Oh? Oh! @diettcunt - Tumblr Blog

Girl, I need more Simon Riley cowboy, I read it last year and I'm still reading it 😭😭😭😭😭

Anon, I apologise heavily for the wait. But without further ado- I present to you- ✨JEALOUS MEAN COWBOY! SIMON RILEY✨😤 (Because - the world could always use more of cowboy Simon- like helloooo- daddy- can I ride youuu😩🤚🏻?)

ᴅᴏ ғᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴘᴇʀ

Cowboy!Simon Riley

Tags: Heavy smut, Themes of violence, Jealous! cowboy Simon, Mean Dom shenanigans, very rough sex, down bad behavior, he a dog and he might mark you like one

Other fics from the same au : First meet , Domesticated Cowboy Simon uwu

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Preface ⊹ ࣪ ˖

The rowdy towns of the Wild West have two rules.

Don’t cheat at cards. And don’t cross The Ghost.

Most men might risk the first. But never the latter.

Every outlaw knows two things as sure as death itself: Ghost is the reaper they will never outrun… And anyone foolish enough to flirt with his woman won’t live long enough to regret it.

Tonight, the parlour was thick with cigar smoke and cheap perfume.

The air hung heavy with it, sweet, bitter, and cloying all at once, curling beneath the low ceiling like a second layer of fog. Lanternlight stained everything amber; the haze caught the glow and softened the room into blurred shapes of movement and shadow. Somewhere in the corner, an old upright piano clinked out a lazy tune, the player more drunk than talented, missing keys now and again while a pair of girls leaned over the instrument laughing.

Boots scraped against the warped floorboards. Spurs chimed with every step. Glasses knocked together in rough cheers that rolled through the room in waves of laughter.

It smelled like whiskey, sweat, smoke… and despair from money being lost at cards.

You’d only been back in town for a few hours.

Months on the road had left dust in your bones and stories trailing behind you across half the state line, train holdups gone sideways, bounty hunters who’d learned too late who they were chasing, and one particularly memorable night in Amarillo that had ended with a burning stable and three sheriffs too drunk to remember why they’d started shooting in the first place.

The town hadn’t changed much while you were gone.

Same crooked buildings.

Same gamblers pretending luck loved them.

Same fools pretending they didn’t know who ran this land.

You sat at the bar with one elbow propped against the polished wood, swirling the last inch of whiskey in your glass. The amber liquid caught the light as it moved, slow and hypnotic.

Simon was across the room with the boys. Price had one broad hand planted firmly on the table while he argued with the barkeep about the sudden spike in beer prices, his thick mustache twitching every time the poor man tried to defend himself.

“Daylight robbery, this is,” Price barked.

Behind him, Simon only shook his head with a quiet laugh, shoulders shifting beneath the dark weight of his coat. The older man was already halfway to drunk and getting louder by the second.

Soap, meanwhile, had cornered some pretty blonde near the table. His laughter rang out above everyone else’s, too loud, too charming, and undoubtedly attached to a story he’d exaggerated within an inch of its life. The girl hung onto every word, cheeks flushed and eyes shining as if he’d just hung the stars himself.

Gaz stood a little further back near the wall, nursing a single glass of scotch like it might disappear if he blinked too hard. He watched the room instead of the conversation as always, shoulders slightly hunched, posture careful, the way men stood when they knew trouble liked to sneak up behind them.

Which left you alone.

In the most unsafe place in all of town.

Not that anyone here would dare approach you.

Most men in this town knew better.

Most.

At least that was the belief… until you felt the air shift beside you.

It was subtle.

A change in the rhythm of the room.

Then the scent hit…unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.

Smoky wood. Leather. Something sharper beneath it… spice, maybe.

It made your nose twitch faintly.

Your attention drifted.

The man beside you didn’t seem to be informed of the town’s unwritten laws. He slid onto the stool with an easy confidence that felt deliberate like a challenge tossed quietly across the bar. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Sunburnt skin stretched across sharp cheekbones and a jaw that looked carved out of stubbornness. Sandy blond hair pushed back beneath a dust-coated hat, stormy blue eyes that would make weaker women melt clean through the floorboards.

And the smirk he wore looked expensive. Dangerous even.

His revolver rested low on his hip, polished silver catching the lanternlight every time he shifted. But it wasn’t the gun that told you what he was.

It was the confidence. The easy way he carried himself like the room already belonged to him.

You’d heard whispers. A new outlaw drifting through the territory. A man who rode with mercenaries and burned towns when the mood struck him.

Graves.

A fitting name for a man who left little behind but bones and rotting flesh.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” he drawled, voice smooth as smoke over a burning flame. “Didn’t think this hellhole had angels.”

You snorted softly into your whiskey.

“Please tell me that doesn't actually work on women.”

That only made his grin widen.

“Well now,” he said, leaning an elbow onto the bar. “Got a bite to her.”

His eyes drifted over you slowly. The kind of look that would’ve gotten most men shot where they stood.

But you let it linger.

Because earlier that evening Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley had leaned over the barmaid with that same careless charm he slipped into whenever he forgot himself.

He called it healthy. You called it bullshit.

He hadn’t touched her. Not once.

Simon might flirt like with the devil’s charm, but he’d never graze a woman that wasn’t you. Still, the man had a filthy mouth when he felt like using it, and he’d been spewing just enough smooth nonsense to leave the poor barmaid breathless behind the counter.

Old habits.

Like the cigar he lit every night.

Talking up a pretty thing had always been second nature to him. Though these days it wasn’t really about the woman. Now it was more like a weapon he wielded just to watch you react. Simon Riley loved a good fight. Almost as much as he loved the making-up after.

So when the handsome stranger tipped his hat back slightly and said,

“Name’s Philip Graves.”

You didn’t shoo him away, you allowed him to slide closer.

He said it like it ought to mean something. Like men usually paused when they heard it.

You didn’t give him that satisfaction. Instead, you tilted your glass slightly and watched the amber whiskey slide along the rim while you studied him more carefully beneath lowered lashes. The lanternlight softened the sharper angles of his face, catching in the faint dust that clung to the brim of his hat and tracing the lines at the corner of his storm-blue eyes.

“Well,” you said after a moment, voice dry with mild amusement, “Philip Graves… I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’ve met your type before.” (understatement of a lifetime)

One sandy brow arched upward at that.

“Oh yeah?” he drawled.

The accent wrapped slowly around the words, thick and honeyed in that unmistakably Southern way that seemed designed to slide straight into a woman’s ears and linger there. It was the kind of voice that made people listen even when they didn’t particularly want to.

You set your glass down against the bar with a soft, deliberate tap.

“And I don’t wish to give away anything to men like you.”

His grin didn’t falter at the remark. In fact, if anything, it deepened with a sort of lazy delight, as though you’d just made the evening far more interesting than he’d expected. Graves leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows against the polished wood of the bar while tipping his hat back just enough that the dim light could properly catch in his eyes.

“And what kinda man is that, pretty thing?” he asked.

You didn’t lean away from him, not even when the warmth of his breath brushed faintly across your cheek. It carried the scent of tobacco and something smoky beneath it, oak, maybe.

Instead, you held his gaze steadily.

“A dead man walking.”

For the briefest moment he simply looked at you, the words settling between you both like a coin tossed onto a table.

Then Graves laughed.

It wasn’t the strained chuckle most men offered when a woman got sharp with them, nor the defensive bark of wounded pride. It was a genuine laugh, deep and full and rolling easily from his chest as he leaned back slightly on the stool. The sound of it carried over the hum of the room, and the blue of his eyes brightened with honest amusement.

“Well hell,” he said, dragging a hand down the stubble along his jaw as his grin widened. “Now that’s the best welcome I’ve gotten in this town all week.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. He noticed the movement immediately.

“You always greet strangers with death threats,” he continued lightly, “or am I just special?”

“That depends,” you replied, reaching for your drink again. “Are you planning on burning my town down before you leave?”

His grin sharpened into something a little more dangerous.

“Only if the company gets boring.”

A small snort escaped you before you could stop it, and that alone seemed to please him immensely.

Graves’ expression softened into a dangerously charming smile as his hand reached for yours where it rested on the bar. The movement was unhurried and confident, not forceful in the slightest, yet carrying the sort of quiet certainty that suggested he rarely expected anyone to pull away.

You could have. Instead, you let him take your hand.

Because the man beside you was not the one you were actually playing with.

Graves lifted your hand slowly, turning it palm-down within his larger one. His thumb brushed briefly across your knuckles, rough with calluses earned from reins and gun grips alike, before he lowered his head and pressed a warm, lingering kiss against the back of your hand.

It was theatrical in a way that felt almost ridiculous, like something pulled from a cheap romance novel about Southern gentlemen.

And annoyingly convincing.

When he lifted his head again, that roguish smirk had softened into something closer to admiration. “Well now,” he murmured, “I suppose this town is worth stayin’ for.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him with quiet curiosity.

Objectively speaking, the man was irritatingly handsome. He was tall and broad-shouldered with the easy posture of someone who had spent years in the saddle, his sunburnt skin and sandy blond hair giving him the rugged look of a man more familiar with open roads than polished parlours. Those blue eyes were sharp too, quick and calculating behind the charm.

The kind of man who made women do very stupid things. But he wasn’t the man you actually wanted watching you.

He was simply the bait.

And across the room, Simon finally looked up.

It wasn’t even a conscious motion anymore. Somewhere over the past few months he had developed an odd habit, his attention drifting back to you every few minutes as though guided by some quiet instinct he couldn’t turn off.

Just to check.

Just to make sure you were still where you were supposed to be.

Price was still arguing with the barkeep about beer prices, his voice rising steadily as he slurred through his words. Soap’s tongue was halfway down the blonde throat now, hands roaming her curves as his tale seemed to have done the trick as usual. Gaz was on his way to fetch another drink for himself.

Then Simon’s gaze reached the bar.

And stopped.

Because you were smiling.

Not the polite little curve you used when you wanted someone to leave you alone. Not the teasing smirk you gave Simon when you were feeling particularly cruel.

This one was real. Soft. Pretty.

Your head tilted slightly toward the stranger beside you while he kissed your hand like some well-mannered gentleman.

Gaz was the first to notice.

The glass in his hand froze halfway to his mouth.

“Oh… shit.”

Price followed his gaze a moment later, his expression flattening instantly as the scene at the bar registered.

“Oh for the love of—”

Soap blinked between them in confusion as he pulled back from the kiss causing the woman in his arms to whine softly in protest.

“What?”

Neither of them answered.

They were both watching Simon.

Because Simon had gone very still.

The sort of stillness that suggested something violent was currently deciding whether or not it wanted to happen. Then Simon looked back at the bar again just in time to see Graves lean closer and murmur something that made you smile wider.

Something red and ugly slid quietly behind Simon’s eyes.

Price sighed heavily.

“Well,” he muttered into his drink, “that’s unfortunate.”

Soap finally followed their line of sight.

The color drained out of his face almost instantly.

“Ah… hell.”

Johnny had seen Simon angry plenty of times before.

Everyone had. But there was a particular sort of quiet fury that only surfaced every few years, and it never ended politely. Without hesitation, Soap immediately shifted behind the blonde he’d been flirting with, nudging her slightly forward as if she might somehow shield him from the disaster about to unfold.

“Hide me,” he muttered to her. The poor girl blinked in confusion.

Gaz rubbed a hand slowly over his face, “No one’s seen him this pissed in years…”

Even the skull mask couldn’t hide it. That cold itch for violence. That slow, deliberate walk toward murder. Across the room, the parlour didn’t go silent all at once. The noise faded gradually instead, like the wind dropping before a storm finally breaks.

Bootsteps began to cross the wooden floor. Heavy enough that several men glanced up instinctively.

You didn’t look. But Graves did.

His brows lifted slightly as Simon stepped fully into thelight, recognition flickering across his features before settling into something more thoughtful. His fingers drifted lazily toward the grip of his revolver, hovering just above it in the relaxed way of a man who didn’t intend to drawvbut certainly liked knowing he could.

“Well now,” Graves murmured under his breath. “If it isn’t the Reaper himself.”

Simon stepped into the glow like something dragged straight out of hell. He was tall enough that his shadow stretched long across the warped floorboards, his broad shoulders filling the dark lines of his coat. The skull mask covering his face glowed pale beneath the light, the red bone pattern grinning at the room like a warning.

Every outlaw in the county knew that mask. And the stories attached to it.

Behind him came the rest of the 141, Price already wearing the grim expression of a man who expected blood and guts to start flying at any moment. Gaz scanned the room with weary resignation, clearly calculating how much trouble this was about to cause and how plausible it would be to disappear without getting his ass handed over to him. Soap peeked cautiously from behind the blonde, looking like an overexcited golden retriever that had wandered into a bear fight but couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Simon didn’t look at them. His gaze was fixed on you.

More specifically—

On the man sitting far too close beside you. The same man who was still holding your hand. Graves didn’t move away. If anything, the realization seemed to amuse him, and something sharp gleamed in his eyes as the pieces fell neatly into place. Instead of backing off, he leaned even closer to you.

“Didn’t realize the Ghost kept such gorgeous company,” he murmured near your ear.

Your lips curled faintly.

“Who says I’m the one being kept?”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Simon’s shoulders go rigid.

Not tense. Just… rigid. Which was somehow worse.

You calmly lifted your glass and took another slow sip of whiskey, deciding that good entertainment always deserved a proper drink to accompany it.

Graves chuckled softly beside you. “Oh, I like ya more already.”

That was when Simon finally moved.

Three long strides carried him across the floor, his boots striking the wood with heavy authority that made the entire room seem to lean away from him instinctively. His gloved hand came down against the bar beside your glass with a sharp crack that rattled the bottles behind it.

“Stand up.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The command carried clearly through the room.

You turned toward him slowly. “What for?”

Graves watched the exchange with open amusement. “Aw,” he said lightly, “didn’t know she came with an owner.”

“I don’t—”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them. The temperature in the room dropped. Simon’s head turned slowly toward Graves, those dark whiskey-colored eyes behind the mask going dangerously cold.

“She’s not talking to you.”

Graves’ grin widened. “Looks like she was.”

You tapped your glass lightly against the bar. “Technically,” you said sweetly, batting your lashes toward Simon, “he’s right.”

Simon’s gaze snapped back to you. Sharp and warning. But you lifted your chin.

“You don’t own me, Ghost.”

The name landed wrong. Heavy and ugly. You had called him many things over the months.

Simon. Love. Honey. Bastard.

But never that.

Ghost wasn’t meant for you. Ghost was the mask. The weapon. The monster men whispered about.

And in that moment every forgiving bone in Simon’s body seemed to vanish. The molten rage burning in his eyes was terrifying. You had only ever seen flashes of it before, usually a second before someone died. Never directed at you. Your heart skipped once in your chest. Still, you refused to show it. Behind you, Graves whistled low.

“Well damn,” he murmured. “This just got interesting.”

Simon’s hand closed firmly around your wrist before you could react. Not painful but completely unyielding.

“Outside.”

You resisted just enough to make the point. “Si-”

“Now.”

The growl in his voice ended the argument. He hauled you to your feet with little effort. Behind you, Graves tipped his hat lazily. “Pleasure meetin’ you, pretty thing.”

Simon stopped walking for a single heartbeat. And for that brief moment every soul in the parlour believed Graves had just signed his own death warrant. Then Simon carried on, dragging you out through the swinging doors and into the cold desert night, where the sharp wind and distant smell of horses replaced the warmth of the saloon.

The door slammed shut behind you and the patrons of the parlour breathed a sigh of relief. The night air was as cruel and unforgiving as the glare Simon pinned you with the moment the doors shut behind you. The warmth of the parlour vanished instantly, replaced by the cold bite of desert wind that carried dust across the road and rattled the loose boards beneath your boots. Light spilled weakly from the doorway behind you, stretching long shadows across the empty street, but Simon dragged you farther into the dark before he finally stopped.

His grip on your wrist never loosened, not until you were halfway to the road. Then he spun around sharply, the movement abrupt enough that the breath left your lungs in a quiet rush. For a moment he simply stared at you. Then his other hand lifted.

The skull mask came off.

Simon dragged it up and over his head with a slow, impatient motion, the fabric catching briefly against the rough stubble along his jaw before he tossed the thing aside onto the ground beside you. The moon light struck his face fully then, and the familiar sight of it still managed to steal the breath from your chest. Simon had never been a gentle kind of handsome. His face was carved from harder things.

A thin scar cut across the bridge of his nose and dragged down along his cheek in a pale, crooked line that caught the light whenever he turned his head. His nose itself had been broken more than once and never quite set properly, leaving it just slightly crooked in a way that only added to the rough brutality of his beautiful features. Dark stubble shadowed his sharp jaw and throat, rough enough that you knew it would scrape if it brushed against skin.

His lips were scarred too, one corner split faintly where an old wound had healed badly, giving his mouth a permanent edge of menace even when he wasn’t speaking.

And his eyes.

God.

Those caramel eyes that usually burned warm when he looked at you had gone nearly black in the low light. The wrath in them was feral.

“What the hell were you doin’?” he demanded.

Your temper flared instantly. “Oh please,” you scoffed, yanking your arm slightly even though he still held it fast. “You flirt with barmaids every other night and I’m supposed to what? Sit quietly in the corner and watch?”

“That ain’t the same,” he shot back immediately.

“Why?” you snapped, frustration sharpening every word. “Because you say so?”

His jaw tightened visibly, the muscle ticking beneath his skin as he fought for patience he clearly did not possess. “You don’t know that man.”

You threw your hands up in disbelief. “What does that even mean?”

The absurdity of it all made your blood boil. Simon could spend half the evening leaning across a bar murmuring sweet nonsense to whatever nameless woman happened to be serving drinks that night, and yet the moment you dared return the favor he was dragging you outside like some territorial mutt.

“You sweet talk random women every other chance you get,” you continued hotly, “and now you’re standing out here preaching to me about it?”. Silence stretched tight between you, the wind tugging faintly at your hair while Simon stared down at you like he was trying to decide whether to throttle you or kiss you senseless.

You crossed your arms stubbornly.

“You don’t get to drag me around like property just because you’re jealous.”

“Jealous?”

You scoffed loudly, rolling your eyes. “Yes, jealous. You’re acting like a petulant child right now and it’s pathetic.”

For a moment Simon simply looked at you. Then he laughed. The sound was soft and humorless, scraping out of his throat like something bitter he’d tried too long to swallow.

“Oh, I’m pathetic?” he repeated, the mockery in his voice thick enough to taste.

Your fingers itched to swing at him, to smack some sense into that infuriatingly thick skull of his, but you forced yourself to stay still. If he wanted a fight tonight, you would give him one but with words.

“Yes, Simon,” you said sharply. “Pathetic. You don’t have any proper claim on me. I don’t wear your ring, and I certainly don’t belong to anyone.”

The second the words left your mouth you knew you had made a mistake.

Something dark shifted in his eyes. Slow. Deadly.

Simon stepped closer. His boots crunched softly against the dirt road as the distance between you shrank until you could feel the heat radiating off his body in the cold night air.

“Run.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

His voice dropped lower, rough and dangerous enough to scrape along your spine.

“Run,” he repeated quietly. “Don’t let me catch you.”

Your pulse skipped in your chest. A challenge. Your lips curved slowly despite yourself. “Or what?”

Simon tilted his head slightly, the dim light of the moon sliding across the harsh planes of his face and catching in the darkness of his eyes. “Run,” he said, voice rough with warning, “or I will fucking hurt you.”

The words sent a sharp thrill down your spine. You took one step backward. Then another. The moment stretched tight between you like a drawn wire. Then you turned and ran.

Your boots pounded across the dirt road as you took off down the street, skirts snapping against your legs while the cold air tore at your lungs. The small barn beside the bar came into view almost immediately, its dark outline looming against the night like a promise of shelter. You veered toward it instinctively.

If you could just reach the door…

A heavy thud sounded behind you. Then another. The unmistakable rhythm of boots hitting the ground hard and fast.

Simon.

Your heart leapt into your throat as you pushed yourself faster, lungs burning while the barn grew closer with every desperate stride. You had miscalculated. Badly.

Simon had never been slow.

The sound of him behind you grew louder with terrifying speed, his strides longer and heavier than yours, the gap between you closing far too quickly. You could practically feel him now. That heat. That relentless presence hunting you down in the dark. Your fingers had just brushed the rough wooden door of the barn when a hand slammed into the wood beside your head with a thunderous crack, blocking your escape.

The force of it rattled the entire frame. Before you could react, Simon’s other arm wrapped around your waist and hauled you back against him with brutal efficiency. Your back collided with his chest.

Hard.

He was breathing heavier now, warm breath spilling against the side of your neck while one powerful hand pinned both your wrists against the barn door above your head.

“Thought I told you to run,” he murmured roughly into your ear.

There was a dangerous edge of satisfaction in his voice.

And you realized, far too late that you had never really stood a chance of escaping him at all.

You quickly found yourself kneeling before him, the rough ground biting into your knees through the thin fabric of your skirt, your back pressing into the old wooden wall behind you. A vivid red handprint bloomed across your cheek, hot and stinging, a testament to his brutal claim over you. Your pulse pounded in your ears as you stared up at him, eyes wide and lips parted in shock, fear and shameless excitement that you couldn’t hide. He towered over you, his tall, muscular frame casting you in shadow.

His eyes, dark and fierce, burned into yours with a hunger that made your blood run cold. Without a word, he fisted his hand in your hair, yanking your head back and forcing you to meet his gaze. His other hand worked at the fastenings of his trousers, undoing them with swift, rough motions. He looked less like a man right now and more like a predator that had finally caught up to its prey.

This wasn’t like him.

The realization struck you with a strange, disorienting clarity as Simon loomed over you. The timber was cold against your back, splintered in places where years of weather had chewed away at the surface, but the man pinning you there felt like the opposite of cold.

Simon was heat. Breath. Weight. You had grown used to a very different version of him.

The Simon you knew was all quiet murmurs and low praises breathed against your skin when no one else could hear them. He was the man who touched you like you were something precious and breakable, rough hands suddenly careful when they traced along your waist or cradled the back of your neck. A man who seemed almost addicted to your reactions, your laughter, the soft sounds he could coax out of you when his voice dipped into that warm, teasing register meant only for your ears.

You knew the man who smirked when you teased him. The one who pressed slow kisses into your palm or your temple when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

But the man towering over you now was something else entirely.

This Simon felt darker.

Harder.

The heat rolling off his body wasn’t gentle warmth, it was the kind of heat that came from something burning too hot and too long beneath the surface.

You barely had time to draw a shuddering breath before he hauled out his thick, hard cock. It jutted out obscenely, long and thick and already glistening at the red tip with angry veins throbbing along its velvety expanse. Your eyes widened as you took in the sheer size of it, it was a wonder that no matter how many times you saw his dick you still felt a flicker of fear shooting through you at the thought of taking that beast inside you.

But your fear was short-lived. In the next moment, he thrust forward, slamming his cock past your lips and into the tight clutch of your throat. A muffled cry escaped you, cut off into a gurgle as he began to face-fuck your mouth with brutal intensity.

“Fuck, look at you," Simon growled, his voice rough and dripping with dark satisfaction as he ruthlessly fucked your face, finally finding a way to sate the ugly green beast clawing inside him. "Kneelin’ so pretty for me, like the desperate little whore you are." He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, forcing his cock deeper down your convulsing throat. His words as cruel as the ruthless glide of his fat cock down your mouth. "You think you can run your mouth on me, hmm? No, sugar. I won't have it."

His grip on your hair never wavered as he set a ruthless pace, slamming his hips forward again and again. The wet, filthy sounds of his flesh slapping against yours echoed obscenely in the night air. Drool leaked from the corners of your stretched mouth, dripping down your chin and onto your heaving chest. Your eyes watered and tears streamed down your face as he used your throat mercilessly, choking you on his thick cock.

His fingers tightened in your hair, holding you in place as he ground his hips against your face, smearing your lips and chin with your own drool and his leaking precum. "This little mouth belongs to me. Your sweet cunt, your needy throat, that tight little ass ..." His fingers gently combed through your hair, a farce of gentleness that you knew better than to fall for, "It's all mine. I own it."

He pulled out suddenly, just long enough for you to suck in a desperate, gasping breath before slamming back in, his heavy balls slapping against your spit-slicked chin. "Who do you belong to, slut?" he demanded, voice a low, menacing snarl. When you could only gag and choke in response, he yanked your hair harder, forcing you to look up at him.

Simon had always been rough with the rest of the world. Everyone knew that. Violence followed him the way dust followed horses in the desert. But with you he had always been different, controlled, careful in ways that made the contrast almost shocking.

"Say it!" he barked. "Tell me who fucking owns this throat." He rolled his hips, grinding against your face, his thick cock throbbing against your tongue. "Say it, you cock-hungry whore, before I fuck you dumber than you are.”

He pulled out again, only to slap your cheek with his spit-shined dick, leaving it smeared with your own mess.

Your head felt light when you finally managed to lift your gaze. The world swam for a moment before settling back into focus, catching the hard edges of Simon’s face as he hovered over you. His hand was still wrapped around your jaw, thumb pressing firmly beneath your chin to keep you where he wanted it.

Your lips stung. Your throat felt raw.

“Well?” he hissed.

Your voice came out hoarse when you tried to speak. “You’re… insufferable.”

His mouth twitched faintly, though there was no real humor behind it. “That mouth of yours has been runnin’ all night,” he said quietly. “Might be time it learned some manners.”

You glared weakly up at him, though the effort lacked its usual fire. “How dare—”

His fingers tightened slightly against your jaw. “Careful.” The warning slid out low and deliberate. “You don’t get to mouth off right now.”

Your breath caught despite yourself. Simon stroked the imprint of his hand on your cheek with a delicacy that betrayed the aggression that caused it.

“Look at you,” he murmured. The words carried a rough sort of satisfaction. “Talkin’ big five minutes ago. Now you can barely string a sentence together.”

Your cheeks burned “Shut up.”

He chuckled softly under his breath. “Not a chance.”

His thumb brushed briefly over your lower lip, the gesture slow enough to make your stomach twist.

“Say it.”

Your brows knit together weakly. “Say… what?”

His eyes darkened. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

You swallowed.

“No”

“Say. It.”

Each word dropped heavier than the last.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Simon’s expression hardened immediately.

“Am I?”

The way he looked at you made your stomach flip.

“You were smilin’ at him,” he continued quietly. “Let him hold your hand. Let him think he had a shot.”

Your voice came out rough. “It was a joke.”

“Didn’t look like one.”

“It was to me.”

Simon studied you for a long moment. Then he leaned down until your foreheads nearly touched.

“You want to play games,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, “fine.”

His fingers slid down from your jaw to the base of your throat, not squeezing, just resting there in a way that made it very clear how easily he could.

Your breath hitched. “Simon—”

Simon hauled you up to your feet, his grip bruising as he wrenched you against the rough wooden wall. Your back slammed against the weathered boards, knocking the breath from your lungs. Before you could regain your footing, he spun you around and bent you over, your palms slapped flat against the unyielding surface. The skin of your hands and the sensitive flesh of your breasts scraped against the coarse wood, sending sparks of painful pleasure shooting through your nerves.

He wasted no time tearing at your clothes, his fingers ripping through the delicate fabric like a man possessed. The sound of rending cloth filled the air as he wrenched your dress off your shoulders, shredding it and leaving you bare. Cool night air kissed your skin, puckering your nipples into stiff peaks. Your undergarments fared no better, torn away with brutal efficiency until you stood there, stripped naked and vulnerable, your body laid bare for his ruthless desire.

"Fuck, look at this body," Simon growled, his large hands gripping your hips with bruising force. He squeezed the flesh of your ass, kneading it roughly as he ground his spit slick erection against the cleft of your ass. "Built for sin, perfect for fucking."

You barely had time to gasp before he raised his hand and brought it down on the rounded globe of your ass with a resounding smack. Pain exploded across your nerve endings, your flesh jiggling from the force of the blow. Before you could process it, he struck again, the burn of his palm searing your skin.

"Simon please!" you cried out, the sound echoing in the empty barn. Tears pricked at your eyes, not just from the pain, but from the overwhelming, addictive rush of sensation. Each stinging slap sent heat flooding your core, your pussy clenching around nothing as your body begged to be filled. Simon wrapped one muscular arm around your waist, hauling you back against his hard, unyielding body. His other hand fisted in your hair, wrenching your head back and forcing you to arch your spine. The brutal position left your throat exposed, your pulse fluttering wildly.

"You're mine," he snarled against your ear, his voice a dark, dominant rumble that sent shivers cascading down your spine. "I don’t care what you think but all of you is mine." He punctuated each word with a vicious thrust of his hips, grinding his cock against the split of your ass, the rough fabric of his jeans rasping deliciously against your bare, sensitive skin. His grip on your hair tightened, forcing you to meet his gaze as he loomed over you, his eyes black with jealous fury and raw, animalistic lust. "Be glad I am choosin’ not go back in there, drag that prick out by his throat, and fuck you senseless in a pool of his blood."

A choked moan spilled from your lips, your cunt clenching desperately around the emptiness, your juices dripping down your thighs as you imagined the depraved, brutal scene. The thought of him marking you, claiming you, fucking you with such vicious, primal intensity in front of a dying man sent a perverse thrill of excitement surging through your veins. But he didn't give you a chance to respond. Instead, he released your hair only to seize your throat in his large hand, squeezing your windpipe with ruthless fingers that threatened to cut off your air supply at any moment.

You glared at him. “I am not yours to own.”

For a moment the only sound between you was the wind rattling softly against the barn walls.

Then Simon laughed under his breath. Low. Disbelieving.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

His gaze sharpened.

“Then prove it.”

You frowned.

“How?”

His thumb tilted your chin upward again.

“Look me in the eye,” he said softly, “and tell me you’d have walked out of that saloon with him.”

Your throat tightened.

“… I-”

“Go on.”

You hesitated.

His brow lifted slightly.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s what I thought.”

You scowled weakly, “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn.”

His voice dropped another degree, “But not stupid.”

Your pulse skipped.

“You knew exactly what you were doing tonight.”

“And you knew exactly how you’d react,” you muttered.

His mouth curved faintly, “Damn right I did.”

His gaze burned into yours, “Now quit stallin’.”

Your lips parted, “Simon…”

His grip on your chin tightened just enough to make you focus.

“Who.Do.You.Belong.To?”

Silence stretched between you. Your chest rose and fell unevenly.

Simon waited.

“You really are unbelievable,” you muttered weakly.

His brow lifted, “That wasn’t the question.”

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second before finally muttering something under your breath.

“What was that?”

You glared up at him.

“You heard me.”

“Louder.”

Your jaw tightened.

Then, hoarse and annoyed and very aware of the smug look creeping onto his face, you muttered again. “You.”

Simon’s grin was slow. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I thought so.”

And if you thought that was all it took to earn his forgiveness the angry twitch of his cock brought you back to reality real quick. You felt the scorching heat of him, the thick, heavy weight of his shaft as he notched the broad crown against your entrance without any preamble.

For a split second, you thought you saw a flicker of guilt in his eyes, a twinge of regret for being so brutal, so ruthless in his lust. But then, like a flash of lightning, you saw it die, because instead of the aching guilt he should feel all his mind could conjure up was the image of another man's hands on you, the way his eyes had lingered on your body, and the guilt was buried before it found a way to breathe, replaced by a surge of dark, possessive fury. He wanted to erase every trace of that other man's gaze, to replace it with his own claiming, his own brand of twisted, obsessed desire.

With a snarl of primitive sound, he thrust forward, plunging his thick cock into your soaked, needy cunt with one single, vicious stroke. Your pussy yielded to his brutal invasion, your slick walls stretching obscenely around his girth as he speared you open on his shaft. The breath left your lungs in a ragged scream, your back bowing, your nails scrabbling against the rough wooden wall as he hilting inside you.

"Fuck, so goddamn tight," Simon groaned, his voice strained with the effort of holding himself back, of not giving in to the primal, animalistic urge to rut into you like a beast. But the restraint didn't last long. Gripping your throat tighter, he began to move, his hips slamming against your ass in a brutal, punishing rhythm. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the empty barn, echoing obscenely off the rough-hewn walls. Your tits bounced with each merciless thrust, the heavy globes jiggling and swaying as he fucked you with the force of a jackhammer.

Your face flushed red as your lungs screamed for oxygen, your heart pounding wildly in your ears as his arm now curled around your throat instead of his large hand. But even as you gasped and choked, your cunt clenched greedily around his cock, drawing him in deeper as he began to fuck you with brutal, animalistic intensity.

"Your cunt’s so fucking tight," he groaned, squeezing your neck harder as his other hand flew down to deliver a mean stinging spank to your ass "Makes me want to fuck a baby right into you." He punctuated his words with a vicious thrust, slamming his cock into your cervix as he grunted in pleasure.

You slumped against him, your body going limp and pliant in his ruthless grip. Your eyes rolled back in your head, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as his pistoning cock rammed into your sweet spot without mercy. Your pussy spasmed wildly, clenching and unclenching as he fucked you into oblivion. Drool leaked from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin and onto your heaving tits as he used you mercilessly.

"I'm gonna fucking cum," he snarled, his voice strained and ragged with pleasure. "Gonna pump this cunt so full of my seed. Fill you up for days, let every asshole smell me on you.”

Simon's arm around your neck tightened like a vice as his orgasm approached, his massive bicep flexing against your throat. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he roared, slamming his hips forward with brutal force. Your body jerked with each thrust, the wooden wall scraping against your raw, sensitive nipples. "Take it, fucking take it all!"

His cock moved in a blur as he fucked himself into you with a vicious, shuddering climax. The head of his cock swelled and jerked before erupting, painting your insides with thick ropes of his hot, sticky seed. He growled like a wild animal as he came, pumping spurt after spurt of cum into your spasming cunt. His grip on your throat never wavered, squeezing with ruthless, punishing force as he used you like a fuck toy, his personal cunt to empty his balls into as he made your world shatter.

He stayed hilted inside you, his softening cock plugging you up as your mixed juices leaked down your thighs. Finally, he released your throat, letting you suck in a desperate, gasping breath. His arm around your waist tightened, hauling your limp, pliant body against his sweat-slicked chest as he buried his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as his stubble scarped the soft skin, tickling you.

For a long moment after neither of you spoke. The night seemed to settle around the two of you like a quiet witness. The wind rustled faintly through the dry grass near the barn, and somewhere in the distance a horse stamped impatiently in its stall.

Simon finally exhaled, long and slow, like a man trying to force the storm out of his lungs. Then he pulled back, his cock slipping out of you with a wet pop as strings of your mixed release connected the two of you. The silence broken briefly by the soft rustle of clothes, his belt clicked as he tucked himself back in, before reaching for the buttons of his shirt.

You blinked, dazed and reeling from how ruthlessly he fucked you. Without a word, he undid the fabric. And you turned to face him with shaky legs. The sight of him in the dim lantern glow stole the breath straight from your chest.

Simon Riley had never passed off as a small man, but without the shirt the sheer breadth of him felt almost unfair. Hard muscle carved across his chest and shoulders, the kind built from years of fighting, riding, hauling gear, and surviving things most men never walked away from. He wasn’t lean in the way city men were there was solid weight to him, just enough flesh over the muscle to make him look massive rather than sculpted.

Your gaze dipped shamelessly. Down over the firm plane of his chest. Over the ridges of his abdomen. And the scars.

Fuck him, the scars.

Thin white lines from old knife wounds cut across his ribs. A puckered mark near his side spoke of a bullet that had once come too close for comfort. Faint bruises, yellowing and purple, bloomed across his skin from fights that had clearly happened within the last week. A trail of dark blond hair ran down the center of his chest, disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers.

He looked like something carved out of battle and stubbornness. And entirely, devastatingly man.

You swallowed. Hard.

Simon noticed. Of course he did.

One corner of his scarred mouth twitched faintly as he pushed his messy blond hair back from his face, the motion tired and absent-minded. Then he held out the shirt and you squinted in confusion. With a soft exhale, he stepped closer and gently draped it around your shoulders. The fabric swallowed you instantly, hanging loose and warm against your skin while his large hands carefully worked the sleeves over your arms. The motion was quiet. Almost reverent.

And that was when you noticed it. The tremor. Simon’s hands were shaking. Only slightly, but enough that it made your chest tighten. The truth settled in slowly then, sliding quietly into place behind his earlier anger. For all his growling bravado and rough words, Simon Riley was terrified. Not of the men who hunted him. Not of the law. Not even of death. Those things had chased him for years.

But losing you? That was different.

The fear of death was a constant companion in his life. The fear of losing you to choice was worse. The idea that one day you might simply decide he wasn’t good enough… that the monster everyone else saw when they looked at him was the truth… that you might eventually see it too… That fear lived in his bones.

Which was exactly why the ring sitting hidden in his saddlebag had never touched your hand.

The ring he hadn’t stolen. Hadn’t looted. Hadn’t taken from a corpse like most of the things he owned. He had bought that one. With honest money. And somehow that had made it harder.

Your expression softened.

“Si…” you murmured quietly.

Your voice sounded small in the stillness, “I am… I am sorry.”

The words hung between you, heavy and fragile. For a moment you thought he might turn and walk away.

Instead he suddenly scooped you up into his arms like you weighed nothing. You let out a startled laugh as he carried you a few steps into the barn before dropping down into the loose hay piled along the wall. The dry straw rustled loudly beneath you both as he settled back, one arm automatically curling around your waist to keep you from rolling away.

“No, sugar,” he murmured after a moment, his voice softer now than you’d heard it all night. “I should be the one apologizin’. Shouldn’t have talked to you like that. Shouldn’t have… handled you like that.”

You tilted your head slightly, smiling as you leaned up to press a small kiss against the sharp line of his jaw. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” you said lightly. “If I liked it.”

Simon huffed out a quiet laugh against your hair, the sound rumbling low in his chest. It was your second favorite sound in the world. Right after the steady beat of his heart. For a little while neither of you said anything. The barn smelled faintly of hay and hot wet sex. Your cheek rested comfortably against his bare chest while his fingers absentmindedly traced slow circles along your back.

Then his voice broke the silence.

“Marry me.”

You blinked. Surely you’d heard that wrong.

“What?”

Simon’s arm tightened around you slightly as he looked down, his expression suddenly far too serious for a joke. “Marry me,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Please.”

Your brain stalled completely.

“I… I’d love to have the honor,” he continued carefully, like every word cost him something, “of bein’ the man you call yours.” For the first time in his life, the devil of the wild west sounded like he was begging. You slowly pushed yourself up onto your elbows, staring down at him like you expected the entire scene to dissolve into a dream.

But it didn’t.

Simon Riley lay there in the hay beneath you. No mask. No swagger. No fearsome outlaw.

Just a man.

A scared, stubborn, deeply broken man who looked like he’d tear the world apart if it meant getting one more day beside you. And he was asking.

Your brain finally restarted.

“YES.”

The word exploded out of you.

“OH MY GOD YES—ARE YOU SERIOUS—YES!”

Simon blinked. Before he could even react, you launched yourself at him.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as you tackled him back into the hay with enough enthusiasm to knock the breath clean out of his lungs.

“WHERE IS MY RING?” you demanded wildly between kisses as you grabbed his face and peppered it with them. “YOU CAN’T JUST PROPOSE WITHOUT THE RING—WHERE IS IT—DID YOU LOSE IT—SIMON RILEY IF YOU LOST MY RING—”

“I didn’t lose it—!” He barely got the words out before you planted another kiss directly on his mouth.

“And if you think for one second I’m letting you take that proposal back—”

“I wasn’t plannin’ to—”

“Good!”

You kissed him again. And again. And again.

Simon eventually started laughing beneath you, the sound shaking through his chest while he attempted unsuccessfully to shield his face from your relentless assault.

“Woman,” he wheezed between breaths, “you’re gonna suffocate me.”

“GOOD,” you declared proudly, grabbing his cheeks again. “Then you’ll die happy knowing I said yes.”

His laughter softened into something warm and disbelieving as he finally caught your wrists and looked up at you like you’d just handed him the entire world.

“Hell Sugar,” he murmured, smiling in a way you’d never seen before, “I think I’d have died a happy man if you’d just kept lookin’ at me like that.”

As always, all credits of the images I used go to the original creators. Chat, I went into Cowboy Simon Riley induced psychosis, I wrote so much and I regret nothing. Anyways, someone please leash this man, he is so needy it is not funny anymore ദ്ദി •⩊• )

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