Honestly might be able to to something with the gross stuff I saw at the hardware store I used to work at (except make it hot and 141)
Imagine you're a cashier, the only one with early morning availability so you're there at 5:45am for the 6am start. It's always the worst kinds of contractors there: rude, tired, dirty, leering gazes and sexist comments
You're pretty sick of it, but you get paid a bit more than minimum wage and you're done by 11am so, you take it with a cheery smile and fast service
The 141 contracting company starts spending at your store. So much, in fact, that your manager personally takes you aside to mention just how much they do - nearly a million a year - and how no matter what, your job is to be nice and please them
Well, you can do that. You've dealt with crazy, awful old contractors screaming in your face about lumber prices at 6:30am more than once, heard them talking about your tit's or your ass right in front of you - you can handle it
Until the masked one comes in first and hes huge, dark hoodie and cargo pants hanging low on his hips. He hands you 3k in bills only there are bloodstains on them and he watches you closely the whole time you count them out
It's... not a first, but the look he gives you makes you shiver. Pale eyelashes, tall, intimidating
The second is nicer. Too nice, in fact. He charms you before you're even fully awake, and your shift goes by quickly thinking about that winning smile and the way he'd touched your fingers while he handed you a stack of bills... not to mention those soft brown eyes
The third is... intense, for 8am. He rolls on the balls of his feet, stares at you harder than the masked one. He offers to buy you a hot chocolate at the coffee shop next door and grins like you made a joke when you decline
Their boss is fucking dreamy. Even you have to admit it, trying not to look up at his mustached, frankly porno-esque face. He's huge, as tall as the others but thick, with a little pudge around his belly. He trudges in with thick workboots and a stained t shirt, pays for 24k worth of material with a lazy smile on his face like it's nothing
You might ask head cash to move you to the garden center after all...
mdni 18+ soap x fem!reader pregnancy kink, lactation kink, dubcon-ish
Johnny takes good care of you when you get knocked up with his baby, to be sure, but he's not a saint
He'll let you kick your feet into his lap and rub the stiffness away, yeah, if he gets to lay you out after and press his nose to the gusset of your panties and inhale as long as he wants, hand wrapped firmly around his cock
Yeah, he'll come up behind you and take the weight of your swollen belly off of your back, hold you there while you decompress for the first time in weeks... if you take your top down later and let him have a little taste of the milk that's come early
Honey, of course I'll get your lotion from the top shelf for ye, just go ahead and lay yerself down on the bed for me. Mhm, tuck a pillow under that belly. Hands and knees, lamb. That's right, good girl.
He's been putting things in hard to reach places so you have to ask him for help, too, not that you know - you're suffering from a case of pregnancy brain, foggy and tired
Can't let the mother of his child suffer without help, of course. But would it hurt to just come take a seat in his lap, let him see how sensitive you've gotten? How much more wet you get now? How sore and weepy you are?
poly knights 141 x fem reader, mdni 18+, infidelity, dubcon, murder/violence, breeding, gangbang, scent kink, terrible ending
Going to sleep thinking about a medieval peasant farmer reader who's married to some chump for economic reasons (marrying slightly more 'up' in the social rungs by her family)
Who, after a decree by the king, is told she must take in any returning knight journeying back from crusading if he should need shelter for a night (the fields are vast, takes a few weeks to get back)
Who, not really expecting anyone to show up, is met by four massive armour clad knights at the door... and whaddyaknow, they're looking to stay the night
You jump a little in surprise as they drop their heavy iron weaponry by the door, stepping in (they have to hunch at the doorway btw) to your modest little farmhouse asking you "where's your husband, love?"
You're too embarrassed to say he's been spending his nights schmoozing away at another woman's house, face hot with embarrassment, trying to distract them by offering them a warm meal ... "you boys must be hungry, huh? I can serve you some stew-"
Which is your mistake, really. What can they do? They have to depose your husband and take you for their own now, what with you being the perfect little wife. Can't pass an opportunity like that up.
"He hasnae even gotten ye pregnant yet, lamb?" One of them says, holding your ankles to keep your legs spread, his fat cock stuffed down your throat as the leader of the group stuffs your cunt.
"We'll fix that," he says, face tight with concentration, the hairy pooch of his belly peeking beneath his sweaty linen shirt. You're overwhelmed by the musk of them, how can you not be? Four men, fresh off battle, smelling of travel and bloodshed.
It makes your head spin.
The other two are keen to wait their turns, stuffing their bellies with the hearty stew and homemade bread you so sweetly offered.
"Best butter I've ever had," the youngest pats his albeit leaner gut, leaning back in your rickety wooden chair. His eyes are fixed to you, intense and eager.
The leader only laughs, "best cunt I've ever had."
pairing: ghost / simon riley x fem reader
summary: simon is forced to take some time off - he makes the most of it.
tags/warnings: very soft, pregnant sex, size difference, softdom!simon- he's a masculine man who doesn't let his lady lift a finger :'), oral (f), one (1) butthole kiss, dacryphilia, daddy kink (sigh), minor minor foot stuff, allusions to injuries and chronic pain, title from an adrianne lenker song
w.c: 2.5k
You try very hard not to think about it, but it's hard not to notice how massive he is.
Even shirtless, he somehow looks bigger, muscles flush with heat and exertion under the sun. He toils and breathes hard like an ox, working while you sit on the porch wrapped in his big flannel. Wearing his clothes is like being swaddled in a blanket straight out of the dryer, warm and nostalgic and syrupy with love. It leaves you feeling some type of tender. You're afraid of that feeling sometimes, of how soft it is and how soft it makes you. He could ask anything of you, and you'd yield like he was pressing his thumb into a bruised peach.
You have.
"How are you two?" Simon is so quiet when he wants to be. One would think he'd clomp like a horse with how big he is, but he can float like dust. It used to startle you, but you've been sinking deeper into the memory foam mattress of this life with him and it doesn't anymore.
"Tired, even though I'm not doing anything," you squint at him through the late afternoon sun. It haloes him like an angel.
"You're growing my baby in there, love. That's not nothing," his voice is rough, it always will be. But it's rough now like earth and soil rather than rough with pain and smoke the way he'd sounded when you met him.
You're feeling especially nostalgic, it seems, not like it's hard here. His hand is warm on your belly.
"I guess so," you let him pet you for a moment. Your stomach is swollen but not as big as it'll get, just enough to veto pants. A few months to go still. "How's your back?"
"Argh," Simon says, taking a heavy seat next to you. Dismissive and yet he groans a little when his muscles unclench. Classic.
You slowly reach up and nudge him until he's facing the field opposite to you, face toward the golden afternoon sun and his back to you. He's never asked you to do this, to take care of him, but it's your favourite thing in the world.
His back is always rock-hard no matter how many times you take your knuckles and fingers to it. Just a condition of a hard life lived for him, countless falls and impacts and pushing through injuries. There's a slight slant to his spine now that isn't there in the pictures he's shown you of his youth, but the stiffness is the same. You might've said he was born to be a soldier, had you not known him as a father. He could do both, but - you'd never say this out loud - you were privately grateful for this injury. It wouldn't take him out forever, but the recovery would be long. Long enough to get the homestead started, to get you pregnant.
Simon would never be completely still. This was compromise. Sweet compromise, a life started and time with him you could think back on the next time he shipped out. Making the most of things, he would always say. Making the time count.
"That feels good, love" he groans. Bending forward slowly, relaxing, he's like an aloof stallion finally accepting an apple from your hand. Acquiescing. Showing you his back. It's trust, and you savour it.
"I bet it does," you tease back, just a little. Your fingers are nimble and attuned to his specific aches and pains. "Are you hungry for dinner?"
"I'm hungry for something," he turns, slowly, hands reaching for your thickened waist. Huge, work-roughened hands. War-roughened hands, holding you like a delicate egg. Sometimes it feels like he's the only thing that holds you together; all your pieces, everywhere, until he's holding you.
Kissing him is a contact sport. It's his hands moving, cupping your breast and then your pussy through your panties, your own hands wrapping around his broad shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. It's open-mouthed, breathing into each other. Impossibly, you get softer, melting like ice on a hot day.
Before you can lean back on the bench, he stands and lifts you with him. He's still hot from the day, damp with sweat, pushing you into the house while kissing you still.
"Simon-" you start, with no goal in mind. "Please."
"I've got you, love," he murmurs. He always does. Before you know it, you're laid back onto the plush armchair in your living room. Simon knows this is the most comfortable place for your newly-aching body. Affection swells in your chest uncontrollably and comes out through your eyes leaking down your face. Sure, pregnancy makes people emotional - but you're still embarrassed, touched by how considerate he is.
"It's alright, shh," he thumbs the tears at the corner of your eyes. His cock tents his work pants, aroused by them. "Let me take care of you."
The next words he murmurs are into your cunt, right over your panties, tongue laving over the already-wet fabric. "Just need your daddy, don't you?" You clench in tandem with his words, hot all over, skin prickling. He pushes your dress up, bunching it right under your tits.
It's reminiscent of how you spent the first night with him, on the very first day you'd met. Hurried, his big head between your thighs and clothes hanging off you still while he made you fall apart.
He's fucking good at it, too. Pulls your panties to the side and builds up the pressure with which he sucks on your clit, softly and then harsher until you shake. You've been extra horny lately, always wet around him and always so swollen. The scrape of his five-o-clock shadow against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh is what tips you over, clamping his head tightly and shouting your orgasm into the heady summer air.
"That all it takes?" Simon grins, chin wet, fingers moving from your hips to your pussy to gently rub along your slit.
"Give me a second, please," it's humbling how quickly you come nowadays. Quick and intense. Fireworks.
You set your foot on his shoulder and he turns towards it, kissing your ankle. Patience is rare with him, something come about only since you confirmed your pregnancy. You miss being overwhelmed by him, miss the nights where he'd guide you over the edge one, two, three times in succession.
He pushes now, just a little, not waiting for your go-ahead but watching you intently. His fingers spread your cunt in a V and he puffs a breath on your sensitive clit. You jump. He grins again, leaning down to lick you, using one hand to hold both your legs under your knees and push them until they meet the soft bump of your belly.
"Hold them there," he says. It's spoken not to you, but to your hole, which he spears his tongue into. You obey as you're helpless to do, holding your legs up and giving him an unimpeded view. It's more than vulnerable, it's not only baring yourself to him completely but giving him the authority to do what he wants. What you need.
Simon eats you out like it's a kiss, slurping you down and letting you leak until the evidence of your weakness to him is all over you. Your legs are wet, and it drips down onto your other hole. He pushes a thumb into your cunt, dipping it in and out.
"Needed me, did'ya? Watched me all day," he's so smug, sometimes. His lips find your bare foot, kissing your sole. "Been wet like this all day?" His other hand finds the meat of your asscheek, spreading you open further, letting the split of you open to him. He leans down, kissing your inner thigh, then your other hole. You whine and clench your pussy around his thumb.
"So needy," he murmurs, finally finally moving back to your clit. Flicks his tongue over it, something that might've been teasing before but is intense now. Your hands tighten against your legs, head thrown back.
"Oh please- Simon!" You shout again, abs drawing up, stars in your eyes. "Ahh- I'm-"
"I know, honey," his lips suction again around the hard little pebble of your clit, eating like a man starved.
This is how he likes you. Losing control, coming apart, helplessly vocal against the onslaught of his tongue. No matter how many times you've done this, it never gets old. The release almost always makes you cry, especially intense like this. You're wet all over, face and cunt and legs. He is, too.
"You still with me, love?" He pets your flank like you're a horse.
"Yes," but that's not what he wants.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, daddy."
"Good girl," and fuck if that doesn't always fill you with warm fuzzy energy. Wipes your brain, keeps you soft and floaty.
He guides you up and out of the armchair, lifts you into his arms when your legs shake too much. That electric feeling is still coursing through you, tingles in your extremities as they come back to life.
The hand he strokes over you is half affectionate, half proprietary. You've been his since the first time he laid eyes on you.
He reminds you of it as he sets you down gently on the bed, your hair a halo around your head and hands reaching to his face where you pull him down for a kiss. Hands find his shirt, pulling it off you, and then the dress. Fingertips touch the headboard, your arms stretching up, making room for him. Slips your panties down your legs.
It's a lingering, indulgent kiss. Breathing each others air, gasping into his mouth, he puts his elbows by your head and lays as much weight down as he can without cramping your full belly. He's as vocal as you, groaning and rutting like a dog.
"Ready for me, sweet girl?" He leans out of the kiss, sitting back on his heels. You nod, desperate and pulsing between the legs again like you didn't just come twice.
"Daddy's gonna take care of you, don't you worry," he rearranges you like a doll, turning you to your side and getting between your legs. A pillow is tucked under your belly, and he tests your flexibility by holding your leg tight to the length of his body. Your hamstring burns a little with it.
A hand holds your knee, another to your waist. His jeans scrape against your sensitive skin.
You focus on little details. His scar, touching his eyebrow and splitting through his nose, ending down by his jaw. The knuckles on his fingers holding your knee, and how rough the pads of his fingers feel on your waist. This man has never had soft hands in his life. Those same hands capable of so much force, so much violence, the very same that hold you and guide you. A shepherd, you his lamb.
The weeping head of his cock kisses your hole, catching there and traveling up. He taps it against your clit until you're tensing, whining, needy again. Tears down your cheeks.
He steadies you, pets your waist, guides his cock inside and it feels like you can breathe again. His mouth laves hot kisses over your ankle, the sole of your foot again, reverent and controlling all at once. The stretch burns - it always does, and maybe always will. Simon is just so big, thick all around and the mushroom head of him could always bump your cervix if he's not careful.
He's careful now, but only just. You can sense his control fraying, his hips driving forward steadily but his thighs tensing and his grip getting meaner. This is your favourite part. Watching him sweat, breathe hard, taking his pleasure in you.
"Yeah-" he cuts himself off with a long, drawn out groan. Deep, from the bottom of his belly and out. "Already so full of me, aren't ya? Can't get full enough."
You plead with your sounds, words out of your grasp. Your hands clutch at the sheets but it isn't enough. He's solid, he's your anchor, but he's losing himself in your cunt and you're free falling.
"Play with your tits for me," he commands, pumping faster. You're reflexively tightening around him, clit jumping for attention, squeaking each time he lets himself in as deep as possible and touches the mouth of your cervix.
Sunlight slowly fades on the bed, the last golden rays escaping out the window as you're bathed in dusk.
There's nothing to do but obey, hands finding your swollen breasts and squeezing. They've been sore and huge, like that week before you get your period only it's been a couple months. None of your bras fit anymore.
Simon appreciates it, he loves it. Has you cooking for him with your tits out, nipples peaked and pussy leaking. They bounce, now, stopped only by your hands pinching and twisting. It's insane - no one in the world could replicate the feeling. No artist, no musician. Electricity zips from your breasts down to your clit and shit - you might come just like this, untouched, just full of your man and fondling yourself.
"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me. Fucking," he pants, leaning over you, bending your leg. "Pinching my dick, sweetheart. Your pussy's so fucking good."
The orgasm begins in your toes, tingling. Your muscles tighten, drawing up, up, towards your cunt, which is making obscene sounds around him.
Simon sees the signs, sees your eyes rolling and your body going taut. He abandons your leg in favour of rubbing your clit with two big fingers quickly, up and down.
"That's it, sweetheart, come all over my cock. Go on," his voice is a snarl, barely distinguishable as human, beastly. "Be good for daddy.”
It's like the crescendo of an orchestra, like a summer afternoon in august, like waking up without a clogged nose after being sick, it's - really fucking good. You're near sobbing, crying out his name, abandoning your tits to reach for him desperately. He meets you halfway, shuddering his own orgasm into you. The press of his hips against yours is better than buttered toast, the delicate press of his chest against yours as he lets your leg go is bliss.
"Si-imon," you slur, hands on his cheeks. He laughs and kisses your forehead.
"What's that, sweet girl?"
"I love you," you cry a little more then, feeling him pull out and lay next to you. You're boneless.
"I love you too," his arm reaches across you, pulling you into him. "Both of you." Hand on your belly again.
"That was insane," you pant. He barks a laugh against your hair. "I'm serious."
"I know you are, love," he kisses your forehead, petting your stomach. You can tell it's meaning, can feel the gratefulness behind the kiss. He's saying thank you, for staying with him, for making him a father. Your hand finds his, squeezing back a wordless reply. Of course, it says.
john price x fem!reader
summary: “I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.”
↪or the one in which hairy muscle daddy john price asks you to show him your skills disco style
tags/warnings: 70s clubbing, body hair is a central theme, scent kink, daddy kink, deepthroating, rough oral (m), cigars, some alcohol, manipulation if you squint,vaginal fingering + sex, a bit of exhibition kink but not really at all (one line), 'little' not used as a size indicator, dom/sub, oral (f), tiny gape mention
“I think he’s interested in you,” Debbie whisper-screams in your ear. It’s hard to hear her over the boom of the drums, over the four on the floor beat and soaring voices.
“Really?”
“Girl,” she laughs, incredulous. You look over your shoulder and sure enough he’s fixing you with a stare hot enough to burn through steel.
He’s flanked by two others, but you hardly notice them. You’re staring right into the deep V of his open shirt, at the fur peeking out of it, at the pink of his tongue as it swipes his bottom lip under his mustache. Sinful.
The booth he’s sitting in is draped with orange translucent curtains, creating some illusion of privacy. No overhead lights, either, just a soft cave and dark burgundy leather. Perfect for a bear like him.
“Should I go over there?” you whisper-scream back, curling closer to Debbie, “he’s a bonafide stud.”
She laughs, throwing her long hair over her shoulder, “yeah he is, and he’s looking at you, girl.”
You peek again. He’s smiling this time, like someone who knew you’d look twice. Beyond his shirt, his pants are so goddamn tight you can see almost everything. Christ, who let him out of the house looking like that?
“I’m gonna go over,” you say before you can stop yourself.
A saxophone disco beat booms through the club, thrumming right through you down to your toes, which you move to dance your way to him. Debbie laughs behind you, disappearing into the crowd.
Your hips go side to side, your teeth bite your bottom lip, and you fix him with what you hope is a clear message; you’re hot.
He stays exactly where he is. There’s a smugness about him now, the same smugness you saw when you looked twice.
You can’t really blame him for it. Someone that looks like that is bound to expect attention, desire.
God, he’s just your type. A quiet kind of arrogance, one arm slung over the back of the booth as he lifts a cigar up to his mouth and puffs. Lazily, like a big lion that knows he doesn’t have to hunt to get his food.
“Hello, love,” he says slowly when you get close enough. You’re still bouncing to the music, but you lean forward to hear him better.
“Interested in me, are you?” you’re going for a coy, simpering kind of approach. Something about him makes you want to lay it on thick, want to seduce. To preen a little.
His knuckles are dark in the lighting, hairy and tough like he works with his hands, which you catch as he pats the booth beside him.
You hadn’t even noticed his companions leaving.
“Saw you dancing,” he lifts a glass from the table, dark liquid, his mustache getting wet, “thought you might be interested, too.”
“You thought right,” you slide in beside him, the leather seat cool even through your tight bootcut pants. You tilt your knees towards him, lifting an elbow to match his on the back of the booth.
Reds, yellows, oranges dance on his skin. The occasional sparkle of the disco ball peeks through, but mostly it filters through the orange booth curtains and spreads into an archipelago of little bright spots. This lighting agrees with him, accentuates the best parts, makes them look darker and more defined. You’d feel like a pervert looking down his shirt if he wasn’t also doing the same to you.
“Name’s John, love,” and when you tell him yours he says, “that’s fitting.”
“So, what do you do?” boring, typical– but it’s all you’ve got. You’re surprised you can get words out at all with the drool pooling in your mouth. This close, you can see how his shirt strains where his shoulders move. A little too small, but it’s probably on purpose.
Should be illegal, honestly.
His eyes crinkle in the corners. He’s the kind of guy whose entire face changes when he smiles, who looks disarmingly more approachable that way.
“I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.”
“Talent?” you cross one leg over the other, trilling internally with satisfaction when you see his eyes fall to your thighs.
You know you aren’t being subtle in the least– and you aren’t trying to be. But you won’t say anything outright, not yet, not while the anticipation feels this tasty.
The booth isn’t private, but it is insulated. The music is loud, but not too loud, just enough that it thrums through you, that you can hear him. Anita Ward croons in your ear, encouraging you. He can ring your bell, that’s for sure.
“That’s right,” he puffs again. The smell makes you lightheaded.
“Moviestars, you mean?” you roll your ankle around, watching him watch you, wondering if he likes the polish colour you picked.
You like that he’s visibly affected; licking his lips, that meaty hand climbing higher up his thigh.
“Something like that, love,” he smiles again, leans back in the booth and launches a counter attack to your leggy flirtations – he spreads those legs, feet pointed out, hunched just so that his belly starts poking out of those sinfully tight pants.
Motherfucker.
Looking back up at him, his eyes are crinkled at you, head tilted forward. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Which movies have you produced?” you lean your head on your hand, looking at him through your lashes, “anything I’ve seen?”
“I hope so,” he hums. His eyes flit down to your feet again, up to your midriff, then back to your eyes– it’s hot, but it’s also not just a flirtation. He’s assessing, “have you seen Swan Lady? The Nun and the Two Vikings?”
You frown, “no, I haven’t heard of either.”
“How about Call of Duty: Servicing the Captain?”
Ah, it clicks. Your eyebrows go up, into your hairline, “you make pornos?”
“Aye, smart girl,” he gruffs.
Pornos, huh. You could laugh– he looks the part. A little sleazy, unabashed. Masculine not to the point of parody but it’s close. The ‘stache is in style, but in combination with everything else is just the cherry on top.
You only have one question, “you don’t star in any?”
“I prefer working behind the scenes,” something about the way he says behind feels filthy.
John tells all. He does scout, finds girls who want to have a good time (like you), and gently (or so he says) nudges them in front of the camera. I can always sniff ‘em out, he says. The ones that’ll do well on film, that have star quality.
“How can you tell?” you ask, lips pulling on your straw. John has ordered you a tequila sunrise.
You can’t help but trace the skin of his neck with your eyes, roving at the bob of his Adam's apple as he explains. Girls who can take the gloves off, so to speak. Says he can tell by the way they move, how free they are with their bodies.
A little dubious, but it’s honestly doing it for you. You wonder what he saw when you danced up to him, if the sway of your body was free, liberated.
Doesn’t take long at all for him to invite you out either way. John puts his hand on your knee and squeezes, gets real close, gruffs that his place is nearby.
“What do you say, sweetheart?” and of course the only answer is yes, please.
Boney M. soars around you as you follow him out, your hand holding his, your fingers stroking the hairs on his knuckles.
She’s crazy for her daddy!
On the drive over, he keeps that big paw on your thigh, squeezing almost subconsciously. Just the flex of his fingers.
You widen your knees, hoping for that rough palm to slide upwards, glancing at John as he drives one-handed. Not your first rodeo going home with a man from the disco, but it sure is the first time you’ve felt so keyed up about it.
He’s huge, takes up an absurd amount of room in the car, knee knocking into yours. He even drives sexy, so sure and in control.
“You think I could be in one of your movies?” you say, impish, looking to provoke.
John glances at you for just a second too long, too intense. You can tell he’s picturing you in front of the cameras.
“That what you want?”
“Just picturing it,” you simper, shifting your knee to deliberately touch him again. His fingers flex against your thigh again, jaw moving.
The air is warm, breezy, lights passing by like twinkling firebugs. You roll your window down, smiling at the feeling.
“Oh you're picturing it, are you? Is that making you wet, sweetheart?”
Fuck. It certainly is now.
“Only if you can be my co-star.”
“Is that right?” he laughs, low and deep. His hand climbs higher, “‘fraid I’m just the recruiter, but I’ll have to do a quality test.”
“Quality test?”
“Mm,” he hums, “need to make sure you’re ready for the camera, don’t I? You think you’ve got star quality, then prove it.”
Your panties are sticky.
“I can do that,” you breathe.
“Yeah? Can you prove you can show off your star quality for me, sweetheart?” his fingers slide, achingly slow, to the gusset of your pants, “that you can look into that camera and show the world you’re a good girl?”
They press against you, right up against your clit through the fabric. You fight to stay still, to not come across like you’re desperate, but god it’s hard. You ache.
“Mhm,” you breathe, subtly tilting your hips forward as he idly pets your pussy.
“Not an answer,” he says firmly. Butterflies dance in your stomach, the air slowly being siphoned out, leaving you hot and bothered. John is barely affected, it seems, driving still, gliding through the night.
“Sorry,” you swallow, “I can do that, daddy.”
“Much better.”
“Still want to prove it to me, love?” he moves to a glass cabinet, pulling out a little box. It opens with a click, revealing a neat row of thick cigars.
“Yes,” you stand in the middle of his living room, appreciating the atmosphere he’s made; low lighting, oranges, reds everywhere. Brown leather and the heady smell of cigar smoke, of leather polish and an incense-y kind of musk.
He walks back towards you, brand new cigar between his fingers, steps heavy on the carpet. You’re made aware of the height difference when he stands right in front of you, looking down not unkindly.
Your skin prickles at his gaze, the same one from the club; that assessment. Like he’s measuring you, testing you, scanning you.
John leans forward, breath puffing lightly across your face. He smells like his house does, only there’s a bit of whiskey mixed in.
You can’t help but squirm just a little, thighs rubbing together, both to relieve the pulsing ache of your pussy and that it’s impossible to stay composed under that gaze.
“Drop down,” he says finally, “to your knees, sweetheart.”
From your knees, you get a good fucking look at those tight pants– at the bulge in them. The hair on his chest sticks out a little, too, peeking at you from above. Hot. So hot.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes, daddy,” you bite your lip again.
“Keep those hands down, alright?” he leans to the side and picks up a cigar lighter, watching you as he lights up.
John stands over you, new cigar lit, plumes of smoke drifting from his fingers. His expression is neutral, though he hums in a pleased way as he strokes the softness of your cheek.
“Take me out,” he commands.
You lean forward with your mouth, unable to resist giving him a good long sniff before you pull at his zipper with your teeth. He smells good, musky and strong, a little cologne there but mostly it’s natural.
When your teeth gently take his briefs, pulling, he cups the back of your head with a big hand and strokes your hair.
“Are you going to take it all, sweetheart? Right down your throat?”
You let his cock flop out of his underwear, heavy. The bush surrounding it makes your mouth water. It looks so good, long and a little curved, bouncing as if it’s teasing you.
You nod finally, hands squeezed into fists in your lap just the way he asked, “yes, daddy.”
“That’s my girl. Are you going to give daddy’s cock a little kiss first?”
You lean forward, lips pursed, planting a little kiss on the mushroom head of his cock. Though you ache to lick your lips, to taste him, you wait.
“That’s a good little girl,” he murmurs, “open your mouth.”
You do, holding your tongue out.
He grips the base, holding his cock up, tapping your tongue with the head. You almost whine, before he grips your head firmer and holds you still so he can slide the entire length of that monster right to the back of your throat.
Your nose hits his pubic bone, buried in the coarse hairs there, overwhelmed, hands balling into fists.
“That’s right,” he grunts, “hold it right there, sweetheart, show me you’ve got what it takes.”
God, he’s all the way in, a perfect fit. You try to stay still, anchoring yourself to him, to his palm, to the possibility of hearing good girl.
You gag a little, coughing around him, tears burning at your eyes as drool plip plops onto your chest.
Finally, he pulls out, stroking your hair, “good girl, such a good girl. Ready?”
“Yes,” you garble around the heady of his cock, clit swollen and needy, hands pressing hard into your thighs, “please fuck my face, daddy.”
He does, his pistoning, fucking your mouth like it’s a cunt. His hand cradles the back of your head, pushing you, hips moving, grunting when he’s not taking the occasional puff of his cigar.
You throb in your panties, body scorching hot, gagging every so often around the thick meat of John’s cock. Drool falls in viscous strings, tears following, the world dropping away.
Nothing else but the slide of his cock in and out of your mouth exists, matters.
“That’s it, that’s it,” he pants raggedly.
You have no idea how long he lasts, only that when he’s finished you're an absolute mess. Wet faced and panting.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, wiping the tears from your cheeks with his rough thumbs. You look up at him through your clumped lashes, mouth open, “did so well for me, hm?”
“Thank you, daddy,” your voice is a little gravelly, but not painful.
John pulls you up with a hand at your bicep, walking you down a hallway off his living room and towards an open door.
It’s his bedroom– and it’s decorated exactly as you’d imagined it.
The bed is huge, kingsized with a radio inlay and a thick, padded headboard that extends all around the mattress in a kind of cradle. His sheets are silk, dark, and dark orange.
“Nice digs,” you laugh, “you sure you aren’t a pornstar?”
He laughs behind you, setting his lit cigar into the ashtray on the bedside table. He slowly strips out of his clothes, getting totally naked. Then he slides in, and leans back.
“Give me a show, sweetheart.”
You hum, swaying again. You aren’t a pro at this kind of stuff, but it’s fun regardless to pull your shirt up and over your head like you’re a dirty dancer.
“Like this, daddy?”
John hums.
You slowly slide your pants down, turning so he can watch your ass move, kicking them away. You hear the slick sounds of him jerking his cock as you do.
“Should I take my panties off?” you ask, thumbs slipping into the elastic.
“Yes, take them off,” he grunts, “turn around.”
You do, then slowly slip your panties off. He licks his bottom lip again, quick.
“Come here.”
You slide onto the bed, on your knees, then crawl forward until you’re beside him, where he pushes you to lay on your side.
His heavy palm finds the naked skin of your hip, squeezing, “still want to show me your star power, sweetheart?”
“Yes, daddy,” you’re back in it, eyes half lidded. Your pussy is making a wet spot on your thighs, “I wanna show you.”
He pushes you to your back, slaps your thighs until you open your legs and hold them out. Then he pauses, hand at the junction of your thigh and hip, thumb inching towards your pussy.
“Look how wet you are, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
You clench, tilting your hips up. Your clit throbs.
“Ah ah, get back down,” he tuts.
Your ass touches the bed again, hips forced down by sheer willpower. His thumb finally reaches you, pulling aside your pussylip to gaze at your wetness.
It gushes out of you, and you’re sure he can see the way your hole clenches.
“Desperate little cunt, isn't she?” he uses his other hand, two two fingers coming to pull the hood of your clit up and just watch as it jumps needily, “awe, poor thing.”
“Please, daddy,” you could cry, “please, touch me.”
“Touch where, love? Touch this needy little clit?”
“Yes, please!”
“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he abandons holding you open to bring his thumb to your exposed clit, rubbing in circles. You shout, a tremor immediately beginning. It’s too much and not enough at once, electric and icy-hot.
Then he slips those fingers inside you, slow and testing at first, but when he realizes just how wet and soft you are he curls them inside you deeply and oh, fuck, your eyes roll back into your head.
“That’s the spot, that’s it,” he grunts, shaking you, taking you apart.
John only fingers you long enough to let your wetness spill out of you, wetting your thighs, soaking his fingers– until you’re ready for his cock.
“You’re ready,” he lays the length of it against your pussy for a moment, letting your swollen lips hug his length, before he shifts back and nudges the head at your hole, “yeah, you’re ready for it.”
He stuffs you fucking full. You’ve never been so stuffed in your life, thankful for his diligent attention earlier or you might be really feeling the weight of him.
“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, back arching, nipples rubbing against his chest hair. It sparks pleasure from your tits right down your cunt, body aflame, hands scratching through the hair at his back.
It’s like fucking a bear, or a werewolf. He’s relentless, too, without mercy. Plows into you hard and long, thrusts measured, never faltering.
John fucks like a pornstar, there’s no doubt about it. He takes up so much space on top of you that without his arms holding him up you worry about being crushed– you crave it, too.
“Good fucking girl,” he snarls, lip curling, mustache going with it, “want to be on camera, do ya? Let me hear you.”
You let loose, mouth open in one long drawn out sound, interposed only by the gasps you let out each time he hits you deep.
You tilt your head back, bearing your throat, taking each heavy thrust and crying out with them, squeezing around him.
“I’m gonna give it all to you, sweetheart, fuck,” he snaps his hips faster now, “and you’re gonna take it all like a star.”
You nod desperately, feeling his pubes each time he thrusts to the hilt, wet with your juices. You’re so fucking close, one breath to your clit and you’d lose your mind.
He straightens, hands going to your hips, tightening, as he snaps one, two, three times and tenses–
His head snaps back, neck bulging with veins as he comes, teeth bared in a growl as he curses, “fuck, good girl, that’s right– good fucking pussy–”
Hot come shoots inside, heating you up further, making you whine with frustration and satisfaction both.
When the taut line of his body relaxes and he pulls out, a flood of come following him, he slides to his stomach and spreads you open with his thumbs.
“Let daddy make it up to you, sweetheart,” he murmurs to your pussy, “he’s not usually so selfish.”
John looks down first. Your pussy is swollen, well-fucked, and you can feel a slight gape.
“Poor little pussy,” he murmurs, then seals his mouth over your clit until you fall apart.
“You sure you aren’t a pornstar?” your cheek is pressed to his chest, basking in the furriness, arm and leg thrown over his body.
He laughs, “I’m sure, sweetheart. But I will say–” he pauses to lean down and kiss the corner of your mouth, mustache still damp, “you’ve definitely got star quality.”
simon finds a reason to live // stalking, depression, disassociation, simons past child abuse, body horror imagery, you're a single mom, minor sexism-kindaish
Simon's humanity is an external thing, amorphous and disconnected. He might've had a tether as a child, a distinct human softness necessary for survival, but it's since been deadened.
It's not so much a lack as it is a shrinkage. Empathy, emotional intelligence, they come natural at first but terrorize someone, neglect them? They'll turn black and rot as any limb without oxygen.
His father is long dead, he knows this, has read the obituary (full of lies) and pissed on his grave (twice).
And yet his father has the power to strike lightening through the only soft part of him left on any given day, at any given time, at any given place–
His father lives in the way that his heart nearly stops at the shop when the child beside him knocks down a full display of four cheese tomato sauce, glass and red slop crashing to the floor.
Run.
He freezes but his eyes snap to the sound, startlingly loud, mind racing and yet thinking of nothing at all as he feels the fear of god race through him.
Dad's gonna fucking kill you, Tommy laughs raucously.
Simon's never really blamed Tommy, but his voice echoes in his head sometimes too. It does again now, dad's got two tickets for the weekend.
The child takes two steps back, shocked at themselves and the mess and the loud loud sound that has quieted the rest of the store.
He thinks of all the ways he'll step in when the father rounds the corner. Then it's you and his breath goes thin.
"Awe, honey," you say softly. Kindly.
"Oops," the kid says, not a trace of fear in their face.
"Did'ja knock these over, Bram?" you crouch down, careful of the glass, and gently move the boy to the side, "that's okay. Do you remember what we do when we break a glass?"
Simon is still frozen– dumfounded, really. Your patience throws him off.
Fucking moron, his father screams in his head, useless! before he hurts Simon so bad the memory loops and loops, restarting just to torture him.
And then you smile sheepishly up at him, eyes crinkling in the corners, and that soft human part of him eternally drifting sticks back to his skin and spreads like a rash.
They don't make you pay for any of the jars, nor do they make you clean up the mess. Still, you crouch again beside your son and explain to him again what to do when he breaks a glass.
Make sure you have shoes on. Don't use your bare hands. Call a grownup.
He's addicted to the sound of your voice. The softness of it, how gently you make sure to speak so that the message is taken in without any kind of fear.
Simon follows your car like the sound of your voice is the warm smell of pie on the windowsill and he's Mickey Mouse floating after it.
Awe, honey, loops through his head. Awe, honey. Awe, honey.
He doesn't make himself known just yet. All he does is note down your address for the next time he's on leave, tells John he's met someone and she's a sweetheart.
When he's back on leave he watches you struggle, and it tears at the new growth of softness.
You work, dropping Bram at school and then spending the day at the office. Then, when Bram is asleep and you've cleaned the house, you open your laptop back up and work a second job.
That just won't do. It takes everything in him not to kick your door down at the weak spot and have you whisper in his ear for a living.
Not yet. Not yet. He tries to loop that, but all he can hear is your sweet voice pleading with the electricity company and it becomes harder and harder.
Please, you say through the bug, I just need four more days. Then I get my paycheck.
Simon thinks about putting his hands around the answering voice's neck when they deny you–
But that's a bandaid solution.
It'll be better to eliminate the problem altogether.
Not the piling bills on your kitchen table that you tuck away when the child goes to school, nor the boss who shouts at you 'til he's red in the face.
No, he'll eliminate the real problem. The way he's seen John do, the way he's seen Gaz take example.
mdni - implied fat!reader x bluecollar!simon riley drabble - simon is a bit of a creep also lol
Bluecollar!Simon Riley whose house floods so he has to spend the next few days in a cheap, seedy motel
First morning there he's leaving for work just as the sun is rising. Its hot, humid, and he's a shitty mood because he'll be working all day and it's only gonna get hotter
Simon Riley who smokes a couple cigs before he goes, sitting on a plastic lawn chair on his concrete faux patio when he sees you
You're flustered, damp with sweat and skin sun-kissed. You've got a laundry basket on your hip and immediately he's imagining a baby there instead. His baby.
Simon Riley who's shameless about staring at you struggling with the laundry door, dropping your clothes and giving him a view of your wide hips and plush ass in very short pajama shorts
You're so flustered:(( nearly in tears while you pick everything up. The shorts are a little tight, a little worn, and the thin material gives him just enough of a view of your pussy that it sustains him the whole day :')
All he can imagine is coming back and sinking into you :') not even necessarily fucking right away, but keeping his cock warm and relieving the tension in his body. He deserves that, no?
He's not creeping, necessarily, when he takes note of the lotion you use. Vanilla. He just happened to be having a smoke and walking right by your window, where you've got one foot propped on a chair rubbing it into your skin.
Your room is tidy. Despite the stained walls, cracks in the ceiling and overall dingy-ness, you've managed to make it look cozy.
New sheets, a fluffy blanket, string lights strung across the wall. Beside you, lotions and creams and washes - he snorts a little to himself. The bathrooms here don't have any counter space or mirrors to set them down on.
But his house does. In fact, most of his shelves are empty everywhere. His pantry, his closets. The only thing he's got are work clothes and beers in the fridge. Maybe a stray heel of bread.
Simon Riley who decides he'll have you move in before he even talks to you, before he starts memorizing your schedule on the weekends and evenings he gets home. You're struggling, on the edge of homelessness, but he knows you'd be the perfect wife and mother. That you'd bring light and warmth to his house, fill those empty shelves and empty rooms...
cw noncon, injuries, forced orgasm, slapping (all kinds), kidnapping, mean!simon // simon riley x fem!reader // freak loner neighbour simon // reader can be dragged (but simon is big but yeah you get dragged yeouch)
You should've known better than to be on his driveway.
It's just that it's so spacious, so flat, so perfect for practicing.
You'd been sucked into the trend by all the cute girls flouncing around on their new wheels. The ones dancing backwards down the street through the screen had you ordering a nice pair of nylon plated rollerskates.
Purple, your favourite. Sturdy. Bedazzled.
The only issue is how hard it is to practice on your driveway - it's at the very end of the street, beside Simon's - you'd learned his name unwillingly from a neighbour - and slanted.
You try, to your credit, earning yourself a myriad of bumps, scrapes, aches and pains.
Your hip is an amalgamation of broken blood vessels and raised skin, your shins have never felt worse, and you've never been so miffed at a neighbour.
What's his problem, anyway? He's always been rude, glaring, like an old man shaking his fist at rowdy kids.
The most you'd done to him was bring over a tupperware of brown butter chocolate cookies, but he'd slammed the door in your face.
Asshole. Now he glares through the window if you edge too close while practicing, opening his blinds like he'd been just waiting for you to get a toe too close.
Sue me, you think, the day you don't see his motorcycle collecting dust in his driveway.
Your confidence builds when you step one foot onto the concrete of his property and the blinds stay put.
Further still, when you make it halfway across and still no movement.
It evaporates the second his front door opens and he thunders out. You're so startled you try to scurry away, forgetting the stupid rollerskates weighing your feet down and your utter lack of coordination in them.
You go down hard, right on your sore hip, yelping like an injured dog when you do.
"S'what you get," he grunts, approaching you quicker than you can process, "stupid fucking cunt. Come here."
He practically snarls the last part. Your blood turns to ice when his massive hand wraps around your ankle and starts to drag you.
Right over the concrete.
Your thigh and your lower back get scratched like hell, something almost like road burn, and it hurts so badly you forget to scream until he's got you banging into every one of his front steps, and-
Nothing happens. Nobody seems to hear.
The little purple jewels on your skates shine in the sunlight, glinting cruelly into your eyes.
You shriek, help me, help me! and though it's broad daylight, there's not a peep other than you. Not even a bird.
Your head tilts back, frantically scanning the houses, when you see - your more distant neighbour.
Help! you think you scream, you can hear it but nothing changes. He watches you with his head tilted down, boonie hat obscuring his eyes.
The last thing you see when the door shuts is his cigar come up to his mout and his head nodding - not towards you, but to Simon.
You kick your legs out, thinking maybe the added weight of your godforsaken rollerskates will help you, but Simon only folds your legs backwards as easily as origami and everything becomes very real very quickly.
Your heart jackrabbits in your chest, pressure mounting from panic and from the weight of him bearing down on you.
"Too fucking stupid for your own good," his voice is strong, echoing through your head as he uses a hand to hold the backs of your knees, "guess you can be either pretty or smart, eh," he laughs, cruel, raucous.
His other hand comes towards you, making you scream again until he slaps your mouth one, two, three times hard. Simon lowers it, tugging hard on your t shirt until it rips, pinching a nipple through your sports bra and shaking your breast painfully up and down.
He pushes it up, then, slapping your tits, laughing.
"Please!" you shout, your nervous system desperately flitting between frozen terror and pleading and the need to run, "please- I'll never-"
"Never what?" he interrupts. He pulls your cotton bike shorts over your ass, down to your thighs, "never step foot on my property again? Little late for that."
There's nothing for you to bargain with. Your mind races as he tears your panties the way he did your shirt, breath coming in wheezes hands dead weight beside you.
Simon stuffs two fat fingers in your cunt, making you gasp, tense, something strangled coming out of your throat. He pushes them deeper even though you aren't quite ready, aren't wet enough.
"Playin' hard to get," he grunts, but it's low, like he's talking to himself.
He roots around like he's looking for something, forceful and too rough and scraping against you.
You struggle again, lifting your arms, but Simon put's a stop to it by pulling his thick fingers out and slapping you on your pussy.
Fuck, his hand is so meaty, so heavy, you shriek again, twisting, until he does it again. Then again, and you freeze because you don't want him to hurt you anymore.
"Y'gonna make me give you another?" he snaps.
"No!" you squeak before you can stop yourself. Your mind turns to fawning, to self preservation, playing dead to escape a predator's jaws around your throat.
"Was gonna be nice to you, but you decided to be ungrateful," he looks at you with angry eyes, still holding your knees, pulling his heavy cock out with the other hand.
"I'm sorry- please-" you try, tears burning your eyes. He's fucking huge.
"Too late," he nudges the tip against your hole, making you sit there in agonized terror for another moment before he pushes in.
"I can't!" the sound comes out of you like a deflating animal, "please, you're too big-"
"You can," he pushes further in. It burns, both because you aren't wet enough and because he's the size of a metal baseball bat, "just relax."
Easy for him to say. The very breath from your lungs is getting punched out of you the further in he goes.
The pain is sharp, hot barbs, like a medieval torture tool heated with flame.
You try to relax, looking up at the ceiling with eyes that are starting to glaze over, vision swimming, before he slaps your mouth again and startles you back into reality.
"Look at me," he snaps his hips, shocking you, making you cry.
His cock is long, poking you in places that feel wrong wrong wrong, that feel like you're gonna really freak the fuck out until he pushes his thumb against your clit and rubs in tight circles.
The sound that comes out of your mouth is a strangled, lilting sort of keen. You're humiliated by it, by the way your pussy squeezes around him.
"That's right," he keeps going, picking up speed, "you're gonna come on my cock when I fucking tell you to."
Your world narrows down to the aching pain in your cunt, to the sparks of pleasure from your clit, to the mix of sensation that has blood rushing through your head.
Simon fucks you like that until you start to tighten, until you're gasping and arching and trying to twist away again.
Long, deep strokes now, in and out, seesawing, driving you insane. He doesn't have to hit you to make you stay put - no, now your body turns useless and begins to come.
"Yeah, that's it," he sounds strained, "come on my cock."
You do, though it takes you by surprise. Your eyes fucking roll back, trembling helplessly below him.
You don't even feel him come, but when you come to he's looking down at you with a little glint in his eye and come leaking from your pussy.
As he stands, leaving you empty and dragging you again by your limp ankle, you're struck by the absurdity of it all. The neighbour, just watching you be taken.
You don't fight until he tugs you to the open basement door, pulling you down the stairs, letting you hit each step on the way down.
But by then it's too late - he's prepared for this, you see that now. The little cot and chain at the far corner of the room is testament to that.
So's the collar he picks up from the cotside table.
