thinking back to kinktober when I wrote simon riley fucking a pumpkin. he definitely finishes deep inside the mushy plant, watching it ooze out while mixed with pumpkin guts. it makes him hard all over again, and he goes in for a round two (which definitely doesn't turn to another round after that).
okay, so maybe he has something wrong in his head because he fucked it until he was shooting blanks, and the cum to pumpkin gut ratio was eye opening.
what better way to put it to use than to bake it into a pie and give it to his favorite girl? the one who runs that plant nursery down the street. it's only fair since you're the one who sold him the pumpkin seeds to begin with, gave him advice on how to grow a plump pumpkin, perfect for fucking with his thick cock—he didn't tell you that part.
simon was not one for baking, but he felt pretty proud of himself when you moaned around a bite of the pie, muttering about how its the best thing you've tasted. the sound of your satisfaction made his cock chub up in his jeans, aching with the sight of you unknowingly consuming his cum. denies a slice for him, saying something about how it's specially made just for you.
You didn’t think Simon kept the silly things you gave him.
The man had his fixations: bones, bugs, dirt sometimes- he kept jars of it in his room, hidden under the bed for reasons he would not disclose. Wild life seemed to calm the man’s incessant anxiety, oddly enough. The rot, the violence and beauty intertwined in the forest. Humans tried to sanitize their existence, pretend they didn’t murder and fuck and shit themselves. The forest did no such thing- was upfront about its violence, its depravity.
Simon liked stuff like that, only ever had stuff like that.
So you never thought he’d actually keep the little skunk stuffie you’d gotten him. Just a 99 cent little beanie baby, black and white just like all his masks and clothes. You’d given it to him after a small shopping spree to the local thrift store, laughed about how he stunk just like it when you handed him the toy. It barely sat in his massive palm, the man staring down at it before stuffing it into his pocket with a grumble of something you couldn’t understand.
You couldn’t quite believe your eyes four months later, when you popped into his quarters in the night. Only there to grab some of his reports you’d forgotten, just to see the man actually sleeping for once- little skunk stuffie gripped tightly in his fist, the fabric of its tiny head pressed up against his face as he slept.
It was.. sweet. He still had that balaclava on, safe and tucked away in his own world. You debated taking a picture, before glancing at the shot gun next to his bed and deciding against it.
You hug Ghost extra tight the next day though, burrowing into his chest to hide your giddiness as he clutched onto your back. Massive hands gripping your shirt tightly, like he never wanted to let go- but couldn’t bring himself to cling to your actual body itself. Huffing your hair, rubbing his masked face against the top of your head like a weird cat.
Simon Riley x Doctor!Reader who specializes in scar treatment
Simon Riley x f!Reader
Notes: Okayyyyy so this may or may not turn into multiple installments, I have no idea :) but I just wrote this little thing on a whim, so if y'all want more, pls lemme know!!
Tags: Meet cute, banter, slight angst, discussion of past injury, hurt/comfort, platonic-not-yet-romantic relationship
-
"Doctor, another patient for you in room fifteen," the receptionist chirps from behind their desk, blindly handing you another clip board while they type away at their Microsoft spreadsheet.
"No rest for the wicked. Thanks, Julie," you huff, tugging your gloves off and throwing them into a bin before grabbing the clipboard. You thumb through the pages as you walk, relying on pure muscle memory to bring you to your destination. These days there was barely enough time between patients to grab a snack bar from the vending machine, let alone rest your legs. It paid to have patience in this line of work.
Patient: Simon Aaron Riley
Age: 45, DOB: 19 Dec 1980
Reason for visit: Consultation for traumatic injury scar minimization treatment on face, neck, and scalp. Patient reports that circumstances of injury occurred during military duty: caustic acid burns and non-penetrating blade wounds.
Caustic acid burns, you huff, flicking through the paperwork. You hadn't seen that since residency -- not to the extent reported, at least, and never on the face. Acid burns tended to be relatively rare, especially in comparison to other burn types. One of your friends who'd become an ER doctor had lamented about the uptick in acid attacks not too long ago.
Poor guy, your heart sympathizes. Lets see what we can do.
You breathe outwards before rapping on the door, barely hesitating before pushing inwards.
"Hi!" you greet enthusiastically, sparing the (hulking) man hardly more than a glance before you reach for the hand sanitizer dispenser, "Mr. Riley, is it?"
He clears his throat, "Yes."
His voice is much quieter than you'd expected, soft and muffled, like he hated the sound of it. You resist quirking a brow, turning around to study him while you rub the sanitizer in. He's...
God, he's big.
The stupid, rickety patient chair makes him look like a giant, bulging biceps heaped atop the arm rests like solid steel resting on bamboo scaffolding. If he stood, he'd probably hit his head on the doorway, but sitting there, his shoulders are hunched, his head hung low, the perfect picture of abject reticence. A black facial mask covers his jaw, matching the black baseball cap shielding his head.
Mysterious, your brain interjects.
Clinically self-concious, your (rather blunt) professional self deduces.
Inwardly, you think it's rather impressive, how such a large man manages to shrink himself down into something near invisible, but you keep that observation to yourself. You extend your hand in his direction when you introduce yourself.
"So what brings you in today?" you bounce onto your rolly-chair, scooting closer to the man, eager to hear his story.
He tsks.
"Read my chart, didn't you?" he scoffs, voice twinged with disdain...or is it amusement?
It takes a special type of person to walk the fine line between those two, your inner-world says, hardly offended.
"Yes, but I'd like to hear it in your own words. Better to let words speak rather than typing mistakes," you laugh.
"Hm," he acknowledges.
For a few seconds, you wait for a reply. However, after the awkwardness grows to a palpable level and nothing but the rusty hinges on your wheely-stool remain, it becomes apparent he isn't going to give one. Still, you don't make to interrupt the process.
His chest rises on an inhale, and slowly, his head lifts, just enough for you to see blue irises peek out from the shadow of the brim of his hat. When he finally meets your eye, vision settling across your face, the once stoic set of his brows loosens, pupils expanding to capture the light as best they can. He seems stuck there for a second, drinking you in from your forehead to the tip of your nose, until you cock your head in curiosity. The exhale is punched right out of him, and he hurriedly ducks his head, repositioning the brim of his hat.
Suddenly, he doesn't look so tough.
No, he just looks...shy, eyes darting around the room as if he'd rather stare anywhere else but at you.
He's quite cute, the chronically single part of you chimes in.
AMA Code 9.1.1, your white coat whispers.
Internally, you shake the thought off your back. Focus. This man is looking for your help.
Again, his voice is soft -- so contrastingly soft -- when he speaks.
"I've got scars," he blurts, obviously discomforted and too afraid to hold eye contact.
"Okay," you respond.
Another beat of silence. You hope that it conveys your assent to his control of the conversation.
"And..." he stutters, "And I want them gone."
"Okay," you nod, wheeling backwards to grab a pair of gloves, "And do you mind if I take a look at them? To see what treatments might be best?"
Again, he doesn't answer. You only look on patiently as you situate your gloves. He's not wearing a heart monitor on his fingertip, but if he were, you imagined it'd be racing right about now. He looks towards the closed door, Adam's apple bobbing with a harsh swallow.
"You gonna bring anyone else in? To look?" he mutters.
"It's just a quick exam, doesn't require any tools or assistance," you promise, "But if you'd be more comfortable with another person in the room with us -- or with another physician entirely -- we can certainly make that happen. It's your choice."
"No. It's not that."
He stares at the door for a few more seconds. His hands wring in his lap, and for the second time today, he manages to look you in the eye.
"Just...make it quick. Okay?" he says aloud, commanding.
Don't want anyone else to see, his fidgeting frame conveys.
"Of course," you say, standing from your chair. He reaches for the cap atop his head, shoulders taut, before he unhooks the mask from his ear. You can see it almost immediately despite the way he keeps his vision locked resolutely on the floor. Beneath buzzed blonde hair, you see the beginning of red raised lines, trailing down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. They're long, fluid, and reaching, starkly mottled with color against his pale white skin. When he finally raises his face, you can see that his right eye is drooping at the corner, obscured by a small waxy section of fused skin on his outer eyelid. The eye doesn't look damaged, though.
The scar extends down the entire right side of his face, and the skin is textured there, raised with bright red in every spot that the liquid touched. It recedes into the surface of his skin in some parts -- the flatter portions of his face -- where pools of the substance had time to eat away at his cells a bit longer. The skin is wrinkled and stretched in those parts, including the bit by his eye.
In medical school, you'd studied case photos before. It was quite a distinctive burn pattern due to the way liquid runoff caused scars in the shape of the running droplets themselves, diffused across the surface by gravity, spreading the agony by nature's hand.
You cannot begin to imagine how painful it must have been. Your heart aches imagining how it occurred.
Slowly, you raise your hand to touch the edges of the the marks, assessing their texture.
"How did the injury happen?" you ask between careful fingertip taps, taking mental measurements of the length and size of each mark.
"It's in my chart. They teach you how to read in medical school?" he huffs...almost pouting.
You giggle.
"It is in your chart -- which I can read, by the way. But I want to hear your perspective on it."
He tsks again, "Does that even matter?"
"It's the thing that matters most," you reply -- and rather seriously, too. You emphasize the sentence with a pointed glance at his face, before you return to your task.
The scars are winding, branching things, diffused across his cheek, forehead, nose, and neck, like interconnected constellations across the night sky.
Despite how much pain you know is embedded in them, you can't help but think that, in a way, they're beautiful. Like many of the scars you saw each day, they're part of the people you help. A part that, in many cases, is just as much a facet of them as their hair color or clothing choices. That, and like many other things, something that wasn't so easily removed or erased.
As always, you keep that opinion to yourself. You can't tell whether the idea stemmed from your own clinical interest in them as a specialist. Or maybe the smaller, softer side of you couldn't help but marvel at the way Mother Nature always stitched herself back together in the end, leaving her touch as a reminder that, once the blood had dried and the dust had settled, you would always be made whole again. Someday. Sometime.
Of course, maybe you'd just published too many papers on the topic not to find them interesting by now. Staring out at conference crowds ranting about it for hours tended to do that to a person.
But hey, at least you weren't, like, a podiatrist or something. Somehow, you doubt your friends would find you as cool as you are if you ranted about big toes with the same enthusiasm as you did talking about the mechanism of Lichtenberg figures.
"Acid. There. That good enough for you?"
"Yeah," you curve your head to track the scars through his hairline. He perks up at the feeling your hands brushing through his hair, "And how long ago were these marks made? They seem well-healed given the circumstances of the injury."
He takes a breath in, "I'd say it's been...almost two decades, minus a few years."
"Huh," you raise your brows when you step back, pulling your gloves off.
He latches onto that little sound for some reason.
"What?" his cracked, crooked lips curve into a smirk for the first time since he walked into your office, "You think m'old, doc?"
"What makes you say that, Mr. Riley?" you laugh, "I thought it was pretty nonchalant on my part...they teach us that in school, y'know."
Why are you making jokes with him?
Why are you making jokes with him?
Seriously, this is what happens when you don't have a boyfriend for five years straight. Yeah, maybe you needed to get through medical school, and yeah, maybe you're too busy for a relationship. But then, every time a man so much as looks in your direction your heart starts to lurch.
That, and this is what your last preceptor would call 'ethical bullshit that will bite you in the ass if you let it fester long enough.'
Offput by the combination of those thoughts, you busy yourself with typing your observations into his chart. But of course, that doesn't negate the form of him sitting in the edge of your vision.
(That, or his warm, rumbling laugh. Or his awkward half-smile. Or the way that, when you leant closer to him, his cologne wafted over you in waves.)
Yeah, you should revisit your ethics textbook.
Or maybe you should buy another vibrator.
(Maybe you should do both.)
"Never thought I'd live to see the day a lab-coat developed a sense o' humor," he huffs, still smiling, before he reaches out to grab ahold of your name tag. The reel of the tag snaps back into place with a teasing noise, "How long you been wearing that thing anyway, huh? A year? Maybe two? Or do they enroll into medical school straight out of daycare these days?"
"Hey!" you swat at his hand before it can pluck at your name tag again, and suddenly, he's anything but shy, "You sayin' I have a babyface?"
"Uh-huh," he chuckles, "Doesn't match the white coat, love. Hate to break it to you."
"Pot calling the kettle black."
At that, he balks. His confidence falters, and for a second, the syllables get caught in his mouth.
"What? You think I came outta the womb lookin' like this?"
He gestures to the myriad of scars across his face, disdain evident in his expression.
"What?" you plop back down on your rolly-stool, "No. Just sayin', if you're trying to get a discount on the botox, it's gonna take more convincing than that. You look pretty good for your age."
That last bring yanks a laugh out of his stiff frame.
"'For my age?' What am I, seventy-five?"
"Well, seeing as how my professors never taught me to read a chart, it's a possibility, I guess..."
"Fuck off," he huffs, laughing.
"Aww, c'mon, don't say that just yet," you rock back and forth on your stool, "We're just getting to the fun part."
"The fun part?" he mutters.
"Yeah," you swivel back towards the computer, clacking away once more, "The anti-smoking lecture I'm professionally obligated to give you. From your chart. Which I can read."
"Save it."
"You want lung cancer?"
"Save it."
"Then stop smoking."
"Done."
You giggle, shaking your head.
"What?" he snickers.
"Y'know, I can see the Marlboro package sticking out of your pocket, right?"
Behind you, he straightens up in his chair to glance down at his belt, below which is the red and white façade of that familiar package. He licks his lips.
"What, a man can't change his mind, love?"
Love. God, you nearly melt at the stupid little quip.
"Not sayin' that, it's just..." you cross your arms, giving him a long hard look, "You don't look like the type to go back on your own convictions."
"You callin' me stubborn?"
"Not at all," you roll your eyes, "You sure you're not projecting?"
At that, he's got no good response. He merely lets his smile widen, just enough to let his teeth show through, and for that alone, you figure you can forgive yourself for your own professional transgressions.
"Well, smoking aside..." you sigh, forcing yourself back to business. You hate the way Simon's smile falls at the sudden transition, "You're in good shape for treatment. We can discuss the intricacies in further appointments, but there are several options depending on your own preferences. For the contracture scars around the eyelid, that'd most likely require surgical correction, but if you're aiming for less invasive options, laser treatments and topical medications would work as well."
"Whichever works the fastest," he speaks, voice deepening into something serious. He looks back down at the floor. It strikes something within you, and you brace yourself to act as the bearer of bad news.
"Mr. Riley--"
"Simon," he interjects, "Call me Simon."
You nod.
"Simon," You scoot your stool closer, "Before we get any deeper into exploring your options, I just want to make sure that you have reasonable expectations for your treatment."
He balks, hands wringing again, "''Reasonable expectations?'"
"Yes," you inhale lowly, "Given the extent of your injuries, and given the nature of your other inujuries as well...It's unlikely that the appearance of your scars can be completely negated. They can be reduced, yes, but they can't be removed. Not in the sense that you may be thinking, at least."
"Why not?" he asks -- no, demands. It's wrought with emotion, verging on anger. You don't recoil, however, you only continue onwards.
"Well...when you sustain a burn, it doesn't just affect the surface or the appearance of your skin. Altogether, what you might call...'the architecture' of your skin has changed. Scar tissue isn't normal skin, and aside from that, the blood vessels and hair follicles may have been damaged, too. With chemical burns like yours, the thickness of the burns is difficult to counter. Chemical burns can be deep, speaking relatively, and even with treatment, it's often not possible--"
"Why not?" he demands again loudly, and this time, his voice strains around the exclamation. He leans forward in his seat, and you're pinned beneath his harsh glare.
Instead of launching into another explanation, you let him sit in the silence, in the anger and emotions. The longer you look onwards, empathy hardly wavering on your face, the faster his belligerent expression falls into something...deeply hurt.
His anger falls away, whether it be from remorse for shouting at you or grief for his own situation, he ducks down to bury his face in his hands. A far cry from the man you'd just been joking with.
For minutes, you sit in silence. Simon, repetitively running his hands over his face -- over those raised red scars he despised. And you, looking on, unable to promise anything more than you could give.
"Simon," you eventually speak, quieting your tone, "Why'd you come in today? I mean, after almost twenty years living with these scars...why now? What changed?"
You hear him sniffle beneath the cover of his hands.
God, is he crying?
If it were possible, your heart breaks even further. Slowly, you wheel backwards to grab a box of tissues out of the supply cabinet.
"Does it even matter?" his voice is muffled from the hands he hides behind, warbled with tears. He's determined not to let you see them. (Not to let himself have them).
"Yes, Simon," you pull a tissue from the box, holding it out in his direction, "It matters. I could give you a whole spiel about the health science behind resilience and purpose in recovery, but I'm not saying this because of the research. I'm saying this because I'm your doctor and I care about you."
For a few more seconds, he cries silently into his hands, sucking in every hitching breath, like maybe if he tried hard enough, you'd never notice the tearstains on his collar. It takes awhile, but eventually, he reaches out shakily to take the tissue.
You don't recoil, not even when he lifts his head, and exposes his swollen, reddened eyes. His words are shaky when he finally opens his mouth.
"My nephew..." he manages, nearly choking, "He's -- he turns three years old in a few weeks."
"Yeah?" You pull another tissue, "He's what makes you want to get rid of the scars?"
He nods his head, and for a split-second, that look of sadness on his face deepens into an aching look of sheer anguish.
"He's a sensitive lad, gets -- gets nightmares real easy," he looks down at his boots, "Last time I went over, he burst right into tears, and -- and my brother said he woke up cryin' for damn near the whole weekend."
A sob escapes his mouth before he can stop it. He swallows it and clears his throat.
"He's so scared of me he won't come near. Won't let me hold him. Won't let me talk to him," he shakes his head as more tears burst forth, "He's terrified of me. His own uncle. Because I look like this."
He gestures towards the smattering of scars across his face, tissue clutched in his balled up fist, "Because this is who I am."
"Simon, that's..." you reach forward to grab his fist, squeezing it between your warm hands.
"My brother says he'll grow out of it, that -- that it's not a big deal, but..." you hand him another tissue, "I know it's not easy for them. And -- and sometimes I wonder...if maybe they'd be better off if I stopped going to see them altogether."
Immediately, you shake your head, scooting your stool closer emphatically, "That's -- that's not the answer, Simon. I promise."
"Yeah?" he looks up at you, watery eyes unsteady, "Then what is? Because -- if you can't get rid of them, then what's even the point of trying?"
That strikes a chord within you. Seeing him there, looking to you for help, for comfort, for answers...Your preceptor told you not to get close to your patients, but after this...How could she expect you to put up walls?
You reach for the box of tissues, and lift one towards his face. He can't help but flinch backwards when you raise it words his injured cheek, but when you hold steady in the face of his reproach, he squeezes your hand in silent consent.
You dab around the corner of his injured eye, studying the contracture marks beneath your tissue. His fingers twine with yours, nervous and worked up, but you don't rush.
Already, it's hard to imagine his face different than what is already is, but if it's as important as he believes...
"Simon, I can't promise you more than what science has to give," you whisper, "But if there's anything I've learned in the past few years, it's that nature is more surprising than we give it credit for."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." you swipe across his jaw, where several tears hang, "Research might say one thing, but the results of treatment might surprise you. What you think is a small difference might be what changes everything. How your family thinks about your appearance...how your nephew thinks about your appearance..."
You squeeze his hand.
"How you think about yourself."
His brows draw tight when you say that.
"That's why it's worth trying. Because if that's what you think is best for yourself, then all of us should listen."
You let your eyes wash over his face, wash over his harsh cheekbones, sharp jaw, blonde hair, and white-red skin. The color looks like supernovas against his complexion, like something tended to, healed, and stitched back together with love in every thread.
"You think so?"
"I think so," you nod, "And I promise I'll do anything to help you get there."
He spends a few more seconds studying the conviction in your eyes, studying the way your hand fits against his own, but eventually, he manages a deep breath, and he gives a small but sure nod.
"Okay," you nod back, tapping your figures against his hand, before you turn your stool and grab a piece of paper from the supply cabinet. You don't waste a minute before starting to write.
"Here," you rip a section of the paper off, "It's my personal number."
"What for?" he suddenly straightens up, something...unreadable and confused overcoming his face.
"I'm booked out for months -- gotta love the efficiency of the healthcare system," you complain sardonically, "If I left you with Julie, she'd do her best to find you a place, but this is important, and I don't want you falling between the cracks."
You stand from your stool, "Whenever you get a chance, call me. I'll fit you in after hours, come up with a plan that's better than just 'wait and see.'"
At that, something akin to hope flickers in his eyes. He looks down at the small scrap of paper and the loopy handwriting thereon, before he gathers himself and finally stands.
For a split second, you're blinded by how tall he is. God, you nearly have to crane your neck just to maintain eye contact.
"Okay," he nods, tucking the baseball cap back over his head, "I will."
"Then..." you smile, sticking out your hand, "I look forward to it, Simon."
He looks down at the offered hand, at your starched white coat, and the irresistible glimmer in your eye.
He didn't know it then, but in the future, he'd come to realize that moment was just the beginning of it all. What followed was deeper than he could've thought. Deeper than seven layers of scar tissue. Deeper than a scalpel could cut. Deeper than he'd dared to let himself imagine.
Now, he knows its significance. But back then, it was only ten little numbers, written in sparkly pen ink, with the letters 'M.D.' left in signature.
Watching all the lightening strikes of the thunderstorm outside my window and thinking how Sunshine and Simon would be during a thunderstorm…
“Sunshine,” Simon groaned, “Come back to bed.”
“Yeah in a minute oh there’s another one Si!”
You had been stood at the large window with the curtains open for the last hour since you woke up and said “I smell rain.” And Simon had confirmed that there was a thunderstorm rolling in. The pressure had been building all day and of course he had been tracking it with the lightening tracker app on his phone.
Then the first lightening flash had lit up the sky and you were out of bed and at the window in seconds, before the thunder arrives.
He hears you cross the floor. He hears the curtains being pulled back. He does not open his eyes.
The second strike comes and you make a sound that is somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, delighted and involuntary.
"Sunshine.”
"Yeah in a minute ooooo, there's another one, Si, did you see that one?"
He has not seen that one. He is lying on his back with one arm over his face in the dark of the bedroom while his wife stands at the window in her pyjamas conducting a private love affair with a thunderstorm.
"Come back to bed."
"In a minute."
He opens one eye.
You are standing at the large window with both hands on the glass, your face turned up to the sky, lit intermittently by the lightning in a way that makes you look angelic.
He opens the other eye.
"Si," you breathe, "look at that one."
He looks. Through the window the sky splits white and enormous, the whole landscape thrown into a second of stark relief — the garden, the lavender, the fields beyond the fence — and then the dark comes back and two seconds later the thunder arrives, a low rolling thing that moves through the glass and into the floor and into his chest.
You turn to look at him with a smile, eyes bright and glassy.
"Come look," you say.
He should say no. He should say “it's two in the morning, sunshine, come back to bed.” He should say a great number of sensible things and none of them are going to make any difference whatsoever.
He gets up.
He crosses the room and he stands behind you, settling back against his chest, his arms coming around you, your hands covering his on the windowsill now.
Outside, the lightning is coming in intervals now, the thunder close enough that you feel it as much as hear it. The rain arrives properly, sheeting against the window, and you make that sound again, the delighted involuntary one.
"There," you say softly, as another strike splits the sky. “It’s so pretty Si.” You sigh, a happy lilt in your voice.
you've been pawing at simon's bulge for the past few minutes, in awe of the way it reacts depending on how you touch him. when your fingers stroke delicately from base to tip, it gives a few twitches. when you cup his balls, he throbs. when you squeeze the shaft, pre-leaks out and soaks the gray cotton containing it. it's just so cute, it's as if it's got a mind of it's own.
a funny question for him to ask you, when it's clear you just want to play. he's been in this awful study of his for the past two hours, working on something you don't care to fake interest in. you just miss him, and you want attention. you've gotten bored of sitting on his knee and holding his hand, so you've slumped under his desk to play with his cock.
"nothin'." you respond coyly, eyes shining with fascination as you watch him grow and chub up in his shorts. you're glad it's so hot today. he never wears them unless it's too fucking hot for anything else. these are the shorts that "air out m'balls proper" as he says himself. he grunts and reaches down to adjust the fabric around them now that it's clinging to his cock.
"look at what y'did." he mutters to himself, shaking his head and nudging your head gently. "can't focus with you here. be a good girl and do something until 'm ready to pay attention to you, hm? fix this problem you caused."
you huff and look up at him from under the desk, pressing your cheek to his bulge. "why can't i take care of it now, si? i promise it'll be quick..."
simon scoffs at your faux-innocence, seeing right through you clear as day. sex with you can never be quick. once you get him started, he'll need at least two hours with you until he's satisfied. if you attempt a quickie his cock won't go down even after he spills his load.
he pinches his eyes shut and shakes his head slowly, trying to avoid eye contact with you or he'll blow his load in his pants. there's no other way out of this, he knows it. even if you suck him off or keep trying to palm him while he works, he won't be able to concentrate. the level of restraint he has for you is low. he shakes his head and spreads his legs, freeing his cock and letting it slap up against his belly, drooling translucent rivulets of slick out of his slit and down his thick length.
"fine then. have at it."
your eyes sparkle as they land on his cock, admiring how swollen and mouthwatering it looks, and you make quick work of shimmying off your panties and climbing up into his lap, excited to ride him silly on his office chair.
just another day of him giving you whatever the hell you want.
📁 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟏: EROTIC TRANSFERENCE — an asylum au | 6.0k wc
↳ featuring: sociopath!simon x psychiatrist!reader
ⓘ file preface: he’s a masked sociopath with a filthy mouth and eyes that never stop watching you. you’re the new psychiatrist—young, polished, and far too curious for your own good.
⚠︎ classified triggers: this fic contains explicit and dark themes, including mental instability, psychological manipulation, power imbalances, and dubious consent. sexual content depicted include restraint play, degradation, praise kink, size kink, oral sex, pierced genitals (jacob’s ladder), and intense dom/sub dynamics. additional warnings for asylum settings with disturbing imagery, violence , and heavy psychological tension. the reader engages in self-destructive behavior, shame, and ethical violations (doctor/patient relationship). reader discretion is strongly advised.
event masterlist
the asylum smells like bleach and something older. older than mold, older than rot. something that can't be scrubbed away, no matter how many times the floors are mopped or the walls are wiped down.
it's in the cracks of the tile, the grout between them, the ceiling tiles yellowed with time. not decay, not exactly but close. like the building itself has absorbed every scream, every whispered confession, every last gasp of air from lungs that will never draw breath again.
you have smelled it time and time again. in hospice clinical rotation during medical school, where death comes slow and expected, where the antiseptic tries and fails to mask the stench of dead or dying bodies.
it's even stronger in psych wards, where the air is thick with sweat and fear and the metallic tang of blood flaking off the skulls that have banged into walls one too many times.
the smell clings to your clothes, seeps into the fibers of your white coat, your scrubs, your hair. no amount of detergent or perfume or showers can strip it away. it follows you home, into your apartment, into your bed. it even follows you into your dreams.
but this new job is supposed to be a fresh start. that's what your mentor called it when she pressed the file into your hands three weeks ago. her fingers left faint smudges on the manila folder, the edges worn soft from being handled too many times. the weight of it in your palms feels heavier than it should—not just paper and ink, but something more.
"try not to be scared of the environment," she said with a tired smile. the lines around her eyes deepened as she spoke, the kind that come from too many late nights and too many patients who never get better. her hand lingered on yours for half a second too long. "focus on the patient. that's where you always shine."
but the asylum doesn't feel like a fresh start. it feels like a place where fresh things go to die.
you pass the nurses' station with a nod, already trying to tune out the screaming echoing from the lower level. it isn't the sharp, sudden kind of scream. it's a scream that sounds like a soul being peeled apart layer by layer. your fingers tighten around the clipboard until your knuckles whiten. the pen cap wedges between your fingers like a weapon—small, pathetic, but yours.
a group of patients shuffle through the far hallway under supervision, their slippers scuffing against tile that hasn't been properly cleaned in years. the nurse pushes a metal cart ahead of them, the trays rattling with little paper cups—each holding colorful pills.
most don't look up. their heads stay bowed, their shoulders hunched, as if carrying a weight no one else can see. some twitch—a finger jerking, an eyelid fluttering. others stare at nothing, their eyes fixed on some middle distance between this world and whatever hellscape lives inside their skulls.
"you get used to it," says dr. carver, your new supervisor, without looking back. his keys jangle as he walks, the sound almost mocking in its cheerfulness.
you don't believe him for a second. your past work experiences have been in the frame of psych wards in hospitals and outpatient clinics—never asylums. asylums are where patients go when nowhere else can contain them. where the worst cases, the truly broken, are sent to be studied like specimens under glass. the kind of place where people are forgotten.
the tour is brisk, clinical. the west wing for the non-violent cases, the east for the ones who need restraints. the common area with its bolted-down furniture, the cafeteria with its plastic utensils counted and recounted. everything designed to keep the chaos contained.
you feel it the moment you step into the east wing—the weight of eyes on you. not just watching. studying.
"this is where you'll be assigned," carver says, stopping in front of a reinforced door. the nameplate reads riley, s. in neat block letters. "high-risk patient. former military. court-mandated after an... incident."
he doesn't elaborate. he doesn't need to. you've read up on his file before going for rounds this morning.
age: 37. former military operative with a service record that is heavily redacted, suggesting involvement in classified black ops. dishonorably discharged under sealed circumstances. following his return to civilian life, riley is implicated in a series of violent homicides—deliberate, ritualistic, and performed with a level of precision that rules out impulse or psychosis.
court-mandated psychiatric evaluation deems him fit for long-term containment at blackwall institute due to extreme sociopathic behavior and the high likelihood of reoffense.
diagnostically, riley meets the criteria for antisocial personality disorder, marked by chronic disregard for the rights and boundaries of others, lack of empathy, and calculated manipulation. he exhibits no delusional thinking, no psychotic breaks, and no evidence of hallucinations.
instead, he operates with full cognitive clarity. his violence is not reactive, but strategic—premeditated acts committed without remorse. he displays an eerie emotional flatness, but maintains a high-functioning intellect and strong interpersonal acuity.
he reads people quickly and accurately, often weaponizing their emotional tells against them. while superficially cooperative, all interactions appear designed to extract information, establish control, or destabilize the other party.
he wears a self-constructed skull mask at nearly all times. when forcibly removed, his behavior becomes volatile. the mask appears to serve a psychological function—both as armor and as a performance. he does not hide behind it so much as embody it. attempts to strip it from him have resulted in injury to staff. for the sake of stability, containment policy has allowed him to retain it during sessions, under heavy physical restraints.
clinical recommendation: treat all interactions as adversarial. do not respond to personal inquiries. do not allow sessions to deviate from their intended therapeutic structure. patient is capable of emotional mimicry but does not possess empathy. any rapport built is likely a means to an end. do not mistake his stillness for submission.
do not underestimate him. control is his currency. you'll only get what he wants to give you, and he'll want to watch what you do with it.
the risk assessment didn't bother with pleasantries:
level 5 containment
subject is non-delusional, cognitively stable, and extremely dangerous. violent outbursts are rare, but never reactive—always premeditated. staff injury incidents occur only when restraints are compromised. he waits. he plans. he attacks.
through the small reinforced window, you see him for the first time. the photo that you saw in his file is grainy and taken through the window of a solitary confinement cell.
he wears a black cloth mask stretched into the pattern of a stylized skull. white smears over the sockets. a grin permanently frozen in place. his eyes are the only visible part of his face—shadowed, half-lidded.
the reinforced glass fogs slightly with your quickened breath as you press closer. the air in the hallway suddenly feels too thick, too still, like the entire wing is holding its breath along with you.
he sits perfectly still on the edge of his cot, back straight, hands resting on his knees. the skull mask stares blankly at the opposite wall, that same frozen grin you saw in the photograph. his shoulders strain against the fabric of his jumpsuit, the material stretched obscenely tight across the impossible breadth of him—no wonder they keep him in reinforced restraints.
even sitting, he dominates the space, his frame so broad, so solid, it makes the flimsy cot beneath him look like a child's toy. your throat goes dry watching the way his arms bulge where the sleeves pull taut, veins standing in stark relief along corded muscle that flexes just once when he shifts his weight.
his hands are massive where they rest on his knees, fingers thick and capable—you imagine them wrapping around your throat and your pulse jumps traitorously.
of course, they would have him under around the clock supervision. no wonder the restraints are heavy-duty, the door reinforced. he's not just big—he's built like a weapon, every inch of him honed and hardened, radiating a dangerous magnetism that makes your skin prickle with something that isn't quite fear.
his eyes—the only part of him that moves—track slowly across the room before settling on the door.
on you.
his eyes are much lighter than you expected. but there's something about them that oozes darkness—the kind of darkness that creates a dark pit of fear in your abdomen. they were utterly devoid of anything recognizable as warmth or empathy.
you hold your breath without realizing it. your brain sending signals to your lungs reminding you to breathe.
there's something obscenely compelling about his stillness, about the power coiled in his frame, and it terrifies you how badly you want to see it unleashed.
your fingers tighten around the clipboard, nails biting into your palms as you try to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. the rational part of your brain screams danger while something deeper, something primal thrills at the way his gaze lingers—like he knows exactly what you're thinking, like he's already imagined a dozen ways to ruin you.
one of his fingers twitches—just once—against his knee. if you had blinked you probably would've missed the action.
then, with deliberate slowness, he tilts his head. just slightly. it unsettles something in your stomach. you didn't get creeped out easily—especially after years of working in psychiatry. but you would be lying if you weren't scared shitless.
his chest rises once, slow and controlled, the only sign that he was even alive beneath that mask. your skin crawls with unease as you swallow the lump in your throat.
dr. carver cleared his throat. "he's got a session with you in twenty. you'll be supervised, of course." he jangled his keys again, the sound suddenly too loud in the quiet hallway. "just... don't turn your back on him."
you nod in acknowledgment, but your eyes don't leave the his. you swear you see the corners of his eyes crinkle a bit—as of he's smiling under the mask. you don't need to see his face to decipher that he is amused. and if you've learned one thing from the little experience you had in this job—it was never a good think to have a sociopath amused.
carver shifts beside you, uncomfortable, his keys jangling as he turns. "come on," he mutters, already walking away, his footsteps too loud in the suffocating quiet. "i'll show you the observation room."
you force yourself to step back, your knees slightly bucking as if you've forgotten how to walk. you can feel the shift in the air as you turn to walk away. the heat of his stare doesn't stop. if anything, it burns even stronger now. it settles between your shoulder blades, heavy as a hand pressed flat against your spine.
it lingers, warm and intrusive, like the ghost of fingers trailing down the knobs of your spine. you can almost feel his breath on the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, though you know he hasn't moved from the cot.
he wasn't just watching. he was claiming.
you follow carver in silence. you take slow and calculted breaths to re-regulate your nervous system. you weren't even in the same room as him but he somehow managed to completely throw your nervous system into overdrive by the simple act of eye contact.
your footsteps are unnaturally loud in the hush of the east wing. each step feels like it's pulling you deeper into something you won't come back from, and not even the heavens and the hells can chase away the fear pooling in your stomach.
your palms sweat by your sides, still feeling the phantom weight of riley's stare like a brand between your shoulder blades. it doesn't fade with distance, if anything, it grows more intense with each step you take away from his cell, as if the distance only makes his presence more palpable.
your skin prickles with the unsettling awareness that he's still watching, even though you know the reinforced, heavy metal doors and dozens if security measures separate the the two of you.
the walk to the observation room feels like it takes forever. the stillness and silence is broken by the occasional scream or bang. but other than that it seems eerily quiet. too quiet.
carver pause in front of one of the doors, glancing back at you with an expression you can't quite read. his keys jingle as he shifts his weight, the sound grating against your already frayed nerves. "almost there," he says, but his voice sounds distant, like it's coming through water.
you nod automatically, your tongue heavy in your mouth. some part of you wants to turn around, to look back down that long hallway, to see if—
no. you keep your eyes forward. keep walking.
but the weight of that stare stays with you, pressing insistently against your spine, a silent reminder that this isn't over. that it's only just begun.
the door to the observation room door creaks when carver pushes it open, the sound only further increasing this looming sense of dread. inside, the air is colder, the hum of machinery louder.
a bank of monitors flickers against one wall, showing grainy black-and-white feeds of observation area. the oneway window next to the monitors overlooks the bland room where a floor-mounted table and chairs sit bolted in place.
"session protocols are on the desk," carver says, gesturing to a stack of papers. "review them while i get the orderlies prepped for transfer."
as the door closes and carver leaves, your fingers twitch at your sides, nails digging half-moons into your palms.
you were nervous. and you were never nervous. nervous meant mistakes and stupid slip-ups. it meant giving him exactly what he wanted: the upper hand. yet here you were, pulse rabbiting in your throat, breaths coming just a fraction too quick. the file with the protocols felt slick in your grip.
you forced your hands still. forced your spine straight. you were a professional. you'd handled worse.
the protocols blurred in front of you, words swimming together. maintain distance. avoid physical contact. terminate session at first sign of agitation. as if it were that simple. as if he wouldn't see right through the script, wouldn't relish tearing it apart.
your breath catches as movement flickers across the monitors. the feed shows the orderly team leading him in—three of them, all broad-shouldered but dwarfed by riley's hulking frame.
the straightjacket strains across his chest, the thick canvas barely containing the width of him. his masked face turns slightly as they guide him forward, those pale eyes scanning the room even as his body moves with eerie compliance.
the chair creaks when he sits, metal protesting under his weight. the orderlies work quickly, securing the restraints—thick leather cuffs around his wrists, already buckled tight behind the chair, another strap crossing his chest.
one orderly kneels to fasten the ankle restraints, hands moving with practiced efficiency. riley watches them, head tilted just slightly, that grotesque mask hiding whatever expression might lie beneath.
when the last buckle clicks into place, the orderlies step back. one of them wipes his brow—you don't miss the way his hand shakes.
on screen, riley tests the restraints. not violently, not even urgently. just a slow, deliberate shift of his shoulders, a flex of his arms. the leather groans but holds. the chair doesn't budge. then, as if sensing your gaze through the camera, his head turns. those dead eyes lock onto the lens causing your stomach drops.
a knock at the door made you flinch. one of the orderlies gruff voices, muffled through the metal: "we're ready."
your breath hitches, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk as you force yourself to look away from the monitor. the cold metal bites into your palms, sharp enough to ground you, to pull you back from the edge of whatever unsettling feeling had taken root in your chest.
you exhale slowly, counting the seconds in your head. four in. seven hold. eight out. the rhythm steadies you, brings the world back into focus.
nervousness was a luxury you couldn't afford. not here. not with him.
when you open your eyes again, your expression is schooled into something neutral, professional. the slight tremor in your hands is gone, tucked away where it can't betray you. you smooth the front of your coat, adjust the clipboard under your arm and brace yourself as you enter the room.
the scent of antiseptic and metal with a hint of smoke lingers in the stale air of the room. the orderlies file out of the room one-by-one leaving you alone with him. you can feel the hunger of his stare grazing over you leaving goosebumps in it's wake. you swear that your knees buck for a second as you take slow strides towards the chair across from him.
the chair groans as you lower yourself into it, the sound obscenely loud in the silence. you keep your movements measured, controlled, placing the clipboard on the table with deliberate care.
across from you, he's a study in contained violence. the straightjacket pulls tight across his chest, the thick canvas straining against the sheer bulk of him. even sitting, even restrained, he looms. his thighs spread slightly, taking up space he doesn't need, the chair creaking under his weight.
the mask hides his expression, but his eyes—god, his eyes—never leave yours. dark, piercing, tracking your every breath like a predator savoring its prey.
you clear your own, flipping open the file. "mr. riley," you say, and your voice is steady. professional. you hope to the heavens and the earth that he didn't here the slight tremor in your voice.
his fingers twitch against the armrests, the leather cuffs groaning. a small, almost lazy flex, as if testing the give. as if imagining how easily he could break them.
the mask tilts slightly, that eerie grin seeming to sharpen. "doctor," he rumbles, your title rolling off his tongue like something illicit. "you're shaking."
you don't look down at your hands. "it's cold in here."
a low hum vibrates through his chest. "liar." the word curls around you, warm and knowing. his knee presses firmer against the table—not an accident this time. the contact burns through the fabric of your slacks.
you exhale sharply through your nose, forcing your fingers to relax around the pen.
"let's focus on your evaluation, mr. riley," you say, clicking your pen with deliberate calm. "how would you describe your current mental state?"
his chuckle is dark, velvety, the sound vibrating through your bones. "frustrated," he purrs, rolling the r like he's savoring it. his knee presses harder against yours beneath the table.
"restrained. pent up." the leather cuffs groan as he flexes his fingers again. "tell me, doctor - does it excite you? seeing me like this?"
your pulse jumps traitorously. "this is a professional setting," you remind him, though your voice wavers slightly. "let's keep it that way."
the mask tilts further, shadows pooling in those hollow eye sockets. "professional," he echoes, mocking. "is that why your cheeks are flushed? why your breathing's gone shallow?" his voice drops to a whisper. "i can see your pulse racing in that pretty neck of yours."
you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "do you always flirt with your doctors, mr. riley?"
"only the ones who squirm for me," he counters smoothly. his thigh rubs against yours in slow, deliberate circles. "ask me your next question, doc. i know you're dying to."
your fingers tighten around the pen. "do you experience violent urges toward staff members?"
his laugh is dark, delicious. "only the pretty ones who lick their lips when they look at me." your tongue darts out instinctively, and his eyes track the movement hungrily. "there she is," he purrs. "was that so hard, doctor?"
your grip tightens on the clipboard, knuckles going white. "we're getting off topic, mr. riley." you force your voice steady, but it comes out breathier than intended. "let's discuss your sleep patterns."
he leans back slightly, the chair groaning under his weight. "sleep patterns?" his voice is all rough velvet, the kind that slides under your skin. "i prefer to stay awake. more... interesting things happen at night." his knee presses harder between yours, the heat searing through your slacks. "don't you agree, doctor?"
your pen hovers over the paper, ink bleeding where you've pressed too hard. "insomnia is a common symptom in your condition," you say, keeping your tone clinical despite the way your pulse jumps at your throat. "we should explore that further."
his chuckle vibrates through the table between you. "oh, i'd love to explore things with you, doc." the way he says it makes your stomach flip. "but we both know you're not here to talk about my sleep."
you force yourself to meet those pale eyes behind the mask. "then enlighten me, mr. riley. why am i here?"
his fingers flex against the restraints again, the leather creaking ominously. "because you couldn't resist." his voice drops to a whisper. "because you saw my file and thought 'i can fix him'." the mask tilts. "or maybe... you thought 'i want him to ruin me'."
your breath catches. "that's—"
"true?" he finishes for you, triumphant. his thigh rubs slow circles against yours, the friction making your skin burn. "tell me i'm wrong."
the clipboard trembles in your hands. you should stand up. you should call for the orderlies. you should do anything but sit here, letting him unravel you with nothing but words and the press of his knee between yours.
"cat got your tongue, doctor?" he murmurs, leaning forward as far as the restraints allow. his breath is warm through the mask's grin. "or are you just imagining all the things i could do to you if these cuffs weren't here?"
your lips part, but the intercom crackles to life before you can respond. "session time elapsed," a bored voice announces.
neither of you acknowledge it.
his eyes gleam behind the mask. "tick tock, doc. better run along before you do something... unprofessional."
you stand abruptly, your legs unsteady. "we'll continue this next session," you say, proud of how steady your voice sounds.
his low laugh follows you to the door. "counting the minutes, sweetheart."
when the heavy door clicks shut behind you, you realize you're shaking. and worse—you're already counting the minutes too.
the next morning, when you walk into the facility, it's with the weight of heavy guilt on your shoulders. your skin still burns with the memory of last night—the way your fingers slipped between your thighs, the way you bit your lip to muffle his name as it tumbled from your mouth in a broken whisper.
simon riley.
his voice, rough and mocking, playing in your head like a taunt. his muscles straining against the restraints, the way he looked at you like he knew exactly what you'd do the second you were alone.
it's insane. you've known him for a day. a single day. you've known him for less than twenty-four hours, and here you are, trembling like some desperate thing, already ruined by a man who's done nothing but toy with you.
maybe you're the one who belongs in this place. maybe you should check yourself in, let them strap you down, let them study whatever sickness has taken root in you so fast. but then you think of his laugh, dark and knowing, and your stomach twists. he'd love that, wouldn't he? seeing you unravel. seeing you break. god, you're pathetic.
the moment you step inside, the head nurse gives you a sharp look.
"riley's in solitary," she says, voice clipped. "attacked an orderly last night. broke the man's nose before they got him down."
your breath catches. "is he—"
"fine? unfortunately." she hands you a file. "session's still on. carver's orders. but you'll be in the black cell. no cameras. no interruptions." her eyes narrow. "you sure you're up for it?"
you don't trust yourself to answer.
the black cell is exactly what it sounds like—a concrete box swallowed by shadows, the only light a dim flicker from the hall. the air is thick, humid, pressing against your skin like a hand. you feel clusterphobic the second you step in. your heels clack against the damp concrete as you in closer.
it takes your eyes a bit to adjust to the darkness before you see him. you feel your pulse quicken and your breathe hitch as soon as your eyes catch his.
the door clangs shut behind you, the sound final. the air is thick, pressing in from all sides, making your pulse throb in your throat. you force yourself to take a step forward, heels clicking against the damp concrete. "mr. riley," you say, voice steadier than you feel. "care to explain last night's incident?"
in the center, restrained tighter than usual in a straight jacket, is him. even in the darkness of the cell or room or whatever this was, you could feel the depraved darkness in his eyes. they must've sedated him or given him something to calm down because his pupils were the size of saucers.
his head lifts slowly, those blown-out pupils swallowing nearly all the color in his eyes. even in the dim light, you can see the way his gaze drags over you—hungry, possessive. "got bored," he rumbles, voice rough like gravel. "figured solitary was better than staring at the same four walls."
you click your pen, feigning indifference. "so you broke a man's nose for a change of scenery?"
his lips curl, slow and knowing. "worth it."
you swallow hard. "that's not an acceptable answer."
"no?" the straightjacket creaks as he shifts, testing the restraints. "then give me a better one, doc."
you take another step closer, ignoring the way your skin prickles. "try this—you acted out because you struggle with impulse control. because you—"
"because i wanted you alone," he interrupts, voice dropping to a growl. "no cameras. no orderlies. just you. and me."
your breath hitches. "that's—"
"true." his eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. "admit it. you thought about it too."
your fingers tighten around the clipboard. "this isn't appropriate."
"neither was what you did last night," he murmurs, tilting his head. "i know you touched yourself."
your face burns as you attempt to feign innocence and indifference. "we're not discussing that."
"why not?" he leans forward as far as the jacket allows, voice a dark whisper. "scared i'll tell them how you were squirming in your seat like a little whore for a —"
"enough." your voice cracks. "we're here to evaluate your behavior, not—"
"evaluate this, then." his knee brushes yours, the contact deliberate. "i fought my way in here because i knew you'd follow. because i knew you wouldn't be able to resist." his gaze drags down your body. "so tell me, doctor—who's really in control here?"
the clipboard nearly slips from your sweaty palms as his voice wraps around you like smoke, low and dripping with sin. "you wanna know why i really did it, doc?" he leans closer, the straightjacket straining against his shoulders. "because i knew they'd put me in here. no windows. no guards. just you, me, and that pretty little mouth of yours."
you force yourself to take a shaky breath, gripping the clipboard tighter. "let's... let's focus on last night's incident, mr. riley. what triggered the violent outburst?"
his laugh is dark, curling around you like smoke. "oh, doc. still playing pretend?" he shifts in the straightjacket, the material straining against his broad shoulders. "i already told you why i did it. wanted you alone. wanted you...vulnerable."
your throat goes dry. "that's not—"
"not what?" he interrupts, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "not true? then why are your thighs squeezing together like that? why's your breath hitching every time i move?"
you swallow hard, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in your stomach. "this is inappropriate."
"inappropriate," he echoes mockingly. "like you rubbing your clit last night, thinking about me? imagining my hands on you? my mouth?"
your face burns. "stop it."
"or what?" he challenges, tilting his head. "you'll walk away? we both know you won't." his voice drops even lower, rough and filthy.
"you wanna know what i'd do to you if these restraints were off, doc? i'd start with those pretty little fingers of yours—pin them behind your back so you couldn't touch yourself. then i'd bend you over and spank that swollen, desperate clit of yours until you were sobbing. just light taps at first, enough to make you squirm. then harder. harder. until you're begging me to let you come."
your knees nearly buckle.
"you'd love that, wouldn't you?" he murmurs, watching your reaction with predatory satisfaction. "being at my mercy? taking whatever i decide to give you?"
your lips part, but no sound comes out.
"that's what i thought," he purrs. "such a good little whore for me."
the silence stretches between you, thick with tension. you can hear your own pulse roaring in your ears. his gaze burns into you, unrelenting, waiting.
"show me," he murmurs, voice rough as gravel. "show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."
your breath hitches. "i—i can't—"
"you can," he growls. "and you will." his eyes darken further. "unless you want me to rip out of this straight jacket and force you.."
the clipboard clatters to the floor as your fingers tremble at the hem of your skirt. his dark chuckle vibrates through the humid air between you, those blown-out pupils swallowing you whole. "that's it," he purrs, voice thick with approval. "show me how desperate you really are."
your breath comes in shallow gasps as you slide your hand beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing over damp silk. a whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it.
"louder," he growls, straining against the straightjacket. "let me hear what i do to you."
your fingers slip beneath the waistband, finding yourself already embarrassingly wet. the first brush of your fingertips against your clit has your hips jerking forward.
"fuck," he breathes, watching with rapt attention. "just like that. pretend it's my fingers, doc. my thick fucking fingers working that tight little cunt open."
you moan, circling your clit faster as his filthy words wash over you.
"you thought about this, didn't you?" he continues, voice rough. "alone in your bed, fucking yourself on your fingers like some cheap slut? imagining it was me?"
"yes," you gasp, arching into your own touch.
"say it." his command leaves no room for argument. "say you're my little whore."
"i'm—" your breath hitches as you press two fingers inside yourself, "—i'm your whore."
his groan is animalistic. "good girl. now come for me."
your orgasm crashes over you violently, thighs trembling as you ride out the waves against your own fingers. when you finally come down, panting and boneless, his smirk is downright predatory.
you're still trembling from your orgasm when his voice cuts through the haze, rough with command. "come here."
your legs move before your brain catches up, knees hitting the cold concrete as you shuffle forward. your fingers fumble with the waistband of his pants, breath hitching when you finally free him.
and fuck—
a jacob's ladder. of course he has one. the metal glints even in the dim light, each barbell making your mouth water. you're delirious, mind fogged with lust and shame, but you can't stop.
"that's it," he growls, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes. "take what you need."
your tongue darts out, tentative at first, tracing the underside of his cock. the taste of him—salt and musk and something darkly him—has you moaning before you even take him fully into your mouth.
"fuck," he hisses, hips jerking slightly despite the restraints. "just like that, doc. such a pretty fucking mouth."
you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, the metal bars dragging against your tongue in the most delicious way. your fingers dig into his thighs, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake.
"you like that, don't you?" he taunts, voice thick with amusement. "my little professional doctor, on her knees, gagging for it."
you whimper around him, the vibration making his cock twitch.
"bet you've never had anything like me," he continues, rolling his hips just enough to nudge the back of your throat. "bet you're already thinking about how it'll feel when i finally fuck you raw."
you are. god, you are.
your free hand slips between your own legs again, fingers circling your clit as you suck him off with desperate, sloppy bobs of your head.
"that's it," he praises, voice rough. "get yourself ready for me. gonna ruin you so good, you'll forget your own fucking name."
you're climbing into his lap before you can think better of it, your skirt hiked up around your waist, his cock glistening with your spit. the straightjacket rustles as he strains against it, his eyes black with hunger as you hover over him.
"do it," he growls, voice rough. "use me. take what you fucking need, doctor."
you sink down onto him with a gasp, the stretch burning in the best way. the metal bars of his ladder drag against your walls, sending sparks up your spine. your hands scramble for purchase against his shoulders as you start to move, your hips rolling in slow, desperate circles.
"fuck," he hisses, his head falling back against the wall. "look at you. riding me like you were made for it."
you whimper, your nails digging into the thick material of the jacket as you bounce harder, chasing your own pleasure. his cock hits that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, the metal bars adding an unforgiving edge that has you seeing stars.
"that's it," he rasps, watching you with dark, blown-out pupils. "take it. take every fucking inch." his voice drops to a whisper, filthy and rough. "wish you could see yourself right now. fucking yourself on me like a desperate little slut."
you moan, your thighs trembling as you grind down harder, your clit rubbing against the base of him with every movement.
"you're lucky i'm strapped down, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk. "because if i had my hands free?" his hips jerk up, forcing a choked cry from your throat. "i'd have you bent over, screaming my name."
you're close—so, so close—your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you chase your release.
"come on," he goads, voice rough with command. "let me feel it. let me feel that tight little cunt squeezing around me."
you shatter with a sob, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, your walls fluttering around him as you ride it out. he groans, low and satisfied, as you collapse against his chest, boneless and spent.
his mask brushes against your ear, his whisper sending a shiver down your spine. "good girl."
you whimper, still trembling, as his smirk grows darker under the mask.
you scramble off him with shaky legs, your skirt falling back into place with a rustle that sounds obscenely loud in the heavy silence. your fingers fumble as you pull his pants back up, avoiding eye contact, avoiding the way his smirk burns into you even through the mask. the straightjacket strains as he shifts, watching you with those dark, knowing eyes.
your hands tremble as you smooth down your blouse, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. you must look wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, thighs still sticky with the evidence of your shame. thank god for the darkness. thank god no one will see.
your breath hitches as you bend to pick up the clipboard, your knees still weak. the pen rolls away from you, and you flinch when he nudges it back toward you.
"careful, doc," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. "wouldn't want you to leave anything behind."
you snatch the pen, your face burning. your mind races—what the fuck did you just do? you fucked a patient. a dangerous, unstable, manipulative patient. a fucking killer and sociopath. and worse—you loved it. you came harder than you have in years, and the guilt is already curdling in your stomach like poison.
you straighten, forcing your voice steady. "this—this can't happen again."
his chuckle is low, mocking. "sure it can't."
you turn toward the door, your legs unsteady beneath you.
"great session, doctor," he calls after you, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "can't wait for the next one."
Summary: a lone wolf keeps sleeping on your porch late at night, so naturally, you go to a butcher shop to get meat for the poor thing.
Word count: 2.3K
Warnings: Stalking
Masterlist ->
Walking into the butcher shop felt a little strange for you. You usually don't get big quantities of meat, but the lone wolf that kept coming to your home during the night made you consider it. The wolf was bigger then any wolf you've ever seen around these woods, but way more sweet than the feral wolves that lurk around here. He kept coming around and sitting on your porch, like a lost dog. After a week of the wolf following the same routine, you found yourself leaving food out for it on the doorsteps of your porch, Watching through the peephole when it sniffs the small portions you left.
That leads you to now, standing in a butcher shop. You feel horrible not having enough food for the poor thing. You assume it got out casted out of its pack, or maybe it grew up a lone wolf. The thought makes your heart ache. The bell chimes above the door when you enter, ringing throughout the small quiet shop. No one was in here, not even a shop owner. You turn around, checking the open sign on the window, before turning back to the counter. You slightly jump in surprise at the sudden presence of the very large man who now stands behind the counter.
A balaclava covers his face, his eyes pierce through you with a intensity you can't place, a bloody knife is gripped tightly in his hand. You step closer to the counter that he's behind, offering a hesitant smile as you look up at his towering form "hello" you greet him, but he doesn't greet back, the knife tightens in his hand as he stares down at you. You awkwardly continue "could I get some of your meat scrabs? Ill pay however much" you realise how odd that sounded once it came out of your mouth.
"Its for my...dog" you chuckle nervously at the weight his heavy eyes. The silence was thick, you almost started to back peddle from your strange request, until the man finally spoke up "you wan' all of the scraps?" He asks, voice gruff and deep vibrating in his chest. "Uh- yes, if thats alright" you nod your head, before reaching inside your bag to pull out your wallet "don't worry about it" he says at the sight of you reaching for your wallet. He walks to the back of the shop before you could react.
Your shoulders drop unintentionally as he leaves. You felt pinned under his gaze the entire time he was in the room, glaring daggers into your body, like he felt offended by your mere presence. If only you knew how his legs almost gave out when he saw you standing in his store. And how hes currently telling himself to not be a little bitch in front of you, as he gathers the meat scraps for you. You look around the store, waiting for him to come back. You notice there's nothing on the walls, or really nothing anywhere at all.
The large man's footsteps bring your attention back to the counter. He places a big paper bag full of the scraps on the counter, glaring down at you once again. You stare back, gripping your bag strap tighter, pinned under his gaze "uh..." you reach into your bag once again for your wallet, but he shakes his head "i said don't worry about it" his tone seems annoyed and final. "Are you sure?" You ask. He nods his head "don't need em anyway" he grumbles, taking the bag and holding it out for you.
Your fingers brush his gloved hands, making him pull his hand back immediately after you've taken the paper bag. "Thank you" you thank him while you take a few steps back towards the door, making him nod his head in acknowledgement. You walk outside, the tension immediately lifts from your shoulders. He must've really not liked you, you look down at the bag as you walk to your truck, you smile at the thought of the kind blonde wolf who always seems to be around your cabin, worth it.
Simon lets out a long breath of relief as you exit the store, he nearly exploded while you were looking at him. He watches you through the window as you walk to your truck, blissfully unaware about how those scraps would just come right back to simon later that night. He sighs, he was taken so off guard by your presence that he didn't even try to have a normal conversation with you, he just locked up and stared at you. He rolls his eyes at himself. Fuckin' loser.
~♡~
Its dark by time you get home. The sun is fully set when you park your truck into the dirt driveway of your tucked away cabin. The woods surrounding you are dark, but you feel at ease when you step out with the paper bag in your hands. You feel a sense of pride from getting enough meat to feed the lone wolf. You set some of the meat outside on your porch, in hopes it would come back tonight to eat it. You smile at the thought of the wolf having a full belly for once. You trot happily into your home, walking towards the fridge to put the rest of the scraps into it. You hope this would be enough for awhile.
The clock read 11:27pm when you heard shuffling coming from your front porch. You peak up sleepily from over the couch and look towards your front door with a hopeful look. The shuffling grows louder. You bolt up and make your way towards the front door, pearing out the peephole. Only to see the wolf chowing down on the meat you left out. You smile in victory. You've never actually came in contact with the wolf, for safety reasons obviously, but something tells you he wouldn't hurt a fly. Suddenly, the wolves attention goes to the door your standing behind. Like it knew you were there.
Your smile drops without you realising it, feeling like the wolf can see you through the peephole. You continue to watch it, seeing how its gaze remains unbreaking from the front door. It begins to move slowly towards it. You hold your breath and wait, like it could hear you. The large wolf stops right in front of the door, staring up at the peephole. It starts to creep you out as it continues to stare. You take a step back from the door, taking a deep breath. Theres nothing to be afraid of, maybe it was just curious about the door. The sound of claws scratching at the door catches your attention, making you jump. Its soft, not feral like how you would think. Like it was politely asking to come inside.
You hesitate, wondering if you should ignore the scratching, or take a leap of fate and open the door. The possibility of being mauled is high, but the way the wolf was scratching at the wood right now made your heart ache. You sigh in defeat, knowing the decision has already been made. Cracking the door open, you peep outside at the wolf. Its head perks up at the sound of the door opening, its tail starts to slightly wag involuntarily at the sight of you. After a moment, you open the door further, testing the waters on if this wolf was going to hurt you or not.
But its tail wags faster when you open the door wider, getting excited to finally see you in the flesh. Simon tries to stop his tail from wagging to much, he hasn't recalled the last time his tail did that. "Hello puppy..." you greet softly, wondering if it would be a bad idea to put your hand out towards the large wolf for him to smell you. Its gaze is locked on you, tail wagging slightly, unmoving as it tracks your movements with intense eyes. You begin to wonder if stepping outside was a bad idea. Against your better judgment, you slowly stick your hand out for him to sniff. He does without hesitation.
After a moment, he offers a small lick to your hand, making you chuckle. "Would you like more meat?" You ask the wolf, as if he could answer. You take his blank stare as a yes. You spin on your feet and walk back into your home, making a beeline for your fridge where the scraps were. When you return, you find the wolf halfway through the front door, Looking hesitant but curious. You wait in silence, seeing if he would take another step and fully come inside. But he doesn't. He notices your presence in the kitchen doorway, hurriedly scurrying back out through the door and onto the porch.
You laugh softly at the wolf's nervousness, before following him out the door "here you go" you lay the rest of the scraps out for him to eat, reaching out to pat his head before you can remember how big and wild this wolf actually is. You stop mid motion, you don't want to push your luck further then you already have. You begin to retreat your hand, until the wolves eyes snap to your hand, making you freeze. You both are silent, you wonder if you officially messed up and is about to be his next scraps. Until he slowly reaches out his neck, letting the top of his head could touch your hand.
You stare at the sight, its like he doesn't know what to do or how to be pet properly. You smile at him, petting the top of his head gently. Before retreating. "Ill get more scraps for you later" you back up, staring back at the wolf who has his eyes locked on you. After making it inside the threshold of your cabin, you hesitantly close the door. Wishing you could buy it a very large doggy bed or maybe make it come inside with you. You sigh while you look out the peephole once again, seeing the wolf still standing next to the meat scraps. Maybe you'll buy it a big doggy bed for the porch.
~♡~
Simon's head is down in his hands as he sits on the edge of his bed. Hes been like that ever since he got back home from his little trip to receive those scraps of yours. All he could think about was your hand on him, and how you called him puppy. "Fuck" he grumbles out as he finally lifts his head, rubbing his eyes. He's so obsessed with you its pathetic. He needs to get a hobby, stat. Hes been watching you for weeks. He noticed you outside of your cabin while he was burning off some energy from staying in the butcher shop for to long, and ever since hes been hooked. Recently, he's gotten more bold.
adventuring onto your porch at night, trying to get any information on you he could find in the small space. But it seems you taken notice of his presence. You started to leave left over food for him on the top step. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest when he saw the plate full of scraps waiting for him. He doesn't need the scraps by any means, he usually ate human food. Now days, at least. But couldn't let your sweet offer go to waste now could he? he lets himself fall back into his bed, his arm covering his eyes. He is so fucked.
~♡~
The next time you walk into the butcher shop, you spot the same man as before immediately. His gaze snaps to yours "good morning" you say while you approach him, avoiding his piercing glare. And what you assume, or hope, is his natural look. Maybe he has a resting bitch face. "Mornin" he greets you, taking you by surprise. You smile up at him "do you have anymore scraps? My dog already ate them all" you could laugh at the word "dog" that large beast of a wolf couldn't be compared to a dog, no matter how many times you called it puppy.
Simon pauses, before nodding his head and returning to the back. You start to think you're getting deja vu when he returns, bag in hand. "Thank you once again" you thank him, before reaching to your wallet "but im paying this time!" You smile cheekily while you pull out your credit card. Only for him to huff a assumed breath "No you aren't" he simply says, his tone has a hint of amusement behind the mask. Looking up to meet his eyes, you blink in surprise, before shaking your head with a chuckle
"but I didn't pay last time. Let me pay this time" you reason, only to be met with a firm "No" the blunt answer makes you scoff, why won't he just let you pay? He tilts his head, his eyes squinting slightly, making you think hes smirking behind the mask. "Okay fine." you huff, grabbing the bag of meat in defeat "but im paying next time!" You say with determination with a pointed finger at him. You exit the shop with warm skin, unexpectedly getting flustered from the interaction with the man.
Simon's eyes trail after you through the window once again. Unable to take his eyes off of you while you get into your truck. He thinks back to all of your facial expressions in detail, how you smiled at him, and how you huffed with sutble attitude at his denial to let you pay. He smiles under the mask against his will, letting his head drop low to avoid looking at your truck again. Knowing with full shame that he will be back on your doorstep before midnight. yeah he definitely won't be getting over a sweet thing like you anytime soon.
You finished night chores in the kitchen after dinner and Simon was laying in bed “enjoying” Manchester match alone, since you were too loud 🙄
Once you get in bed too you toke a look at the screen.
“Unlucky one?” You say softly sitting next to him, he was grumpy, so you kissed him.
He signed not kissing you back, so you give him two more but he leans his head on the side ignoring you.
“C’mon the match is over.”
“No, it’s not. 3 minutes left.” He says pushing your head out of the way.
You kissed him again and again and then again, leaving sweet pecks on his lips. The match was over and he was listening to the after match conference.
“So you’re into this old man more than me? Give me one kiss!” He sighed and bought his lazy hand behind your head pulling you down for a short stamp.
“One more…” You say leaning closer and he kisses you back.
“A bit more…” as you said that he pulls you in a passionate kiss, a slow one.
After you broke the kiss and try to sit back like before, he grabs your arm pulling you down next to him kissing you a few times as he slowly positions himself on top of you.
“Simon it’s already 11:00 pm- Mhh~” he cuts you off.
“Now you got me in the mood, so shut up” he said with his nose against yours looking into your loving eyes before kissing you passionately.
