hello! surprise announcementâi've moved to a new account. i've got my reasons, but mostly, i'm just ready for a fresh start and fewer eyes on me. if you find me, you find me.
if we're mutuals, i'm happy to share my new main and writing account. dm me here or on discord. (or i will re-follow you within the next few days. whatever happens first. but there's also zero pressure to keep following me lmao.)
i'm keeping this blog and my side blogs up, but i won't update them regularly, if at all.
hello! surprise announcementâi've moved to a new account. i've got my reasons, but mostly, i'm just ready for a fresh start and fewer eyes on me. if you find me, you find me.
if we're mutuals, i'm happy to share my new main and writing account. dm me here or on discord. (or i will re-follow you within the next few days. whatever happens first. but there's also zero pressure to keep following me lmao.)
i'm keeping this blog and my side blogs up, but i won't update them regularly, if at all.
hello! surprise announcementâi've moved to a new account. i've got my reasons, but mostly, i'm just ready for a fresh start and fewer eyes on me. if you find me, you find me.
if we're mutuals, i'm happy to share my new main and writing account. dm me here or on discord. (or i will re-follow you within the next few days. whatever happens first. but there's also zero pressure to keep following me lmao.)
i'm keeping this blog and my side blogs up, but i won't update them regularly, if at all.
hello! surprise announcementâi've moved to a new account. i've got my reasons, but mostly, i'm just ready for a fresh start and fewer eyes on me. if you find me, you find me.
if we're mutuals, i'm happy to share my new main and writing account. dm me here or on discord. (or i will re-follow you within the next few days. whatever happens first. but there's also zero pressure to keep following me lmao.)
i'm keeping this blog and my side blogs up, but i won't update them regularly, if at all.
âYou would have more readers if you did this!â yeah Iâd also have more readers if I wrote for a different fandom or if I did tropes that were more popular or if the world was made of pudding. Me personally, I write shit because Iâm a weird little freak pervert, not to be popular.
the bottom line is that you should #follow your bliss because youâll be happier for it in the end. if people like what you write, amazing and cool we love to have companions on a journey, but imo you should always be your own primary audience.
I cannot stress enough how most of us...don't actually care?
If I was in it for "numbers" or "clout" I wouldn't be on tumblr
look i'm always delighted, flattered, and humbled when people like my stuff, because i work really hard on it. (save for the short shit i slap together in a feverish haze a la ghost with a boner, thank you early for introducing that into my vernacular) but i'm at a point where i'm primarily focused on: what is delightful to me, and what will delight/frighten my friends.
Pretty pretty pretty please with xtra sugar on top post the rest of the warren here. ao3 invites take forever and I canât be the only person who wants to read it here. i beg you would have way more readers if you posted here đ€
sorry i took a second to answer.
1) i will consider cross-posting the remaining chapters, but only when it's completed. i'm not sure how to phrase this next bit any nicer but
2) i am happy with the amount of readers i have? that is not a concern of mine.
you need to contact AO3 if your invite is taking that long to arrive. mine took a week.
@/bonnibelspot got it in one lmao. under the cut, since i've been told several times now how gross nasty those last couple of posts were.
ghost breaks into your locker at the gym. rifles through your bag, steals your jockstrap, and leaves that mess in your mouthguard. this only happens when you've done something to set him offâbut as price's second in command and acting disciplinarian at the gym, that's pretty easy to do.
now. for a more severe infraction (either completely blown out of proportion or only existing in ghost's head), he shoves that guard into your mouth so you're tasting him the entire time you're training. đ
thinking about this and while i think price threatens you with the gaz/soap combo, ghost takes it upon himself to really cement the pecking order in your thick skull.
thatâs how you end up strung up by the wrists, dangling from a mounted hook, toes barely skimming the mat. the strain in your already sore shoulders near-unbearable. youâre too proud to breathe a word and he either does not notice or care.
heâs busy anyway. between rounds of fucking with youâpoking at your bruises, scrawling property of bravo gym on your chest, grinding a palm between your legs until you shakeâheâs at the heavy bag beside you, running drills. the sound echoes off the walls. fists cracking against leather, grunts animal and borderline unnecessary.
he makes you ask nice when he takes a water break and surprisingly, he obliges. only to insist you drink what he spits in your mouth.
an au of a boxing au i've barely started. price x reader.
cw: noncon blowjob, injury, lots of blood and spit, a whiff of plot, abrupt ending
a/n: reader can be interpreted as gender neutral.
Blood gushes from your broken nose in thick, hot streams you canât stopânot until Price gives his permission.Â
It floods your mouth, seeping around your mouthguard, slicking your throat with each strained swallow as more pours down from your sinuses. Pain radiates in waves from the fracture, reverberating through your cheeks and throbbing behind your eye sockets. Rogue tears slip free, salt sliding into the mess, but they donât dilute the taste, just muddle it. Breathing through it is all you can do.
It spills from your chin to your knees, trickling over fresh scrapes and down to the floor. Heâll probably make you lick it up later.
Your gaze stays locked to hisâtwo slivers beneath a lowered brow, cold as ice. It does not waver at the clink of his belt or the rustle of fabric. Nothing surprises you anymore.
Price steps forward. Fingers graze your cheek, smearing blood and tears with a touch that flirts with a gentleness he does not often practice.
âSpit it out,â he orders, using what heâs gathered on his fingers to wet his hardening cock.
Pain slows you down, but your tongue pushes behind the mouthguard, prying it loose. You tilt forward and, with a strained gurgle, let it fall. It hits his boot with an audible splat, leaving a streak across the leather. Another thing youâll have to see to. Pink, tacky drool strings from your lips, sticking to your chin and throat.
âFilthy.â he mutters.
You know you screwed up. One jobâthrow the fight, make it look good, pocket the bonus. But your opponent ran his mouth, and all you saw was red. You took him apart. And now, punishment.
When he tilts forward, tapping the ruddy head of his cock to your lips for access, you hold your ground. Lower your brow. Meet him with a glare of your own.
You donât deserve thisâfailure or not. You won. Maybe it didnât pay as much, but it was a clean victory. A win for the gym. A step forward for the rookie.
Price watches a beat longer, expression first tightening, then smoothing into something worse. A chuckle rumbles from his chest, and he scrapes his nails through his beard.
âNo?â he says, dropping the hand to drag a fingertip across your chin. âDead set on beinâ difficult, hm?â
His hand shifts, and you realize too late what heâs aiming for. Thick knuckles bracket shattered bridge of your nose and squeeze.
You erupt. White-hot, blinding pain rips down your spine, searing through every limb. Your hands jolt, fingers flexing before scrambling for his wrist in a panic. You scream, mouth falling openâ
âand he takes it, shoving his cock between your lips. Another muffled cry tears out of you.
The second your teeth twitch downward, instinct kicking in, he lets go of your nose and yanks your ear instead.
âNone of that. You bite me, Iâll give you somethinâ worse than a broken nose to cry about.â
Pain still screams through your system, but you know better than to push him. Price doesnât bluff.
You whimper around his cock, sniffle, the taste and scent shiftingâsalt and iron, sweat and musk thick on your tongue. You nod, glass-eyed and blinking through the sting.
He tugs on the shell of your ear anyway.Â
âSo these do work. Good. Then get on with it. Got a lot to make up for.â
You take another long, agonizing breath and adjust your grip. One hand drops from his rolled sleeve to brace against his thigh, fingers bunching the fabric. The other slides down his arm, wrapping around the base of his cockâslick with the blood and spit he smeared from your cheek. It makes the movement easier, but it burns against your raw knuckles, skin rubbed raw from sweat trapped beneath the tape you peeled off.
You start slow. Tongue moving as best it can around the intrusionâpinned, awkwardâuntil you manage to curl it, dragging careful licks along the length. Your free hand works in tandem, firm and steady where your mouth wonât go, matching the rhythm of each bob of your head. You keep the motion smooth, mindful not to jolt your tender nose, and maintain some airflow.
The discomfort is impossible to ignore, though. It flares sharply each time his cock brushes your palate, forcing your mouth wider and wider as he stokes his own fire. Hips moving more until youâre forced to hold onto his thighs with both hands. You blink up at him, watching as his head tilts back and eyes close, an almost meditative calm settling over his face.
Youâre wondering if youâll get a rest day after all this when his palm slams down on the back of your head and shoves.
With a harsh shove, your face is mashed down onto his cock, your nose painfully rubbed against the steel wool there. A sharp squeal rips from your throat, twisting into a wet gag. Tears spill as you sob around him, and he grinds in harder with a low groan.
âFuck, thatâs it.â
A thin ribbon of precum slips down your maw, and you suppose you should be gratefulâyou canât really taste it. No bile rising, no gag reflex kicking in. Just the slow burn and suffocation of its weight sitting heavy in your gut.
âThis,â he growls, pumping shallowly, savoring every drag and catch, âor worseâif you keep thinkinâ for yourself.â
You feel like youâll be wrung dry before heâs through. Each thrust pulls more spit than you thought you could produce, strings of dusky pink drool trailing down your chin, soaking your lap.
He gives you a secondâa few precious breathsâas he pulls out, only to follow with a few sharp slaps of his cock against your cheek. A mix of fluids splatter with each hit, stinging where they land. You suck in a ragged, wheezing breath just in time to see his cock as it pushes in again.
After that, Price ruts into your face with reckless abandon. The only mercy he shows is not forcing you all the way down again as he uses your throat as a sleeve. The bleeding slows; your nostrils burn no longer, reduced to a dull, muted sting. You shiver, clutching his slacks like a lifeline, eyes squeezed shut, silently begging him to come.
His breathing turns ragged, each grunt tapered with a faint wheeze as he works himself up, chasing his finish. Words are beyond him now, at leastâtoo far gone for any cruel word. When you peel your eyelids open, searching for a sign of how close he is, you catch the flush climbing his face, the veins straining in his neck and arms.
Heâs pouring his anger into you, using you as the outlet, and whatâs worse is the guilt that sparks in your chest. Sick as it is, you wonder if you deserve it. Maybe you shouldâve listened. Your choices donât just affect you, after all. They affect him. The gym. The spectators and investors.
Now he has to answer to their tempers.
So maybe itâs only right that you answer to his.
Finally, his thrusts lose rhythmârough, uneven glides over your bruised tongue and wrecked mouth. His hands shift, clutching the sides of your head as he pulls back just enough to rest the heft on the flat of the muscle.
The sound you make is pitiful, a broken bleat, nose wrinkling as the first spurts of cum hit your tongue. Your eyes well up again, fighting not to choke, your mouth far too full of his cock, cum, and the mess that had already filled it before.
When it threatens to escape the seal of your lips, his hand hovers near your nose again in a silent warning. You scramble to steady yourself, to swallow past the ache, flinching as fresh pain crests in a new wave. It goes down syrup-thick along with everything else.
Only then does he retract and release his grip.
Whatâs left behind tastes foulâsour, clinging. You swallow again, reflexive, useless, trying to clear it. Air rushes in as you gasp, the last threads of saliva dangling from your lip, trembling with each breath.
Price gives you ten seconds, maybe less, before gesturing to his boots and the floor around them. It looks like a crime sceneâblood and spit and cum splattered everywhere.
He doesnât need to speak. You predicted it.
Shoulders quaking, you lower your hands to the floor and begin. Crawling through it, licking up every drop, every dark, metallic puddle. At his boot, you pauseâwincing at the bitter tang of leather polishâbut you keep going. Tongue working over the eyelets, the laces, until they shine.
Then, quietly, you retrieve your mouthguard, wipe your face with shaking fingers, and sink back onto your knees.
Youâre rewarded with a pat on your head.
âWhat do you think? Think youâre gonna listen from now on?â
âYes, sir,â you mumble, gently feeling under your nose, checking what damage remains. The skin there is tender, swollen, your touch barely grazing it before a fresh throb pulses up. And thatâs just your face.
Price watches you for a moment longer, then exhales through his noseâsatisfied.
âGood,â he says at last, tucking himself away. ââCause Iâm done cleaninâ up after you. Pull that kind of stunt again, and Iâll toss you straight to Gaz anâ Soap.â He re-tucks his shirt and fastens his belt. âGet yourself cleaned up. Youâre a fucking mess.â
You bow your head and hold the position a beat longer, gathering whatâs left of yourself. When you finally rise, itâs slowâjoints stiff, muscles aching.
And as you limp toward the showers, cataloging the bruises and welts blooming across your body, fluids drying tacky on your skin, you already knowânext time, you wonât make the same mistake.
ghost x reader
in the same vein as seconds, but not quite the same storyline.
cw: reincarnation (and not always human) and fucked-up soulmates, animal death (chickens, dog), suicide, weird vibes
Across all of time, the chase endures.
One fleeing, one giving chase.
Every people, every mythos, every woven inch of the worldâs story holds versions of itâechoes of this. The hunter, the hunted. The desperate and dogged. The terrified and compelled.
Sometimes, rarely, thereâs laughter in the chase. Mischief. A light-footed thrill.
But thatâs never the case with you.
Not once, in any of your lives, has Simon glimpsed even a flicker of joy when your eyes land on him for the first time. No glimmer of recognition, no fondness, no pull.
At best, your gaze is headstrong. Defiant when youâre feeling brave. A wobbly, half-formed smile when you think you can bluff your way through it. Beneath it all, always, that tremor of unease. Regret you wonât admit to. The slow, succulent realization youâve bitten off more than you can chew.
And at your worst? Itâs unmistakable. The full whites of your eyes and pupils blown wide. Your lip curls like youâve smelled something rotten, scented him in the wind. You recoil, shuddering with naked loathing and revulsion.
But no matter the life, no matter the shape you wear or the name you answer to, one thing never changes.
You always fear him. Every time, every version.
You fear him.
He does not always hate it.
Youâre a stray this time. A mutt. A mangy, mistrustful thing. All ribs and reek and bite. Youâve lived your whole life on the streetâno collar, no name, no warmth of a hand or home. He came looking for you, and heâs found you too late.
And because of his poor timing, and because this time heâs the man and not the dog, heâs you backed into a shed. A dead end from which you will not escape.
You thrash on the end of his catchpole, growling and snapping your teeth.Â
(That, at least, is not so different from some of his favorite past lives.)
Chickenâs blood coats your canines and feathers stick to your gums. The homeowner wails in the background, shrieking at him to kill the monsterâkill it, kill it! And Simon has to chuckle as he reels you in. How many times have you screamed something similar, when heâs found you?
You fight like a devil when he scruffs you, and you donât stop even when he slots you into the kennel in the back of his truck. You whine pathetically the whole way to the facility, only to start again once he drags you inside. He ensures no one else touches you. Not the other handlers. He barely allows the vet.
Itâs unfortunate, when it ends like this: inhuman and incompatible. The differences so irreconcilable it warrants a clean slate.
He tries, like he always does. Feeds you by hand. Talks to you soft and low. Lets you smell his skin, gives you one of his shirts. You donât soften. You donât eat. You curl in the corner of your kennel like youâd rather die than be tamed by his hand.
He blames himself. He knows if heâd found you soonerâif heâd raised you from a pup, spoiled you, trained youâyou couldâve been magnificent. Loyal. Sharp. A good little gundog. He recalls a handful of lives where you were a vicious little thing, but youâre all animal now. You never stood a chance without him.
Seven days pass. The shelterâs full. The chickenâs owner wants his pound of flesh.
So Simon does what he has to do.
He holds you as they fit the muzzle. You buck and struggle until the sedative slows you. Even then, he holds on. Dismisses the tech. Cradles you close as your breathing slows and as your muscles go slack. Your growls turn to whimpers, and your whimpers to quiet breathing.
Simon strokes between your ears, soothing, whispering the only promise that ever matters: Maybe not this lifetime, but the next. Youâll come back right, human, and heâll be there to find you. Heâll wander the earth if he must.
He walks off his shift after taking care of you himself. Drives in silence until the bridge, high and skeletal in the afternoon sun. He pulls his truck over to the shoulder, leaves the keys in the ignition, and his boots on the passenger seat. Hands his walletâID and allâto a homeless man.
The wind is sharp. The drop, long enough for a good think. He steps off the edge like heâs disembarking a bus.
He pictures you alreadyâwhat shape youâll take next, what kind of life youâll lead, and how heâll crash it. What heâll be when he finds you again. A man. A beast. Both or something else entirely.
He smiles at the thought of your heartbeat under his fingers. Fast. Frantic. Beautifully afraid.
this past year, he married a young woman whose reckless, unpleasant husbandâan awful gambler and an even worse soldierâdied suddenly on campaign. no one ever really questioned the circumstances.
but as price issued the command that sent the man to his death, he was the one to inform her of his passing. and then he extended his hand to the widow left behind. so young, so far from home, and heavy with child. she needed someone.
he claimed it was out of duty. protection. and in the eyes of his queen, the court, and the clergy, it was deemed mercy. the honorable thing, really. the good man john price, doing right by the dead.
never mind how convenient it all seemed. a woman has a husband and a child has a father.
knight!ghost x reader. hand-waving details. all vibes, as usual.
cw: noncon touching, manipulation
After years beneath your motherâs watchful eyeâless a daughter than a jewel kept safe under lock and keyâyou are at last released.
Invited to accompany your elder sister to court following her marriage to the esteemed Lord Garrick. Your first steps beyond the confines of home toward something far grander. The world opens before you like a storybook.
Itâs a rare opportunity for a young lady of gentle birth. The kind of chance your mother spent years safeguarding you against, fearing the pitfalls of courtly life. An opportunity your sister now extends like a gift.
You intend to follow in her footsteps. To make the most of it.
As his carriage ferries you across the countryside, Lord Garrick indulges in his role as guide and guardian. He names estates and their residents you pass, calling out their banners and bloodlines, reciting them from memory like a living codex, its margins filled with his own notations and stories from years of soldiering in the Kingâs service and court.
Most names you know from lessons or gossip: daughters and sons married off, the odd spoiled reputation and scandal, matriarchs and patriarchs pulling strings. But being the sheltered girl that you are, one name catches your thoughts like a burr.Â
Lord Garrick slips a miniature into your hand. It is no larger than your palm, with rich watercolors painted on smoothed ivory: a large man, almost comically set in the tiny frame.
His skin is pale, his eyes a warm, untroubled brown. He wears a slight smile, and his armor gleams with the seal of the King.
âAn old comradeâSir Simon Riley.â
You run a thumb over the edge. âIs he as handsome as his portrait?â you ask, shy as a girl should be when entertaining fancies.
Lord Garrick only grins. âHe is, dear one.â
âAnd noble? Chivalrous?â
âThe very image,â he assures. His wry expression is lost on you.
You are too steeped in fantasy to notice. Already imagining the weight of his hand around yours, already composing the vows he might whisper when he asks you to dance. Him, tall and solemn. You, breathless and giggling.Â
You do not yet understand how generous portrait artists can be, the choices they make to soften a mouth or warm a gaze.
When you arrive, you trail in your sisterâs shadow, a daisy behind a rose, trying not to stare too openly at every knight that turns his helm. Try not to appear too eager.
You curtsy. You dine. You take your place among the constellation of other young and unmarried ladies, each one a little star burning with her own hopes.
Time passes. You thrive. You charm. You are granted permission and invitation to winter beside your sister, a small victory. Come spring, youâll be presented formally.
On the morning of the first frost, Lord Garrick finds you in the solar, where you sit with your companions and needlework, your thoughts pleasantly idle.
âThereâs someone Iâm due to introduce you to,â he says. âSir Riley.â
He offers you his arm, and you take it. He guides you through the winding halls, past tapestries older than your bloodline. The keep quiets as you tread through an unfamiliar wing. The room he stops at is narrow and dark, the hearth cold, the shutters drawn.
It rouses an unsettling feeling in your stomach. A wrong note, a song sung off-key. Doubt prickles, fine as thorns. The chamber is too plain, too tucked-away for an introduction.Â
But the man youâve come to love as a brotherâsteady, kind Lord Garrickâpats your hand, and the doubt recedes, momentarily quieted.
He bids you wait. Heâll fetch Sir Riley himself.
You let him go with a wobbling smile.
When the door creaks open again, it is not Lord Garrick who enters.
It is Sir Riley. You know him at once, though the helm conceals his face. Your heart skips.
ââeard you been wantinâ to meet me, girl,â his low voice rolls thick like smoke. Heavy, like the blade at his hip.
You do not move. The knight fills the doorway as he did his portrait frame. Your hands knit loosely before you, trembling.
âItâsâŠan honor, sir,â you manage. Your eyes dart toward the door, hoping Garrick will follow, show his face. âI wasnât expectingâŠThat is, I thought Lord Garrick wouldââ
âThought heâd stay? Look after you?â Sir Riley asks, stepping inside. âNah. Garrickâs a busy man. âSides, if itâs lookinâ after yâneed, no oneâll do better.â
The door shuts with a click, and the bolt sliding shut might as well stick between your ribs.
You offer a smile, trying to summon the composure thatâs served you well in the halls. Yet even your propriety has teeth, and it gnaws at the edges of your nerves. This isnât how introductions are made. You know that. A lady does not meet a man alone, knight or not, not without a chaperone.
And yet here you are.Â
He moves further in, slow and certain, untroubled by the circumstances and its consequences. He unfastens one gauntlet, then the other, metal clinking as he sets each piece aside.
You step back, heart kicking against your ribs.
âI only meantâŠweâve only just met, and Iâm sure your time is better spent elsewhereââ
He says nothing. His fingers move next to the clasps at his shoulders. One pauldron. Then the other. Each piece comes away with unhurried care, as though he has all the time in the world.
The bulk sloughs off like a shell, revealing more and more of his frame until only the breastplate and helmet remain. You realize then that youâve backed into the wall.
âI should go,â you eke out. âIâve no doubt youâre very tired from your duties, and this isnât rightââ
Sir Riley laughs, rough like the scrape of flint.
âYouâre a nervous one.â
He reaches up and unhooks his helmet, slow as sunrise. When it lifts off, you are not prepared.
He is not unhandsome, no, but he is not the man in the portrait, either.
His nose has clearly been broken more than once and healed crooked. A jagged scar bisects an eyebrow with a fleshy knot on the end, mirrored by another that pulls taut across his lips. His skin is a map of violenceâkeloids, silvered cuts, and pitted lines all speaking to a life earned inch by brutal inch.
He tilts his head, eyes catching yours. Rich brown, as the painting promisedâbut the warmth there is tempered with something else. Hunger. The kind youâve spied in the Kingâs hunting hounds. Not the gentle yearning or tender longing you had quietly imagined for yourself.
âWhatâs wrong? Kyle said you found me pretty, pet.â
The wordâpetâsnaps like a ribbon.
In its reverberation, you feel the whole truth of it: you are very much alone, and Sir Riley is very much not what you were told.
You open your mouth, but no sound comes. You are caught between alarm and something stranger. It burns low in your belly, confusing and unwelcome.
You look at him again, truly look this time.
And realize: perhaps the artist hadnât lied or embellished. Not entirely. Perhaps the man in the portrait once matched reality, before war carved itself into his skin. Before duty hardened whatever youth heâd once had.
You try not to flinch when he steps closer, but your body betrays youâa stiffening of the spine, a renewed tremor in your limbs.
Sir Riley notices.
He watches you the way a wolf watches a fox kit or rabbit. Clearly delighted by the prey heâs cornered. He lets the silence sit, lets your discomfort curdle before breaking it.
âYouâre more beautiful than your picture,â he murmurs, almost to himself.
Your mouth dries. There arenât many portraits of you beyond your familyâs walls. Yet months ago, Garrick had insisted on oneâa secret commission, a memento for your sister, a gift. All before your invitation to court.
You never questioned what became of it.
âIâI should go.â
You move to slip past him, but he doesnât allow it. One step, and he cuts off your path with his bulk, the door now out of reach. Trapped between the edge of the room and him, the air tastes differentâash and smoke, hay and wet dog. It wrinkles your nose.
You try again. âLord Garrickâhe didnât sayâhe never said youââ
âYeah?âÂ
He smiles. Not kindly.
âThat I-I,â you whisper, heart beating hard enough that youâre sure he must hear it. âThat Iâd be alone. This isnât rightââ
âNot alone, pet,â he shakes his head. âIâm here, aren't I? Iâll see you well looked after.â
Without pause or permission, he takes your hand.
You could faint.
Your bare hand disappears, swallowed by his callused palm. His thick knuckles are as battered as his face, broken and reset countless times. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist and applies a brief and slight pressure, just enough to remind you of his strength.
You jerk instinctively, a soft tug.
He doesnât let go. Instead, he brings your hand to his mouth.
âNo need to shy from me,â he rasps.
Your breath catches.Â
(You really could faint, but a deep, sharp fear urges you to stay upright. Awake. That to fall nowâthe alternativeâ)
He kisses each of your fingers, one by one, unhurried. His lips are cracked. Chapped. Your skin burns under each press. You canât move. You should, but your feet fail.
He smiles into your knuckles. Almost fond. âYouâre shaking.â
You donât answer. Canât.
âYou donât know what to do with yourself now, do you?â he drawls. âBet you had a whole story in that pretty little head. Knight in shining armor, riding in to sweep you off your feet.â
His grip tightens, and he leans in, breath fanning over your cheek.
âWant me to do that, pet? Sweep you off your feet and take you away?â
Your heart screams no.
But nothing comes.
He watches you in that awful silenceâmeasured and methodical. Like heâs trying to decide what to do with you first. His hand, still curled around yours, begins to move again, with new purpose.
He lifts your fingers and guides them toward his face.
You resist, weak and instinctive, and he overcomes it with barely a flick of his wrist.
âGo on. Youâve been staring.â
Your fingertips brush the ridge of the scar across his lip. Itâs rough, raised, healed poorly. You flinch, but he doesnât let go. Instead, he shifts your hand higher, until your touch ghosts over the thick welt at his eyebrow.
âUgly, isnât it?â he asks, almost amused.
Your throat tightens. âNoâno, Iââ
He clicks his tongue. âDonât lie. Donât like liars. You scared?â
You are. Youâre mortified, shaking with it nowâcaught between a girlhood fantasy and the brutal reality of the man standing before you. Thereâs something violent in your own confusion. In the heat crawling down your neck and into your chest, in the tears prickling hot behind your eyes.
He sees it. Of course he does.
And he pounces.
One blink, and then his mouth is on yours without ceremony. Itâs a brutal kiss, a claiming thing, harsh and sudden and full of heat. Devoid of the romance you once imagined.
You gasp, startled, but his free hand comes to the back of your head, fingers spanning your skull to hold you in place. He doesnât let you pull away. He licks into your mouth and steals the air.
Itâs too much. He is too much.
When he finally pulls back, your breath is ragged and your tears have finally broken free, hot trails slipping down your cheeks. The horror of whatâs just happened crashes over you all at once, like a bucket of cold water sloshed down your spine. Your legs nearly buckle.
He stares, thumb wiping spit from your chin.
âThere she is,â he says quietly, near reverent.
You stand there, unmoving. Caught. The pounding of your heart drowns out every thought, each beat frantic, panicked. A bird slamming itself against a windowpane in desperation. You donât know what to say. You donât know what youâre allowed to say. The room grows smaller by the second, the walls pressing in.
He studies you, a delicate thing worth examining up close.
âDidnât think youâd be this sweet,â he mutters, mostly to himself. âGarrick said he had a girl for me. Said you were pretty. Polite. Court-bred. Figured Iâd âave to steal into your rooms, take some insurance to make you mine, you know. But Garrick said thereâd be no need. That youâd behave. A proper good girl. That what you are?â
His eyes flick over your featuresâwarm cheeks, wet-eyed, lips parted in confusion and fright. His thumb grazes beneath your chin.
âLook at you. Shakinâ. Precious thing. âCourse you are.â
He kisses you again. Harder.
No longer exploratory, no longer testing the waters. His moves as if owed. He takes and takes, lips dragging against yours, breath hot and heavy through his nose. Teeth sink into your lips, imprinting themselves on the pith of your mouth, sucking your tongue. You whimper, but his hand is already sliding down the line of your throat, splaying wide to feel your pulse.
Another panicked noise makes him smile.
He sighs. âDidnât guess youâd be this soft. Bet youâre soft everywhere.â
Thenâ
The door bursts open.
A gasp of startled voicesâservants. They freeze in the doorway, wide-eyed at the sight of the two of you locked together.
Panic explodes inside you. You jerk back from him, gasping, desperate to speak, to explainâthis isnât what it looks likeâbut you never get the chance.
Sir Riley doesnât release you. His arm tightens, his grip anchoring you in place. He turns toward the intruders, unbothered and unashamed. Cold.
In a few short, lethal words, he promises consequences. He names each one of themâtheir roles, their kin. Swears theyâll feel his hand and blade personally should they utter a word of what theyâve seen.
They flee. Mute. Terrified.
When the door shuts again, itâs like the last breath is sucked from the room.
Youâre a mess. Shaking, weeping, mouth swollen and burning. You are ruined. You know it. They will talk. People always do.
With the cuff of his sleeve, Sir Riley dabs your cheek, and then your chin. A mocking taste of the tenderness youâd dreamt of. He hums, too soft for the wicked glint in his eye, and tips your face back up with two fingers beneath your jaw.
âWhat a predicament we find ourselves in, hm?â he murmurs against your damp skin. âHow fortunate that Garrick and I already âave an audience with the King.â
He plants a chaste peck on your cheek.
âDry your tears, pet.â
He smiles. A pleased shape that rekindles the hunger in his eyes.
âBy spring, youâll be Lady Riley. Thatâs a promise.â
cw: dubcon (power imbalance, price steamrolling reader), hints of daddy issues/mild daddy issues for those who want to see them, abrupt ending, age gap, alcohol, masturbation, praise kink, hand feeding, fingering, oral, anal sex
a/n: clit, cock, and cunt are used to describe genitalia of reader's body. reader has top surgery scars.
Thereâs something to be said for the kind of work that doesnât pretend to be anything itâs not.Â
Itâs not glamorous, but itâs yoursâa modest business with your name on the side of a sun-faded van, stocked with gear, and enough regulars to keep the bills paid. Thatâs more than a lot of people can claim. It keeps the lights on. Affords you food and pride, both. Proof youâre getting by.
This little operation, humble as it is, at least gets you outside. And on days like this, thatâs a gift. The cirrostratus looks like pulled strands of candy floss overhead, and the breeze takes the edge off.
You tip your head for a moment to admire the clouds, then tug the brim of your sunhat. Itâs too big, like everything else youâre wearing. The clothes came out of the same catalog you order your gear from. A stiff, white button-up with your logo on the pocket and shapeless red shorts that skim your knees. Cheap. Chafes in all the wrong places, but expensable.
You scratch absentmindedly near your navel and guide the vacuum along the pool floor in methodic passes. The water is clear, the motion soothing. Slips you into a quiet headspace.Â
Itâs satisfying. Calming. The zen and predictability of a repetitive task cannot be understated. Lulls you into a lovely state of not-quite-daydreaming.Â
So, you donât hear Mr. Price the first time.
âYou with me, lad?â
The vacuum handle nearly slips as you twist around too fast, your foot catching the edge of the pool. You wobble, free arm flailing for balance. Mr. Price steps forward instinctivelyâpoised to surge across the yard. You manage to steady yourself, weight rocking back in time.
Both of you exhale at once.
He scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it across his beard.
âSorry, sir. I didnât hear you.â
âI gathered.â
You switch off the vacuum, the underwater hum fading. âWas there, uh, something you needed, sir?â
His sunglasses are too dark to tell, but you feel him sizing you up, same as he did when you arrived. He hadnât said much then either, just opened the door, looked you over from head to toe, then gestured toward the side gate with a grunt.
You donât know what to make of him. In truth, you rarely give your clients much thought beyond big house and lucky bastards. If you see them at all, itâs through the windows.
This is your first time at his place, and youâre still formulating an assessment.Â
You donât know if Mr. Price has a family, but his house is big enough to accommodate one. Thereâs a sporty car parked outside his garage. A sprawling garden, lined with hedges, mature trees, and a wrought-iron fence. No immediate neighbors butting the property line.
And, obviously, a pool.
What sets him apart is that you met him, and not a housekeeper or assistant. Clients typically let others handle the scheduling and small talk. It caught you off guard, putting a face to the voice, and matching the face to the ownerâs name.
Still, your gut says to treat him the same as the others. Another man accustomed to obedience. So, you straighten and lift your chin.
Your change in posture seems to amuse. The corner of his mouth lifts.
âI asked if you needed water.â
Your eyes flick to your bag and your beat-up thermos, plain as day. He had to have seen it. Which means this isnât really about concern. Youâve done this dance before. A casual, innocuous question preceding a snide comment or suspicion. Are you slacking off? Cutting corners?
Knew it, you think bitterly.
âNo thank you, sir.â
His mouth twitches again, this time downward, then flattens.Â
âSuit yourself.â
He retreats indoors, and the rest of the visit passes without incident. No more words exchanged. The clouds lift, sharing a rare, naked sky.
You pack your tools and log the time. As you pull out of the drive, you check the rearview.
Mr. Price stands at the back gate with a phone pressed to his ear.
You canât read his face from this distanceâbut you feel the weight long after the house disappears from view.
You mustâve made an impression, because Price starts booking weekly. On your docket every Friday afternoon.
It mystifies. His pool is never particularly dirty. Maybe a thin film of grime at the most, a handful of leaves blown in from the hedges and bird cherry trees. No signs of children or pool toys. No evidence of parties. Itâs clear he lives alone, and doesnât host.
Far be it for you to question easy money.
It makes for a pleasant, if not boring, routine. Knock on the door. Head around back. With booking and billing handled online, thereâs no need to see or speak to him at all.
For a couple weeks, itâs simple. Another lucky bastard with a big house who leaves blank five-star reviews. The best you could hope for.
Then he starts appearing poolside.
At first, you assume itâs a fluke. That heâs forgotten youâre scheduled.Â
Heâs the picture of leisure. Drink in one hand, cigar in the other, stretched out on the cushions. If heâs startled or annoyed by your presence, he doesnât show it. He gives you a polite nod, then buries his nose in a magazine.
But then it happens again. And again.Â
Like clockwork. The new fucking routine.
You unlatch the gate, and there he is, waiting. He makes himself comfortableâwell, more comfortable, given it is his houseâand watches. Or seems to. Itâs hard to tell with the sunglasses.
He never interrupts, just smokes and reads. The magazines he cradles are dog-eared, covers curled over. Sometimes you catch glimpses of the topics: cars, golf, current events. None of it hints at what he does for money. If heâs retired or working from home. If heâs ever worked a day in his life.
It changes things.
The calm dissolves. You grow more aware of every little thing. The way your shirt sticks between your shoulder blades. The trickle of sweat down your spine. Every time you bend at the waist or kneel by the poolâs edge.Â
You try to ignore it, but you feel his eyes brushing over the nape of your neck or small of your back. Yet every time you peek, heâs not looking. You canât shake it anywayâthe sense of being observed, possibly admired.
Thatâs when the shame creeps in.
What are you doing? What do you think this is, a slow-burn porno? Are you that vain?
This is just a job.
You scold yourself, cheeks burning hotter than the sun overhead. Itâs mortifying. To even imagine that a man like himâolder, composed, probably has a different watch and woman for each day of the weekâwould be watching you. You. Youâre not special. Youâre a line item on an invoice. Background noise.
The thought that youâve spun some dumb fantasy makes your stomach knot.
You work faster. Keep your eyes down. Try not to think about it too hard.
But when the breeze shifts and carries his smoke toward you, heavy and spiced, and it curls around your ribs like a hook.
Your first real conversation, youâre in trouble.
âYouâre late.â
âI know. Iâm sorry, sir.â
Mr. Priceâs fists sit on his hips, a cigar at the corner of his mouth held in place by a frown. Sunglasses hiding a glare.
âWhat kept you?â
Youâre sweating from the mad rush, juggling the hose and skimmer, and running on fumes. A dull throb pulses in your skull, the tail end of a headache from your last clientâs shrill tirade. His threats to leave bad reviews over a handful of rowan petals in his pool and a perceived lack of hustle.
A nutcase, you want to spit. You want to tell Price about how you skipped lunch and nearly got sideswiped on the drive. Complain about how your life depends on the goodwill of people who donât remember your name and settle for obscenities or diminutives.
Instead, you drop your armful on the grass and lie. âTraffic.â
He cocks a brow. âTraffic got you worked up?â
âYes,â you bristle, and slam the gate to storm back to collect the rest of your supplies.
When you return, heâs still at the gate, and this time, one long arm swings past. He slows the metal before it slams, guiding it shut with a quiet click. Suddenly, heâs too close, and youâre boxed in. A meld of tobacco, sweat, and body heat seeps into the space between. Itâs toothsome. Heady on the tongue.
You form an apologyâyou canât afford to lose businessâbut he doesnât raise his voice.
âWhateverâs actually put you in a mood, you wonât be takinâ it out on my property.â He ducks his head to chase your eyes and youâre forced to stare at your reflection in the dark lenses. âWe clear?â
The steel of his jaw, his arm flexing, the authority crackling in his tone like fire splitting woodâit shouldnât make your stomach flip, but it does.
âYes, sir.â
He smiles then. Not kindly. Smug, maybe. âGood lad.âÂ
The words hit a nerve you didnât know you had. They sink in somewhere soft and sensitive. The same place that makes a dogâs hackles rise and puts butterflies in bellies.
âAnd you better not slack just because youâre behind.â
âI wonât, sir.â
He lets you pass, and follows when you do. Itâs a struggle to not trip over your own feet.
This time, he makes no secret of watching. His cigar burns out untouched. The magazine flutters in the wind. He sits with his fingers laced over his middle, legs crossed at the ankles.Â
Bent on all fours over the system compartment, a prickle at the back of your neck grows impossible to ignore. You glance over your shoulder.Â
He appears asleepâutterly stillâuntil the corner of his mouth lifts. A slow, knowing smirk.
You snap back to the task at hand.Â
A chuckle follows, low and indulgent. It drapes over you like velvet and settles somewhere deep, where it can hum and hiss like a wasp caught under a jar.
On a night off, you go dancing. Three glasses of cheap vodka in your bloodstream, the taste coating your tongue. You considered ordering whiskey, but lost your nerve.Â
Leaning against a wall outside with your friends, getting air between songs, someone asks if youâve met anyone lately.Â
Or are you all work, no play?
You answer without hesitation. Without thinking.
(Itâs not until the next morning, hungover and rueing the sun itself, that you understand they meant someone from an app. A date. A one-night stand, maybe.)
But youâd already blabbed. Confessed.
Mr. Price.Â
John.
Your mouth runs wild with the liquor in your blood.
Heâs a bit odd, you admit. Hard to read. Just the other day, youâd walked in as he finished swimming laps, and he climbed out the moment he spotted you. You swear it happened in slow motionâwater rolling off the hard lines of his chest, the softer spread of his belly, the pelt of hair. The treasure trail and fading farmerâs tan. You nearly keeled over at the sight. And itâs hard to guess his age. Heâs fit, and the silver threads in his beard do something to you.
It isnât until the laughter shifts into something sly, that you realize how long youâve been going on. The teasing comes fast, merciless but fond. Thereâs no walking it back.
And when they askâflat-outâif youâd fuck him, you canât lie.
That gets them going.
âDo you think heâsâ?â
You cut them off. âNo. No way.â
Denial is easier than the fantasy of hope.
With an excuse, you peel yourself off the wall and flee back into the fray to shake the heat crawling up your neck.
You attempt to bury it all in the mouth of a stranger. Older, taller, dark hair curling damply at his temples. Broad enough shoulders. A cheap cologne that stings your nose. You let him kiss and paw at you against the sticky wall by the toilets, but itâs no good. He tastes like rum. Too sweet, no substance. Nothing like what you want.Â
The night ends early, frustration simmering. Alone in your room, sprawled in the dark, you add one item to the shopping list on your phone:
Whiskey.
The weather turns fast one afternoon.
It starts with the trill of Mr. Priceâs phone and a curse. He abandons his post, gritting out a clipped Yeah? before striding toward the house. The glass doors shut behind him, and though they muffle the sound, his voice climbs in volume as he disappears from view.
Almost in answer, the sky darkens. In minutes, clouds quicken and roll in, dragging the light with them and smothering it in a drab, gray sheet. The breeze kicks up and then your sunhat is gone, plucked clean off your head and hurled skyward.
You watch it spiral away helplessly.
Leaving your equipment where it sits, you duck beneath the umbrella between the chairs. It offers little protection. The raindrops fatten, splattering against the stone, and without giving it much thought, you scoop up his magazine and half-finished drink.
Clutching the snifter to your chest, the scent of whiskey rises. Youâre more of a wine fan, really, but the smell settles you. Warms you, even as goosebumps sprout along your arms and shoulders. Reminds you of your dad.
You shift foot to foot, back turned to the wind and rain. The uniform clings in cold patches as it soaks through.
Then, from across the lawnââInside!â
Mr. Price stands in the doorway, motioning you in.
You hesitate. You have a policy: stay outdoors. Liability. Safety. If rain hits, you wait it out or move on. You know this.
Then a sheet of rainwater sluices off the umbrella as it topples sideways in the wind, sloshing down your back. Shuddering, you shove the magazine under your shirt to shield it and bolt.
The rain lashes your skin. Grass squishes beneath your feet. His drink sloshes over the rim with every step, drenching your fingers in liquor.
You slip through the doors, soaked, clothes plastered on. You produce the rumpled magazine and offer it to Mr. Price with his half-drained glass.
âI, uh, tried toââ
âYouâre dripping,â he says flatly, his gaze dropping to the puddle forming at your feet.
You glance down at the water pooling at your feet and almost stumble back outside, stammering apologies, but he cuts you off.
âIâll get you a towel. Shoes off.â He empties your hands, pivoting toward the kitchen to deposit them on the island. As he rounds a corner, he points at the floor. âStay put.â
Outside, the rain picks up, and you gingerly remove your shoes and socks, not wanting to make more of a mess. Shivering, teeth clacking from the chill, you rub your arms and gawk. Youâve never been inside a clientâs home before.
A polished, heavy table anchors the immediate area. Old wood floors stretch beneath it, the tile under your feet a practical addition. Meant for footprints. Framed photos are scattered throughout, on the walls and sideboard, family portraits old and new you assume.
A grand painting behind the grand table seizes your attention: a small fishing boat, crimson and white, nearly lost in a violent storm. The sea churns around it in deep greens and blacks, lightning tearing across a sickly sky.Â
You admire the scene until you hear footfalls.
Mr. Price bears a towel and clothes. You accept the towel, pretending not to notice the second offering. When you peek out from beneath the cotton, heâs holding a shirt out.
Does he seriously thinkâ
âGo on. Youâll catch your death if you stay in that.â
A laugh putters out. You shake your head. âYou canâtâI canât take that, sir.â
His chin dips. âYouâre not taking anything. Youâre borrowing. Câmon. Shirt off, son.â
An ember catching kindling. You struggle to tamp it down.
âCanât I change in theââ
He scoffs dismissively. âIâm not moppinâ up a trail. Nothing I havenât seen before. Transparent, anyway.â
Nothing I havenât seen before. You doubt that. Your scars have faded into blurs, but theyâre recognizable. Obvious in their purpose.Â
He is right. Your shirt clings better than cellophane, sheer in all the worst places. You tug at the hem, flustered, burning up under his scrutiny.
Another look at his face says arguing only delays the inevitable. Itâs fuckedâwhatever this is, however he keeps pushing and playing with you. Batting you around like a bored tomcat would a mouse. Worse is how easily youâre letting it happen. Part of you, perversely curious, wants to see where itâll lead, if heâll eat you whole or what. Another canât stop replaying the memory of what he looks like, soaked and shirtless.
One-handed, you work the shirt free, and new goosebumps bloom across your skin. Your nipples stiffen. It shouldnât be a big dealâbut Mr. Price is staring.
Maybe your scars havenât faded as much as you think. You take the shirt, refusing to shrink, and square your shoulders. Posture makes all the difference amongst men, you learned.
The borrowed shirt slips overhead, and you juggle the towel to thread both arms through. Itâs loose in the shoulders, hitting the midpoint of your butt. Plain black, clean-smelling cotton.
Price clears his throat. âBetter. Bottoms, now.â
If your cheeks werenât already warm, theyâre scorching now.
âSir.â
He clicks his tongue and swings the spare shorts. âCâmon, theseâll do if you tie the string.â
âThereâs no need!â
âYouâd rather make more of a mess on my floor?â
You hold your ground, waiting for an indication heâll back off, but he doesnât. An unevenly matched game of chicken and youâre losing one concession at a time. You last all of ten seconds.
With a huff, you wrap the towel around your waist. Wiggling your hips, you coax the shorts down without revealing more than you already have. It takes a long, awkward minute. And when you think youâve made it through with some shred of dignity intact, he kneels, and closing a hand around your ankle.
âSteady.â
You freeze as he lifts one foot, then the other, helping you step out.Â
You snatch the shorts out of his hand and hurriedly shove them on, nearly combusting when the towel comes away in his hand seconds after you pull them over your bottom.
And then heâs up, moving, your wet clothes slung over his arm like nothing happened. Like he wasnâtâlike he didnât justâ
âBack in a jiff.â
This is where your curiosityâs led you.
Barefoot, in his clothes, heart fluttering ridiculously. Breaths in short bursts, stifled little things, afraid to be too loud. Dumbstruck.
How ridiculous you must look.
Do you think heâsâ?
Well.
You dry off as best you can and sidestep the puddle. Your boxers are likely see-through as well now, but you vow to not mention them. You wouldnât survive Mr. Price insisting on a fresh pair with your ass on display.
You rinse the whiskey off in a haze and find the kitchen as orderly as the dining room. Together, theyâre larger than your entire flat. Modernized, no-frills.Â
Through the archway, the hum of a tumble dryer kicks up, and Price reappears.
âSome rain. Didnât expect it, did you?â
You almost ask which partâthe rain, or the forced striptease?
Instead, you mutter, âNo, Mr. Price.â
âThink you can call me John now.â
Within minutes, he talks you into tea and a sandwich. While you nibble, he fills the silence with small talk. He doesnât cook much himselfâso if you donât like it, sânot his faultâand arranges for a chef to deliver meals every Sunday. Nothing elaborate, enough for the week, with extras in case of company.
You work up the nerve to ask what he does for a living.
Heâs unfazed. Says his parents passed, left him the house. Heâs retired military, lives comfortably off a pension. Mentions he does some consulting now and thenâvague, detached, the kind of answer meant to end the conversation, not invite it forward.
âBut enough about me. Want to know more about you.â
You wash a bite down with a sip, uncertain that heâs serious. Heâs being polite, you reason. A man like himâhe doesnât really want to know. Youâre a half-drowned dog he brought in from a storm. A good deed.
âIâm not that interesting.â
âSays the kid with his own company.â
Fair play.
You relent. Share little things. Where youâre from how you started, and that most of your work is seasonal. You help out at a school in the off months, and teach swimming at the community pool when theyâre short-staffed. He listens intently, attention never wavering. Probably finds it novel, working more than one job.
âSounds like you have your hands full.â
You nod, swallowing the last sip of tea. âI keep busy.â
He hums. âYou do alright on your own?â
The question is light, but it lands heavy. Itâs simple, benignâbut it isnât neutral and it needles. He ducks his head when you look away, searching. Like heâs casting a line, hoping youâll give something up.
Heat flares under your collar. Your throat constricts, shame blooming sharp and sudden.
You shrug, keeping it light. âI manage.â
When the rain finally stops, youâre overdue, and itching to escape Mr. PriceâJohnâsâattention. There are only so many ways to dodge questions.
He meets you at the van once itâs packed.
âBe seeing you, kid.â
âYeah,â you nod once. âThanks again, John.â
You offer a cordial hand, business-like, and his palm is hot around yours. You bet itâd feel like a brand elsewhere.
At a light on the way home, you tug the collar of his shirt up over your nose and inhale. For a brief, blistering second, you imagine his hands around your ankles again. Pushing them up and up and up.
You donât remember the rest of the drive home.
Itâs only after youâve kicked off your shoes and settled into the couch with a sip of your new whiskey, that it hits youâyour uniformâs still in Johnâs laundry.
Shit.
You go back for it after the weekend, off schedule. Have to.Â
Having rung ahead, heâs expecting you. He meets you at the door, phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek. You hand off the spare clothes; he passes yours back. He mouths sorry and squeezes your shoulder, before disappearing back inside like it never happened.
Youâre already behind, so you change in the van before your first job. The moment you slide the shorts on, your eyebrows hit the ceiling. They sit higher now, snug around your thighs, hitting well above the knee. You assume they mustâve shrunk in the washâuntil you pull on the shirt. Itâs been hemmed. Clean, subtle stitching. Tighter at the sleeves, better at the waist.
You consider going back, but your scheduleâs packed, and the day runs away from you.
When you see him next, he beats you to it.
âFits better, doesnât it?â John claps your shoulder, pinching and tugging the shoulder seam.
âYes, but did youâ?â
âEyeball the size?â He grins. âNot bad, eh? Iâve got a good tailor.â
Itâs not like you can undo it and youâre not about to shell out for a replacement. So you thank him, and receive a pleased, grumbled good lad in return, and a swat to the small of your back, a hair north of improper.Â
A wordless dismissal. Back to work.
With every window flung wide, you wage a hopeless war against the stagnant heat. Your sheets are drenched in sweat. Restless doesnât cover itâyouâre strung tight and buzzing, sticky and half-mad with frustration.
Sleepâs not happening, not like this.
You groan and kick your boxers down your legs, then roll to your stomach, pushing up onto your knees. The airâs balmy, sticking in your lungs.
Youâre not surprised to find yourself wet. Some of itâs sweat, sure, but the restâthatâs your own fault. The consequence of a wandering mind and no one around to check it.
You let your imagination take the reins.
Face mashed into the mattress, you imagine his foot on your back. Weight bearing down on you, pinning you in place. His cock rutting over your ass, one big hand grabbing himself at the base, slapping it against your hole, and the other digging into a fleshy cheek to spread it.
Your cock pulses between your rubbing fingers and a moan spills out. Your teeth scrape the sheets, eyes welding shut. Itâs obscene and loud in your quiet room when you steal slick from your cunt to rub over your asshole.
He would work you open, push one finger in at a time. Get you to cry on two, render you incoherent on three. Your own arenât enough to bring tears to your eyes, but thinking of what heâd say is.
Heâd ask if you wanted it. Needed it. Deserved it. All in that frustratingly even timbre of his.
His voice comes out of nowhere, clear as a klaxon in your head.
Good boy.
You come hard and fast, bucking your cock into your palm, fingertips prodding at your rim. Didnât even get far enough to slip them inside.
You lie there for ages, gasping, limp. Your muscles are too heavy, and youâre too far gone to care about the mess.
Sleep takes you like thatâsticky and spent.
The next morning, you peel yourself out of bed and strip the sheets in silence, tossing everything into the wash, shame eating you alive.
You canât look at John that week without that memory pumping blood south. Imagining him bending you over a chaise or pushing you into the clover until your uniform turns green.
Itâs divine punishment when he decides you need feeding. Like he somehow knows what played out in the privacy of your bedroom, or caught the stench of desperation that only comes with a misplaced crush, and you need your nose rubbed in it.
John presents fruit under a mesh cloche and demands you take a break. Not like thereâs much to do, anyway. The pool goes unused most of the time, the maintenance minimal at best. You put up little resistance, beckoned toward him by a crooked finger.
He moves his legs for you to sit as if there arenât three other loungers ringing the pool. Gesturing for you to scooch closer when he uncovers the fruit, stabbing a cocktail fork into a pink cube dusted with tajin. He offers it handle first.
A drop of juice drips onto his shin, and you think, lick it. You could. You would, if he told you to.
The impulse grips you so intensely, itâs absurd. This whole thing is absurd. Here you are, with a client. Not a date, not a boyfriend. A man with at least ten years on you, casually bullying his way past all personal and professional boundaries, and youâre waving him through as if they donât matter.
You know he expects you to take the fork from him, but that curious twitch stirs, and instead, your mouth falls open.
His eyes narrow, and he turns the fork, tucking the fruit into your mouth. Your lips close around the bite, tugging it off the tines with your teeth.
âCheeky.â he murmurs.
A good little pet sitting at their masterâs feet.
Your head spins.
Youâre convinced now. Thereâs a tear in reality, one that opens every time you turn onto that private lane. You pass through it like Alice through the looking glass, crossing into another plane thrumming with heat and heavy air, a whole world that revolves around Mr. Price and his whims.Â
A gravity all its own.
A special request from John arrives mid-week, close to the hottest day of the year.
Full-service. Deep clean, filter flush, system checkâthe kind of job thatâll eat your afternoon and keep you working well past quitting time. Two other clients will have to be bumped, but he offers triple your usual rate. Says he understands itâs last minute.
Says heâll make it worth your while.
For the hundredth time, youâre unable to turn him down.
You tell yourself itâs the money, but thatâs only half true. The other half keeps your hands tight on the wheel the whole drive over when Friday rolls around.
Nothing helps your nerves. You canât stop thinking about eating from Johnâs hand. The weight of his stare. His attention. About that man at the barâthe cheap imitation whose tongue you sucked in a vain attempt to quiet whatâs only gotten louder.
Itâs all climbing to a fever-pitch, and you want it to break.
John greets you at the gate.
âGlad to see you.â
He lays a hand across the back of your neck, and you fall into step.
âHosting a mateâs retirement party. Suspect his kidsâll want to swim.â He continues on about the details, but youâre stuck on how he directs your attention via squeeze.
You expect a mess, or evidence of a gathering on the horizon, but everythingâs the same. Practically pristine. Swept and hosed down. You glance sidelong toward John when he sits, buzzing with something you donât want to name.Â
Thereâs no real reason you should be here.
No real work to do.
But heâs bought your time, so you give it, and it crawls. You move equally slow, checking the seals for wear, inspecting the heater, running tests. All of it busy work and theater.
Youâre kneeling on a folded towel, bent over the open housing for the poolâs pump system. Focused until his shadow spills across the ground.
âDonât mean to sneak up on you,â John says.
You twist to peer over your shoulder and almost swallow your tongue at the sight of his trunks at eye-level, and rise to your feet. âEverything alright?â You swipe your forehead with your wrist, willing yourself to relax.
His knuckles brush your cheek, featherlight. He frowns. âYou look warm,â he taps one to your chin. âCome on. Enjoy the fruits of your labor with me, yeah?â
You barely put up a fuss when he cajoles you into a dip. Stripped to your boxers, you wade in, relief singing up your legs. Curling around your waist. You nearly groan from how good it feels.
At the other end, John dives in. He slices through the water, sleek and galeoid, surfacing within reach. Veins of water cut down his chest and stomach, disappearing at the elastic at his hips.
âBetter?â
âLoads,â you say, hoarse.
He gives a faint smirk, then turns, launching into lazy laps. Says something about needing to stay limber, working out a knot in his back. You hopeless to watch. He puts those shoulders to use, pulling with long, fluid strokes.
You swallow hard, trailing him shamelessly: the sweep of his back, the bulk and muscles under freckled and scarred skin. Youâre greedy. You want him. On you. Around you. Inside you. You want to bite down on that smirk and hear him swear your name.
You sit on the steps, draw your knees in, and press your thighs closed to hold yourself together. Your hands flex on the vinyl. They want to reach. Grab.
He pushes off the wall for another loop, and you stay right where you are, trying to think about anything that isnât the throbbing pulse between your legs.
John doesnât bother asking if youâre hungry, or if youâll stay for dinner.
Haphazardly dressed, shirt half-buttoned and untucked, you stow the last of your gear. Youâre in a daze, holding fast to denial. The spell will break, your van will revert into a pumpkin, and youâll head home to scrub the day from your skin. Send the invoice, knock off a percentage, and youâll do it all over again next week.
Then smoke hits the air.
Johnâs at the grill laying down strips of pork, the meat hissing on the grate. He halves peaches with a paring knife thatâs tiny in his grip and sets them cut-side down beside the meat. The air turns lush with salt and charred sugars, rosemary and garlic.
You slink to his side, salivating, meaning to say goodbye and thank you. Polite and decisive.
Then he jerks his head to the door and tells you to fetch plates and cutlery, and you bound off. Retrieving them dutifully. Inwardly, a part of you raises the fact you didnât agree to stay, that you shouldnât stayâbut that flicker of good sense snags on the barb of hunger and all your aching.
By the time the foodâs ready, youâre ravenous. You never eat this well. Burnished pork glazed in its own fat and blistered peaches. You stop short of licking the plate.
After washing up, you peek at your phone.
âStop that,â he scolds. âI know exactly how long Iâve got you for.â
And he doesâhe keeps you through golden hour.
Abendrot, painted in red and gold and soft indigo, bleeds over the sky. Youâre boneless in the lounge chair. Content. Melting around the edges, the line between help and guest completely dissolved. Rendered.
John sprawls the next seat over, holding a lowball glass that catches the last of the light.
You lie on your side, head pillowed on your arm, watching the bob of his throat as he swallows.
âCan I have some?â you ask.
âDonât think youâd like it. Picture you as more of the daiquiri type.â
âNot true,â you sit up. âIâve got a bottle of that at home.â
That makes him glance your way. Then, he shifts, patting the cushion beside him.
He walks you through it, clearly doubting your tastes and experience: breathe in first, donât take too much, let it roll. Savor it.
It burns, but itâs smooth. Honey folded in smoke. Leagues better than what you picked up on sale.
âGood?â he asks.
You wheeze, nodding. Emboldened, you try again twice more under his amused supervision. After a shallow fourth, you push the glass to his chest with a breathless laugh.
John chuckles, shoulders shaking. When the sound dies, you notice how close youâve drifted.
âWell,â you murmur, easing upright. âThis has beenâwell, I should...â
âThat it?â he asks. âOff the clock now, arenât you?â
âYes, but, I should go, sinceââ
âYeah?â he smooths a hand up your thigh. âArenât you the boss?â
Your brain stutters. Your mouth moves before your thoughts can catch up. âArenât you?â
It comes out soft. Sultry. Unfurls like a red flag in front of a bull.
His face blanks. Then, very quietly, âCareful.â
Panic punches through you. Words spilling fast. âI am so sorry, sir. That wasâthat was over the line. I didnât meanââ
Storm clouds darken his blues and you brace for itâfor the correction, the ending you walked yourself into.
But he moves.
The glass hits the table with a muted clink, forgotten. His hand shoots out, closing around your wrist, and the next thing you know, youâre hauled straight into his lap.
Heâs kissing you.
âJohnââ you gasp against his mouth.
Devouring you.
His mouth slants hard over yours, tongue parting your lips, taking what he wants with a low soundâpart growl, part groan.
You try to breathe through it, to think, but itâs useless. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and stone fruit. He grabs your waist and drags you closer, until youâre straddling him, knees framing his hips.
The lounger creaks.
âChrist,â he mutters against your jaw. His teeth scrape there, making you arch. âYouâve no idea how long Iâve been waiting for you to make that face again.â
âWhat face? A-again?â you moan, dizzy.
âThat one,â he murmurs, mouth trailing lower, grazing your throat. âLike youâd let me wreck you right here, out in the open. You make it all the time.â
You shudder. He feels itâlaughs under his breath.
His hand slips to your nape. His forehead presses to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.
âYou want this, hm?â he asks.
You nod.
âWords, sweetheart.â
âYes.â
âGood,â he says, and kisses you again. Rougher this time. Meaner. The decisionâs final.
You belong here. On his lap. On his tongue.
âThereâs a good boy, fuckinâ good boy.â
A head rush in two ways. The pulse of Johnâs cock on your tongue rewires your brain, resets it completely when he presses your nose into the steel wool of his hair. Dizzying, both the lack of air and the sheer size of his hand cradling your skull.
Right here, out in the open. Kneeling on a bunched-up shirt.
He had let you take charge to a point. Half-heartedly muttered about there being no need. Though as soon as you slid your tongue along the underside of his cock and hollowed your cheeks, he swore and took the reins.
He fucks your throat in slow, deep thrusts, and tells you what he thinks of your talent. What a nice surprise it is. He coos when tears well and spill, mistaking them, maybe, for strain. But itâs not that. Itâs the way he looks at you. He means every word. Thatâs whatâs undoing.
He catches your tears with a thumb, and drags them across his tongue to taste the salt. You could come like this, giving head to a man who calls you kid. When you slip a hand over your crotch he doesnât stop you. In factâ
âGo on, do it. Show me how desperate you are.â
Thereâs not a shred of embarrassment when you cup yourself through your clothes, rubbing along the seam, chasing friction. You canât do much of anything except rile yourself up. It works for Johnâa line of filthy encouragement streaming from him uninhibited. He grinds his hips up into the heat of your mouth, picking up speed.
John doesnât give much warning before he comes. A stifled grunt gives it awayâthen his grip tightens, the pressure turning forceful, insistent, urging you to take more, to take all of him. You gag, sparks bursting in your vision when he spills in your throat.Â
He gives another couple thrusts before allowing your retreat. You sputter and cough, lips slick with drool. You curl inward slightly, heels digging into your backside.
While you scrub at your eyes with the heels of your hands, still sniffing, he leans. Drags your lower lip down and hooks a thumb in your mouth to steal a look inside.
âPerfect.â
His bed could eat yours for breakfast.
Thatâs your first thought when John eases you into it.
Then his mouth finds yours, slower now, pacing himself. Heâs got all the time in the world. Youâre not going anywhere.
His kiss deepens as he crowds in close, tongue sliding against yours. You can feel every inch of him, chest to chest, the hard line of his thigh slotted between yours. His weight is a delicious trap, anchoring you down.
He shoves your shirt open, one rough palm skimming your waist, the other dragging its thumb across a scar. His mouth works a line down your neck, maw open and hungry.
âYouâve been driving me fucking mad,â he murmurs, gravel-thick. His teeth catch the shell of your ear as he toys with a nipple. âTeasinâ me for weeks.â
You twist your fingers in his hair and pull. He groans, grinding between your thighs.
âI wasnât trying to,â you gasp. âYouâyou made meâduring the stormââ
âNever made you do a damn thing,â he grunts, tugging at your waistband. âDid I? Didnât make you wear my clothes. Didnât force you to eat my food.â
He yanks your shorts and boxers to your ankles, and thereâs no hiding it. He finds you wetâslick and ready. His whole body stills to collect himself. Then he exhales slow, grinning.
âChrist,â he kisses your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple. âDonât need to force a thing.â
Johnâs touch is as demanding as the rest of him. He learns you fast, using two fingers and his thumb to stroke your cock. His other hand slides under your back, kneading a globe to coax you into another filthy kiss.
He breaks to swipe through your cunt, and you moan into his neck, clinging to him. He groans at the way you flutter when he circles your hole, hips shifting so you feel the hard heat of him against your thigh.
âThis alright?â
You nod, helpless.
âSpeak.â
âYes,â you gasp. âYes, John.â
He slicks his fingers and returns to your twitching cock, stirring you up into a fit of noise, hips mindlessly canting into his touch.
Youâre right thereâright on the edgeâwhen he pulls away. A desperate sound tears from your lips as he stands, leaving you aching on the bed. You turn, watching him through bleary eyes as he looms.
âJohn,â you whimper, tilting up.
He doesnât answer. Just reaches down, huffing through his nose, and rolls you onto your front. You scramble to get your knees set.
âPlease, pleaseââ
âKnow what you need,â He grits, hauling you by the hips to the edge of the bed, swearing when youâre completely exposed. âFuck, look at that. Could sink my teeth in right here and eat,â he swipes over your flesh, chuckling at your whimpering. âAnother time, baby. Donât worry.â
You hiss as he massages your rim using the mess from your cunt. Firm circles to ease you open. When he finally breaches, sinking to the first knuckle, you lose a little time, and come back to feel the prodding of a second digit. Itâs a touch too soon, but you donât stop him.
Donât think you could. Not sure if youâd want to.
Soon enough, youâre tearing at the sheets. Tears roll over the bridge of your nose and slopes of your face, staining the cotton. Youâre trembling, hiccuping, overwhelmedâbarely able to keep up with him working you over on three of his spit-coated fingers.
Just a job, you told yourself, and now youâre crying into his bed. Listening to him purr your name. You sob onceâhigh and crackedâand he hushes you, holding you still at the base of your spine.
âThatâs it, sweet boy. Let it out.â
You cling harder to the sheets, the salt of your tears burning where they admix with sweat. Youâre not sure what youâre crying for anymoreârelief, need, shame. The staggering, unbearable pleasure of being wanted.
Again, he stops short of letting you come.
Youâre too far gone to complain, every nerve lit up and raw. The last of your common sense, a final coherent thought raising the issue of a condom, is seared out of your mind when his cocks glides through your folds. When it slaps over the cleft of your ass. Once. Twice.
Then heâs pressing in.
Itâs almost unceremoniousâthe weeks of simmering tension finally and suddenly boiling overâwhite-hot and unbearable. It ruptures, spills molten in your veins, and splits you wide open.
Johnâs belly brushes your lower back, then presses, cushioning when he curls over to push until heâs flush.
âOhâoh fuck, John,â you choke out, grappling the pillow half-tucked under you.
âYouâre alright.â
He keeps you close, anticipating the kick of your legs, the instinct to wriggle away. One hand smooths over your flank, gentle as breaking in a wild thing, until the worst of your shaking settles.
Then he hooks an arm snug across your chest and the other under your stomach. He finds your leaking dick, thumbing it with a hum while his own stretches you out.
âKept this waiting, didnât I? Sweet boy, such a mess.â
He saws in and out slowly, luxuriating in it. The rough scrape of his stubble drags over your shoulder and neck, the humid gust of his breath puffs in your ear. His fingers dip and trace your seam, circling your neglected hole.Â
âPlease,â you try to buck against him, but itâs impossible to move.
âGreedy,â He grunts derisively, though the eagerness with which he burrows a finger in your cunt, betrays him.
He stalls his thrusts to a grind as feeds your cunt his fingers until you cry and shake anew. They probe deep, the rub of his palm to your aching cock almost too much. You snake a hand under to push his wrist away, but his teeth find your shoulder.
âYou begged for this,â he growls. âSo youâre gonna let me.â
Itâs not so much permission as surrenderâinevitable, all-consuming. You donât allow it so much as you yield, helpless but to drown.
The squelch of your cunt around his fingers is damning. Thicker than yours with a longer reach, he finds what makes you clench around him tight, earning a clipped curse. His wrist must be sore with the angle, but he doesnât let it stop him. He picks up his pace again, keeping your cunt stuffed and smothered, hurtling you toward your release at last.
âJohn, I-Iâm gonnaâŠâ you pant, breath choppy. Drool sticking to the corners of your lips.
âThatâs it,â he growls. âGive it.â
Eyelids slipping shut, lightning splits the black and shoots through your nerves and muscles. You seize up with a shout then jerk, orgasm rolling through you in waves.
The rest blursâdistant. Muffled.
A guttural sound, Johnâs fingers retracting. Clenching around nothing and everything. Two sweat and cum-damp palms flitting over your hips and tugging, guiding you back to meet the erratic snap of his hips.Â
Clarity returns with the first spurts of his cum. Mouth falling slack all over again around a feeble, surprised moan as it floods you. You canât see him, but imagine it. Head thrown, a coat of sweat over his front and back, glutes flexing. Rooted in this deep, all-encompassing.
Itâs a while before he pulls out. Seconds, minutes. Doesnât matter.Â
It beads out of you like a pearl, smeared under a thumb, then wiped by a towel.
You donât fight him when he tucks you into his side. Itâs far too hot to be this entangled in each otherâs arms, but the musk of sex and sweat soothes. Easy to overlook discomforts when youâre so sated.
He sighs sweet dreams into your ear, but youâre already gone. Pulled under.
In the morning, you wake to a scorching quilt over your back.Â
His chest fitted to your spine, cockhead nudging at your sore hole. He contorts you some when you rouse enough to sleepily relax for him, hooking a thick arm beneath both knees and drawing them up. They press toward your chest, folding you like a bug. Tight and close to him until thereâs no room, until youâre just a precious thing for him to fuck awake.
Dozing anew in bed, you draw circles through the hair on his stomach, lazy and absent, while his fingers trace soft, idle patterns between your shoulder blades. You yawn, stretching a little into him.
âShouldnât you be decorating or something?â
He grunts, the movement of his fingers pausing to scratch his stubbled jaw. âHm? Whaâs that now?â
âThe party,â you murmur, eyes half-lidded.
John exhales, then folds you tighter against him, dragging the duvet higher.