool of yourself. “Right. Haha. I guess the dance floor’s closed today.”
You could throw up on the spot. Of all the abysmal conversation rejoinders there have ever been in the history of humanity, the one you just offered must rank comfortably near the top.
For whatever reason though, whether divine intervention or something more dastardly, he chuckles, amused. He seems to like talking to you. Seems to like you even. That only becomes clearer when he approaches you the next day, and then the day after that, and then every day when you stop by at two p.m. for your afternoon coffee, your coffees now handed out together by the barista, as if you had ordered them that way.
The small talk alone almost makes you consider switching to a different coffee shop. It’s too much pressure. You feel sick with anxiety at the thought of him figuring you out.
And he will figure you out. You haven’t exactly played it subtle.
Then he gets your number. Somehow. And your name too, pried so easily from you that you don’t even notice, like freeing a pearl from a clam; barely a flick of his wrist and you offer it up without a second thought, embarrassingly malleable.
You get his too. Kyle Garrick. He spells it for you as he watches you save his number into your phone from over your shoulder, so close to you that your fingers fumble with the keypad, mistyping it almost four times before getting it right.
Kyle doesn’t seem to care that you can barely seem to string together a sentence in front of him. If anything, it seems to endear him to you.
His attraction makes itself apparent in tender words and a new penchant for touch, a hand always reaching out for you.
At first, it’s nothing more than the casual brush of his fingers against yours as he picks up your coffee from the bar and passes it to you, no different than a handshake or a high five. Ostensibly perfunctory. But that too changes over time. A fleeting touch becomes a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to a table for a quick chat before heading back to work, fingers squeezing your shoulder when he laughs at a joke you didn’t realize you made, and quick hugs that grow a little longer each time.
Maybe. Or maybe you’re imagining it.
“So when are you gonna let me take you out for real?”
That snaps you out of the daydream, reality crashing down with such force that it leaves your ears ringing. His words leave you dumbfounded, gaping up at him in that stupid way that you can’t seem to suppress.
“For real?” you repeat.
“On a date,” Kyle clarifies, as if the word alone weren’t enough to wreck you.
“Oh.”
You tell him yes because the word no evaporates from your vocabulary. By the time it returns, he’s already gone, disappearing into the world (likely an office building around the corner from yours, but it might as well be Timbuktu).
This isn’t what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to pine in agony until you died.
It’s everything you ever wanted, and yet, you couldn’t want it less in the moment, terrified for some reason that you can’t quite articulate. You count down the days with growing apprehension, jitters giving way to a full-body sweat.
You’ll break it off at a later date. That thought comforts you to a point. At some point, there will be a moment for you to bail entirely.
The problem is the longer you say nothing, the harder it is to say anything at all. Already guilt stays your tongue when all you want to do is tell him that you can’t do this anymore. You need to leave—go anywhere else, run home and lock the door behind you, never go back to the coffee shop again.
But there’s a text in your phone telling you the time and place, and every time you look at it, it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sea legs without leaving dry land.
What is it about you that you feel the need to run as soon as you get too close? What about this isn’t what you want? Do you even know what you want?
Of course you know what you want. You want love and affection.
But having is not wanting. Wanting is safe. It’s the having that’s dangerous.
You contemplate cancelling on him about a dozen times until suddenly it’s too late, the man in question standing in the lobby of your building to pick you up. He must know someone in the building because he’s deep in conversation when you spot him, his head turning to meet yours at the same time, as if even in conversation, he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted enough to miss you. Your heart squeezes when he wraps it up in the same breath, crossing the lobby to meet you.
Dinner is a restaurant in a different part of town, one you’ve seldom spent time in before, trendy in the way that would unnerve you were it not for the abrupt realization that to everyone else, this is simply a familiar part of town.
To some, the restaurant must be familiar as well. There might even be regulars. To you however, the small, dimly lit room with the booths on one side and the chairs lining the bar at the other, an eclectic assortment of framed photos and decorative porcelain plates on the wall beside you, is lovely, uncharted territory.
Over dinner, Kyle peppers you with question after question until your head spins, each answer that leaves your lips betraying some nervous tendency towards clandestinity. You have to keep some things to yourself. You have to keep some things private.
You have to shut your mouth before you—
“A long time,” you reply without thinking, the whole world blowing open when you admit it. You hadn't even consciously registered the question before answering. When was your last date?
Kyle doesn’t seem phased by it though, warm smile somehow warmer than the blood boiling under your skin. “I must be one lucky man then.”
He sweet talks you into agreeing to a drink after dinner, probably sensing the nervous animal in you, the fear about to take flight.
You assume he means a drink at a bar until you’re standing in the kitchen of your apartment, Kyle standing behind the island with a bottle of wine in one hand, uncorking it with practiced ease. When it pops out, you flinch.
What a strange thing, to lose time like that. You lose it again after he pours you both a glass, coming to on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, pinned between him and the side of the couch.
He turned the television on, you notice distantly, staring at it through your glass, red wine sloshing from side to side. It’s not a program either of you would care to pay much attention to, possibly by design.
“Do you have, um…any plans tomorrow?” you ask, swallowing when he drags his fingers over the bare skin of your upper arm.
“Nope,” he answers, playing with the sleeve of your shirt now.
You can hear it coming from a mile away. He makes it too obvious with his fingers trailing over your skin and the heat of his gaze searing into the side of your face.
The sky outside your window is black, the moon only a sliver of its usual brilliance, but your living room is bright, turning the window into a mirror reflecting the two of you, the picture of a couple in repose.
You watch his reflection lean over yours in the window, his lips grazing your double’s ears, your breath catching when his touch yours as well. “If I give you an inch, you’re going to run a mile, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
There’s a lump in your throat when you swallow. “No,” you lie.
He must see right through you though. Must see the creature inside you about to succumb to its instincts.
He must be good at chess, you think to yourself, staring down at him with a stupid look on your face as he lowers himself to lie flat on the bed between your legs, spreading your thighs wide enough to wedge his shoulders between them. Any game of strategy.
If you never give your opponent a moment to breathe, they can’t gather themselves enough to retreat.
That thought crumbles to dust when he makes you watch him lick the first stripe up the seam of your pussy, crudely spreading your lips with his tongue. Nothing more substantial materializes after that.
He eats pussy like he hasn’t had enough to eat. Lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks when he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back nearly arches right off the bed, twisted into such a complex shape that you almost don’t know how to unravel yourself. Fingers grasping at his head, his ears; rasping over the coils of his hair, fingers committing the texture to memory.
Your thighs tremble and squeeze, pried open again and again every time you try to shut him out. The muscles in his arms barely even bulge with the effort it takes to keep your thighs spread.
You are wound up in ways that would be a challenge to anyone, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care. He just holds you down and forces you to come on his tongue, rolling it over your clit until you actually start crying. Big, belting caterwauls. His poor baby, he croons.
When have you been someone’s ‘poor baby’? Someone’s darling, sweetheart, honey, that’s it, I’ve got you, that felt good, didn’t it? God, you’re so pretty, I can’t believe you let me—
He flicks his tongue over your sensitive clit and you yelp, reaching down to slide your hand between his mouth and your swollen sex only for him to lace your fingers together and pull your hand to the side and lick it again.
“It’s still sensitive,” you complain, and he lifts a brow, unmoved by your bellyaching.
“So what, you got twitchy little orgasm legs, that means I’m not allowed to lick your pussy anymore?”
“No,” you hiss, embarrassment warming the blood already pooled under your cheeks.
Warm hands rest on either side of your face as he eases his cock in for the first time, holding your gaze in place as sinks in to the root. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut.
They don’t stay shut for long. He pries them open without words, without touch, every ounce of his ardor poured into you and lifting your own to the surface.
Sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. The sweat makes his hands slip up and down your face with the force of his thrusts, fingers tugging on your lips and pulling them apart, sliding over your gums and teeth.
“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Kyle pants, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto yours, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, glassy and feverish.
“Don’t—don’t say that,” you gasp.
He dips his head down to press his forehead against yours. “You can’t tell me that. You can’t tell me what to do.”
Whatever this is, it’s nothing like anything you’ve experienced before. Proper lovemaking. Real kisses with passion, with fervor, with delight; the messiness contained between you, in the sweat rolling down your back and soaking into the sheets, the saliva dripping from his mouth into yours, the squelch of his shaft splitting you over and over, never giving you a second to catch your breath.
Coming a second, no, third time is painful, like a thing wrested unwillingly from you, and you fall back on the bed windburned. Kyle follows you down, hips bucking into yours faster and faster, his own end nearly on his heels.
He comes with a grunt, without warning; a sudden surge of heat and warmth, his fingers biting into your cheeks where he holds your face in his hands, his lip curling up into a snarl that you swear you can almost hear, and—
You expect it to be over after that. For him to roll out of bed and pull on his pants, maybe give you a courtesy kiss for a job well done before leaving you to stew in the mire of another rejection, the small win eclipsed by the enormity of losing him.
What you don’t expect is for him to lay down beside you and pull you into him. Kyle laughs softly when he notices your stiffness, jostling you slightly in an attempt to coax you into relaxing.
“That’s right, baby,” he chuckles a touch breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose before relaxing back down. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Coffee the next day is different than usual. Early for one, the sun still a syrupy morning gold, not yet the starchy afternoon white, and in a different location than usual, the coffee machine on your kitchen counter hissing through its second cup of the day.
Kyle maneuvers around your apartment too naturally, a stark contrast to the way you scurry from the bedroom to the bathroom like a stowaway. He’s entirely at home in your space though, helping himself to coffee and breakfast, only glancing at you for permission, the slightest cock of his head and arch of his brow, and you fold under the pressure instantly.
When you try to skirt around him, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, the touch of his lips against your chest shocking you still, electrical impulses still skittering under your skin.
“I can feel your heart racing,” Kyle teases, caramel-smooth voice sending a low vibration through your chest.
And why shouldn’t he? Your heart is racing after all. “I’m nervous.”
“I know you are, baby,” he murmurs. “This is hard for you, isn’t it?”
It is. A few too many years on your own have turned you to stone, the slightest touch almost too much to handle. You’ve long learned to expect anything you touch to shock you.
“Want me to make this easier on you?” he asks gently. You’re not sure what he means by that, but you have an inkling.
And wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry? To not have to second guess what you really want or what you should do?
You nod.
“Okay, honey. Then you don’t have to do it. No telling me to go away. I’ve got it from here.”
When Kyle takes your phone from your hand, you don’t stop him, even typing in your password for him when he turns it towards you, watching over his shoulder as he shares your location with his phone.
You exhale shakily, the tightness in your shoulders easing. There he goes with that oyster shucker again, opening you up.
So be it. What use is there in protecting something that’s already his?
happy pride and a reminder that you dont need to do or look like anything to be queer. you dont need to name or define yourself or conform to a community in order to be queer. you can be queer according to your own standards. you can be in or out of the closet and be queer. other people cant gatekeep queerness from you 💖🏳️🌈
✿ “UNCLE”!SIMON x reader ♡ riding & anal sex/fingering. not blood related; simon is a family friend. age gap. dubcon. finger-sucking. crying during sex. painful anal. loss of anal virginity.
summary; sneaking away from the cookout with pervy uncle simon!
18+ only / all characters are 18+. | previous. | masterlist.
based on this req.
ddne; don't like? block, don't report. <-
A bead of perspiration slips beneath the neckline of your cotton-white sundress, glides down your sternum, over your navel, to where your bodies meet.
“Shit, just like that, doll. Keep going...” Simon's raspy groans rumble through your fingers, your littler palms braced against his sweat-slick chest. His thumb grazes your throbbing clit just right as you sink down on the full heft of his cock, his broad hands guiding your descend and his feet planted firmly on the mattress as he methodically bucks his hips to meet you halfway. “...Atta girl, fuck, that's what I'm talking about. Bloody perfect little pocketpussy.”
The man's mouth is all praise and filth, a low drone over the sound of your cousins giggling downstairs, blissfully unaware. The light dusting of straw-colored facial hair along his jaw is flecked with silver and gray, his teeth bared over his lower lip with exertion as your tight walls engulf him. You've always struggled with his size; he's girthy by far, but this position provides no evasion.
You're a right mess with your nice dress bundled around your ribs—wild-haired and panting on top of him—and Simon has the idea that he's going to hell for ruining you. Practically preening in his lap, the wet suction of your pussy squelches as you roll your hips against him, his bent knees behind you providing a steady cradle for your uncoordinated movements.
“We should hurry,” you say between gasps, a wrinkle of concern between your brows. They shouldn't come looking for you for some time, but the caution still remains, makes your stomach coil with anticipation.
Typically, no one should bat an eye if you're locked up in your room, and Uncle Simon had excused himself for a smoke break away from the kids—only to climb the trellis under your bedroom window, of course. He's a slimy, grimy, no-good sonofabitch—nearly two decades too old to be climbing windows of pretty girls—and he knows it.
“'s up to you, kid. You gonna work hard to make your uncle cum?” Simon goads lightly.
You have been working hard, though. Any harder and your glutes will give out, you think with a pout.
Rocking you with a cursory thrust from below, Simon pops his thumb in your mouth before you can argue. “Quiet,” he mutters, a flash of genuine ire hardening his gaze as he glances towards the door, light footsteps scampering past.
You blink owlishly with his thumb stuffing your mouth and rope your arms around his neck in a meek grip, heart beating a little faster at the unexpected noise disturbance outside. You huff into his neck as his hand rubs your back, soothing—then drifts southward.
The nerves in your body feel overwhelmingly attuned to every brush of his calloused palms against your heated flesh, slick collecting between your legs as he guides you up-and-down his curved shaft. His hands roam your body without discrimination—those big, searching things kneading and pulling you closer. They dictate your brisk grinding, and his fingers dig into the softness of your ass, your flesh dimpling under his fingermarks.
A combination of your spit and wetness coats his fingertip as it circles your other hole, the coolness back there making you flinch, though you shrug it off. The way his hands maneuver you up his waist, cupping the underside of your ass and holding you snug, force your hips to open up all the more. Simon siphons the questioning sound you threaten to let slip with a swallowing kiss when he presses against your hole, groaning into your mouth at the way your cunt flutters around him when he does it—like a trigger.
“Shh, shh-”
“Simon, what are yo- hey-” You thwack your hands against his forearms while he shushes you on and on, making you feel small, your body twisting and squirming in his lap. “Wait- Not there-”
His slick finger circles then breaches the tight rim up to his cuticle—not even reaching a knuckle, but the wind knocks out of you—crooking his finger back and forth steadily.
“Unh- stop, you weirdo-!” You feel like a fool as you flush and squeak out protests without conviction, jolting in his lap and feeling your cunt squeeze around him. The mortification tips your brain into panic and every argument coming from your mouth sounds juvenile, more so playground insults.
He shushes you—again—interrupting your blubbering, and causing your hips to sink back on his finger an inch as you accidentally ease up. Then you clamp up again. “Shh, didn't you wanna make me feel good, luv?” Simon murmurs quietly, grinding you down on his cock while his finger continues to dip in-and-out. “This is it, baby. Just keep ridin' me.”
You make an unintelligible, petulant sound and pout at him in a way that seems to convey how unfair his argument is and call him a cheater—the equivalent of huffing, crossing your arms and stomping your feet. Of course you want to make him feel good!
Relax, baby. Keep going. It'll hurt more if you're tense. His low voice threads through your train of thought, having a strangely sedative effect as you continue to rock your hips on his cock. Your hands fly to his shoulders with a shrill gasp at the stretch when his thick finger enters you completely—the foreign feeling neither painful or pleasurable altogether, but full. Stuffed. Both holes plugged and claimed by him.
It isn't until Simon starts to move his hips again that you realize how wet you've gotten from this, looking down to see your arousal glistening on his body and wetting his trimmed happy trail.
You swallow your discomfort, rocking against him tentatively, your palms splayed out on his waist. The initial dull sensation sharpens to pain when the finger starts to move with purpose, and you stagger, but Simon doesn't let up.
“O-ow-” Your walls flutter around him with each pass as he stretches you out on his finger, more spit added for lubrication and dripping down your ass. “Si, please-”
With a second finger, tears brim on your waterline. Every roll of your hips brings you down on his fingers and his thick shaft all at once, molten hot pleasure coiling in your gut. The smarting pain that his thick, intrusive fingers bring is tempered by the fat cock drilling into your cunt, your creamy folds wrapped around him. The combination of the two sensations seems to confuse your bodily instincts—whether to run from or chase his touch. It makes you dizzy as you burrow in his neck, his shoulder blacking out your vision.
“Oi. I said relax,” he groans at the tightness around his fingers, swatting your ass with his free hand and causing you to flinch. “You'll hurt yourself. Be a good lass f'me, yeah?”
You'll hurt yourself. It's a funny thing, that heady, disorienting feeling when the power dynamics get all mixed up in your head. How convincing he is at pretending you have equal footing, while quite literally holding you in the palm of his hand.
You always go along, of course—letting his choices be yours.
“Good lass,” he croons while fucking his fingers deeper, a rumbly chuckle lodged in his throat as he glances you over reverently, at your compliance. “That's my girl. You're just a bit of a crybaby, innit? Little crybaby with the sweetest cunt. You're alright now. Just had a lil' scare.”
He says all this while pulling his cock out of you, sliding it between your thighs while you flounder in confusion. He wedges it right between the apex of your legs, making you sit on him while he pushes the head towards your fluttering hole and your lips fall open in a silent cry.
“Easy now,” Simon grunts as your tight channel engulfs him. You watch his sweat-damp blond hair fall back against your frilly pillow as he tosses his head back, a hiss slipping through his gritted teeth. Veins stand out angrily along his neck and arms, drawn taut beneath his skin as Simon's thick arms wrap around your thighs.
Your tears track down his chest as you cry his name, your babbling and blubbering muffled. It's a tight fit despite stretching you out, his cock squeezing in inch by inch in a brute-force drive, until the last inch finally pops past your resistance.
You gasp in unison, his thumb wedging past your lips to block the sound before it fully erupts. Salty tears wet your cheeks like pearlescence under the gauzy light filtering through your sheer curtains, the windows carrying the sound of blissfully ignorant chatter downstairs. You dread to imagine the imagine the horror on your family's faces if they saw you right now.
It's a continuous strain of having your orifices occupied by him one way or another, it seems. The taste of his skin overwhelms your mouth as his thumb probes around and delves through your drool, garbled whimpers and gags taking over your cries.
“Bloody hell, you're tight.” Raspy groans slip past his lips as he drags his cock deeper in your clenching asshole, shifting his hips off the bed to fuck into you. The unending strings of praise—So fucking good for me... Y'feel perfect... Gonna make me cum inside—validate the reason why you do this in some dumb way, why you bite your tongue—or his thumb, rather—while he splits your virgin ass open on his cock as a mere means to an end. Getting himself off in your tight heat and relishing the way the muscles milk him. He makes every decision sound like it makes sense.
“Keep it down, luv,” Simon says with a wry laugh, “Don't want them to see you like this, do ya? Whiny little thing.”
You shake your head no while Simon smears your spit across your lips obtrusively—the possibility too mortifying to consider—stammering meekly that it hurts, even though you really can't tell apart the sensations anymore with the pulse in your empty cunt as he fucks your ass. Your cunt leaks onto his lap and you're forced to sit in a pool of your own arousal as he bounces you on his cock, the back of your neck prickling with the embarrassment that the pathetic state you're in with your neglected cunt has gotten you so wet.
“Sh, it'll be over soon.” The reassuring nature of his words are at odds with the feverish tone of his voice, deep, guttural groans brushing past your ear. His thumb is back in your mouth as you can't help but moan, feeling like putty as he nearly pulls you off his cock before shoving your hips back down. The heat in your belly feels wound-up, taut like a bowstring about to snap, the tension spreading to your toes. “Just a few more minutes.”
You cum while collapsing on top of him, his hips snapping up to meet you with an urgency that makes your toes curl, his bulky arms locked around your waist and leaving you with no place to go. Brutish, like a bear-trap trapping you in place. You stifle your voice desperately, Simon's name right on the tip of your tongue.
His hot seed trickles down the cleft of your ass to your inner thigh as he follows suit shortly after, and you feel his hips jerking under you with the waves of his orgasm. Your tight heat milks him through the last spurts, a breathless, strung-out sound punched out of him.
You bury your face in his chest shyly as you feel his big hands fondling your ass and spreading them apart, rubbing your fluttering rim as his milky seed drips out of you. He'd stay inside you forever if it weren't for the party, and he tells you that—unbothered by your embarrassed whine—mourning the heat of you around his cock, and not particularly looking forward to the post-nut clarity after fucking his favorite niece yet again.
𖧁୧ hi there ! gentle reminder that likes & reblogs are some of the best ways to support authors here, they make a huge difference! ♡
New early-release file on my Patreon for all of you dear listeners who want to work on your bodies!
Treadmill Trance.
(M4A) Treadmill Training (NSFW) by The Vox Files on Patreon. Join The Vox Files's community for exclusive content and updates.
Welcome back to the gym, dear listeners. In this workout-focused file. Coach Vox once again helps you slip down into a pliant, obedient trance and sets you walking on a treadmill. As you stride mindlessly, it's easy to feel your intellect and resistance draining with every step... left... right... left... right... until you're nothing but another blank, happy gym bimbo, eagerly going through your cardio routine with Coach.
This file contains themes of IQ play/draining, bimbo/himbofication, and making the file itself part of the listener's standard gym routine. While on the treadmill, the listener is encouraged to view themselves as attractive and appealing, and suggested to make their walk more provocative and enticing to others. The file ends with an optional count up.
It's very reasonable to be a bit panicky when you're taken hostage at work. In fact, you're handling it very well, all things considered. Luckily, someone has come to rescue you! (The fact that you know him in a very specific context is a sensible thing to be thrown off by.)
(COMPLETE)
Series Content Warnings:
F!Reader (she/they), cannon typical violence, Kink and BDSM themes, hostage situations, high anxiety/panic, unplanned intersections of kink and non-kink identities, power-exchange, sexual content including manual, oral, vaginal sex
Note: Contains no instances of what the author considers humiliation, degradation, or punishment, but please use your discretion.
It's very reasonable to be a bit panicky when you're taken hostage at work. In fact, you're handling it very well, all things considered. Luckily, someone has come to rescue you! (The fact that you know him in a very specific context is a sensible thing to be thrown off by.)
(COMPLETE)
Series Content Warnings:
F!Reader (she/they), cannon typical violence, Kink and BDSM themes, hostage situations, high anxiety/panic, unplanned intersections of kink and non-kink identities, power-exchange, sexual content including manual, oral, vaginal sex
Note: Contains no instances of what the author considers humiliation, degradation, or punishment, but please use your discretion.
ㅤ♡ vanilla ꪆৎ john price x bimbo!reader
cw; smut, breeding kink, hair pulling, pet names
John Price doesn’t even make it to the bedroom. You’re on the sofa, curled on your stomach scrolling pictures of pastel nail sets, feet kicking lazily in the air when he comes in. The door clicks, boots on wood, keys in the dish. You barely glance up.
“Hi, baby,” you chirp, glossy lips parted in a smile.
He stands there for a second, rough and tired from the day, beard shadowed across his jaw. His eyes rake over your body, tiny shorts riding up the swell of your ass, tank top loose enough to show the bounce every time you shift.
“Come here,” he rumbles.
You sit up, confused for a beat until his tone registers. That voice, slow, heavy, the one that pins you to the mattress without even touching you.
You pad over on soft feet, looking up at him like you always do, mouth a little open. “What’s wrong?”
He cups your jaw, thumb grazing your lower lip. “Nothing. I just missed you.”
Then he kisses you like he’s starving. His fingers slide into your hair, tugging gently until your lips fall open wider. He walks you backward without breaking the kiss, crowding you into the wall.
Your brain fizzles into white noise. He tastes like smoke and mint gum, and his body is so solid that your knees go weak just leaning into him.
“Jump,” he murmurs against your mouth.
You obey without thinking. Legs around his waist, fingers buried in the back of his shirt. He presses you harder into the wall, grinding his hips between your thighs. You gasp, loud, and needy, because you can feel him, thick and already hard.
“Been gone three days,” he mutters, sucking at your pulse. “And all I got were selfies of you in your new top.” His hand slides up, squeezing your breast through the fabric. “You trying to kill me?”
You blink down at him, genuinely puzzled. “I just thought I looked cute…”
He chuckles, “You did. And now you’re gonna pay for it.”
He carries you to the couch and drops you there, your body bouncing into the cushions. He kneels between your thighs, tugging your shorts off in one smooth pull. Your brain trips over itself, already wet, a little embarrassed by how fast. He sees it immediately.
“Every time,” he says softly, thumb dragging through your slick. “Little thing gets wet just from me walking through the door.”
You whimper, hips jerking.
He leans in slow, beard scraping your inner thigh, lips brushing close, but he doesn’t touch where you want him. Not yet. His eyes stay on you, heavy and unreadable.
“Tell me what you want.”
You tug at his hair, face flaming. “You. Your mouth—please—”
“Pretty manners,” he praises, then licks a hot stripe up your cunt.
Your hand slaps over your mouth, muffling the noise you make. He pulls your wrist away, pinning it to your stomach.
“No hiding,” he warns.
You’re already shaking when he sucks your clit into his mouth. The heat is dizzying, slow, steady, almost gentle, like he’s savoring the taste. You babble something incoherent, thighs tightening around his head, and he just hums like it pleases him.
When you’re close, he pulls away.
“Price—!” you cry, desperation dripping from every syllable.
He wipes his mouth with his thumb, eyes dark and wickedly amused. “Turn around.”
You scramble onto your hands and knees; the couch dips as he kneels behind you. He drags your panties aside and pushes into you with one long thrust, stretching you open. You moan, face buried in the cushions.
He takes a firm grip on your hips and fucks you deep, steady, the pace of a man who knows exactly what your body can handle. Every thrust knocks thoughts clean out of your head.
“All day,” he grunts, bending over you, “I’m thinking about this pussy… and you’re home buying lamps you can’t put together.”
You whine something like an apology, even though you don’t know what for. He bites your shoulder, kisses over the mark, pace quickening.
“That’s alright,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat. “You keep being pretty—”
another hard thrust, “—and I’ll keep taking care of you.”
You come fast, clenching around him, vision blurring. He holds you through it, then pulls you up by the hair so your back arches against his chest.
“Look at me,” he growls in your ear.
You turn your head, eyes glossy, lips trembling, and he spills inside you with a low strangled sound, burying himself deep.
Silence hums after, a warm, heavy quiet. He doesn’t pull out. His palm cups your stomach, thumb stroking lazily.
“Good girl,” he whispers. “My perfect headache.”
You giggle, flushed and dazed, leaning back into him. “Your headache is cute, though.”
He kisses the side of your neck, still breathing hard. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Too damn cute.”
pairing: simon riley x fem!reader
✶ 1.5k words, simon is unwell (delusional)
the first time someone refers to you as simon’s wife, you almost lose your damn mind.
you’re in your office helping a baby-faced recruit fill out some documents, when he thanks you and calls you mrs. riley.
“i’m sorry, what did you just call me?” you have to refrain from scowling, because who the hell is mrs. riley?
the recruit stares at you for a moment before repeating what he just said. “i called you mrs. riley,” he responds with a frown fixed on his face. “aren’t you married to lieutenant riley? he said–”
married!?
you shut that down quickly. “your lieutenant is delusional.” you hold up your hand to show him your ring finger. “do you see a ring on my finger?” you ask, almost laughing when his eyes widen and he starts apologizing immediately.
“i–i’m so sorry, mrs. riley. i mean ma’am!”
shit, now he’s calling me ma’am.
“please don’t apologize, it’s quite alright.” it’s not his fault his lieutenant has been spreading lies about his marital status.
despite you reassuring him that everything was fine, the recruit stammers out another apology then flees your office. you sigh as you watch him go. you can only imagine what he’ll say to simon the next time he sees him.
she called you delusional, sir.
turning back to the stack of paper on your desk with a groan, you pick up your pen to resume your work. you spend the next forty five minutes preparing reports, scheduling meetings, and answering your emails.
you’re so engrossed in your work, you don’t hear simon entering your office without knocking. he just lets himself in like he belongs there. it isn’t until you hear a throat clearing, that you become aware of another presence in the room with you. your head snaps up quickly at the sound, your eyes immediately honing in on simon.
you give the behemoth of a man looming in your doorway a look of exasperation. he stares at you for a moment with soft amber eyes, before shutting the door and tugging his hoodie off. you watch him as he tosses it onto the couch, along with the book he has tucked up under his arm.
there’s just something about the way simon makes himself at home in your office that pisses you off. when he meets your gaze again, you start in on him immediately.
“has anyone ever taught you some manners? you can’t just walk into someone’s office without announcing yourself. i don’t barge into your shit.”
simon takes a step towards your desk with a smirk on his face. “you don’t come to my office at all, sweetheart.” he grins when you glare at him.
“because i have no desire to do so,” you reply, rolling your eyes at him. “now, was there something you needed lieutenant riley? did you want to explain to me why you have that recruit of yours calling me mrs. riley?”
simon doesn’t respond right away. he busies himself with the blue stress ball you keep on your desk. you open your mouth, ready to give him a piece of your mind— because you’re not about to let him stand there and ignore you —when he sets the ball back down and takes his mask off.
the words die in your throat when simon’s face comes into view. he runs a hand through his curly blonde locks with a ghost of a smile on his lips. he knows exactly what he’s doing, distracting you like this. he always seems to lose the mask whenever he realizes you’re two seconds away from wringing his thick ass neck.
when you’ve got a good look at simon, the fire returns to your eyes and you demand an explanation. what you don’t expect, is for simon to be so damn transparent with you.
simon wants you to be his wife. he wants to put a ring on your finger. he wants the wedding, the reception, the fucking honeymoon. he wants to take care of you, keep you on his cock every night until his name is all you know. simon wants you to be his in every sense of the word, he needs it.
“i’m willing to wait for you to come to your senses, sweetheart.”
“come to my senses?” you stare at him in disbelief, before glowering. “the audacity of you to come into my office thinking you can speak to me this way. you can’t just–”
simon cuts you off, not giving a shit about your little rant. “don’t care. i’ll speak to my wife however i want.”
you almost let out a scream of frustration, because you know he’s dead serious.
“keep dreaming, you big blonde bastard! i wouldn’t marry your crazy ass even if you were the last man on earth!”
you’ve finally reached your limit with simon. it was time for his ass to go. you roll your chair away from your desk to stand, smoothing down your skirt on the way to the door. you wrench it open with more force than necessary, pointing while you order him to leave. he’s overstayed his welcome.
simon moves away from your desk, but he doesn’t leave. he doesn’t plan to. he bullies his way into your space until your back is pressed up against the open door. “you think i’m crazy?”
you lift your chin and fold your arms across your chest, refusing to be intimidated by him. “you’ve got folks walking around here calling me mrs. riley. for fuck’s sake, simon, you just told me you wanted to marry me. we’re not even in a relationship, we’re barely even friends. what am i supposed to think when you say shit like that?”
simon doesn’t reward you with the response you want. he just looks you up and down, his lips curled up into a smirk, “mmm, you’re so pretty when you get worked up like this. think you’d look even prettier crying on my cock.”
your small sound of disgust makes him laugh. it’s low, mean. and you just might hate him for it.
when simon finally decides to put an end to his bullshit and give you some space, you sag against the door, trembling slightly. this has to be some form of harassment, you think to yourself when your eyes land on that infuriating man.
much to your surprise, simon is already watching you like a goddamn hawk from where he’s seated on your couch. he has one arm stretched out over the backrest with his legs spread obscenely wide.
“you see something you like?” he doesn’t miss the way your eyes linger on his thighs.
“no,” you reply coldly on the way back to your seat, fully intending to ignore him since it looks like he won’t be leaving your office any time soon.
when you look away from your computer screen every now and then, simon is still seated in the same position he was in before you sat down. he’s quietly reading the book he brought with him. the only noise you hear from him is the soft sounds of pages being turned. you do find it hard to believe that he actually has the decency to let you finish your work in peace.
you think you like him better this way, quiet and not trying to piss you off every chance he gets. simon almost seems normal when he’s not running his mouth. you spare him another glance before turning back to your computer, silently wishing for time to pass quickly.
and of course it’s the blonde menace who decides when your cut off time is. he closes his book, walks right up to your desk and pries your pen out of your hand.
“hey–”
“hi, baby,” he croons, removing the pen from your line of sight completely when you try to snatch it back.
another pet name?
“i don’t have time for your games, simon. why did you interrupt me?”
“you’ve been doing overtime all week. you’re done for the day.” you open your mouth to speak, to question him about his knowledge of your work hours, but you think better of it when he pins you with a warning look. no wife of his is going to work herself to death.
“fine,” you relent, no longer willing to engage in a battle you won’t win, even if you do wish to wipe the look of satisfaction off of simon’s face with your fist.
you catch yourself sulking a little while simon gathers his belongings and announces his departure. when he asks if you would like to walk with him to the mess hall for dinner, you decline. and when he starts phishing for answers, wanting to know where you’ll be, you tell simon to fuck off and mind his own business.
“that smart mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble. i’ll allow it today, just this once.”
simon figures he’s tortured you enough for one day, so he decides to leave you be.
for now.
-
a/n: i’m writing for my other man again. stay turned for part two. p.s. he gets worse
MASTERLIST | SIMON’S MASTERLIST | AO3 - you’ll need to be a registered user
this Thanksgiving consider donating to Indigenous Women Rising a native run org that helps native/indigenous women in the US access abortion and reproductive care
Literally I’ve been fucking complaining to my boyfriend about how I can’t find another writer on here as good as you bitch. You’ll literally forever be my fav, but any recommendations—Writers on here you like?
HA i love you
absolutely, here's a compilation of some all-time faves in no particular order. some are dark so check the tags
bos taurus / field dressing / caging a wolfdog by @/yeyinde
in the walls / gemstones / big dog by @/theorist-fox
sirius c / hound dog / buttermilk / superstore by emphemeron
rugby simon / neighbour price by @/captainfern
gunslinger / guile and guilt / ursa major by @/the-californicationist
underdog / tenderfoot by @/basementcoffee
dark matter by @/beebymoonlight
animal, sick as they come / run until you feel your lungs bleeding by @/ohbo-ohno
