#gabagool writing

[anneofgreengabagool]

gristle | simon riley x reader au | 2.2k words | ao3

cw/tags: 18+ (eventually). food truck owner simon x reader, eventual sexual content. cis-female reader. unedited.

part 1

Cheapest food truck around. Stuck haphazardly in the middle of a dirty industrial park, tucked between HVAC and roofing buildings. Shit signage — hand-scribbled nonsense that you have to squint at to decipher.

All it — he — serves are burgers and fries ("chips").

His line's long, but you watch him whittle it down with sharp teeth, big fast hands, and a loud barking voice. Thank god, it's so fucking hot out, standing out in the scalding sun with no relief of clouds is your worst idea in awhile. Rumour has it, if you don't answer his first call to grab your order, he gives it to the next customer in line and tells you to fuck off. If you're busy on your phone while trying to order, he shunts you to the back of the line.

You had flipped open the app to check his reviews while you stood in line behind a bunch of workers from the nearby businesses.

buddy needs an attitude check. good food though.

told me to fuck off then gave me the best burger i've ever had. will be back!

absolutely horrible service!!! he's lucky he only charges $5 or else he'd be OUT OF BUSINESS!!

You think there's no way a man like him cares about reviews in the first place. You internally practice your order — literally just 'burger with cheese and extra pickles with fries, please' — as you get closer. Tap at your phone nervously, watching how his looming body fills the order window. He leans over the window frame to hear properly, tilts his right ear down to the customer; his left ear doesn't seem to work as well. When he leans like that, his big tattooed arms press against the counter behind. He bites on his lower lip in concentration when he's listening, eyebrows drawn down tight. He can somehow ignore everyone else around him to focus just on the single person ahead of him at a time.

The two workers in front of you are next up to order and yapping about a job when a third, then fourth buddy call over to them, then melt themselves into the line like they were there all along. You were already on a tight lunch, adding two more orders ahead of yours is going to eat up your time.

It's petty, but you sigh loudly and pointedly.

One of them turns around, uses his height to look down at you disgustedly, and says, "Fuckin' relax."

"Excuse me?" You scoff, heat itching across your face and chest instantly. You glance behind you, but everyone's either glancing down into their phones or chatting with buddies.

"You fuckin' heard me."

"Oi." The voice is like a sudden clap of thunder over your house in the night, startling your whole body awake in a single crack. Your head snaps up, eyes wide, to see the man's arms punched fist-down on the countertop like a silverback, dark flat eyes fixed on the men ahead of you. "Get the fuck outta here."

"C'mon, man," one of them pleads. "S'just a joke."

You have only ever seen the look on the man's face on television before. A predator baring its teeth, dead-still like a stone dropped flat into a stagnant pond. A shudder runs through you as you stare at the men, who're all squawking complaints and fussing like babies.

He whistles so sharply, you press your hands to your ears and wince.

"Don't make me come out there."

You start to drift away, the heat washing over you too intensely to withstand. You don't want to order or be here. You just want to slink back to your car, drive to work around the corner, and grab something from the vending machine to tide you over until the day's done. You're not cut out for confrontation like this, a soft thing that can't take the heat.

"You. C'mere."

Everyone left in line is staring at you, open-mouthed. You want to disappear into the steam of today's heat, evaporate until you're a puff of something that melts away without notice.

His eyes on you. You couldn't possibly prepare yourself for it. Worse than the sun. He chucks his chin to the side, his eyes sliding slowly to tell you to walk around back. You move with shaky, locked-up knees, avoiding everyone's stares, head down. It feels like being sent to the principal's office. Shame and hot frying nerves soak your skin as you slink around the side of the fixed truck, eyes frantically assessing the environment. Dumpster. Broken-down boxes. The typical detritus, you imagine.

And a short set of stairs leading up to the back of the food truck, a door hanging wide open.

"All out f' the day. Fuck off til tomorrow." You hear the man bark, then there's a loud metallic shuttling sound, and when you glance behind you, the tail-end of the line are all throwing their hands up or groaning in frustration, starting to walk off.

Then, the man appears in the doorway and you suddenly think of Leatherface in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre: the bulk of him, the dirty apron knotted at his thick waist, his stomach fat plumped over it, and the eyes that don't move when they land on you.

You hesitate at the bottom of the steps, looking up at him.

"Up y'get." Like a child attempting stairs for the first time.

There's no railing to trail a hand over. You knot your hands on the cross-body bag strap in front of you, wringing it as you step up one by one. The heat is foggy in here, thick and weighty.

"They givin' you trouble?" He walks over to the far end of the truck interior where you can see fryer baskets and crooked stacks of take-out containers. No order notes at all. Must be all in that big head. It's so much darker in here with the order window shuttered closed.

"No…why'd you close up?"

There's a shrug across his hefty, rounded shoulders. His white t-shirt is filthy, the collar ringed with yellowed sweat stains, dried and fresh, long scoops of sweat darkening from his armpits to where his pecs must rest, a unique pattern set-in. The lack of light doesn't give you much of his face, but it's scarred and heavyset, a strong set of mouth and brows.

"How d'ya take it?"

"Pardon?"

"Pardon," he smirks down at the fryer, his body moving smoothly through the motions of pressing a fresh meat patty on the flat-top griddle. The meat steams up toward his serious face.

Why are you here?

"Just…whatever is fine."

You try to find the smallest corner you can occupy in here, unobtrusive. You don't know if he wants you to watch him, but you do anyway. His large arms, full sleeve tattoos curling up into his t-shirt, working diligently on flipping and pressing the patty. A little stack of onions on top, cooked together for a few seconds to melt them together a bit. Bun slathered with whatever he uses here. Melted cheese on top of the meat, over the fried onion. A dribble of liquid down the side of the bun as he delicately places each topping on top. Wrapped into burger paper. Fries pulled from the basket, shaken, salted and something else. Scooped hot and stiff into a take-out container.

He uses a steel-toed boot to pull out a stool that's pushed under the corner counter. Tips his chin up at you. "Sit. Eat."

You tell him your name as you stumble onto the tall, tippy stool, pulling your wide-legged dress pants up. He just grunts in response. "Simon."

Okayyy.

He turns his back and starts to put the little compact kitchen to rights, clanging around. With nothing left to do but eat your burger and fries, you dig in. Tentatively at first, self-conscious sitting here as some strange guest that somehow earned scary food truck guy's full attention and his preferential treatment. Sweat slides down from your neck to spine to ass under your thin office top. You take small bites until the relief of a good lunch melts over your taste buds. It's everything a burger should be: crispy, crunchy, melty, packed with flavour. Nothing fancy or stupid ingredients complicating it. You sigh a little, then jam a few of the hot fries in with a bite of meat. They're spiced with something you can't quite name, and when he finally looks back at you, there's a determinedly puzzled look on your face.

"Summat wrong." Should be a question mark at the end of his words, but no.

"No!" You realize you're hunched like crazy over your container, back molded in a c-shape, and spring back up. "It's so good. I was just wondering what you used on the fries, that's all."

A coarse grunt. Dishes slipped into hot soapy water.

"Turmeric." He mangles the word. "Lawry's." Better.

You savour a fry, trying to parse those out. "State secrets, eh."

"Not tellin' you everythin'. Nosy."

A laugh of surprise huffs out of you. "Oh, I wasn't ask—"

"Just fuckin' with you, bird." He might as well reach out an arm and shake the stool beneath you for how off-centre you makes you.

You let out a puff of nervous laughter. None of the reviews said he pulled me into his food truck and force fed me, so you were shit out of luck on what to do. How to act.

"Cute watchin' you eat all prim." He leans against a stainless steel countertop, some damp raggedy dishcloth folded into the fat of his crossed arms. "Makes me wonder what else you do proper."

Your mouth falls open, a round of tart pickle plopping squarely on your lap. Before you can gather up wits and senses not fizzled out by the heat in the truck and Simon's presence, he advances on you, pulling the shadows of the space with him. His huge arms prop up on either side of the corner counters, triangulating you right inside. Up close, you can see the beaded sweat at his hairline. Behind his ears. Where it's tracked down inside the t-shirt. You wonder what his armpits look like; if the hair there is pressed with moisture and a morning application of antiperspirant. His fingers strum on the stainless steel calmly. Deciding what to do.

Stupidly, you stare up into his eyes. Stupidly, you think of telling him that his eyes look like onions that have been caramelized on a stove for hours.

"You like my food?" Leaning on the muscles of his arms, playing with you, coming down a little to your height.

"Y-yeah," you laugh.

"Like watching you eat it."

The pickle round is soaking through the thigh of your pants. You're going to go back to work smelling like pickle juice and grease and fries. You shift on the stool anxiously.

"Gonna give me a kiss me then?" An old stitch near his lip pulls the corner of his mouth, but it widens further with a smirk. Dark tea-brown eyes flashing.

Your world shrunk down to a claustrophobic corner of a sweating food truck, wedged in by a man three times your size, feeling like you've just surfaced from a pool only to find yourself still underwater. "What?"

Closer, he smells like cigarettes. Coffee. Sweat has your top and pants plastered to your entire backside. It's breaking out on your upper lip. Your breath has shallowed out to thin short pants.

"I'll let you. For bein' so sweet an' cute."

Let you? Let you kiss him?! His audacity won't strike you until much later, unfortunately. Oxygen is low. Heat is swamping.

"Oh."

"C'mon then."

He lowers himself, arms still propped up and out on either side of you, until he's flush with your face. Lets you snap your mouth closed and hover forward on the stool precariously until your lips have pressed firmly over his.

"S'nice. Were I still in Year 6." You pull back and his eyes are nearly electric, how alive he looks, mouth tugged up.

In grade 6, you were a compulsive liar at your new school, desperate to make friends. You bragged that your dad was famous because he travelled all the time for work at a pop company and that was why you had to live with your cousins. You were bug-eyed and scrawny with a huge gap between your teeth. You certainly weren't being kissed like this, or at all. Simon seems like the kid who understood what all the bases meant and showed the other kids porno mags in the forest. Those boys frightened you.

Still do.

Suddenly, he cranks up to his full height. Arms down to his side. Boots wedging the stool in place, big pillar-like thighs covered by a nasty apron pressing into your kneecaps.

You are going to be late back to work.

His hands surprise you by drawing up your neck, setting loose a big shiver that you can't hide, and cupping you there. Large hands, damp with soapy water or grease or something else altogether. His thumbs make little circles on your jawline as he manipulates your face to tilt up toward him, and you realize then, with crystalline and unnerving certainty, you have never been kissed properly before this moment.

His fingertips curl around the tops of your ears, bumping over the flatbacks of your piercings, rounding out the cartilage and bone under his mapping.

Kisses that made you smile, kisses that melted into foreplay or sex, goodbye kisses with no eye contact. Lots in between.

But a kiss that demands nothing else of you except your eyes on the other person, watching them begin to dismantle you.

Devour you.

navigate to: part 2

[anneofgreengabagool]

shipyard l simon riley x reader au | 2.4k words | ao3

part 2 of the YARD series. junkyard | graveyard | backyard | schoolyard cw/tags: cis-female reader. alpine divorce type situation.

you're crying when you see him, a body standing on a dock, eyes furrowed, watching you slap at the water in exhaustion to get a little closer. but your arms are burning, are actually beyond the point of burning, and he sees it. sees you give up as you approach. he crouches down at a dock post, unfurls a loop of rope, and tosses it to you in your kayak. it lands fat and spooled in your wet lap.

"grab it," he commands. your hands can't clasp anymore, but you clumsily set your oar across the kayak, and pathetically hold your forearms and cramping hands down over the rope to pin it in place.

and then, blissfully, you are tugged to shore. to land and safety, food and potable water.

the kayak slices the water calmly and then you're being lifted out by big arms and carefully positioned legs, thick and sturdy.

you think he asks if you're alright, and you think you laugh when he does.

—

the familiar sensation of emerging from unconsciousness crawls over you, your body returning to you piecemeal until you've puzzled it out. you fainted when he lifted you out and you noticed you were standing in some industrial dockyard. specifically now, you're in some office stretched out above you from where you seem to be lying on a couch. everything burns and stings.

"alrigh'?" a thick, craggy voice from behind your head. you twist slightly and there's the man that helped you.

"i'm so sorry," you sob again, like the fainting only hit pause on your crying.

silence. "wot for?"

you don't even know. you're waterlogged and sunburned and you're pretty sure you can't lift your arms above your head if you needed to.

"my boyfriend left me out there," you try to explain through shaking breaths. "he had…everything in his kayak. the compass. water. phones. food. i think maybe he thought i still had my phone on me."

"wot the fuck 're you sayin'? your boyfriend wot?" then he finally pushes himself out of the wooden office chair and leans against the desk where you can see him better. folds his huge arms across his huge chest.

"no," and it's a laugh-cry. "he thought it was funny. wanted to see if i could make it back without his help. i tried following him, but he was too fast. then it came to a fork in the river and i didn't know how to get back."

the man's face is dark with something even beyond anger. it doesn't fit the mundanity of the office surrounding you; lists and certificates and handwritten notes tacked up everywhere on the cheap walls.

it feels good to see it reflected in someone else's face. "i didn't know where i was, or where to paddle. i just needed to find anything human. it's been…hours." and then your anger breaks open easy like yolk trapped under a thin skein to reveal the sadness underneath because all you really are are sad. a man you've been dating, let come inside you more than once, met your friends and your grandparents, left you out in the middle of a giant body of water with no means of survival.

you could've died and you can already hear his voice in your head: babe i thought you had your phone! how was i supposed to know you've put it in my bag? you should've said something. babe please you're really making something out of nothing. you're always saying how much you want to toughen up and get into the outdoors stuff with me. i came back to find you but you'd disappeared; you should've just stayed put and i would've found you. you made it into such a big deal. jesus.

sometimes, the worst part of seeing your partner as they really are is not what they say or do, but what you can very clearly hear them saying or picture them doing.

"you're in a shipyard, love. don' know where you started but i'm bettin' you've come a long ways."

you shrug. "we parked on the side of a two-lane highway. portaged in. i'm not from here, i have no idea."

"judgin' by the look of you, it's been a few hours at least." he pushes himself off the desk and shuffles through something out of sight. comes back with a first aid kit, and after flipping through the contents, what looks like cooling gel packs for burns.

"oh, no, don't waste that on me" is silenced by a rude look.

"can you sit up."

you do awkwardly.

"i'm gonna cut your top off. don't think your arms are gonna be much help." a pair of scissors is brandished and they look insanely small in his big, calloused hands, and he drags it through the fabric of your tank top unless it falls down to your waist, leaving your bikini top underneath. you think if you had your wits about you, you'd try to argue.

"move a bit." he softly uses his hands to shift you, then out of sight, you hear the packet ripped open. then a blissfully cold gel is being spread across the sun-scorched skin; over your shoulders, up your neck and tops of ears, with a gentleness that doesn't match those big hands, down your upper arms, and the top knob of your spine where your tank top had dipped low all day.

a shuddering breath is punched out of you as the gel seems to penetrate the top layer of skin left to cook under the hot august sun with no reprieve from cloud cover.

you're turned back around with his hands on your waist, facing out into this office. it must be one of those offices set up in a trailer. he crouches down in front of you, knee cartilage popping.

"better." he's not asking. declaring it to be true about you. he presses a cold water bottle into your palm, and that's when you both notice where your trail shorts had ridden up, revealing a patch of skin that got burned as well. a stupid rectangle across both thighs.

he rips open another gel pack with his teeth. you watch quietly as he smears it across your flesh, trying not to drag the skin.

"chin up."

more along your breastbone where the tank top didn't shield, up your throat, and you realize how large his hands really span when they're cupped around your trachea. tops of your ears. forehead. it feels so intimate and clinical at the same time.

"that bad, huh," you give out shakily when he's chucked the sixth pack to the side, used up.

he grunts. instructs you to sip the water slow, no matter how dry your mouth feels, how badly you want to tip it down your throat and let it sluice through your bloodstream.

"headache?"

somehow the least of your concerns all things considered, but yes. fetches you some pills from the first aid kit, watches you carefully as you swallow them.

"get some rest then. i'll take y'home when i'm done."

the realization that you don't have anything to get you home yourself is devastating and if you had moisture to conjure fresh tears, you'd surely cry again. trying to find a comfortable position is impossible, so you end up just reclining to the side, wedging someone's spare hooded sweatshirt under your head as a pillow.

shockingly, you must doze off sometime after you hear the man leave the trailer. when your eyes open, dry and achy, there's a flickering overhead light on and the sky's darkened outside. you look around and find a clock on the wall. you don't know when he hauled you in, but it must have been at least an hour of sleep.

you readjust and check out the burns on your forearms, and fall back asleep.

the sound of his boots hitting metal steps has you inhaling sharply out of hazy, discomfited sleep. you watch him enter, eyes trained on you over the desk.

"y'alrigh'?"

you nod stiffly.

"let's go." he helps you into the oversized sweatshirt that you used as a pillow. it stinks like cigarettes and body odour, but it helps protect your sunburn from being scraped against. you're grateful for the size of it, that it doesn't force you to move your arms much to be folded into it.

he has to slow and shorten his long-legged stride to match your small, aching ones across the shadowed shipyard, lit only by sharp white fluorescent overheads. he brings you over to a large black truck, gets you situated (with his help) into the passenger side, and then goes back to the yard to lock up.

when he returns, you're trembling slightly inside the big hoodie. dreading what has to come next.

"everything is at my boyfriend's," you nearly whisper, embarrassed and penitent. "my keys and…it's all there."

"right." he gets directions and doesn't bother tapping them into his gps, just steers the truck out of the parking lot and onto some dark highway.

"i'm really so—"

"no." he actually raises a hand off the steering wheel to emphasize the rough word. "you're not apologizin' for 'im."

—

the ride is long and silent, and you must doze back off in front of the blue-lit dashboard and the man, who introduced himself finally as simon, who smokes a cigarette out his window a few times. you feel too guilty to ask if he even lives close to the city, to gauge whether this trip is adding time to his own commute. you can only imagine it does, and it burns you hotter for it.

coming to under frequent lights of the highway carved through the city, minutes from your boyfriend's exit.

you direct him the rest of the way, softly. "this unit, yeah, right here."

"what's his name?" he asks while sidling the truck up behind your boyfriend's car. so he did come home.

"sam," you answer without a thought, and then he's out of the truck and locking it behind him, striding in double time up the steps.

you hide. you hate yourself for it but you shrink in the hoodie, pulling it up over your mouth anxiously as you watch the door open under a shitty porch light. then all you see is the massive shadow of this man, simon, with his arms stretched out and he disappears into the open door. the door slams shut.

minutes and minutes stretch. you keep your hand on the handle but you won't leave the safety of the truck cab.

he reemerges alone. he comes up to your car door and unlocks it with the fob. "this all of it? check."

your phone, purse and wallet, house keys, reusable water bottle, and random things like a pair of your pajama shorts, a couple books, toothbrush, skincare stuff, tampons. it's stuffed into one of you old duffel bags you must've lugged over there at some point.

"i mean…i think this is it?"

"don't guess. you don't wanna come back again."

has he broken up with your boyfriend for you?

so you check the bag again. "yes…yes, it's everything." anything else is a lost cause, you don't need to tell him that the hard liquor was all purchased by you.

he hauls himself back in the truck and you can see under the street lights, the split knuckles on his fists, smeared blood down some hairy fingers.

"thank you," you whisper.

his fingers ripple off the wheel in a "don't mention it" gesture. you tell him where your apartment is, and then fall silent.

—

you invite him up. for logistics mostly, because it hurts too much to lift the duffel bag by yourself. he stands beside you in the elevator, huge and bulky, silent on his own.

you feel his eyes flick around your space as you let yourself into the apartment. he agrees to a cup of coffee, despite the hour.

there's only the one couch. you're distinctly aware that the only other man who's sat here with you has been sam. by contrast, simon is huge, taking up space that makes the couch feel more like a loveseat. he's technically in the corner, but his big ass and legs has him nearly halfway to you.

"is this yours?" you ask, fingers picking at the large wrinkled sweatshirt swamping you. "i can give it back."

"nah," he says firmly, and you notice how absurdly small the coffee mug looks wrapped in his big hand and thick fingers. "looks better on you."

you set your mug on the coffee table nervously. "okay, so i get the sense that you don't want me to thank you, that you're not the type that would accept it even if i tried?"

silence tells you you're right.

"do you…are you seeing someone?" you shift slightly to look at him, watch his reaction.

"no."

you already know he wouldn't come up just to be nice. he's dragged a woman to shore and broken up with her shitty boyfriend for her and taken her home. he owes nothing to you.

when you lean over, disbelief seems to flicker over his still face before your mouth finds his. you feel the taut sunburnt skin stretch painfully under the hoodie, but his warm lips opening against yours is a hot distraction. you let both soft, warm puffs of air against him as you pull away and go for the skin of his neck.

this is when you remember that you woke up in your bed with sam this morning.

his hands fall at your waist, where the skin was safe from the sun, pulling at your hips with a soft hot sound behind his teeth. you separate, both huffing.

"i think maybe that we should—"

"yeah, course." he says it too quickly.

you raise your eyebrow. "—wait til i'm healed. is what i was gonna say."

he's surprised. hides it fast but you catch it.

you give him your number. type it into his old phone.

his mouth tastes of cigarettes and coffee when you kiss him goodnight at the door. you don't brush your teeth at bed, choosing to savour the taste on your lips. you pull the hoodie up over your mouth and breathe in his scent, stale and kind of gross but safe, until you fall asleep.

-

fic masterlist

[anneofgreengabagool]

bad call // SUMMONED | simon riley x reader au | 1.4k words

part 1 of the SUMMONED series. eyes of a stranger (soap) | you're the boss (price) | take care (kyle) | patchwork (könig) | cry for mama (valeria) cw/tags: 18+. explicit sexual content. cis fem reader. supernatural content. dubcon (somnophilia/drunk) content.

The new house comes with a crawlspace.

You and your favourite cousin, PJ, decide to tackle it together because it freaks you out too much to do it alone. You haul out a few moldering boxes and over two bottles of wine, sit on the basement floor and rifle through them.

A few photo albums still wrapped in cellophane, a stack of Christmas cards bundled together with string, old baby toys, and a few board games make up your bumper crop.

"You don't wanna play this old trivia game from—" PJ squints at the manufacturing date on the box "—1963?"

You laugh at him, and push the others aside to check the titles. No games you really recognized, but clear as day: an Ouija board.

"Yes!" PJ crows. "Absolutely, we must."

"Dude, no. I'm not fucking around with that shit."

"You've literally said you don't believe in ghosts."

You shrug, pushing the game at his chest. "Every single movie in history, my guy. I'm not a fucking chump. I'm not taking that chance, because with my luck, that's when I'd get proven wrong."

—

Wine happens. More.

Spirits, we implore you to—dude, do you think this house's actually got ghosts?—

—

You see PJ off in his rideshare and slowly sway your way back up to your bedroom, your hands pressing carefully against the walls as you climb the stairs. You stop to laugh, hunched over, at absolutely nothing, just softly chuckling to yourself.

You're gonna be fucked in the morning.

Can't bear the harsh lights, you keep them off as you collapse into bed, phone on your pillow beside your nasty wine-breath mouth. Stay in that position for longer than you should, immediately asleep.

Rolling over at some point, your hand thudding against something hard. You and PJ must've moved your bed against the wall like you'd discussed…?

Out of the murky dark, the wall grows large pale arms that come down and around you, pulling you into a body that is materializing itself, ripping a shrill scream out of your sticky throat.

"Quiet," the new body in your bed — not the wall — says gruffly. The arms tighten around you, banding you until you can't squirm without nausea slithering out of your belly up your throat.

"—be sick," you croak, and pull away fast enough to puke over the side of the bed, hitting the mattress on your way. Hammered. Nightmare. Sleep paralysis. No different than being drunk in bed and continuously dreaming about someone in the doorway with a glass of cold water for you. "Fuck," you grunt. You lay your head flat on the cool bedsheet, trying to force your heavy eyes open. Should get up and clean it now, not wait til morning.

Sleep rips you away before you even feel ashamed.

—

You're moaning. That's what wakes you up.

Thick and gummy moans humming through your body, like you're a cat trying to heal itself with low vibrational purrs. But you're not moaning to heal your hangover; you're moaning because something hard is rocking hard and hot against your cunt, sliding against your slipperiness, between your plump lips. Staying in the shallow end.

"What'fu—" You lift your concrete block of a head with a loud, hot grunt, and twist slowly to not make your stomach roil.

Your sleep paralysis demon in the still-dark, a pale-bodied stack of muscles working in sync to fuck at your cunt without actually going in. It makes a disgustingly harsh noise of pleasure, and clamps a hand over your bare hip to keep you in the same position. Your face stays on its side, stretched flat where his rocking motions are pushing you forward and pulling you back.

He's a man, but not human. Not earthly. In an instant glance, some deep-primal part of you understands that without turning any cerebral senses on. This is when your tether to reality snaps altogether. The surreality blunts fear and panic and confusion into a dreamy film that casts itself to your skin, present, but part of you.

"Am I dreaming."

"If y'want to tell yerself that, be my guest."

"Am I dead."

"Nah."

You moan and it might be the start of tears but you don't actually know anymore.

"Are you real."

Something shifts behind you, and then his cock is stroking up inside you, hitting your walls and stretching tight against you. This is when the dream would break apart and you'd wake up, a sensation too vivid and too real — achingly hot flesh against yours — yanking you from the cloudy haze of unconsciousness. But instead, it only takes a couple strokes until you're crying out, your pillow wet under your face still turned away, your body pitching itself up and over the climax all on its own while the thing behind you grunts and groans heavy and dark, dragging you down with it. Its hand is bruising on your waist until it's fucking you so hard that all you can do is sob and take it, a receptacle for its tension and urgency until the voice is ragged and hollowed out, and you feel heat slipping out of you. Liquid and silky.

You cry yourself back to sleep, unwilling to turn around and pretending the hand on your hip isn't there.

When you come to, the room is light and still. You roll over to see an empty bed. The covers are all fucked up, but it's empty.

Your pillow's marked up with mascara and a small dried puddle. You lean over the bed blearily; a little bit of bile on the floor. Fuck.

Between your legs — the throb, the wet.

You pull on baggy shorts and a t-shirt and clean up the puke while trying not to gag. You scrub at your face in the bathroom and do not make eye contact with yourself.

The pale thing is sitting on your couch. It's naked, arms crossed over its chest and legs resting out on your coffee table. Cock slumbering fat against its hairy thigh. Its eyes open to see you standing there, shaking like a little dog.

"Y'wanna know what you did?"

You just stare.

"Yer little game. Shouldn't poke around with things you don't know, bird. Heard your sweet little voice. You never know who's gonna answer back."

You don't make it to the bathroom. You catch it with your hands.

The thing grunts in disgust. "God, yer a right mess. Can't handle yer liquor."

—

He makes the rules clear over time.

You called out; he answered. There's no returning him. When you try to flee to a hotel, he just chuckles low and dark in your ear in the big king bed.

House didn't summon me, lovie. You did.

The spectrality of his form depends on the day. The days you ignore him, he's amorphous and weak. Terrible housemate, not able to carry his own weight. When you argue with him, which is useless because he has no earthly concerns and derives joy from pissing you off, he looks as real as a human. Those nights are the most haunting; his cock is the hardest, stiffest, driving up inside you as you push against him and fight it the whole way. You can't let yourself actually accept your reality: that you hate him with your whole being and that he is the best sex you've ever had. He tells you later that fucking you makes him feel, for a bit, at least "put back together," although the sensation never lasts.

He doesn't remember how or when or where he died. Doesn't matter to him, so the matter's dropped eventually. Given that he loves your bed better than any place in the whole house and doesn't recognize any modern conveniences, you surmise he'd been milling around wherever, waiting to answer your call, for hundreds of years.

All he tells you is that he thinks he was probably a shit.

"You still are," you grouse as he grips your thick thighs and pries them apart.

"Exactly my point. Now be quiet," he grunts between your legs, his tongue lashing out at you. Never tiring. No ego between his sucks and laps of your cunt. No impatient tongue trying to roll you over the edge so it can be his turn. No sore back that means he has to change position constantly. A real thing eating your cunt until you yell at him to stop, uttering a low unbothered chuckle.

You tell yourself that at least you didn't summon something that's a bad fuck.

[anneofgreengabagool]

junkyard | simon x reader au | 3.3k words | ao3

part 1 of the YARD series. shipyard | graveyard | backyard | schoolyard cw/tags: 18+. explicit sexual content. cis-fem reader. dubcon if you squint. unedited. abrupt-ish ending.

you pay the fee, a toonie, placing into his big meaty hand stretched out toward you over the cluttered counter. the inside of this makeshift office is as ramshackle as the yard itself — piles and piles of metal and grime; just large masses of dark shapes sticking out from one another.

"sorry, and where would i find—"

"just look."

you kept your eyes averted from him. he could be your age, he could be old as fuck, you actually can't tell. he's just large and intimidating and has no patience for you, making you feel like some fancy city woman that you mostly definitely are not. makes you stutter over yourself.

there's a mashed up pile of cigarette butts beside him in an ashtray, and you think it's definitely not legal to smoke inside a business anymore, but it also doesn't seem like this man would give two shits if you walked into his junkyard and pressed him on it.

he waves you away, and you feel his eyes following you as you clump down the trailer steps into the yard. you don't even know where to begin, and the hysteria comes up your throat. your brother recommended this place to grab cheap parts for your car, but he made it sound like there'd be some kind of…system. organization. easy as pie to find a replacement seat for your dogshit car.

instead, you're unleashed to a huge area that looks like it'd be the site of a gunfight in a grand theft auto game or something. you wander more timidly than you want to, your boots schlucking around in mud until you start to make out…seats. you feel fucking stupid attempting to understand what it is you're even doing. you stand out next to a junk heap and google the passenger seat you need so you have some better idea of what the fuck to look for.

within the hour, you're embarrassed and creeping back up to the trailer.

"do i need to tell you if i'm leaving?" you ask softly through the opened door.

"are you stealin' or did you not find one?" his rocky voice plucks strings low in you, and your fingers tighten on the cracked doorframe.

"no luck today."

"make, model, and part?"

you answer quietly.

he heaves a big sigh and then suddenly he's coming around the counter and you scatter out of the way, stepping down into the mud and slipping slightly in your haste. there's no friendly customer service smile on his face, just a set of flat, heavy-lidded eyes flicking over you slowly before he strides out between the towering heaps.

the rain starts then, a soft spit that spatters your glasses and glistens on his tattooed forearms.

"didn't look back 'ere, did you?" he grunts minutes later when he's climbing up a pile, the strong material of his pants stretching over impossibly thick thighs. his arms flex and work in tandem as he lifts out the passenger seat replacement — you never would've spotted it — and then makes his way down the heap onto the muddied ground.

"oh," you say and hold out your arms like he might hand it on over to you.

he gives you a nasty look and you pull your arms back in. then you follow him silently back to the trailer. the rain drips down his buzzed skull into the collar of his dirty work shirt. he grunts when he sets it down on the inside of the door. you're grateful for the distance once he goes back behind the counter.

"how much?" you ask, sounding chipper now that this unsettling encounter is almost complete.

you are not expecting the number he throws at you. "oh…okay." better than what the dealership was quoting though. "debit, please."

a giant thumb jerks at a sign you did not see when you entered. "cash only. no debit. no credit."

"oh fuck. do you have an atm…?" and you look around you, already knowing the answer.

he stares blankly at you.

some quick math: you're at least a half hour from the nearest place that would have an atm. the yard closes in an hour and isn't open sundays. you already know he doesn't take e-transfers. you need this seat today.

but you try anyway. "can i come back next weekend?"

he shrugs flatly. "can't stop you."

"you'll hold it for me?" so fucking hopeful.

he laughs in a short bark that makes your neck flush with embarrassment and heat. "not that kinda junkyard, sweet'art." he sees your nose wrinkle in disgust at being called that. a smirk grows across his wide mouth.

"well…" you draw out, and wait for him to pick up the other end of what you're setting down: a nicety offered to a person in need. some kind of concession that he wouldn't normally offer, but you seem so nice and down on your luck, he'll make an exception just this one time.

"seems you're in a bad way 'ere. can 'ave it for free if you want." he's flicking through paperwork, half-turned from you.

"really?"

"sure." barely a shrug in that shirt pulled too snug around his big arms. a lifetime of lifting and pushing heavy things.

you turn and crouch to lift the passenger seat awkwardly. "thank you so—"

"what do you think 'for free' means, bird?"

"huh?"

"put that down."

and christ almighty, you listen. your body's temperature drops by a few degrees, your stomach pooling in that particular way, knowing what's coming.

"you want it, you gotta pay somethin'."

you clumsily let yourself out the door and march to your car. sit inside, furious and shaking and on the edge of something. the rain calmly slaps the roof of the car as you sit in silence, stewing. disgusted and desperate.

underneath, filthy, where you won't let yourself go — intrigued, aroused in a miswired way.

he's not at the counter when the door slams behind you, taking the wind of your sails immediately. you had a little speech planned, and him not being there to yell at right away has the ire draining away to confusion.

"hello." you call out bluntly.

then there's a sound in the back, behind a closed door. squeak of wheels or something. your boldness has you going as far as behind the counter and up to the door.

you want to be a bitch to him so badly. you want to catch him off guard. tell him he's a piece of shit with a small dick to be like this to women.

you regret it as soon as the door squeals open, catching on a spare bit of carpet sample. the man is sat in a different chair, a peeling office type one, scratching out some inventory or something, brow furrowed.

"'fore you get comfortable, flip the sign and lock the door." he says to his paperwork, eyes not even reaching you.

you're stuttering in your steps, circling back out to the main part of this 'office' and noticing the OPEN/CLOSED sign hanging on the outside of the door. you obediently flip it to CLOSED and then lock the three different sets on the door. your body is screaming the entire time, but somehow performing these little tasks like you're a trainee help you forget what you've come back for.

when you return to the doorway, he gestures you to sit on the cracked pleather couch. you sigh heavily, but at this point, it's theatre just for one: you've already come back.

"want a drink?" he asks suddenly after awhile, still at his paperwork, leaving you feeling…bored. your nerves can only crank taut so much before the bands snap, deadened.

"sure."

he pushes his chair over to a mini fridge, leans down, and pulls out a few bottles of beer. you debate within yourself if it's stupider to drink to let this happen or stupider to do it sober. you drink the bottle within a few minutes, nervous and needing something to do, and then get him to crack open the second for you.

the anger rushes back in. "can you just get it over with, please?" you hate yourself for adding the 'please.' "i'm not just sitting around waiting for you to…do whatever, you know."

he leans back in his chair a little and his eyes almost smile. "nearly done. sit tight, love." he stands, looming over the entirety of this little room, and you hear the door locks unlocking. hear him clumping back down the steps and off to wherever.

you consider grabbing the seat and making a dash to your car, but you are not that brave. or stupid.

you instead stand up and walk around a little after a few minutes. on a small monitor, you can see some camera angles of the junkyard — he would've seen you wandering around helplessly for nearly an hour. you see some movement on one of the cameras, and then there he is, pulling the large gate shut, locking it behind him. some dog you didn't see today runs up to him and sticks its head under his palm for pats. the man rubs the dog's head, flapping its ears with the force of his palm and you think how his palm will feel over your skin, and he grabs something out from the dog's mouth — a ball? — and chucks it off the screen. the dog disappears and then the man does too, out of frame, until he reemerges near where your car's parked. you can see now that he must've grabbed the spare seat and hauled it down to your car. he tests your doors, which you must've left open, and then pops the trunk to set the seat inside.

is this a performance for your sake? does he suspect you'd watch him do this?

you go back to the couch and drink your second bottle, listening to the rain drum on the building's roof. the beer slushes your bloodstream a bit, blunting what you need it to for the time being. when he returns, you listen to him lock up and close what sounds like a till drawer then he stands in the doorway, looking down at you, and you feel humiliated for sticking around.

you could've just waited til next weekend. taken the chance. asked a friend to swing by midweek to pick it up for you. anything but this.

he collapses into his chair, grabs his two beer from the desk, and wheels himself around to right in front of you. plants his boots on either side of your primly pressed-together legs and reclines back just a skosh, resettling his hips so his crotch catches your eye without trying.

the wait is excruciating, your skin feeling flayed under his eyes. the less he does to you, the more you realize you had every single opportunity to walk out the door. get in your car and fuck right off. there was no sudden assault of the senses that forced you under his thumb to comply or acquiesce. he said the words; let you leave, stew, return, stew some more, and stay. you've stayed. you keep staying.

his knees knock against yours. he opens his bottle with his teeth, ugh, and spits the lid onto the couch cushion beside you. you turn your head and stare down at it.

"i'm not gonna suck your dick," you say suddenly, and it comes out almost petulant. it felt important to draw a line before things got started and it came out all crooked and instantly washed away.

stupid smile on his mouth. "never said you 'ad to."

"c'mon, that's what all men are gunning for in these…situations."

you watch his adam's apple bob up and down with a long drink, and he releases a wet exhale. "you want somethin' for free. what do you think the seat's worth?"

"jesus christ," you scoff, picking at your peeling beer label. "i didn't want it for free. i just didn't bring cash. you offered it 'for free.'"

"nobody made you come back."

you press your lips together angrily and move your knees further from his. he inches his in closer in reaction, smile playing at his lips. "don't like the rules but you're still playin' by 'em anyway."

you hope that your quarter zip fleece is hiding your thumping pulse at your neck and your shallower fast breathing.

"i get a kick out of birds like you. takes nowt but summat right simple to knock 'em off-centre. got such grand ideas of what you like. always got some secrets 'idin' 'way." he sits up slowly and then leans over his own thighs, covering one of your knees with his broad, dirty hand. the type of hand that can get washed with industrial-grade soap and still looks filthy. his fingers wrap around the plumped flesh of your calf at the hinge. thumb stroking over kneecap.

"how many times have you…offered something for free?" the words choke in your throat.

a lazy smile, reptilian. "not polite to talk about other girls." then his hand is sliding down mid-calf and grabbing it fully in his palm, spreading your leg apart from the other, drawing a quick gasp out of you at the smooth maneuver. you're wearing black sweatpants, ratty and disposable for a trip to the junkyard, and you know you should've opted for jeans.

your breathing is punctured now, obvious and loud in the office. scared.

"pull 'em down."

they fall down to your ankles. he steps his boot right down on the middle, crushing your underwear and sweatpants beneath his tread, essentially pinning you in place. "christ, you're fit." he kneels in place, his cartilage crunching slightly, and spreads you open in front of him. your cheeks are fever-hot and you are horrified to watch him take you in, but what else is there to do? you kept staying.

his fingers spread your lips open, almost inspecting, and the look in his eyes is crocodilian-dark. heavy lids and flat expression that unlocks something deep and ugly inside you. when he presses his mouth to your cunt, there's no foreplay, no lead-up or tease. it's straight to business, economical and exacting in a way that has your head blowing back against the pleather a few minutes in, your hips lifting to gather more. and the better it feels, the worse you feel about it; you needed this to be sloppy and gross and dirty that you felt disgusting about later, berated yourself so deeply that you would be forced to make life choices. but this feels like a reward for bad, stupid, dangerous behaviour.

he doesn't watch you. eyes don't lift; don't even open. there's no smirk on his face to be angry at. it's somehow the least and most erotic sight all at once, and the dichotomy has your stomach twisting and your legs spreading wider under his mouth. then you have to stop looking altogether, but close your own eyes and let his mouth and tongue drag you under, in this shitty stinky office in the middle of a junkyard in the middle of nowhere.

you don't even know his name and that realization has your orgasm pulsing out of you, knees slamming around his shoulders, gasp ripping out of your throat, your hands finally coming down to touch him. he tries to stay latched on but it's too sensitive and you clap over his ears to stop him.

his face lifts. wet, messy, hungrier than before.

you're panting and staring. you're now operating in a completely different reality than you started your day in and you've got no fucking compass for what comes next. he doesn't wipe his face.

"sit up." he pushes himself out of his kneeled position, cartilage protesting, and gets back in the chair. wheels it right up against the couch.

you listen. sitting at the edge of the couch now, you can see his cock straining against the thick fabric of his pants. he takes your hand in his, and a jolt runs through you at the touch, and then he sets your palm over his lap, manipulating your hand over his erection as you recognize the width and length of it, hidden away like this. you can't stop the hitched breath from escaping.

"wanna see what you're doin' to me?"

you nod without thinking.

"mm," he releases a gravelly groan. "good girl. take me out then."

you have to start with the belt. he helps, barely, shifting when he needs to. undoing his belt for me is intimate in a way that settles deep and dark, somewhere you'll call upon later when you've got a vibrator wedged up in your cunt and fingers on your clit. zipper next. then shifting the fabric down.

he's hairy in a way you didn't expect. thighs covered in golden to dark brown hair, sparser up by his hips. stomach fat and muscle mostly hidden by his work shirt, but the hair there is plentiful and works its way down to above his cock. and his cock is…thick. big. imposing just like him. not pleasant and not inviting.

you can't help your eyes darting up to his, renegotiating in silence.

flat, dark eyes meet yours. "let's feel that soft hand of yours then."

relief spreads hot and wild, tumbling free through you, which sends the hysteria loose: you're grateful that you don't have to suck this man's dick. you're grateful that all you need to do is touch it.

you remember how he went straight to it with you. so you reach out and wrap your fist around him in one fell swoop, testing the heft of him. he lets out a rippled, hitched groan of his own in response and something shifts in you.

"gimme your hand." when you hold it out to him, he hawks a loogie into it that has you grimacing. you rub the spit over the darkened head of his cock, pushing the foreskin away as you manipulate the spit down to cover him.

a handjob is a handjob: there might be some preferences in speed or grip tightness, but they don't vary much across men. and as you flow your hand down from head to his balls, you find yourself dropping into the same-old rhythm and routine.

"eyes on me" interrupts you from your concentration; you'd only been staring at his cock while you worked it, ignoring the rest of him.

and it changes everything: your eyes locked on his for once as your hand glides back and forth — comes back up for more spit, then returns to its job — gripping and loosening and pulling slow, then fast and hard. his eyes are still deadened, heavy like he's closer to sleep than wakefulness, but they pin you like a insect to a board. something moving beyond the dark that you can't understand, can't read.

his hands come down and rest on your knees, although rest isn't accurate here — they grip tight, almost bruising, as you work him. fingers digging down into your soft flesh and your grasp on his cock tightens in response, binding you both in a loop.

"gonna cum." guttural and torn, sending shudders through you.

and you somehow didn't think of this part — the where of it. and with your eyes locked on his and your hand fucking his cock rhythmically and his mouth letting out strangled noises, you let him cum and it lands over your bared knees and thighs, up to your cunt in hot milky strands.

you're grateful that you came first; it gives you the wherewithal to stand, maneuvering out from his big legs, and put yourself to rights. you don't know what to say, so you say nothing. you unlock the bolts on the front door shakily and escape to the rain outside, cool and brisk.

it's unfortunate that you forget all about the locked gate.

-

fic masterlist

[anneofgreengabagool]

"he's so good with kids," your friend says knowingly, an obvious smile on his face, as your eyes flit over his shoulder to see the man chucking the older kids around in the pool while they scream-laugh and swim back to him.

"mm," you murmur noncommittally to the friend. "I don't even think I want kids."

"sure, but still."

your sunglasses hide your heavy gaze, always finding him: in the pool, climbing out with shorts plastered to pillar-like thighs, the gold necklace nestling into his chest hair that the kids tease him about.

across the pool party, laughing with a friend, but eyes fixed on him grabbing a plate of barbecue food, piling it up high and clapping a big hand on the host's shoulder in thanks.

it's not a surprise when he eventually makes his way to your table, tucked in the shade, your legs sprawled out on a chair in front of you under a spare slash of hot sun.

"here with your husband?"

you laugh softly, shaking your head. "one of the few singles here."

the only reaction you get is creasing of his eyes. it's hotter than it has any right being. "that right. aren't we a pair then." voice grittier and softer than it should be. gets you between the legs like a finger.

"like these big family dos," he says lightly then, stretching back in his chair, his legs knocked obnoxiously wide (gets you like a second finger added to the first). the water drips off his curled chest hair onto his potato salad and chips. "seein all the mums and dads with the lit'l ones. sweet."

"any of 'em yours?" gesturing to the pool with the splashing kids.

"nah," said lightly. "not yet for me. when I meet her, i'll know. then it'll be a family decision, y'know?" a sun-hot hand landing on your thigh, shocking. could be he's squinting from the sun moving. could be he's winking.

"mm," you murmur again, noncommittally.

[anneofgreengabagool]

you don't know me | ??? x reader au | 2.6k words

cw: this will eventually become sexually explicit, so mdni from the jump. this is not a dark fic, however, so major tags don't apply. reader gets an anonymous message at work. this is an anonymous identity x cis-fem reader fic. tags + story blurbs will therefore reflect this. for future readers, please refrain from commenting any spoilers (i will delete + block if they come up). have fun!

part 1

The company is large, larger than any you've ever worked for. Huge building all its own, not just some leased office in a commercial space. It has its own parking lot, for Christ's sake. You no longer have to shuttle your little chugger of a car into a daily parking lot that charges out the ass.

You get installed in a small quasi-cubicle with a slight partition. You pin a picture of you and your friends at your friend's cottage after your first few weeks when you noticed that other people decorated their spaces openly. You were never going to be bold enough to do it without tacit permission.

Sea legs take awhile, and this is a huge move for your career. You find sanctuary with a team lead, Sasha, who tours you around leisurely, giving you the dos and don'ts — this washroom is a hidden gem, so don't tell anyone else; she gives you extra scoops of guac if you call her miss; don't bother submitting a maintenance ticket, just grab someone if you see 'em and they'll help — until you're at least more comfortable navigating between the different floors to explore a little on your own when you're bored on break.

Work is more interesting and demanding than any other you've held in the past, so you're constantly nose-to-computer otherwise, navigating the online repository of the company's technical guides and user-created templates. You're deep in one when a little pop-up window for the intra-company chat app appears at the bottom of the screen, then minimizes itself with a flashing icon.

» User G_02 would like to send you a message. Would you like to ACCEPT or DECLINE?

Your team, and even your department, is small. You don't know anyone with those initials. Do you? In your email, you pull up the department group to scroll through all the names; you're still new, you're probably forgetting a few.

Nothing. Well, it's intra-company, so no harm, no foul. It's not as if you're clicking on a suspicious link.

» Accept.

You wait. The longer you wait, the antsier you get. You flick at your thumbnail, your fingertip catching where the nail polish is peeling up. Little flecks of polish in a tiny pile that you sweep off with a scoop of your hand.

Wrong message maybe?

Sighing, you flip back to your manual to scroll through for specific information when the window suddenly blinks.

» Like your hair today

» Hi, sorry who is this?

» You don't know?

Your stomach flips.

» Sorry, I'm new. I really don't know anyone outside my department.

» Shame. Should socialize more.

What?

» Oh, well…I'll start soon, i'm sure lol. Sorry what department are you in?

» Kinda fun to let you figure it out

You minimize the chat window silently. It feels like holding a snake that suddenly turns its head to look at you.

You message Sasha, asking if she knows anyone with the first initial G, without telling her the rest. She laughs and says you might as well be asking if there're any white guys working in big tech.

For the rest of the day, anyone passing by your little cubicle is a suspect. You are in a busy, central spot of your floor; dozens of people float around every hour, many faces still unknown to you. You constantly receive a spectrum polite smiles, blank smiles, warm hellos, but nobody that stares or lingers. Every single person you interact with, hear about, you're training yourself to look for any matching initials.

Judging by their message, G doesn't want you to deduce it right away. Wants to play a bit, and you don't like it one bit. You delete the message history. It won't prevent them from sending you messages, but it's the only thing that works to keep your focus off it.

Pretend it hasn't happened.

—

A week later, you're deep in a document review, eyes bleary, when the window blinks. Doesn't occur to you that it wouldn't be anyone but your team members.

» Forgot to mention I like your cute little picture

Your eyes slam to the pinned picture on your partition wall — you, your best friends, soaking wet on the dock, arms up and eyes closed. A comfort to look at. No different from other people's pictures of their pets or kids or spouses. Suddenly, it feels as if you blew it up and hung it off the side of the building to flap in the wind and let the city gawk at you. Like a nude got published. You're all in your bathing suit cover-ups, nothing untoward to hang up in the workplace, but you suddenly grab it, the little pushpin ripping out with it. You stuff it in your bag, suddenly noticing that your palms and soles of your feet are sweating.

» Make you nervous?

» I don't really know what to say. I don't know who you are.

» You sure?

What the fuck. You close the chat again, pushing your chair out from your desk, and get up to go talk with Sasha. She asks if you want to tell IT; not yet, not really. HR? Definitely not. You both tool around and discover the chat app doesn't let you block other users, considering it's just a company-wide tool.

"Okay, well. I can try to look up directories, if you want, anyone with a G-name. Find an org chart, but those are constantly fuckin' outdated. Do you think they work on this floor?"

"Sasha, how would I know that," you laugh weakly. You scroll up through the chat history to show her. "There's nothing there that tells me what department they work in. How often they see me. They could be mailroom, or someone's assistant, or…anyone!"

She chews her lip, hip bumped against your desk. "Yeah. Fuck. Well, just ignore them for now. Let me know if you want to escalate it." She gives you very serious eye contact until you nod sincerely. "Or if they do something even weirder. Okay?"

You wander back to your desk.

You work later than usual that day. A company this size and given the field you're in, there are still dozens of people on calls, staring at screens, wrapping up meetings. Makes you feel better, safer.

A maintenance worker is waiting for the elevator when you approach. The sheer breadth of him makes you feel small and insignificant, standing there with your lunch bag and water bottle and backpack like a schoolkid. He's got a big yellow maintenance pushcart with him, and when the doors ding open, you motion for him to go first so you can fit yourself in after. He obliges with a blank nod, and you skirt in behind him.

G for you.

B1 for him.

You're staring unseeingly at the smeared stainless steel reflection of the elevator door, picking at your nail polish, when the lights flicker rapidly in a one-two count, and then the elevator car is shuddering, pulling up short and making your stomach roil.

"What the fuck," you mutter automatically. Eyes flick up to the robotic floor read-out, but that doesn't even seem certain where you are. Between 2nd and 3rd floor?

The lights shudder out again, plunging you both in dark for a few moments. You breathe in sharply until some sort of backup system kicks in, running lights on the ceiling of the elevator turning on. A ceiling fan spinning, thank god.

You turn to the maintenance worker — also thank god, someone who might know what to do exactly besides pressing the HELP button — and his mouth is downturned, unimpressed.

"Do you want—?" You gesture to the panel of buttons. He nods silently. Then, with the big-ass cart filling up the space of nearly 4 people, you have to maneuver off to the side like one of those frustrating tile games so he can bring himself up to where you were stood.

Tucked at the back, his broad back blocks you from seeing what he's pressing. Then there's a tinny, crackling voice. "Maintenance."

"Hey mate, it's me. Stuck in car 2 between 2 and 3. Power go out?"

"Oh, hey, man." You can almost detect relief in the other person's voice, like they're grateful not to hear from a panicking employee instead. "Yeah, brown-out. Car should be good though — lights and fan on?"

"Yeah."

"Weird. 'Kay, hold tight. I'll give J a ring." The crackling noise cuts out.

You stare at his back impolitely. Large shapely muscles bulked under a dark grey short-sleeved canvas shirt, tattoos pouring out over thick biceps and forearms. Workman's belt. Matching grey canvas pants and some of the thickest black boots you've seen. Huge, muscular ass. Tree trunk thighs stretching the canvas tight.

Boots turning backward to face you. Your eyes fly up to his face — solemn dark eyes, healed-wrong nose, and full mouth — breathlessly, guilty.

"Y'alrigh'?"

"Yeah?" You almost cough. "Yeah. Good."

"Might be a bit. Stingy fuckers been delaying calling the elevator techs out since spring."

"Oh." You panic because there's nothing to look at except for him and all he's looking at it is the way you're grabbing helplessly at the straps of your backpack. "Well. At least we've got air." You, ever the optimist.

—

The cart forces awkwardness. When you finally slide to sit down, and he follows suit later, you can't even see one another. Two ends of an L shape of space.

The silence is mortifying for no good reason, shining floodlights on your social insecurities.

You've tucked yourself in the back corner of the car, knees pulled up to your chest, unzipping your backpack quietly like you don't want to disturb the man.

It's been an hour and a half. You've stopped caring about the sweat that's peppered along your hairline, under your arms.. You scrape your hair up and find a claw clip to keep it off your skin.

"Whatcha got?" he asks after you crinkle around in your lunch bag too loudly.

"Oh, I was…I was just about to offer. I have some cold noodle salad left. You allergic to sesame or peanut?"

"Nah."

You scrape two portions out, using your emptied containers to divvy them up. Big boy; you serve him a bigger portion. Around the corner from you, he won't know any different. Instead of standing, you scoot forward until you're peeking around. His legs are kicked out as much as they can, but he looks cramped and awkward.

He meets you halfway, arms flexing to grab your offerings; a can of grapefruit seltzer water, chopsticks and cold noodle salad, and a two-bite brownie from the dollar store. His expression, so blank before, looks surprised when he sees it.

His big fingers drag against yours as you weirdly try to place it all in his opened palms.

"Cheers," he says bluntly.

You nod politely and you both retreat to your corners like sweating, sad boxers.

"Oh wait!" You call out brighter than anything else you've said to him. "Ice packs."

A repeat of moving forward and then a hand-off a cool-but-better-than-nothing ice pack. He makes a very small sound when it hits his hands. Scuffled back into your spots again. A deeper groan when he puts the ice pack…wherever. You don't want to imagine where he's placed it.

"You get this downstairs?" It's the only question he's asked you except if you're alright.

At first, you think he means the ice pack.

"Huh? Oh, the salad? No, I made it. Why, is it okay?" Properly a character deficiency for you to seek validation from a random stranger in a stuck elevator.

He slurps the noodles loudly. "S'fuckin' good. Can't figure these things out though." You suspect he means the chopsticks.

You laugh lightly. "Sorry, I don't have a fork."

"Don't say sorry." The crisp sound of the pop can being cracked open and then a long thirsty guzzle. He must be sweatier than you in that canvas uniform. You imagine his Adam's apple working up and down as he chugs the water. "Ah, what the fuck is that" spat out in a strangled voice.

"What?"

"Your pop's gone off."

"Huh?"

"Tastes old."

Realization. You laugh. "It's just seltzer water. Flavoured. Not really pop."

You see the edge of his steel toed boots move slightly, and then a hand appear around the corner, setting the opened drink down for you. He moves back against his wall. "'m good. Thanks."

Are you opposed to drinking from the same can as a stranger? Yes.

This stranger? You grab the can quickly as if he's going to snatch you, and set it beside you. Look down and see where some of the water's pooled around the open tab. In the utter, humiliating privacy of your corner, you silently sniff the top of the can. Nothing. You have a tiny sip, and then dig into your own noodles, awash with whatever has come over you. A bitch in heat.

You gasp very loudly when the speaker crackles to life.

"Ey, G? You good, man?"

The man — you still don't know his name. He doesn't know yours — awkwardly pushes himself up to stand. "Yeah."

"Sorry for the wait there, brother. Fuckin' shitshow with these fools. Someone had to pull up their goddamn contract to check about OT calls. Anyway, they should be here soon. You guys good?"

"Yeah, all good, mate. Cheers." From this angle, stood up tall, he glances back and sees you tucked up tight, staring up at him. A funny look crosses his face, but you don't know him, can't read him.

When the technicians finally arrive, it doesn't take long for you guys to finally arrive at the 2nd floor, doors sliding open, and you finally on more stable ground. The man chats a little with the techs and you shyly say, "Thank you so much," to…everyone there, and then aim for the stairwell. The cold recirculated office air is a fucking relief on your skin, under your dampened clothing.

There's a door slam in the stairwell, echoing loudly in the chamber as you descend, and heavy boots clomping down, not hurried but not slow. You glance back and up: he's followed you. Didn't stay to chat.

"Walk you out." He says simply, and you mouth oh and you don't really have any arguments for that, so you walk self-consciously ahead of him. Aware that your pants and top are stuck unflatteringly to your skin with probably a pool-shaped band of sweat at the back of your top. "You drive or take public?"

"Uh, drive." Nerves rankling your voice like you didn't just spend hours cooped up in a tighter space than this.

He nods. Laughs short and rough when he sees you heading to the single car in the deserted parking lot. Overnight crews must park elsewhere.

An absurd question out of your mouth — "Do you want a drive home? Or…need? I don't know if you drive or…" You fumble with your car keys, press repeatedly on the fob to open the doors just for something to do with your hands. Your car lights blinks obediently as you approach.

"'m good. Drove." You turn your head, too afraid to look back up at him now, but watching his arm lift to gesture at a secondary parking lot. Some trucks parked there.

He stands, crossing his arms across his bulky chest, as you smile unnaturally.

"Okay, well, thanks, I guess." You laugh uncomfortably. "For keeping your cool. Made me feel a lot better."

"Yeah?" An eyebrow, ripped apart by scar tissue, tugging up by a hair.

"Yeah. A lot, actually." And then immediately, your cheeks feel even hotter, feeling like you've revealed something far too intimate to a man whose drink you swallowed.

"Cute."

You hustle into your car, flinging your shit on the passenger seat, sweating furiously and keys bouncing off the ignition cylinder multiple times until it takes, and waving until you can pull out and far away.

In bed that night, showered clean and cool, you're tracing the day's events like fingering a long rosary bead until you realize that the other maintenance person called him G.

navigate to: part 2

[anneofgreengabagool]

gristle | simon riley x reader au | 2.2k words | ao3

mdni

navigate to: part 1 | part 2

part 3 (final)

You squeeze your knees to signal him to release you, though your legs are shaky and coltish without his heft under you, and release your pinching clasp off his arms. You try to take deep, regulating breaths.

Just as you start to turn, face wet and burning, he suddenly presses his entire body against you, suffocating you in against the door.

You finally feel his cock against the swell of your ass. He takes his own deep inhale, mouth and nose shoved against the back of your head, and exhales loudly. It sounds mangled in his throat, and you shut your eyes to soak it up.

When the nerves start pinching at you again — what time is it? what did you just do? — he seems to sense it, and hauls your hands behind the small of your back as you bleat in half-hearted protest. "Stay."

Cheeks burning, you tip your head forward and slam your forehead into the door, not even knowing who you'll see in the rearview mirror in your car later. His grasp leaves your skin, and you obey, keeping your hands clasped at your back like you're politely awaiting arrest. The door doesn't even feel cool against your hot skin.

Behind you, there's shuffling. Scraping. A squeal of sharp against steel. His hands find you again, calming your brain, and then he's got you sat up on a wedge of cleared stainless steel countertop. It's disorienting, face to face; laughable to call yourself an equal in this scenario.

"Cute trousers, these."

You look ahead to what he's getting at. He wants you to take them off. The only scrap of fabric holding your sanity intact at this point. How quickly a little attention has you under this man's boot, ground into dust, no longer yourself.

You take them off and he's going to fuck you. He won't surprise you by going easy on you or delaying it. He's not ripping them off you either, forcing you to bend under him. A simple statement said out loud, dropped into the room, and left to fester.

"They're new."

He laughs, a broken-up brutish thing that rubs you raw. "That right."

You nod. "Can you kiss me again?" You want to feel it at this angle, no height difference with a craned neck.

It's the only time he's looked surprised, but he smirks and it's gone in a flash. "Soft girl." He laughs roughly, then buries himself between your open legs, and sets his large hands high on your waist where it gives you a fresh fall of shivers. His fingers knead your flesh through your thin sleeveless top, nipping in, not gently. He knocks his head to the side and catches your mouth with his, and your eyes flutter closed. His lips are softer this time, malleable and forceful all in one, and he notches you open finally; his tongue entreats yours, and you eagerly accept. His groan meets yours, bullish breath fanning out of your noses, and his hands tighten considerably at your waist.

You slide your hands, timidly at first, from his wrists up his arms — the hair feels sparse in spots, likely burned off from close contact — and bulking biceps, shoulders. You breathe excitedly as you explore up his pillar of a neck to his stubbled face. When they meet the prickly fuzz of his shaved head, you shudder again, running your fingers over and over. Your legs wrap around his waist to the best of your ability with the size difference, hauling him in closer up against you, his sweat smearing against your clothing and skin.

The more you touch and grab and pull at him, his mouth and tongue get more frantic, the lazy and self-satisfied passes chipping away.

You break the kiss, pulling a rude grunt out of him, and grab fistfuls of his damp, sweat-stained t-shirt. His eyes are glassy and dazed, and you think maybe the kiss handed the power back to you somehow.

"God, I want you," he mutters, his head looking suddenly very heavy. He kneads hotly at your sides until you squirm. It's enough of a yes, and your top is being peeled off. Your thin summer bra, discarded with it. "Fuck." You're coated in a fine sheen of sweat in this airless room and he lowers his head more, swiping his large tongue along the underside of your breast where the sweat's pooled. Finishes it with a bite to the fat of you, up to your tightened nipple. He draws it in, sucks, and lets it pop out all in one long harsh pull. His other hand then squeezes the neglected breast, twisting at the nipple experimentally to watch your face for a reaction. Your mouth drops open in a little gasp, and he smirks again.

Power evaporated.

He pushes them up together, cupping in a display just for him, and buries his face. Plants a weird mix of slobbery kisses and bites and suckles across both nipples until he growls frustratedly. "God, you're so fuckin' soft." Almost angry about it.

You know it's coming.

Your squirming, hitching breaths, and damp patch on your pants all tell Simon the story he's been getting you to write this entire time. Minutes ago, a I'm not going to remove my pants has changed to well maybe they can slide down a bit. How easy you went down; no fight at all.

"Simon," you whisper, your voice catching, and he lets a long, snarling groan out hearing it.

It's the yes.

Do it for me. I can't do it myself yet.

"Such a sweet girl, huh. Bein' a bit bad with me like this." He grunts, his hands dropping your breasts and dropping heavy and flat against the tops of your thighs. He rubs them up and down like you're freezing and he needs to warm you up, move the blood back around, like it's not already pumping thick and hot.

When you moan, he smiles tightly, stretching across his face. "Open your mouth."

You expect another kiss.

You get a sudden glob of saliva spat onto your tongue with a satisfied smirk.

"Hold it."

Your eyes bug out, making him laugh low and dark. His spit tastes like beef and cigarettes.

His thick, blunted fingers, nails bitten to the quick, tug at your zipper. He lifts you up so you can shimmy the pants down, lightweight things that flutter down over your feet and onto the dirty floor.

Glazed, hungry eyes latching onto your basic seamless underwear. "You're a sight, love." As if he's returned from war. He sucks in a sharp breath. "So fuckin' pretty. You're gonna ruin me."

His final words are more scorching than his gaze, and you want to hide, shrink away.

A large finger traces your labia through the opaque cotton, and your mouth breaks the spit down, flattening into across your gums and teeth until it fills you up, smoke and meat suffusing you.

"I'm gonna make you feel good again. Lemme do that for you."

You nod.

"That's a love. You're gonna make me feel good too, yeah?"

You nod harder, your thighs clenching around his feather-light fingertip.

"You want some more, love?" You don't need to nod. He fingers your mouth open, spits again, closes it back up. Smears his thumb across the seam of your lips. His head drops down; the scarring continues across his shaved head, breaking up the swaths of shorn hair like circuitry. His other thumb swipes up and down over your clit, and you shudder, grinding your hips against the countertop.

Just his thumb. Pulling your underwear teasingly to the side of your lips then letting it snap back into the crease. He moans appreciatively, a starving man sat down to sup on his feast.

Achingly slow and yet abruptly fast, his own zipper is being pulled down, his hard cock released from the depths. You try to control your reaction, but it looks intimidatingly big and mad about being caged up so long without release. Large and heavy, bobbing up, wet at the throbbing darkened head. Heavy sac. Hairy pillars for thighs. And you with your cunt squished by a pair of underwear squeezing your labia to the side.

He has the same revelation and his expression is far more wicked.

"Put your hand on me, love. Before we start."

Your stomach plummets at those words, like you haven't taken every step here yourself.

A hand droops down between your legs, past the soaked cotton of your underwear, until he's surging into your loosely curled palm and fingers. It feels like a fucking weapon. Your mouth hangs open dumbly, making him laugh, his cock jumping in your tightening grip in response.

"Christ, you got some soft hands there, bird."

He hauls you more forward off the counter, balanced precariously so he can fuck you at a good angle. Then he commandeers his cock out of your hands, setting yours back against the steel surface to rest back a little. Brace yourself.

He sets a thumb down into the wet shallows and drags your liquid up and up, around your clit until you're hissing. "S'good." You both watch as he sets the head of his fat cock up against your plumped lips, and you moan before he's even made contact, like wincing away from a needle before it's even pressed to skin. "Greedy, huh."

Just seeing the way his fingers hold his cock gives you shivers. He brushes up against you to find that sweet, slick glide, and you both make noises then. Your hips shift impatiently without you even meaning to. A smirk, low and dark.

"What if I just tease you like this, eh?" His eyes blink slowly up to yours, watching your face.

You shake your head.

"No?" He presses the head a little further, and you try to clench down on it right as he withdraws just a little. A fucking game of slap hands.

You finally swallow his spit angrily. "No."

"Mmm," he groans at the bite in your voice. His face mirrors yours — eyebrows drawn down tight tight tight, mouth hanging open in anticipation — mockingly, as he pushes deeper. Rocks in an inch, maybe two. Your cunt grabs at him and he gives, releasing a near-whine that seems to surprise him. "Alrigh', alrigh'. Give you what you need."

It's slow, but steady, and you can't keep your eyes off him until he bottoms out, the tops of his thighs meeting the fat of your ass hanging off. "Christ. Fuck me, girl."

You clench harder and he hisses sharp at you. "What, girl? You wan' me to just be done like that? Come in you like a young lad?"

Yes.

You can't even hide it. He sees it on your face and there's another wash of surprise, something he doesn't expect you to want or ask for. "You don't want me to fuck you nice an' slow?"

Head shake, then a full-body shudder when his cock pulls almost all the way out.

"Hm. Nice, sweet girl…maybe you'll just take what I give you, even if it's scraps." His voice is gritty, rubbing raw across your flesh, might as well be a thumb to your clit. "Hungry thing."

Your eyes flutter shut and it's a mercy that he lets you keep them closed as his cock works back into you, harsh and perfect against your soft. You lean back on your hands and instead of focusing on his cock striking true, you smell him. Inhale the stale, grease-laden air with his cigarette smoke and sweat and low-lying body odour working too hard over cheap antiperspirant and cooked meat and onions and everything that should repulse you, should have you marching out that door, but whatever the fuck it is — something chemical and sick — is like a immurement of your own design.

He grabs your ankles and props your feet up onto the edge so he can fuck you without your legs in the way, and you could just collapse back for all you care. You feel the ghost of his thumb over your clit every now and again, but it's as if he has to keep reminding himself not to work your clit; feed you the scraps.

Hungry thing, you do. You clench and pull and work at your own orgasm despite his strokes that aren't really paying attention to how you like it, trying to claw something out of it just for you, and you can practically hear him smirking behind your closed lids.

"You got me fuckin' close, lovie."

You could scream.

"I'm gonna come in this gorgeous fuckin' cunt of yours. You know that?"

Some garbled monstrous noise works it way out of you at that and your hands claw at the countertop ledge for something to grip before he slams you up against the shore.

"Yeah, you do. Dirty fuckin' bird takin' what I give her. Got some bad news for you, lovie. Real bad."

The worst fucking timing to reveal 'bad news' and your eyes fly open wide.

"You're it f' me now."

And then you're shattering up against his jagged rocks — taking what you can get, ripping it with your sharpened teeth, and then baring them like a wild thing.

-

all fic masterlist

[anneofgreengabagool]

backyard | simon riley x reader au | 3.2k words | ao3

part 4 of the YARD series. graveyard | shipyard | junkyard | schoolyard tags: minors + ageless blogs dni. explicit sexual content. cis-fem reader.

i'm no better than a pervy man :(

i've been staring at this man's ass for over an hour

» have you tried talking to him??

never

he came over two days ago when i was in the pool and i panicked and left immediately

i think he's looked over here once today

thank god for sunglasses

» offer him some water

» or your mouth

god i wish

his arms are covered in grass and i wanna lick it off him

help me

» help yourself

» you're pissin me off now fr

» you're housesitting for rich assholes and now you get a hot gardener to stare at

» bitch

she's right, she's right, you know she's right. hiding behind your work laptop on the back deck, your eyes track him from hedge to electrical outlets to toolbelt to tree to whatever the hell else he's doing.

it's not your house and it's not your place to ogle their gardener. but this man is so fucking hot, and the only time he's glanced up toward you and given you a brief nod, you felt like your insides could act as their own blackstone cooktop. you don't remember the last time looking at a man sent hot visceral bolts through you like this. you feel keenly aware of his every mundane move through the large yard, hauling bags and tools.

a simple black t-shirt. plain green work pants. heavy duty work boots. and you're ready to sink into the owner's pool to cool off. you shift in your patio chair, nudging the laptop heating your bare knees, and consider your friend's words.

you could be nice and offer him a drink. you could do that. doesn't have to mean anything.

you set your laptop under the patio table's umbrella and head into the kitchen. open the massive industrial refrigerator and stare at approximately thirteen different beverage options to choose from. you grab two ice-cold bottles of water and a large energy drink.

your fingers trail across the packages of nuts and trail mix in the pantry, but decide that feels a little too much like offering a little kid snack.

keeping your eyes down like you're just being mindful of your step across the deck and backyard, you make your way toward him. he's in the far corner of their huge immaculate lawn, working on a row of tall hydrangea bushes, when you approach quietly.

"hello?" you could disappear, you think. embarrassing just to offer someone water, for fuck's sakes.

the man turns, carefully, head swivelling on a thick neck. his eyes catch yourself for the second time and you feel the flush start again.

"you want…?" and you just idiotically lift up the three beverages for him to see. "figured…s' hot…"

what the fuck.

a crease at the corner of his amber eyes deepens. "hey, cheers." he gestures behind you, and you look back as if the owner's going to have magically appeared out of the thick humid air. but no, just some patio furniture tucked under umbrellas by the pool.

"oh. yeah. sure." you stumble over ahead of him and take a seat, eyes darting around as you watch him do the same, a groan releasing automatically from him as his body bends and folds into a deep padded armchair.

he tosses one of the water bottles back at you. he cracks open a water bottle and energy drink, holding one in each hand. takes long pulls off both. "s'nice. cheers f' that."

"no problem," you smile politely.

"you a relative then?"

"me? no. i'm sheena's assistant. she asked me to housesit for the week, you know, keep an eye on things." you trail off. why the hell do you need to explain the purpose of housesitting? it's suddenly as if you've never spoken to a man in your whole grown ass life.

"ah, right. forgot they're out of town loads this summer." he says it mildly, using a big pinky finger to scrape something out of his eye. his hands are scarred and tanned and large. terrifyingly, he looks straight at you. "what got you comin' down to give me bevvies then?"

you fiddle with the pleated hem of your dress, squaring it off across your knees. "it's hot. and i have no idea if they're the type to let you…come in and get a drink yourself." you shrug.

"sweet of you," he says coarsely, eyes sweeping you, and it runs shudders through you from crown to toe.

"not really," you beg off. but isn't this what you wanted? his eyes on you? to hear his voice? to look at those scarred-up and summer-tan arms up close? see where the sweat's darkened his collar and is seeping through in patches? to see the sweat on his forehead and upper lip and under his shadowy eyes?

"yeah. it is."

you drink your water.

"s'nice dress."

"oh. thanks."

fuck.

a long, elaborate drink from his water bottle, his adam's apple prominent. sweat streaking down the line of his throat.

"you got a boyfriend?"

fuck!

"no," and you know that your friend is laughing somewhere.

his mouth forms a shape, some kind of right, understood, and you know he's made a decision. a decision you'll have to wait and see to find out what it entails. it makes your stomach tighten.

he stands then, unexpectedly, crinkling the emptied water bottle into a little cube under his fist. he opens your palm and you let him and he places it inside and folds your fingers around it. "thanks, love."

your breath stutters in your chest with a huff of a laugh. then he swoops down suddenly, hands braced on the arms of the chair, and just stares at you. lets his eyes roam around your face. he looks like a pitbull animorphed into a human.

"they got cameras inside?"

you can't breathe with his face so close.

"uh…uhh, no. i don't…" you shake your head just slightly.

a nasty smirk on his wide lips. "good. see ya."

then he's up and off, long legs striding so casually as if he didn't just dismantle you in an armchair that cost more than your rent, leaving you in a hot melted puddle.

you're too afraid to move inside, to signal your weakness. you started this. you retrieve your laptop and go back to work on the deck, but you might as well be a toddler tapping at a toy phone for how useful you are for the next hour.

when the sun skirts down the tall dark roof and shade spills across the yard finally, relief comes. you think you might swim later. when he's gone. you see him leave the backyard for awhile, can kinda hear the sounds of stuff being scraped into a truck bed, the back of the truck closing up. you panic at the last minute, need some kind of something as a distraction or delay for what he's got planned (you know exactly what he's got planned), so your fumbling hands grab some canned cocktails from the fridge. you leave the chilled ac of the kitchen and pad back out on the deck.

he's coming around the corner of the house, rubbing from his head to his stubble, hat in his hand. when he sees you standing at the top of the patio steps, his stern face turns smirky again and your nerves twist.

"look at you with the bevvies again." he takes it from your outstretched hand, looks at it and it looks so small in his grip, and cracks it open, the fizz crackling pleasantly. "cheers."

"wanna sit?" you're desperately trying to divert him from his question about the interior cameras. only one reason he'd ask you that.

"you got your cozzie on," he says after a swig, pointing at your swimsuit under your dress. "why don't you hop in?"

you dart your eyes at him, but there's no joke on his face. he means it, means for you to strip your dress up over your head, and swim.

you can be the person who does this sort of thing. but first, you take a painfully long drink off your own cocktail until your throat's burning and you're coughing. now there's a laugh on his face.

"you make me nervous," you admit, the words slipping out after your chug.

he skirts his tongue around his teeth slowly, then huffs a little. "that right?" you've never seen a pair of hazel eyes look so hot and austere at the same time.

the pool laps at your toes when you step into the shallow end, and you wait until the last possible second to lift your dress up, turning away so you can't watch him watch you. you know he is. the heat is imprinted on you like a damp palm on the back of your neck, gripping you tight in its grasp. you fold the dress neatly at the edge of the pool and hear him snort. you dip into the pool, head under, trying to recalibrate.

you end up swimming to the deep end, the furthest away from him.

when you emerge, it's right as the solar patio lights flicker on, casting a soft glow across the water and over his body, sat in the armchair that he's scraped to the edge of the pool. your personal lifeguard. his legs are stretched out wide and he just sips his drink, eyes on you as you bob in the deep end, only your eyes and nose peeking out.

you feel like a small animal trapped in a crocodile's lair. wandered in carefree and landed just short of his sharpened teeth.

"do you have a girlfriend?" you ask.

a curve of his lips and a shake of his head.

he keeps his palms flat on his thighs. you wish you had an ounce of his confidence and presence. you're just floating, lapping up his instead. his fingers ripple softly over his pants, an unconscious movement. "why you hidin' all the way over there, love?"

you press your legs together in a heartbeat and grab onto the pool edge. "i'm not."

he seems amused and it embarrasses you that you're so fucking, painfully transparent, like a toy he can bat around.

"so come closer then."

you hesitate, and then make your way closer, pulling yourself along with your wet hand.

"you want me to make it easier on you, lovie?"

"what do you mean?" and you know instantly you shouldn't have asked the words. the crocodile's jaw laying open, inviting, waited for the fatted prey to hop on in.

he leans forward, elbows on thighs, gazing down at you now. "think maybe a nervous bird like you needs someone to make the decisions. makes it a little easier if you don't need to ask, yeah?"

he sees it in your eyes. teeth closing in increments.

"right. out you get."

you climb out on trembling legs. when you reach to grab your dress, he says firmly, "leave it." there are no poolside towels and he doesn't seem like he's looking for one.

"inside."

you shiver uncontrollably as you tiptoe, dripping pool water on the sun-heated deck toward the patio door. "i can't…i'll get water everywhere."

standing behind you, he's huge and imposing in a way you could not even have appreciated from afar, ogling like you did. you can handle like, a second of direct eye contact before realizing he doesn't give a fuck if you ruin your boss's flooring with wet feet.

he sighs when you lean over and squeeze the excess water out of the rope of your hair, splattering on his boots. the second his palm claps down on your hip, you're pulling the door open and scooting inside, wiping your feet on the mat desperately.

you turn to tell him to unlace his boots when his hands are coming down around the column of your neck, lifting your face so he can tip your nose up higher, meeting your mouths together. you gasp into the kiss, thrown off, not expecting the suddenness. he tastes like gin and cigarettes, and you guess he smoked before returning. then he obliterates all your little usual ponderings by sweeping his tongue into your mouth, and kissing you deeper than any man has before, least of all one you just met. his fingers tighten into the back of your head, curling the wet hair into the fold of his calloused fingertips. the cool confidence doesn't break away from him, but it's replaced by an urgency that you feel deep in your pussy.

he bullies you around the corner until you're pushed against the closed bathroom door. "i'm gonna fuck you in 'ere," he instructs and you nod and he rewards you with a hot lick up your damp neck to your ear, and both of you let out noises then. "yeah? tell me what i'm gonna do to you."

the door is pushing open, his hand behind your back at the handle, and you nearly fall inward but for his locked arm coming around your waist to stop you.

"tell me," he pants, mouth coming back down to your neck as you're scooped up and on top of the giant marble slab of countertop, the squelch of your wet swimsuit squeaking against it as he ruts against you.

"you're gonna…" you breathe out shakily, legs automatically trying to wrap around the heft of his hips and thighs. "you're gonna fuck me."

"fuckin' 'ell. your cunt's gonna take me s' fuckin' well, love."

you squeeze your eyes shut and feel his tongue lave across you like a dog's, slobberish almost, and then his fingers come down to cup your pussy through the damp fabric. you let out a loud gasp and he nearly laughs into your neck. "gonna see how tight y'are first."

you hate that. hate it and find your pussy pulsing, wet and empty, when his fingertips push the crotch of the suit aside, snapping it impatiently until it's trapped on the side of your pussy lips. he stares down at you, your neck forgotten, and groans. "look at that."

you don't want to.

"not the pool water makin' you so fuckin' wet, love. that's all you. fuckin' 'ell, you're gonna feel so bloody good."

he grabs at the neckline of your one-piece and yanks it down under your breasts, nipples puckered from the water and the chill of the air conditioning. straining for his stubbled jaw and mouth, desperate and perked up for attention. and for the first time, he seems frustrated; not enough hands and mouths to do everything he wants. and it's so fucking hot, you just writhe, waiting for him to lavish it upon you. ready to listen and do whatever he tells you to. accept it.

"y'want my cock, lovie?"

you nod, and you know it's not good enough; the flare of heat in his eyes, so close now to you, tells you so. "tell me."

your voice is strangled and alien to you. "i want your cock."

he grapples with his belt, and you hear the shink and then it's a matter of seconds before you don't see any fabric from the waist down. just his t-shirt, pressed with water from you. you glance down and wish you hadn't; it's huge, matches him perfectly, and you want to cry a little.

"no," you whisper.

he laughs when he sees your face. "thassa a fuckin' lovely compliment. open wide f' me."

your hips listen, spreading out further, the body preparing itself for the fucking invasion to come with an angling and repositioning of your spine and pelvis. all you can do.

he spits fat on his hand, rubs it on your pussy, and you nearly bolt off the countertop for the sudden direct contact. "'m gonna fuck you nice and full first, yeah? then 'm gonna treat that little cunt so good. yeah?"

"yeah."

"good girl." he spits again, spreads it out over the fat head of his cock, and then plays at your lips until you're shaking and thrusting up to catch him, guide him in yourself. and judging by the hot smirk on his face, he was waiting for that. "good fuckin' girl." low and steeped in rust.

you don't think you can take it, when his cock slides in, genuinely. it feels too full and uncomfortable and his spit is not helping, but he just keeps thrusting, keeps sliding further, in and in and in, and all you can do is take. you just needed someone to decide this for you. your face crumples in a moan-cry that sounds like nearly a sob, and you think it might do him in right then and there.

"what a pretty face that is," he croons down at you, cupping the back of your neck firmly. "takin' my cock and lookin' like that at me. could come now just lookin' at ya. yeah?"

the glide gets easier when he hits right, hits your g-spot, drags against you. and dumbly, you think, this is how some women come. it seems absurd to you. as he fucks you, you observe; watch him watching you, taking in how it looks when his cock strikes up into you, how it looks when your pussy lips get messy as you get wetter around him. how your tits look as they bounce hard against your chest with every thrust, how your mouth can never close when he's fucking you like this.

"you're not gonna ask for it, are ya?" his thumb reaches down between your hips. "yeah? were ya gonna pretend?" his expression scares you. like he's mad at you for staying silent.

"no! i—fuck— it feels good. i just…need more."

"'ll give ya what you need, lovie." and then his thumb is gliding where you need, over the fat of your clit, rubbing lightly until you need more, need more than just his thumb, but the pads of all his fingers over your mound, pressing down hard and rubbing just right. "come for me then, come on my cock just like that. i know you can."

it hits like a charley horse, spasming through your tensed neck and abdomen and glutes and calves, your gasp rattling out of you as you vice-grip him in waves that hit so fucking hard you might pass out, and all you can hear as you squeeze your eyes shut is him gasping gutturally as his cock is pinched tight tight tight inside you.

"fuckin—" and then you feel it, feel his hips slam sloppy, feel the hot cum coursing out, feel his shuddering and broken breaths hit your face and neck as he leans as much as he can into you, his body taking what it needs from you.

your pussy keeps clenching, keeps drawing him in, and he lets out an almost high-pitched gasp with the force of it every time a rogue wave hits.

"jesusfuckingchrist," you breathe out over the top of his head. his mouth is now in between your cleavage, resting heavy and hot, as much weight as he thinks you can probably take at this angle.

when he rights himself, he looks positively wrecked. there's no smirk. no self-assured confidence. just a man, disintegrated down to the mere biology of himself: a body that is holding itself up in time and space.

it's the hottest he's looked this entire time.

-

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