Doing my best

Geto’s spit-slicked lips part open to steal a sharp gasp of the sweltering lecture hall air- it couldn’t be. And his bleary irises can’t even focus, can’t lock on anything but the figure of you mere feet away. 

…Could it?

With a slight tilt of your head, you’re staring back at him - and something…carnal pangs through his suddenly-boiling veins.

Then you smirk- and Geto twitches.

Fuck.

He would’ve crashed onto his knees right then and there if it wasn’t for the way that you proceed to dig through your cute, useless bag - still in the middle of a conversation with your friends - and throw something flimsy and pale pink at him.

No shame. No regrets.

None for either of you; but especially not Geto once his strong palms reach out to urgently scramble for the shred of gauzy fabric in midair. 

Tangling the stringy satin between thick, ringed fingerpads, he’s sinking his face into its sugarcoated scent before sinking into the realization that you’d had the audacity to throw your fucking panties at him in the middle of a bustling seminar. 

Yet, he was even worse - jaw slackening, broad chest heaving with rasping ahs! as he drinks in loooong repeated puffs of your pheromones. Coating his brain in melty molasses of sugar and spice and you. 

There was a reason you were the most sought-after omega on the entire campus. With your filthy skin-tight outfits, and your flirty smiles. 

And him? He couldn’t get enough.

Smearing away a sloppy splotch of saliva spilling from the corner of his mouth- when had he even started drooling? Geto watches through watery peripherals as you mouth a smug “an advance” at him, and saunter out of the class in your tightly-knit group.

Too tightly-knit, if you asked Geto. Dead-on stare narrowing, he catches the way one of your so-called friends brush away an invisible piece of lint from your shoulder. 

Just barely. His head snapping towards Geto when the latter growls-

Oh.

Oh, fuck. 

He was fucked.

.

.

.

Listen, it’s not as if you make Geto finish all of your homework - just the ones that you found too tedious, too complicated, or too time-consuming. Which might just happen to be all of them, but you digress! 

He was more than happy to collect those slutty scraps of silk you called “panties” and you were proud to keep your streak of having the second-highest GPA in class (after the man himself, of course.)

The more important the grade the more sinful the panties. 

After all, it wasn’t as if you minded all of Geto’s fiery stares at you during lectures, the spark in his eyes when he tried to drill a difficult concept into your mind, or the way his dark lashes would flutter drunkenly the moment you got too close. 

In fact, you might even admit that you…like it.

Because Geto was hot. Fuck- he was fucking pretty.

You’d seen just how fawny his amethyst eyes were behind those clunky glasses. Lengthy Stygian hair, so many inches above six feet, and biceps that pull his gamer t-shirts so taut that it made you wonder what was underneath.

But it wasn’t as if a nerd - and a beta, obviously, though you didn’t care for secondary gender - like him would ever make a move. 

Hell, he barely even talked to anyone other than the professors. 

All grumbling and rude. It took you weeks to even get him to acknowledge your existence, and that was only by giving him an “accidental” glimpse of your red, red bra strap. 

So you were mostly fine and dandy with this lecherous transaction of yours. Geto was smart; he was never a minute late in emailing you your surely A+ worthy work before their deadlines, and you’d gift him his little treat just the day after.

Except- you were lounging on your couch as the 12:00AM deadline for your latest essay rolled around and there was still no sign of Geto. Not a single ping from your inbox. 

With an impatient thumb, you’re idly scrolling through the sparse chat history you’d all but bullied him into sharing with you, brows furrowing deeper and deeper at your plethora of ignored texts and calls. 

Nothing new but, seriously…

Scoffing as the clock tick! tick! ticked! its way to 12:01AM. 

He was late - and your homework was, too. 

You’d been feeling a little too…feverish tonight to attend that one party your friends had invited you to, and thank your stars for that. Because not even minutes later, you were stomping the few blocks down to Geto’s apartment building and all the way up to his white-painted front door.

“Hey, Sugu—” You rap your knuckles harshly on the wood, exasperated. “Are you in there?”

No answer. 

Huffing, your heated skin stings where it clashes even harder against his door. Impatiently, “Hah- making an omega walk all the way out here…I should take back all those panties I gave you. Yaga deducts points for late submissions and I am not leaving until you come out.”

Still no answer. Not even a sound. 

“In fact, I’ll only get louder.”

Not even a breath. 

That was…strange. He should’ve at least come out to shut up your racket so that he can study, if not at the mention of your panties. 

And right now your annoyance was being washed away with sharp waves of concern, a nervous bout of laughter escaping you as soon as your hand falls on the door handle to find it shockingly unlocked. Oh? 

You and Geto might not be the best of friends, but you wanted him to be alright goddammit. 

“Better come out and stop me now, unless you want me to barge in!” You call out, jostling the cold, metallic knob for good measure. It holds firm in your hand, the only thing grounding your swimming mind as you bask in a second of silence. Two. Three. Before sighing, “Have it your way then. I’m coming in–”

Then it hits you.

Slow, at first. Like a smell from a distant memory that you find yourself aching for - find yourself stumbling a few steps inside Geto’s cozy apartment and devouring in generous lungfuls. 

You slam the door shut to cloud yourself in the saturated air and gasp.

This was nothing like any expensive perfume you’d smelled before. It felt like your entire body was on fire, like every one of your pores was scorching from deep inside. Like you needed him.

Head whirling with the heady concoction of caramel salt scent and those dark undertones of wine. Something so dangerous. So tempting. So…Suguru.

You jolt. He was in rut. 

Wait, rut? Geto Suguru? Wasn’t he…wasn’t he a beta? 

You swear he was. You didn’t know what was happening, only angling your head up for more and more and more-

Shit, you’re shoving your thighs together before you know it. Already feeling the slippery stream of slick that sloshes past your pussy lips and puddles at the bottom of your underwear. And you know you’ve never been wetter. 

“A-anyone home?” You’re straining out, the doughy mountain of your palm rubbing mindlessly up n’ down through your thin skirt. 

Undoubtedly, there’s still no response. And yet, it’s almost as if he’s calling to you - and maybe he is.

Feet wrenching one jerky pitch after the other, you have to balance yourself on the hallway walls to fucking keep your sanity.

And to perhaps stop your weakened knees from slipping you into a pile on the polished hardwood floors. Perhaps to stop yourself from breaking out into a run to wherever your inner luna was clawing to take you. 

You breathe, “Th-this isn’t funny, Suguru…”

The soft thuds of your padded steps thunder in time with your racing heart. Louder and louder. Deafening by the time you’re catching sight of a large mahogany door at the end of the corridor that waves ever-so-slightly ajar. 

Where those hypnotic pheromones were the most saturated. And your mouth waters. 

It’s only once you’re reaching it - trembling, standing stock-still, right outside what you now assumed to be his bedroom - that you realize Geto was calling to you. Well, more like he was calling out for you. 

Your name. 

In soft, breathy moans that make his rich baritone crack.

“Get the fuck in here.”

.

.

.

The moment Geto Suguru catches a glimpse of your oh-so-cute face - the moment he senses that you’re actually, honest-to-goodness here - he cums. 

And he can’t help it- fuck, he can’t help it.

Even dabbing the fat of his massive thumb right over his bawling tip can’t stop the heaping torrents of gooey white escaping from him. Such slick ribbons upon ribbons crawling their way up Geto’s washboard abs, you can only watch with bated breath as his messy, round globs of seed trickle up n’ down until they drench his dark happy trail. 

Your watery thighs stick together, maw falling agape because you’d be lying if you said you’d never imagined this.

You had. Once or twice or many, many times. 

All splayed out on his Digimon sheets like this; meaty thighs cracked open, silky locks slathered across every inch, glasses fogged up. Ruined. Geto’s sweat-shimmered back arches off the outdated bed springs with a creak! while his hand flew furiously up and down his swollen cock.

Shit, you’re biting your lip. Syllables jumping roughly off of your heavy tongue, “S-Suguru?”

SLAM!

It’s like the sound of your voice does heavenly wonders to him.

Plump, tender balls squeezing, Geto’s free hand encloses behind his sweaty scalp and onto the headboard above him. Hard enough that the sturdy frame snaps, pale biceps flexing enough that you find your skin clammy with need. 

“Fuh-fuck.” He’s hissing through clenched teeth. Staring right at your meandering form through dazed half-crescents, mouth departing endless husked grunts. And oh…oh a few more dewy droplets of cum spray out of his bawling orifice once you gulp. “Look what you’ve done t’me.”

“Y-you’re an alpha?” You finally manage to find your voice. 

He snickers, the murky scent of the room growing ever-stronger. And even more than that was your own scent, mixing and melding until you felt dizzy. “And you’re in danger, little omega~”

Your widened gaze grows to lock on the way that his rugged fingers continue milking out creamy sploshes of cum. Expertly flying up, up, up– before fisting his hefty base with an airy sigh. 

Large. He was so large. 

And in so many ways more than one. 

An alpha. He was an alpha. 

Seductively sculptured body dwarfing his single bed with what looked like miles upon miles of toned, tall muscles. Were those tattoos spying out from the sides of his back?

A syrupy geyser of sap formulates between his two legs the size of your head- this was Geto Suguru? 

And his cock - oh, he was so perfectly massive. Oversized, even in Geto’s engulfing hand. 

So painfully hard that he was blushing a blossoming magenta near the very tip of his globular cockhead, throbbing. Pulsing. Thick lightning bolts of veins gripping down either side of his pink shaft and all the way down to his breeder balls.

With a harrowed gasp filling your lungs, you’re spotting just the barest fringe of something soaked-through and gauzy tangled underneath his digits. 

Fuck. 

“Is that-”

“This?” Geto grins - grins. You’ve never seen him smile let alone show off this dopey, predatory leer plastering all over his flushed features. A gentle dimple embeds near his curled lip, and he quirks an eager brow. 

You can barely even think while he untwines the frilly pair of panties you’d thrown at him in class from around his aching cock. Sticky and stretched now, it finds home right near his flared nostrils as Geto brings it up and sniffs. Crazed. “C’mere.”

The rawest of glints twinkle in his half-lidded vision as you inch closer, the way you tremble on your two feet like a newborn fawn was adorable. And he can’t stop himself from letting out a low whistle–

“Yeah. Good fuckin’ girl.”

Your body kneels you right by Geto’s bedside before your mind can even think to catch up. Head lolling lecherously against the wide plane of his shivering thigh, you let your tongue lap up a pearl of his buttery white cum and keen. He was even bigger up close. “Sugu—”

“Nuh uh, gorgeous.” Geto tuts, gravelly tonality rendering you confused just as much as you were needy. His two palms grip the crown of your head to peer upwards, “S’all because of you. You n’ those d-damn panties. M’not your hck! nerdy fuckin’ Sugu right now. Best remember that- m’gonna make sure you remember that.”

He’s more than gazing down at you, he’s boring right through you. 

Spectacle frames creeping precariously down his nose bridge, tendrils of his shaggy hair almost curtaining him, pellets of sweat trickle down his temples and hit you in thin spatters. So close. And you wanted him closer. 

“Tilt your head back, lemme see that ngh- pretty mouth.” One hand slips from your head to curl around Geto’s fattened hilt, nudging his puckered tip to strike your lips with a dull thud! “Count.”

“One-”

And it’s not once. 

“T-two-”

Not twice. 

“Three- hah!”

Not thrice, until he’s leaving your mouth whimpering and stinging with the slam of his rock-hard shaft slapping down your tender flesh. Leaving a slimy trail of pre and salty cum that leaks between your maw and drives you wild. 

Then - and only then - is he wrenching you up closer. Manhandling your pliable body until the very tip of his perfectly button nose meets yours. So close.

Your teary lashes flutter halfway shut once you feel the foggy breeze of his breath scorching your face, cunt quivering with the anticipation of a kiss. His pheromones hit you in powerful gusts, your primal urges scratching up to the surface.

Closer. Too close- for a kiss that never comes.

“Heh. Cute.”

He doesn’t kiss you.

But before you know it, Geto pitches his tongue back and wets your shimmery pouted lips with a large wad of his syrupy saliva. 

In just a split-second. 

Bowing you back underneath him and stuffing your chatty mouth so damn full of his swollen cock that you can’t even think of anything else. Fat droplets of tears fountain up at the edge of your eyes, you don’t think you’ve ever felt so split open.

He was eight- no, maybe nearing ten whole inches that scraped the back of your mushy throat with his ruthless mushroom tip. 

Hard. Girthy. 

Cratering out a wet circumference of bruises into your melty mouth with a singular thrust, and it wasn’t enough- fuck, it might never be enough.

Geto’s throwing his head back, toned core muscles tensing. “O-oh. This. Th-this is what it feels like?” 

You almost wonder whether he even knew what he was doing once you feel a shaky thigh throwing behind your neck and reel you in close. Drawing you all the way up until your nose scratches his tufted pelvis, mouth hanging wiiidely agape. 

“Sh-shooo big–” You’re mumbling through a scalding mouthful, slicked walls clenching at the realization that he had you trapped in a headlock. And by the looks of it, he was never going to let go.

“Yeah- yeah?” He shudders out, bass cracking into a zillion shatters near the end. Octaves higher. Unsteady. Meanly, Geto’s leg jostles you even further from behind to probe his shaft even deeper into your velvety mouth, your chin buckling underneath his curvaceous ballsack. Holding you still. Firmly. “Fuckin’ l-like that, don’t you?”

You can’t nod. You can’t hum affirmative. He was so bulky inside you that your lips sag underneath the sheer weight.

But your omega preens for the attention, sleek tongue zig-zagging over one of the pounding veins that poked into the roof of your mouth. And it’s enough of an answer for Geto.

Spitting out, “Oh yeah? Dirty girl. Didn’t expect your loser lil’ Sugu to have such a fat fuckin’ dick, huh?” 

So fucking…rude, words teetering right on just the edge of being menacing. And you were just so gorgeous crying all over his cock like this, so much better than when you were hanging off of other alphas. 

So much better when he strays a thumb to feel your filling throat, the way he’s lodged deep inside. Him. All him. 

You let off a whiny gag the moment his blushing red cockhead twitches up ferally at the thought. The static cotton in your head making you slurp his length with a sloppy squelch! 

He’s pushing up his glasses furiously, “Can you even take it? Seriously- acting so popular n’ mighty when you can’t even take my hngh- cock.”

And you’re about to rebuke, you’re about to- you swear.

But oh, he didn’t have mercy now. 

“Whaaaat? M’just saying.” The ridges of his head press up all against every nook and cranny of your mouth, a silvery trail of drool now seeping from between your locked lips. Geto wipes away his own cobwebs of drool with the back of his mouth, giggling. Giggling when you scuffle, “S’it too big? Too big for our f-famous lil’ omega?”

Your throat aches something carnally delicious when he keeps a hold ‘round your neck to plunge into the waterlogged bottom. Bobbing your head in lewd maneuvers allll the way up n’ down. “Ngh- Sugu–” 

“Hah- hah!” His glassy eyes gleam something wild, microscopic tastebuds watering all over again with just how intensely he was gawking down at you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have said that his eyes were glowing- “Why are ya still fuckin’ speaking, gorgeous?”

It wasn’t a Command, but oh did it feel like one.

Only mere moments later and Geto’s springing himself off of the bouncy mattress to shovel your hot throat full of copious inches and leave you spellbound. Swirling a lazy few half-circles of his heavy tip where you were most sensitive.

“Cool that pretty lil’ head. You’re cuter when yer like th-this, y’know?” He groans, feeling your slippery cheeks grip his shaft in an adorable hug. Knee drawing up even tighter to hold you still while he fucked your mouth the way he’d been wishing he could for so long. “All shut up a-and mine and…”

Ah, breath wisping away. He’s prodding your poor gag reflexes at the very same time he rovers up a stray hand to squeeze your nostrils together. “-only mine.”

“Nghh- G-etooo—” And yet, he still doesn’t let up. You’re cupping Geto’s plumpened balls with a delicately loving touch, lustrous strands of spit layering your lips. “Want you.”

“Hm?”

“Want you.”

Oh.

Oh.

Those are the very same words he’s been dreaming of every single rut since meeting you. And he can’t help himself, he can’t stop himself from letting out a slew of swears and cumming.

Shocked. 

“Sh-shit—” It’s all Geto can do to bite down on the plush of his bottom lip and wrangle back those embarrassing fucking whimpers on his tongue, dewy eyes sparkling with a few overstimulated tears. “You’re gonna- f-fucking…”

But he’s not given the privilege to finish his thought let alone his sentence. 

Just flooding your senses with the caramel salt of his scent, and his gobs of pearly seed. Every jackhammer has Geto pinpricking it on the back of your bruised and battered throat, every squeeze of his hand around your neck makes him drool out in wiry oodles of sap more and more and more-

“S’what you w-wanted, right?” And you’re sensing the way his scent tinged with something maddened, leaving your eyes popping. “Prancing around with your hah- p-pre-heat panties and your- fuck!” Geto fights to keep his eyes from flapping closed, “Take it- ohhhh take it all.”

As if you could do anything else.

Every tiny twitch leaves your cavern flooded. Geto was cumming so hard that it was overspilling from each crevice of your lips, a silvery waterfall of cum that he’s dabbing around a thumb to smear. 

Letting your pouted lips wobble at the fresh topping of white gloss, “There’s a good girl. My goood fuckin’ girl.” 

Oh, there’s no doubt in your fractured mind right now that Geto Suguru was an alpha. Inhaling his deep puffs of contentment, you’re arching your back mindlessly in delight. Throat loosening with the motions to-

“Don’t swallow.”

So mean. 

You don’t think you’re given the split-second to wonder otherwise before he’s grappling for the pretty column of your throat and kissing you raw. 

You’re gasping when his depraved tongue smacks down between the seam of your mouth to lather in every scorching hot mess of sap he’d left behind. The mess that he made. And he was only making it messier.

Watching you through barely-cracked open pupils while he scooped up the sticky webs of seed dangling from your mouth. Scratchy buds taking over. A kiss so filthy that you felt shy to even call it that. 

“Mmm—” Geto’s skidding his tongue down the buttered length of his lips, flicking over any stray droplets he could find. And something in his eyes told you that he was mere seconds away from doing it all over again. “Not bad for a first kiss.”

Fuck- what?

“Sugu- what-” You’re panting out measly syllables through the gaps of his sappy mouth. “I-I thought you’d be more…”

“What? A heh- bumbling loser?” His eyes narrow down at you, words purring sexily. “Oh, gorgeous…”

Fuck, and if the rasping growl in his tone didn’t shut you up, the way that Geto’s throwing you onto the bouncy bed sure does. 

He doesn’t have a care in the world, he doesn’t have a single thought other than ripping off your flimsy clothes. Everything but those very same cherry pink panties you’d teased up at him, well- more see-through than anything right now.

Kneeing apart your jittery legs to watch the way your cunt gushes in pure need. Lips curling into a leer at the way she winks up at him through filthy masses of slick.

“Sh-she’s mine now, isn’t she?” Rumbling out, eyes wide. Unfocused. And the look on Geto’s face made white-hot trills sprint down your spine - ones you couldn’t decode between primal need and fear. “She’s…”

Ptwah!

The vicious goblet of spit that hits you this time is somehow even meaner than the last, striking at the very top of your sobbing pussy and disappearing riiiight between your folds. 

“Mine.” Awestruck, Geto bullies one capped knee to smooch up against your slit. Gleaming his heated skin with the bucketloads of cute sap that you kept pouring out by the second. Geto was greedy, he was grunting. “Beg for it, omega.”

You’re squirming underneath him impatiently, clawing all over his unmoving wrists. You ached all over for something. Anything. “Don’t- don’t wanna-”

But Geto had ten times your strength and wasn’t afraid of using it. Oh, he wasn’t afraid of using it - wasn’t afraid of pinning down both your trembly hands on the bed springs with one of his. Rutting his knee up even more mercilessly, murking his pheromones until it burned of salt and spice. “Beg.”

You mewl, “P-please-”

“No stuttering.”

“Please.” And if that wasn’t enough, you’re batting your lacquered lashes up at Geto in exactly the way you knew was his weakness. Exactly the way that got you the second-highest GPA for so long. Jutting your back the perfect curvature off of the bed, “I’ll let you k-keep my panties, Suguru—?”

“Oh, giiiirl—” He husks out, leaning in so close to plant a yearning snog on your mouth. Blushing pink lips wrapping around your tongue and sucking. You always got what you wanted. “M’keeping those regardless.”

In his special drawer for all your slutty underwear, of course. 

And just as soon as Geto’s kissing your lips, he’s trekking his way downwards to make sure that your other ones don’t feel left out. 

“Look at her.” He breathes, words taking on an airy tone that makes him sound as if he was furious. Blistering with the anger that he’s been deprived of the heavenly proximity of your soft, seeping cunt for so long. “H-heh, if o-only those tch- popular friends of yours could see. Just look- look how wet she is f’me. All me.”

A fattened thumb fringes past your panties, and you flinch at the cold press of his silver rings. Rovering all the way to greet your puffy pussylips in languid drags uuuuup and down, pricking his manicured fingernail on the button of your clit. 

Geto’s hooded lids widen, heat rushing all over his cheeks at the sloppy squelches he draws out. So easily. Adorably.

And it was true - he did have a tattoo. A splashing inking of a dragon all across Geto’s muscled back, somehow making him even more unintentionally hotter. 

“And look how loud mmm–” He’s kissing the mound of your folds like a lover, lingering. Loving. Stealing deeeeep gasps of your scent, “M’gonna ruin you. Ngh- ohhh, m’gonna r-ruin you, gorgeous. Ruin ya for anyone else.”

And when Geto meant he was going to ruin you - he meant it.

“Shit.” He was going to mush his pretty features up into your sopping wet pussy until you could feel every minute, warm pant. Staring right up into the target of your fuzzy heart-eyes, “How do you- how do you taste so good.”

Every gasp he’s drinking in of your murked perfumed pheromones, showering ‘round every sense and making him dizzy.

“Squeeze- wanna feel-”

And maybe it’s his rut, maybe it’s the way your tension was so thick - but you instantaneously know what to do. 

To close your legs in a deadlock around Geto’s oily scalp. Your weighty eyelids bat up and down subconsciously at the attractive way he was digging his bulging biceps into the sides of your thighs. Pulling you in closer and closer and closer. “That turns you on, huh?”

But that wasn’t all- oh, that wasn’t what he was making out with your cute cunt and begging for. 

His mouth lathers over with a fresh bout of watery spit the moment your rubbery ring of muscle clench all around him. Making every ridge of his hot tongue catch on your gooey innards, the texture of it enough to drive you positively wild. 

“Sh-shiiit–” You’re letting out a primal groan, clawing at his tattooed back. Chest shuddering underneath the strain of one powerful hand pinning you down. Holding you painfully still. “Suguru- want more. More.”

Slipping his slick tongue in and out of your fluttery hole, Geto keens at the way your entrance kept on trying to suck him back in. 

“Fuckin’ know-” In one second, he’s pushing his cloudy glasses up his nose, and in the other he pries apart your puffed lips and caresses. “Yer turning into a fucking w-waterpark, dirty girl. Even wetter than all that p-porn I learned from…”

You’re whimpering, legs falling further n’ further open until it burned your inner quads. No matter how deeply Geto stuffed his face between them it just wouldn’t be enough.

It was almost as if…

“Heat.” He’s slurring a looong lap of his grooved tastebuds all over the lustre of your sweet, sweet juices. Free hand wrapping at his favorite position around your neck and making sure to angle your head so that you catch the twinkling droplets of slick pouring down his tongue. “You’re in heat, little omega.”

Gasping, “W-what?”

But it made sense. It was falling into place and that only made you wetter.

With a smirk, Geto swats your hands until they tangle into his silken tresses. “Lemme take care of you.” SWAT! The plapping sensation hits you before the realization that he’d run his crowned digits over to spank your perked clit. “Ngh- just sit tight n’ let your nerdy ol’ Sugu here take g-goood care of you.”

He was pleading with you - begging you - to latch onto his pretty locks and grind your pussy in repeated gyrations all over his face. Guiding him, using the hook of his pert nose as the perfect ridge to rest your throbbing clit on. 

“Th-thank you, alpha—” Too good. You were giving into something baser, to let your head loll into the cushy pillow behind you in sweeping motions. And it was so cute he could cum. 

“Yeah? Who- who?”

“You, Suguru.”

“Damn right.”

With every drag of his hoarse syllables, Geto was trawling his face across every inch between the beautiful legs that you had to offer.

Purposefully. 

You’re holding back his endless, inky strands just to admire how pretty he looked. How ravenous. Greedy. 

Fuck, Geto was making up for all these years he spent parched. Spitting out streak after streak of spittle that made your pussy pour out all over his snogging mouth. “Gonna- gonna fuck you like this w’my cock next.”

His tongue folds into your slobbery hole and slithers into every tender orifice - so staggeringly long that you were feeling a lump in your own throat. 

Just a few flops into your earliest magical spots and Geto could already hear the way you were fighting to hide your little sobs. 

“Th-this right here-” He’s probing a finger underneath the panties that stuck to your cunt like adhesive, letting it spring back to hit you with a smack! Tittering at your yelp, “S’mine.”

Rubbing a fat few crowns of his fingerpads at the tender area underneath the base of your pussy. Pressing down. Hard. “And her? All the w-way from here-”

Drawing sensual patterns up, up uuuup all the way to your sensitive clit, and oh- it felt so right to have him draw sultry little hearts on your weepy hood. 

Tugging it over to nip underneath one sharp canine - one that you swear had grown even longer in the last few minutes. Geto was gone in the depths of his rut, hallowing out his cheeks to eat you out as if he was a man starved. And you were his favorite dessert. “To here? S’mine, too.”

RIIIIIP—!

Through your glossy heaps of tears, you can make out the fuzzy shapes of Geto tearing your satiny underwear into tatters. Balling it up into a wad of sugarcoated fabric that he unapologetically stuffs in your drivelling mouth.

“Gonna add these t-to my collection.” You feel him smile against the outer edges of your claggy cunt, tittering at the stupid way your overspilling lips slacken with a soggy pwah! You’re hearing and feeling a long-winded woooosh from below once he takes a deeeep breath in with his over-delicate senses. “Th-thereeee we go. Cum all over my mouth, gorgeous.”

And if you were in any better state of mind perhaps you’d have noticed the way that Geto’s driving his hips into the bed like a damn dog when he sensed your scent peaking. Sensed you getting closer.

Ragged breaths striking your quivering pussy mercilessly and making your teeth sink desperately into the muggy jumble of underwear in your mouth. 

Your broken moans burst out even through that particular watergate, right along with a slithery trickle of saliva and a huff of “S-Suguru—” Craning your head to watch his nostrils flare with knowing, “Close- clo- cumming.”

Eyes flashing. Heart thumping not just within your rib cage.

When it rains, it pours. 

But you weren’t just pouring - you were flooding.

Such glutinous ropes of your orgasm, it sprays Geto’s sexy face in squirts. Clinging onto the edge of his glasses and forming little puddles right at the apples of his high cheeks.

Suddenly, you were oh-so-thankful for the way he’d stuffed your mouth mercilessly full - because by the rusted rasp in your throat, you’re sure you’re singing out shrill trills loud enough that his neighbors would file a noise complaint.

But that was the last thing on his mind.

The last thing- well, fuck, it wasn’t on his mind at all. Geto’s cooing at how unstable you feel, treacherous fingers mazing across your fat clit and giving her a goood few pushes just the way he would with his gameboys.

“Good girl-” he spits into your gapingly widened cunt, still suffering from the remnant tremors of your high and still slopping out wads of juices. Like a mantra, Geto’s dark brows scrunch in concentration, “Good girl good girl gooood fucking girl.”

Words hitching up into something shrill near the edge, he sounded as if he was fraying his sanity with every droplet of slick you pumped into his mouth. With every single second. 

Pushing his aching hot cock deeper and deeper into the sullied sheets. More. He needed more. 

Every sloppy swivel of your widely pried-apart pussy on his tongue made him leave an open-palmed smack! on your thigh. Other hand traipsing to pin your hips down with his big, vein-decorated forearm. 

He doesn’t want to let go.

You’re barely letting off a whine at the lack of friction before Geto lets his mouth depart from your cunt with a soggy pwah! Leaving a final few French kisses on his favorite sweet orifice, he’s pecking a loooong open-mouthed pathway up to your loosened maw.

“Good girl…” He hiccups, clammy forehead sticking against yours. Each syllable struggles to wrench past the leaden ball slowly forming on Geto’s mouth. 

The syrup-glazed lenses of his glasses clash into you, and Geto himself seems to notice. “Look what a fuckin’ mess ya made.” He’s gruffing out at the thick topping of oozing gloss that made the frame impossible to see through. 

Immediately pulling back a few millimeters to take them off and dump them on your own nose bridge. Unceremoniously. 

And it was so wet. 

Almost as wet as Geto’s features were - all showered in gunky dredges of glistening sap. It streaks all the way from his pointed chin and up to his handsome cheekbones. Beads of it hitting your panting chest in a pat! pat! pat!

Heaving out a shaky exhale, he’s pushing away a few elegant strands of charcoal bangs. 

“M’gonna…m’gonna fuck you now.” Sounding more as if he was talking to himself rather than you. Or perhaps both. Puffy folds being rubbed all raw with the depraved back and forth of his veiny under-shaft. “Gonna fuck you. So take it- take it.”

Geto stares deep into your whirling eyes while he sinks his hefty cock into you just as thoroughly. A clingy film sticks to his gaze, dazed and all half-hooded that you wondered if he could even register what was in front of him.

Crazed.

And he’s such a fucking tease, too. 

Creating a slimy trail of pasty pre all over your weakened inner thighs, he drags his bawling divot all over every stretch of your entrance. Around and around in circles. 

“B-big, huh? Better take it b-before I- make it- fit-” He’s echoing, dimples peaking out at the cute way your breath hitches once you feel the sheerly massive circumference of his fat tip. “Shhhh shh sh, s’alright- s’where you’re m-meant to ngh- be.”

Even for an alpha, he was always staggering - but having him stuffing you to the brim would be a whole other feeling. Would have you ruined. 

You’re peering up at him through humid lashes, borrowed glasses smearing wet splotches of slick underneath your skin. Eventually, those panties had found themselves spilling out of your unfastened jaw, “Meant to- hah! be?”

“Mhmmm— pretty omega.” You’re hit with a sudden wave of coaxing pheromones, the gentle salty breeze making your hips buck subconsciously upwards. Subconsciously aching. “This s’where you’re ngh- meant to be.”

And as much as Geto loved hearing whiny questions bubble their way up to your spit-layered lips, oh- was it so much more fun to eye down at your speechless self when he snugly squeezes just a mere sensual inch.

Leaning back to watch the way his bustling cock was stretching and stretching and stretching your tender walls flawlessly. You were taking him so ridiculously well. 

“Fuh-fuck you-” His plush pecs rumble with his bass from above, words tumbling. Hips rolling. And Geto was fucking gone- staring at you with wide, humorless eyes that you doubt were even seeing. “Fuck you- m’fucking you…fuck you fuck you fuck!”

With every sharp fah! being whirled into your loose mouth, Geto rubs his puffed-up veins into the tender mound of your cunt. You can’t help but count every rapid ba-dump—! his achy length throbs. 

Desperately. Rutting and rutting just to fit himself inside. 

Around the time he’s only halfway in, Geto circles one hand over his drenched base to skid taut O’s at the edge of your hole. Nudging his fat girth past your entrance and keening-

“M-more!” You’re barking out primally, your tongue tied into all sorts of bows and ribbons with the way this stretch was searing. And it was the best sort of tight fit, you were practically drooling all over again at the fleshy thwack! of Geto’s rounded balls smacking your thighs. “More, Sugu—”

“M-more…?”

It wasn’t just you - your luna needed more, too. 

You’re nodding and nodding- only to realize with a harsh muffle of Geto’s palm over your noisy mouth that he wasn’t even talking to you.

No, he was tittering away in a small sort of voice. Octaves higher. Strained. Goosebumps smatter all across your skin at the way he sounded so unstable. 

“More…” Irises flashing a glowy purple, fingers twitching where he held you. A loser like him. A nerd like him. “M-more she says.”

Fuck. 

Without another word - without another breath - Geto’s flipping you around with only one beefy palm clawing at your hip. Shoving your face deep into the puff of his nerdy pillows, he’s bottoming out with just one thrust-

You think you scream, you think you bawl once you feel his plummy mushroom head draw a long line of pre along the insides of your cervix. And your pussy felt so full you could burst, your walls crushed with all overpacked inches of his.

Finally. 

“Thaaaat’s it, that’s it-” He’s grunting through furiously clenched teeth, a hand crowning the back of your scalp and muffling your words into the bed. Hard. Fuck- he was going to pass out if you made another pretty sound. “S’where you belong.”

Ah, there it is - that little broken prayer.

Except, this time it was being respired in boiling hot pants against the tips of your ears. Was being wheezed out of Geto when he lurches his sweat-simmered hips back to hit your ass with a resounding pap!

“All f-fucked dumb on my ngh- biiig fucking cock, hm?” He tilts your head up with one hand, smiling to himself once he catches a glittery flash of spit leaking from your lips. “All…” A warm splatter! strikes your back, and only then do you realize that he’s slobbering. “Mine.”

And where Geto was talking all possessively - he was fucking you even more so.

In the blink of an eye, he’s planting two sets of fingers on either of your wrists and pulling all the way back, back, back. A length foot being placed right at the small of your spine to get you to bend in a delicious arch-

“Fuck!” Your cute voice rings hoarse, like music to his blushing ears. Struggling to regain the gasps of air leaving your lungs, “There- th-there.”

Oh, shit.

The way Geto was manhandling you was not only bending you in all sorts of lecherously pliable ways that had your slit dripping, it was making his rotund cockhead stub oh-so-viciously into your cervix. 

Rough. Probing. 

“H-heh, guess I lost my first kiss there, too.” He’s giggling out, biting down on the rugged mewls that threaten to depart every time your cunt swallows him whole. “Congrats on being my ngh- first, little omega— yer e-even better than my ngh- bodypillows of you.”

Bending you over ever-deeper, honestly- your walls were cloying onto him so desperately that it was making Geto’s heart pang with disappointment every time his ruddied tip recoiled back from the bottom of your sloppy pussy. 

He wanted to be this close to you forever. 

Treacling out stringy wads of pre, he’s furrowing brows and making sure each n’ every jackhammer fills you up impossibly. 

You can barely grapple for air at this point, the sloshes of syrup left after each barrelling strike leaving you star-struck. 

He grins, “Shit, d-do ya ever stop fuckin’ drooling? Gonna hafta call the f-fire department, girl.”

“Can’t help it–!” All you can do it let your mouth unlatch to warble whimper after whimper–

“C’mon now, gorgeous- aren’t ya ashamed?” Licking his lips free of your taste, Geto diverts more pressure to his foot. Hefty balls rippling wickedly against the sobbing end of your slit with just how easy you were to throw around like his favorite toy. Like his favorite figurines. “Look at what a mess yer making. Being fucked so f-filthy. And I haven’t even ngh- found it, yet.”

Haven’t found it. Oh, but he knew he was going to. He was going to make you scream.

Your syrupy whines slip into something desperate, “Y-you don’t know…?”

“Of course I f-fuckin’ know. Who d’ya think you’re ngh talking to?” As if you could forget you were being thoroughly pounded by the smartest person on campus right now. And evidently the filthiest, too. 

A ringed finger treks down to your sensitive nub, soothing over where you were throbbing the most violently. Cute. Lulling you into a sweet, sweet state of bliss before Geto pinches–

“Oh p-please!” You’re targeting your hazy vision over your shoulder, and somewhere along the lines Geto’s spectacles had slid cleanly off of you. Toes curling as his bloated head bludgeons just the creamy edges near your g-spot. “Please- y-you’re so close, Suguru-”

You didn’t know whether it was your heat or just Geto that had you so desperate. Your sparkless mind blames the latter.

“Am I?” He hums, leaning over so that the soft tendrils of his hair tickled your back. 

Whacking his painfully achy crownhead mere centimeters below your magical spots, and you’re starting to think he’s doing this on purpose. 

Geto starts holding it there for lingering French snogs into the steamy inner depths of your cunt and then you know he’s doing this on purpose. Spitting in your mouth with a smile. 

That mean bastard.

Jittering your hips to chase the texture of his curly pubic hair against your ass, he snickers. “Are you ngh- suuuure? You haven’t done a s-single one of your ngh- human biology essays lately, dirty girl.”

You’re molding your lips into a pout - difficult, with just how many loads of saliva were pouring out of you and cementing a puddle onto the Digimon pillows. “F-fuck you.”

“No…” You set free a gasp of air you didn’t know you were holding the very second he lets go of the rough foot anchoring your spine, instead- in only mere nanoseconds you find yourself jerked up into Geto Suguru’s hold with a hand at your throat. Back gluing against his glissading abs, even his voice was unbalanced and trembling now. “I’m fucking you, little omega.”

And you were about to remember it.

With an immediate pitch of his gasping breaths, Geto’s angled hips go from steadily ruined to sloppy. Calculated. 

He didn’t care if he made a mess of stringy slick that circled in the satiny sheets around the two of you, he didn’t care if your eyes were bulging out of their poor sockets when his pronounced hips dig into your backside with blistering bruises. 

He didn’t care for anything but digging the curled fringe of his fatly bloated tip right into the target of your g-spot. 

Mazing through your gluey folds and keeping them snugly open with his reddened girth, Geto knocks your sweetest spots with vengeance. 

“There–!” You call out, as if he hadn’t already felt the gooey seize of your pussy trying to hold him hostage. 

His mouth trudges over your throat, fingers roaming over to give your clit a nice few pinches. Meaningfully, “Here? Orrrr–” Punctuating each word, each second with a thorough drilling into your g-spot. “-here? Make up th-that ditzy lil’ mind. Seriously.”

Your head drunkenly crashes on top of his collarbone and stays there, “R-right here- there. Both, Sugu.”

“Again with the f-fucking Sugu-” Geto snarls out, though you can sense by his cloudy scent that he was anything but irritated with you. 

Your whines had quietened down into something more of an incoherent mess, and the main things ringing in Geto’s ears right now were the creaky protests of his bed and the clammy plops of his thrusts. 

“C’mon now— where’s my bossy fuck! omega? The one who loves her poor, nerdy Sugu?”

Arousal reaching a peak, and now that he’d found your g-spot, he was probing into it with fat thuds. Not just once or twice. Nooooo, it was over and over and- 

“Just w-wanna cum—” you’re sobbing out. Jerking your body like a bobble-head up and down to further feel the drag of his Herculean form behind you, to savor each ridge and sculpted curve sweatily massaging your back. “P-pleeeeease, Suguru. Let me cum?”

Swerving his tensing hips out alllll the way back to leave solid smooches ‘round your pussy entrance each and every time, and then there were the squelches-

Oh, you were just flooding a slippery sheen all over his hefty, swelling base. A viscid luster of slick that glided all the way down to drip off of his sack n’ between his legs. 

Your eyes manage to snatch themselves open- hissing at the realization that it was pooling especially around that particularly ballooned-up ring right over Geto’s breeder balls. 

Was that? With a shiver you’re rutting backwards, feeling for yourself the slow drag of his proud knot. Bigger than any else you’ve ever seen. It was. 

You rasp, throat itchy and raw. Sweltering droplets of tears streaming down your cheeks when he matches the stuttering beat of your heart with every pressurized push- “P-please.”

“Needy thing. Cum, huh?” Geto drawls out, voice thick with need and something else you were too stupid to register right now. He collides you even tighter against rippling pecs. Taking the sweet, sweet opportunity to poke his nose into your scent gland and steal a looooong breath of your overdriven pheromones. 

“Cum then, c-cum. Fucking cum all over my cock.”

Fuck, it’s with those exact words in mind that you do.

Startling straight headfirst into your high - and you don’t think you’ve even crashed into one wave of bliss before the other overtakes you. And another. And another-

“Oh g-god—” You’re trilling, only held up by the ruthless grip that Geto was maintaining. His hips were deep, and your pleasure even deeper. “-please. Please- please, Sugu-”

He’s hunching over your body ever-so-slightly, resting your thighs against his thick, flexing ones. Only bending you over to kiss your g-spot even more sinfully, Geto’s response comes out ragged into your lobes. “Tch, wh-what now?”

His ruby-red tip was blushing like a strawberry and just as plump - swirling around your treasure trove of spots, pounding you through each peak of your orgasm until you saw stars. 

“Cum i-insiiiide-” Your barely-audible groans spring out into the heady air, adding to its hypnotic mix of perfumes. And it’s not just the heat that made you crave Geto carnally, every pap! against the puffy ring at his base making you crave more more more- “Want it a-all up…”

You’re trailing off, melted mind unable to do multiple things at once. 

With tottering fingerpads, you’re trapping one of his palms underneath your own. Homing itself right above where his rounded tip was stretching open your insides, right above your womb.

“H-here, okay? Don’t miss-” 

You blink up at him and Geto thinks he might just be having a heart attack. Sparks fizzing around his sloshed brain, “Fuh-fuuuuck– don’t talk out of yer pussy, gorgeous.” He spanks your clit once. Twice just to watch your eyes glaze over stupidly. “Or m’gonna get you pregnant.” 

Soothing over that faint bulge he was fucking into your tummy, “Gonna h-have my baby growing allll up in here. Make you round and…” His voice sounds faint, whispering. “-big and…glowing. And…and pregnant.”

But, ah- you never did make it easy for him. Did you? Always had to have your way. 

Which Geto Suguru gladly gave. 

“But I want that, Sugu—” You pout, “Wan’ your knot…please?”

You didn’t have to say another word before Geto’s finishing off in such a messy way, reaching the biggest fucking orgasm he’s had in his entire life. The strongest. The most heavenly and oh- oh, were you an angel?

He’s collapsing onto the drenched sheets before he knows it, pinning you down with the strong v-line of his hips. 

“Shit-” Geto emits through the cracks in his bitten canines. “Shit shit shit- shit-”

You don’t know who’s losing their mind more, you or him. Falling into the well of a second, third, perhaps even fourth orgasm with how blissfully his fattened, split-ended cock bruised every nook of your adhesive-like walls. 

Your saliva cascades in puddles that soak the pillows through. “Suguruuu— a-are you okay-”

“Do I look okay?”

Sexily ridged abs kneading your back, hands scrambling on the mattress, inked shoulders shivering. His swollen knot hits and hits your pussymound. 

And it’s only once his trembly fingers latch around his glasses - fumbling, dropping it copious times before Geto manages to push them haphazardly onto his face. 

Tilting his head back just enough degrees to watch as the curved fringe of his knot disappears past your puffy folds. 

“There we- there…” He’s driveling clingy wads of translucent saliva, letting the stray pouring excess hit your fluttering hole with a splat! One eager thumb of Geto’s hooks into your entrance and bullies it aside to let his incredible perimeter sink iiiiiiiiin-

He’s melting into you now, spent. Ruined. “Get pregnant.” Geto whispers into your sweat-glossed shoulder blade once he feels the back of his knot get fully enveloped into your pussy with a gummy pop! Once he feels himself finally tip over- “Get pregnant.”

And it’s not just mindless babbling - it’s a promise. 

A promise that he rasps out time and time against with every wadded slip of seed that dollops out across your cervix. Pushing it so deep. Smearing acres of ribbony streaks all over your most precious orifices and spots. 

“Gonna know wh-what we did.” Geto whimpers, shit- he couldn’t pound his voluminous ounces of cum into you as aggressively as he wanted with this damn knot. “Entire campus. Professors. Everyone’s gonna know ngh- how I fucked ya full. F-fucked you pregnant. Gonna wonder.”

But that didn’t stop him from trying.

That didn’t stop him from wrenching out a hand to squeeze the ends of your sopping wet slit, forcing down on his very knot. Squeezing out so many numerous dredges of syrupy white cum that thwack! thwack! thwacks! a filthy second skin against your walls. 

“Fuh-fuuuuck— get pregnant, gorgeous.” He’s rutting. Grinding. Humping you like some beast more than man. “Gonna l-look at you all round n’ big and see me- me me me. Get pregnant get pregnant get-” 

Geto’s mouth parts at the pearly dewdrops of seed that leak from the overstuffed ends of your cunt. He can feel his entire body twitch, can feel his sharpened teeth lacquer so rabidly. 

He still wasn’t done.

Still letting one prespired forearm of his dangle around your neck, manhandling you into a fucking headlock. The other tracing the edges of his digits over your glands, squeezing until your skin was all tender and raw. 

And puffy. 

Perfect for him to tilt his head and bite—

“Ohhh- yes!” Every fibre of your being delights at the way Geto’s biting you so hard that you can smell crimson iron. Your pheromone bubble pops! to mix together with his own. Becoming one. And you can scent him - you can feel him. 

Glasses clashing, teeth tearing. Before you know it, you’re doing the same. “Suguruuuu— m’yours.”

Your mate latches onto the curves of your hips - your soon-to-be birthing hips. 

And the way Geto rediscovers that - tucking his face into the ruined, drenched fabric of those cherry pink panties and taking an endless, husky sniff - tells you that this was going to be a long, loooong night. 

“Mine.”

A/N. MMMMMMMMM NERD GETOOOOOOOO

Your legs tremble, hiccuping, “Shit- mmph- I-I feel so full Si!”

“‘F course you do,” he snickers, his fat fingers grazing your tummy and pressing down at the his cock that’s bulging out, earning moans from the both of you, “Right where ‘m meant t’ be, huh baby?”

Your mouth is stuck in to shape of an ‘o’, both set or lips drooling as Simon rams himself in you. Watching the way your eyes rolls to the back of your back everytime he angles his hips so perfectly into your sticky sweet spots, almost hitting your head against the tile of the bathroom wall at how good you feel.

“Can’t believe this slutty pussy’s taken me so well in the mornin. Should have you makin this stupid fuckin face- hnngh- every. Fuckin. Day.” His words match every single of his mean thrusts.

You let out a ragged whine, trying to find some relief by pushing yourself into the wall but Simon only snickers, sinking his cock deeper in your snug depths, “Where ‘re you runnin off to?” He dips into the water, spreading your swollen folds wider with his thumb, dipping his thumb inside to his knuckle.

You yelp out, clawing at his shoulders, “Simon- angh! Simooon!”

“Shit- hck- Greedy fuckin thing, ‘s like your cunt only wants, more and more,” he sweetly purrs, stokes getting faster as he swiveled his hips into yours. Smirking down at you as he holds you tight, “and more.” You can feel the fucking bath water starting to slosh inside you as it splashes onto the floor with every thrust.

“Fuck- ‘s too much- aah- too much!” You mewl, shaking hands going down his chest to his dark happy trail. But you don’t have the strength to push him, your hips only sluttily bucking forward to meet his.

Simons saliva coated canines show more and more, lifting you to see how his dick disappears inside your pussy, the way you keep clenching and sputtering around him, “But look at how she’s suckin me in, doll. Fuckin cunny achin for me, poor thing.” He condescendingly coos.he shudders, “Lucky Daddy knows juuust how t’ take care of it.”

He spits down on your cunt, loud thwacks filling the bathroom, thumb rubbing your inner lining while he gives you harsh stroke after stroke.

You don’t even know you were keening, an ‘imcumminimcummingimcumm-’ till you felt the wetness of your own juices against Simons stomach, white cream coating Simon’s stiff dick. Your eyes are damp, the way Simons still rutting into your used cunt till his cum is filling your pretty pussy. Slipping out of you while his cum still spurts into the now dirty bath water.

The older man looks down at you, length still throbbing even though he’s cum once. His dark and gazed over eyes glance at the clock, then to you, who’s more than delirious, trembling and still whimpering like hes still inside your gaping hole, pressed against the bathroom tile. He lifts you in his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist, his dick pricking your thigh. “Still gotta go t’ tha bloody place, fuck.” He grumbles like it’s a curse, because it is. Who wouldn’t want to spend the day wrapped in your arms just like this with their lover. He let’s out a breath, stepping out of the bathtub and back to the bedroom. His rough had trails your spine, leaving soft kisses from your shoulder to your jaw, then giving you a filthy and wet kiss.

He presses his forehead to yours, “Think you could help me cum one more time lovie?”

Your car, without even the slightest warning from the dashboard, has decided to start shaking abruptly and billowed out three huge smokes in the middle of the highway. You couldn’t even accelerate past a thousand rpms in the process. The drive back to the garage was brutal. You could only be grateful you made it home in one piece from the metal death trap.

Once you returned back to your unit, you learned that your gas stove refused to ignite. Aside from your worries of carbon dioxide poisoning from a possible leak, this prompts another list to add on your notes of things to sort. 

The water is another problem in and of itself. Your showers are now performed with gritted and chattered teeth for hot water is practically not an option for you in the middle of winter—and not to mention, when your quarterly water bill arrives, you are indignantly puzzled by the excessive charge.

Your nights are lately spent calling your family and friends over the phone of your domestic troubles—though they are too far or unfit to be of any help, their reassuring words work at least some wonders to your aggrieved mental state. 

The next incessant calls would be made to your property manager, then to your nearby mechanics, then your local water authority for a metre test. It’s been rough sleeping through the nights with a lot on your mind. Such is the life of your poor, local metropolitan girl.

You can continue feeling sorry for yourself and order in takeout with ridiculous service fees for the nth time, or you can start focusing on things you can control. Like for example, keeping a positive attitude—and also, purchasing a portable butane stove top.

After days of cold cut sandwiches, cold showers, and colder walks to the station—you fear you might die of hypothermia before the season ends. 

And so here you are after work, pedantically looking over the warranties and reviews of a gas burner at the first hardware store you see. You think of the many hot meals you can make out of this thing—perhaps even heat some water up for your shower; though you mournfully think about the painstaking time that would require. 

A shadow encompasses your being from your left side. You shift advertently to your side to give space, but the person remains close. 

‘How entitled,’ you think begrudgingly. 

You hold your ground but the moment lingers too long for it to be respectable. You lift your gaze up to the corner just to see what kind of person they are before you take your leave—but their brown eyes meets yours expectantly. 

You fix your face quickly. 

“Simon,” you breathe out a laugh. 

What a coincidence; you are lucky to remember his name for all the stress that’s mounting on your desk, you had forgotten all about your brooding encounter with the biggest man you’ve ever seen. 

“It’s nice to see you again.” Though it’s just what people say in passing to make small talk, it wasn’t an entire lie. You’ve been so on edge waiting for him to call in his favour that never came; you begin to think that you’ve been talking to a ghost. 

But here he is; alive and well—you suppose. 

“Goin’ somewhere?” he pointed gruffly towards your sleek black, shiny stove in your hands. 

“Oh—I think there’s something wrong with my gas line. My landlord’s looking into it,” you say, trying to sound as inconvenienced as possible. “In the meantime this is my substitute for the next week or so.”

He hums lowly. 

You guess he is the same as you saw him last—maybe a bit more tired, and dressed accordingly to the weather. You try and not to take notice of the bolt cutter or the heavy-duty zip ties he has on his person, lest you make a bad joke he might not appreciate. 

“Mind letting me ‘ave a look?” 

You blink at his offer and shake your head profusely. “I don’t want to trouble you more than I already have.”

“Rubbish,” he interjects roughly. “Just let me know the time, and I can swing by.” Simon grabs some butane canisters, engulfing you around him for a split moment. You think of his arms around your waist; the memory is scored into you, you can still feel the phantom weight of it. 

Your eyes immediately search for anything else other than him—silently praying he’s not some mind reader. Politely taking a step back from his space, you concede and nod in small. 

“Alright, thank you. I appreciate it.” 

He follows you to the register, a scene all too familiar for your liking. Simon lets you go ahead first and while you ready your phone to tap on the point-of-sale system, you eye him covertly and hold out your arm as if to block him in jest. He seems to find it amusing.

A lazy smirk appears on the corner of his lips. You think you prefer him this way rather than his impassive manner. Efforts to engage in more one-sided conversations seem a bit easier now—only because you know you’re about to separate ways again. You wait for Simon to finish up and before you could even take a step further from him, he stops you. 

“You’re walkin’?” 

The wind whips your hair against your cold cheeks when you look back at him.

“Yeah,” you reply. “It’s not far from home.”

“An’ where’s home?” Simon crosses his arms. There is a strange feeling that he isn’t going to like your answer either way. 

“Just three blocks or so down the road,” you say apprehensively. “It’s not bad—I quite like the walk.”

He nods lightly but seems to disregard it all the same.

“Get in,” Simon says offhandedly; his keys clinks as a black Hilux flash in the distance. “I’ll drop you off.”

“—You don’t have to.”’

“I ain’t askin’.”

You’re about to protest some more but he’s walking back to his truck as if he knows you’ll follow—which you do but that’s besides the point. It reminds you of your first impression of him; a mix of coarse manners. It’s as if he doesn’t know his actions to be kind.

He opens the door to the passenger side for you as you give him a sheepish thanks. When the door closes and he tracks around his car, you clandestinely feel the outline of your mobile in your pockets. You figure you know him well enough, though you remind yourself to be vigilant should anything happen. 

“Righ’, your address.” He asks as the engine comes alive. You answer accordingly, getting ready to tell him the way back to your building. He seems to know your location the moment you mention the street name with the way he scoffs out a mutter, “three blocks my arse.”

The heating from the air conditioning system is immediate, you’re relieved to feel the blasts of warm air hitting your cool skin even from beneath the layers of your clothes. 

The conversation is light as he pulls out from the parking lot. Simon makes a casual remark about you wandering around in sub-zero temperature at night. It was at this time that perhaps you might have overshared. 

You begin to tell him all about your car issues, then your gas line, then your water boiler and how you’re lodging an application to get your water meter tested for leaks. Despite the negative circumstances you find yourself in, you couldn't help but laugh at your own predicament. Talking animatedly at such length to the quiet man who doesn't seem to mind your prattling. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” He drawls when you finish. You hum and stare past the street lights. 

Simon moves his gaze surreptitiously from the road to you. He wonders why you stopped talking, he wanted to hear your voice more—wanted to hear those laughs that sounds like bells to him. He wants you to continue to tell him how awful your life has been, and how he can make it better.

In the past week he wondered why it was easier to overfill your engine with oil or mess with your unit systems instead of just shooting you a text. There is a definite guilt in his conscience when he looks back at his actions; nothing proud of the things he did to get your attention—but regret? Nonexistsent. 

Because where he’s at right now, driving you home in his motor, it makes it all worth it. 

“I can see about it,” He brings it up as he turns the corner to your street.

You stare at him incredulously. It’s hard to believe this man who seems so detached and devoid of any sentiments could be so courteous and generous with his time. 

“You’ve done so much for me already.” You shake your head gently. “Besides, I’m already in the process of calling around. It should be all in order–”

“How much they chargin’ you?” he puts the vehicle in park, leaning back slightly as he looks ahead before moving lazily to you.

“Umm.. “ You trail and grimace when you reluctantly say a four figure amount, knowing you’re just proving his point—indicative with the increasingly smug look on his face. “But I’m paying for convenience aren’t I? And it can't be helped, I’ve done my research—unless you know someone who does it for cheaper–”

“Yeah,” he cuts you off gravely. “Me.”

You bite your lip and drop your hand in defeat, “I still haven’t gotten you back for my groceries last time.”

“You still goin’ on about that?” He raises his brows at you, as if it was odd for you to hold onto something that was so insignificant. Simon exhales and regards you with his brown eyes.

“So what’s it gonna be?”

You practice fiscal rectitude ever since you moved out—can’t afford anything less. You do your due diligence, keep a spreadsheet when things get complicated, you make sure your credits and savings are on track. So when you make your round of calls, you know you can’t accept any first quote—but here he is, proposing a much nicer offer. 

The last thing you want is to take advantage of someone; more so, be in more debt with a high compounding interest rate with someone like Simon. As kind and considerate he seems to be, you are highly suspicious that he is doing so purely out of the goodness of his heart—a case in which you hope that you’re wrong. 

However after living in the cold, big city, you learn that everyone here has a motive. Not to mention, it would be a lie if you said that his appearance doesn’t unsettle you in the slightest. You’ve never really rubbed shoulders with people—or more specifically—men like him. And as disgustingly classist and discriminatory as it might sound, it comes from a cautious place.

As a woman on your own, you now live alone; far from the immediate support of your family. Should anything happen, you need to figure it out and help yourself. 

So you do what you think is best; you give him the benefit of the doubt. You surmise the pragmatic warnings in your head are just disguised as bigotry, and you are above that. 

Instead, you let him in. You expect him every few days or so after six in the evening—ten in the weekend morning. Simon’s frequent visits to your apartment fits seamlessly to your schedule. The sight of him working away at your engine and your unit systems is beginning to be a familiar one. 

He takes his coffee black; his tea with a splash of milk. There’s no music when he works away, so you fulfill it with useless chatter. You’d like to believe he appreciates the noise pollution from your side—there is never any protest from him when you do anyway. 

One afternoon, you almost leap into him with joy when he calls you to your bathroom, and you feel the warm water hitting your palms from when he twisted the handle. You imagine finally crawling into bed without shivering now—which is a huge plus since you feel a cold catching. 

On top of that, he has fixed the issue going on with your water bills, and your gas stove. You feel light as a feather with each problem he fixes, feeling as if you finally have control over your life. 

Much to your chagrin, Simon takes no reimbursement, not even a charity meal—which is upsetting because you feel as if you’re exploiting the poor man. He comes and leaves without so much as uttering a word of himself, making him remain more or less a stranger to you. Your efforts to learn more about him is met with a curt one-worded answer:

Does your family live close by?

No.

Do you have any siblings?

No.

What’s your last name?

Riley.

Do you have a football team you support?

Man. U.

What do you like about them?

Nothin’.

There is no inclination that he is willing to give himself away anytime soon; this didn’t bother you in the slightest—

Until one late night, a sudden haze of paranoia takes over your senses. Your rhythmic heartbeats run a little faster; your mind is restless with a nonsensical impression that you’re being tricked—but by what? You don't know yourself. 

The laptop emits a glaring blue light in the dead of the night. You bite your nails as you search up his name. Nothing. Typing his name on every social platform you can think of and clicking each profile with the alliterations of his name—zero results. 

Your fingers hover over the keyboards as you hesitate your next search—fearing as if he, himself is in the room with you. After a few moments of stillness, you proceed anyway. Much to your simultaneous relief and defeat, his name doesn’t appear in any offender registries. 

You sigh and rub your hand down your face before closing your laptop; leaving you to sit in the dark and contemplate your ill suburban-like preconceptions on the goodwill of an innocent, yet seemingly, ghost of a man. 

An email notification from your phone distracts you from your moral conundrum, pulling you from your pensive reflection. It was a reminder for your five-week cooking class a friend recommended when you attended her end of year dinner. In the midst of everything the past week has thrown at you, you’ve forgotten all about your long-awaited cooking courses. 

Checking the time and venue for the first class, you make a reminder on your phone in the case another series of unfortunate events occurs. 

Simon is still working away at your car; he tells you all the issues going with your engine and how much time it will take for him to repair. It sounds pretty serious when he talks you through it—but really you’re just grateful he’s even looking at the piece of junk, even while he adamantly refuses for you to take it to the shop, claiming he can do better. 

With your car still out of commission, you’re left with no choice but to rely on public transport.

Giving yourself ample time to take into account delays, you head out to your door in a rush right after you clock off from work. Before you could even step outside the threshold of your home, Simon unexpectedly appears before you; hands curled into a fist by his chest as if he is about to knock on the door. 

“Oh!—Good evening,” you chirp, flashing him a smile. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to come today.” Pulling out your phone, you frown and look over any misread texts you might’ve missed from him.

“I was just ‘round,” he responds in indifference. “Thought I’d drop by, sort your car out.” Simon eyes your handbag and the keys you have clenched in your hand. 

“Where you off to?” 

“I just have this cooking class I signed up for about a month ago,” you say eagerly in the pretense of containing your unease when he looks down at you with his arms crossed. “I’m so sorry, Simon. I have to get going, bus leaves in five and–”

“Didn’t think t’ ask me, then?” 

You look up at him, as if contemplating the words he uttered is sincere or not. “I’d hate to impose and waste your time..”

“Tellin’ me how to spend my time?” His bite of a question reduces you to a flustered mess, copiously denying any negative implications he might have. 

Simon can’t help but scoff and twist his lip at the sight. Honestly, how you get by without him all your life is something he can’t wrap his head around. Luckily for you, your life expectancy just went up now that you’re with him—albeit, he admits, he is still a lesser man—though he promises hell would freeze over before he sees you with a better, deserving man.

“Relax,” he says with a brusque reassurance. “Go on—give us the location.”

It takes you a moment to register his words before you weakly trail after him. You figure asking if he is okay to take you would just be a waste of your breath. So you acquiesce and follow him to his parked truck, let him open the door for you, and pretend that you didn’t feel the graze of his fingertips against your back. 

Once Simon settles into his own and turns the key, he covertly adjusts his blind spot mirror until you come into view. He watches as you fuss with your seatbelt then to your bag, knowing just how anxious he makes you feel.

You’re a good girl and he hates that you know it too. Carrying yourself just a little high but never stooping low enough to condescend. You play nice; give him the time of day—but he knows you would rather send him on his way should you be given the choice. 

That’s why it makes it all so difficult for him—knowing you know your worth to be hanging around a man like him. Simon can’t ask you to bend over so he can fuck you stupid in the backseat of his truck. You’d probably turn your pretty nose up and slap his face like the proper princess you are. 

And worst of all is that he’d take it; he knows he’ll still have the affection to chase. Like a bloodhound tracking blood, sweat, piss—you can go anywhere you like and it’ll never be far enough. For it to be called an exaggeration on his part would be a lie. It is still a viable option reserved for the worst, but you'll probably do something smart and get the police involved. 

Which is why he’s on his best behaviour. So that you could possibly see the vestiges of goodness in him and think him fit to be yours. Simon will never know if he’s the kind to ever settle for marriage; nothing of the sort ever crosses his mind when he thinks beyond the present—always assuming something between a proper burial or a carcass rotting away from an MIA.

And yet with you, he finds himself curious. 

Curious of what it's like to have the whole white picket fence. What's it like for you to call him ‘love.’  What it would be like to have you love him unconditionally; the kinds of arguments you’ll have, and how devastatingly sweet you would be during the make-up sex. Simon will go on further to toy with the idea of a couple of brats crawling around your feet— 

He figures he’ll cross that bridge when he gets there. 

Nonetheless, it’s irrefutable. His nihilistic tendencies subsides when he thinks of you. Simon is daring to change the narrative for himself, and he needs your help to achieve it—because in all honesty? Simon has declared a silent proclamation on the day you called him your husband that he will not accept a life where it isn’t realised. 

Soon enough, the building you’ve checked over a dozen times finally appears ahead. Simon pulls into the lot and just as you’re about to thank him, he tells you to wait as he steps out of the vehicle. 

Your hands pause at the buckle as you follow him walking around the hood of the car, blankly staring before it registers to you that he’s to open your side of the door like a gentleman. Keeping a bashful smile, you thank him in quiet—almost embarrassed that he’s gone through the trouble for the kind gesture. You peek from behind to see him follow you into the lobby—but not before pushing the door ahead from beside you. 

A blonde lady with a neatly tied bun warmly greets at the sight of you two walking in. “Are you two here for the cooking session at six?” 

“Oh, just me,” you clarify as she instructs you to sign your attendance form. 

“Apologies, it’s because couples have a special two for one deal.” 

As if you’ve both been stricken with the same thought; Simon’s eyes meets yours when you whip your head up at him. 

“Do you.. ?” The question never fully leaves your lips as he rubs the side of his chin in contemplation. Simon almost has to contain the smug look on his face when she advises the offer. He never truly believed in some kind of divine intervention—but this surely has to be some kind of providence sent from his manifestations. 

“You always sayin’ that I needed to ‘elp out more ‘round the house; weren’t ya, love?”

The lady behind the desk lights up at his inclination to join before fetching a registration form for him to sign. Meanwhile, you look at him with uncertainty—as if you can’t believe he would willingly choose to spend his Friday night learning how to sauté and blanch vegetables and proteins. 

“Are you sure, Simon?” You ask in a whisper. “I can find my way home. You don’t have to accompany me.” 

“Always meant t’ learn anyway.” He regards you nonchalantly. “You was goin’ on about payin’ me back; think of it as this way of doin’ that.” He signs the waiver and she gestures to the double glass doors to the right. 

“You’ll just ‘ave to pretend t’ be my wife again,” Simon murmurs before opening the door for you. “Hope you can stomach it.”

You’re ready to refute him with a flurry of excuses—that you’re humbled by his kindness, and that you’re grateful to have met someone like him; you can leave out the part where his attention and threatening disposition makes you nervous. But in the end, you would never reproach him when he’s shown you nothing but consideration for your poor situation. 

Instead, you hold his hand and squeeze thoughtfully. 

“I’m happy you’re here.” You smile softly, hoping that your sincerity reaches him. 

Simon looks down at your small hand around his; your fingers outstretched around his palm that you’re unable to close. And for the first time in his life he doesn’t have any smart quips in his arsenal, only settling for a subdued hum. He doesn’t actually quite believe your words—not yet at least; but he would settle for this and take what you’re giving him for now. 

You both take your spots at an unoccupied kitchen island. The ingredients are neatly laid out along the left side of the table, and by the looks of it, you’ll be making an elaborate roast for your first lesson. 

Taking out your pen and notebook diligently from your bag, you wait patiently for the culinary mentor to start. Tapping your fingers, you glance around the room and notice Simon is one of the few men here—endearingly sticking out like a sore thumb; looking entirely out of place. 

The people around are starting to notice the six foot something guy with a hardened mien that’s attended the class; suppressed giggles and glances his way are natural—for you yourself would never admit that you actually find his fair lashes against his warm, brown eyes so, so pretty.

He catches you looking and you regret pretending not to, like you justified what you did was wrong. That sudden insecurity you had when his arms were around you creeps back in. You can’t afford to feel something—not when you’re still figuring out what he meant to you: a passing acquaintance? A friend?

..

You refuse to entertain the idea he was anything more than that.

The thing is, you’ve never been the one to start things without intention—loneliness persists in your day to day life but you can’t see yourself settling for the first person to look your way. And with how convenient he slots himself within your schedule, you refuse to be romanced by proximity. Besides he doesn't see the type to want to win your parents over or even the one to want a serious, lifetime connection. 

Thankfully, the mentor, vetted by prestigious culinary experience, finally begins—distracting you from your thoughts. It continues without a hitch, you follow along easily and Simon is surprisingly cooperative; washing his hands and spatchcocking the chicken with such ease that it earned a commendation from the chef herself.  

His sudden popularity among the teachers and your peers has you simmering with a longing,  envious admiration. You catch one of the mentors passing by to comment on your potatoes. You deflate once she dismissively approves without a second glance. 

Simon gives you a condescending look as he washes the carrots. 

“Don’t patronise me,” you state half-heartedly, resuming your mash with a little too much force. 

“Ain’t said nothin’.” He drones smartly in response. 

Simon cuts the tomatoes beside you and you’re reminded again just how overwhelming he is against your whole being. The knife in his hand could easily be passed off as a butterknife with how comically small it is when he uses it. The tattoos peeking from his sleeves—you don’t know why you’ve bothered to notice, but the motifs he has painted on his skin is rather grim.

You know better than to shrink into yourself around sharp objects—and yet, your mind couldn’t help but wander; call it feminine intuition, but you can’t help but feel as if he likes you. 

Truthfully, the idea of it hasn’t left when his lips touched your fingertips.

Could it be absurd to think so? Too self-absorbed? With how nonchalant he presents himself to be, his actions lead you to believe he might be into you. You are highly suspicious of his game; the theory that his benevolence might be a quid pro quo. 

The thought is onerous—what if you’re to refuse him? What would he do then? Whatever it is, you certainly couldn't stop him.

It sits heavy in your mind, the expectation for reciprocity. You feel burdened by his kindness, his attention—as welcome as they may be, they’re unwarranted. Simon doesn’t look like the type to struggle with attention from anyone, so why does he chase what he can’t have? 

Doesn’t he see what kind of person you are by now? A good, every day samaritan who is far too boring to enjoy unlawful adrenalines. Surely he can tell by how tongue-tied you are by his dark humour, or how his antisocial disposition upsets you whenever you try and make a connection—so why does he continue?

Perhaps you’re to send a subliminal, so that he can see that you are a friend to him.

There really is no ego when considering his possible, romantic attachments. In fact, you might even go as far as to say that he can do better. This is not you demeaning yourself in the slightest way, but forecasting the future ahead; you know that it’s not fair to surmise the kind of values he has, but you think you’ve got a pretty good idea. 

The needs you want in a partner, you don’t think Simon can deliver. You don’t doubt he’ll be good to you, but the discrepancies are already too stark to miss. There is a distant vision of you both fighting; you frustrated at him that he’s nothing like the man you made up in your dreams and him aggrieved at the expectations you set for him on top of the constant faults you point out. 

Without his knowledge, you made his choice for him. He's to look elsewhere because he can’t be what you need him to be; he will surely resent you in the process if you ask him to. 

A sigh absentmindedly leaves your lips; the irony of playing house despite the complexities you feel for the man. 

You didn’t know it then, but with your thoughts endlessly preoccupied with dozens of hypotheticals; you unknowingly drop the freshly cut and very wet potatoes into a pot of hot oil instead of water. 

Simon reacts before you do. You gasp at the sight of oil bubbling over, making sharp, crackling noises and spilling over the countertop. His hand closes around your side, critically setting you aside as he reaches for the handle—unconcerned with how the searing oil splashes onto his forearm with a nasty hiss. Simon wrenches the pot away from the stove and drops it promptly into the sink. 

“Are you okay?”

Immediate guilt wrenches into your stomach. You’ve been assassinating his character in your head when he’s placed himself in the frontline of danger for you. 

Shaking your head you retort back, “are you okay?” 

Two of the mentors came by to check in. Luckily, aside from a few drops of oil on the floor, the damage is minimal. Simon brushes you off when you try and point out how he might’ve been burned in the process—he won’t hear you; you sink further into guilt. 

The remainder of the lesson passes with you leaning close to him, fretting over his hand. Again and again you whisper of his wellbeing, the same quiet questions into his ear; each one he dismisses, as though your concern were nothing more than a nuisance. 

You sit in the passenger seat with a warm, manila bag resting on your lap, the savoury smell of roast filling the car. A slight frown tugs at the corner of your lips as you look towards him. His hand is now red, and you are unrest with the lack of consideration he gives it. You suggest stopping by a hospital, a GP, the chemist—anything. 

He ignores you and takes the route directly to your home. You don’t get out of the car unless you see to his burn—this he inclines all too easily. 

Simon is now perched comfortably on your sofa, making himself at home with his head against the backrest and his legs spread apart. 

You sigh as you gather your supplies under your arm. Padding through the hallway, you crouch before you sit on the floor, placing the items onto the low wooden table. Setting aside the teas and biscuits you haphazardly made for him, you gesture for him to hold out his hand—in which he wordlessly obliges. 

It is a nasty sight; bright, red, angry, shiny patches. You wonder as to why he’s so vehement in tolerating the pain instead of treating it straight away. Male ego—you suppose. 

Applying a generous dollop of the burn-aid gel, you soothe the area gently so as to not irritate it further. Unfortunately, the gel only came in travel-sized tubes from the first aid kit—and you’ve squeezed it dry knowing this burn will continue to singe. 

Which is why you’ve brought out your high-end aloe vera gel from your vanity that you use explicitly for your aesthetics. It’s not meant explicitly for a superficial injury such as this, but you are confident it’ll soothe his skin and alleviate the pain. 

“Keep applying this throughout the next few days,” you advise, offering out the sleek, verdant cube with slight gold accents. 

Simon scoffs as he waves away your vetted, topical treatment that eats up your savings, mumbling out an affronted line claiming it’ll heal on its own. Your brows and lips are downturned at his petulant attitude. 

What is it with men and medical attention?

“Why are you being so difficult?” you finally say, exasperated.

“Difficult?” he repeats.  “I’m sittin’ ‘ere like a proper patient, ain’t I?” You have nothing to say back; only a scolding, pleading look. Simon concedes with a roll of his eyes. 

“Alrigh’ fine. Give it ‘ere”

He gives it a look over before raising a light brow and setting it beside him. 

“You’re posh.” Simon comments unwarrantedly. 

“And you ain’t livin’ right.” You quip smartly, slipping into a hint of his cockney accent. Unravelling and cutting a loose fitting gauze, you carefully apply it to his forearm all the while he watches you from above. When you’re satisfied that it’s secure, you begin to pack the supplies back into the kit. 

Simon glances over your work before lazily tossing his arm to the side. 

“What?” he grunts. “You not gonna give it a kiss better?” His tone is dry, but you know it was his poor attempt at a joke.

It’s your turn to roll your eyes despite the slight smile playing on your lips. Your hands suddenly slow before deliberating into a complete stop as you look back in hindsight of the day—no weeks, that had transpired. 

“I’m very sorry, Simon..” You feel so small at the apology; not daring to look at his face lest he gives you a look that sinks you further into shame. 

“Wha’ for?” 

“For everything.” Your eyes widened slightly at the statement. “I think I’m bad luck on you.” 

This he laughs at. “Yeah, maybe.” He thinks it’s funny; but you are sincere. 

“You’re really kind.” You finally have the courage to face him when you say, “Truly; I don’t think I deserve all your help, but you insist anyway—and for that I’m really grateful. I mean it. If there’s a chance for me to repay the favours, you just call and I’ll come running.”

Simon is silent for the longest time, long enough for you to wonder if you’ve said something out of line. You’re about to break the stillness but he beats you to it.

“Wha’ if I told you I wasn’t?” 

Like a stone cast into a sleeping pond. 

“That I’m a selfish man; an angry man; a righ’ pissed geezer. Would you regret lockin’ in your door with me inside then?” You don’t know why Simon is trying to scare you but you call his bluff—not because you don’t believe his words, but out of something akin to survival rather than courage.

“I find that hard to believe.” You shut the kit down with a sharp clip. “And I only regret to have caused you so much trouble.”

He hums at that before adding, “guess you have.”

“You’re supposed to say the opposite.” You admonish playfully, giving him a slight glare. You laugh lightly, deciding the banter is more comfortable than his usual brooding silence—even if his humour isn’t exactly to your liking. 

“Thought honesty’s the best policy.” He shrugs—and you don’t know why you feel just a little hurt by that. 

“Then why do you do it?” the question slips before you even think. 

Simon looks into the distance before responding simply, “Maybe I’ve got too much time on my hands,” He sighs as he stretches lazily. “Comin’ over around yours like I lived ‘ere—that it’s dead sad seein’ you struggle like that, like you ain’t got a clue what you doin’.” His gaze drifts back to consider you once again.

“Or maybe I just like you.” He snags a twisted, cynical smile when he scoffs out, “God knows; wha’ do you think?” 

You don’t know if he’s making fun of you or if he’s genuinely being honest—you don’t like either possibility. 

“I think it’s getting pretty late.” Your reply is soft and ambivalent, avoiding his stare as you get up to excuse yourself. You didn’t exactly lie; it’s well past midnight and where you should be huddled under the covers—you’re tending to a poor man’s wounds for the past hour, entertaining conversations that could be misconstrued as something more.

His words find themselves in your heart. Instead of brushing them off like the dust on your shelf you wipe before placing the box back in their place, you’re immediately confronted by the need to answer. 

You are sure he’s a good man—not the sort you’d usually find yourself wanting—but no reasonable cause for you to turn him down either. And thus, the feeling you have is horrible. You don’t know why this man is insistent on you. While whether his intentions are borne out of pure kindness or to leverage himself in your heart is unclear, you do know you don’t feel anything for him. 

There are certain qualities you imagine yourself with, characters in which he seems to fall short in. Simon is a great man; a better friend, in fact. You’re torn with the chance of losing him altogether—and perhaps what he would do should you refuse him. 

Treading lightly back to the living room, you are surprised to find Simon completely knocked out on your couch. He sleeps upright with the side of his face resting on one side, chest rising with a slow and deep ebb and flow. 

“Simon..” You whisper, hesitant as you approach closer to his being. “You can’t stay here..” 

Looking at the time, you purse your lips and decide that the pity you have for him weighs far too heavy than the boundaries you’ve set up. Quietly gathering a spare fleece blanket, you dim down the lights and drag your heater closer to the couch. 

Simon wonders if he really is with the land of the living or if he's finally kicked the bucket. But too many tell-tale signs reminds him that he’s alive—because the stale air around him still lingers and the obnoxious, blinding lights have finally given him a slight migraine that rings softly in the back of his head. And above all, Simon can feel the blood pumping through his veins; he can feel his heart beating—pulsing so hard he fears you can hear it too.

“Please excuse my husband—he hasn’t listened to me since I told him Arsenal is better than Man. United.”

You dig into your purse before flashing the employee your card. The woman takes a quick scan of your printed picture and back up to your face; her face remains hard and unconvinced. “Why do you not have a household card?” 

Simon raises his brows slightly and crosses his arms, looking down at you expectantly, wondering what you’ll say next to cover up your impromptu façade. Impressively, her question doesn’t shake you. Instead, you casually tuck the card back into the pocket of your purse and stand closer beside him—close enough that he suddenly feels off about himself. Like he isn’t sure why he’s caring about his attire that haphazardly chose this morning—or how the scent of his aftershave that permeates his being might be received. 

So he hardens his face and resolve, flexing his taut muscles as if the tension alone could will away the flicker of doubt he refuses to acknowledge. 

“I’ve just never bothered to change it—especially since he rarely comes with me to do the groceries.” You bump your shoulder against him lightly in playful admonishment. 

Simon is afraid to admit to himself that the touch was electrifying.

Quite embarrassing really that you, a pretty stranger, could have such an effect on him. He doesn’t necessarily consider himself a philanderer, but he also doesn't consider himself particularly celibate either. He had his fair share of experiences with women—tasted them enough to kill the mystery.

The countless nights where he tangled with naked limbs in the throes of passion had never reset him back to his awkward youth. But somehow with you, he is reminded of what he used to be; where simple, innocuous exchanges would render him useless. 

Simon clenches his jaw and puffs up his chest. 

“Next time, if you come without your wife you will still be refused entry—doesn’t matter if she is a member, you have to come with her or exchange your membership card for a household one.” She waves the two of you off to continue manning her post with more shoppers trickling in.

You take a furtive look back behind your shoulder before sharing him a knowing smile. 

“They’re very tight on security around here, unfortunately you have to show your card when you checkout as well.”

Simon notices the way you do not attempt to abandon him, keeping close to him like a familiar friend. He bites the bottom corner of his lip to keep it from pulling and looks ahead after stalling his gaze a second too much. 

On your end, your stomach was doing leaps, walking aimlessly with a stranger who you thought would be filled with gratitude. You imagine a scene where you both share a laugh at the whole situation—something along the lines of cheating the system; the man would tell you that it is his first time at this store, tell you that the security was as tight as the military, and thank you for your generosity and quick wit to help out a poor, lost soul like him. 

Instead he passively strolls at a leisurely pace, letting you take the lead of the direction—which makes sense as he has never stepped foot here before—but his silence was overbearing; your previous attempt failed to invoke some sort of conversation from him. 

You begin to overthink—perhaps, you have overstepped. 

Perhaps he does not need nor appreciate the help—that he would want to sign up for a membership on the spot and not have a convoluted lie follow him from a stupid, intrusive stranger who gave him an unwarranted favour. Thinking about it much harder, he does not seem like the type to even ask for help. 

Big. Formidable. Intimidating. You’re now all too aware of the tattoos that ran across his arm, the scars and the permanent glower etched onto his face. You’re never the type to make assumptions based on another’s appearance, but the man next to you has you breathing slow and careful—waiting for the moment he’ll cuss you out for dragging him into your needless fabrication. 

Your mind races as you second guess your actions—but he never protests. 

Still, he allows you near and yet you still feel small next to him. Like a stray dog, you are unsure whether he’ll bite your hand if you keep stretching it out. 

When you feel the moment has gone far too long with words unspoken, you instinctively kick your sociable, friendly pretence into overdrive—something to quell this oppressive hold he seemingly domineers over you. You start with your name. 

“I come here once or twice a month, I don’t necessarily need a bulk every time but I guess it’s just the novelty of shopping wholesale—plus their bakery selection is amazing!” You look up at him with eyes wide and hopeful, desperate for just one acknowledging nod.

“Simon.” The man finally utters. You inconspicuously breathe out a sigh of relief and he contains the blood rushing to his cock when you repeat his name to yourself. 

“What are you after? I noticed you didn’t grab a cart, something small?” Your steps instinctually lead you to the fresh produce aisle you religiously start with.

You stop slowly, inspecting the array of fruits and vegetables before you. He adjusts the crotch of his pants when you busy yourself with finding the ripest box of strawberries.

Simon clears his throat before replying, “steak cuts.” 

“Oh I won’t be long then–” He cuts you off by taking a sharp breath through his teeth and shakes his head. 

“Take your time,” Simon says with a gruff, slight upward tilt of his chin—and for some strange reason, you feel the need to comply. It’s as if he was your commanding officer, and he just gave you an order you’re bound to fulfill. You feel comfortable and uncomfortable all the same. He gives you no reason for you to be afraid of him, yet not enough for you to let your guard down. 

You give a frail smile and put down your chosen box of berries. Unexpectedly, Simon grabs a hold of the handle and begins pushing, in which you entwine your fingers at the end of the metal cart, allowing you to resume taking charge of the navigation. 

When you look back to flash him a gracious mien, Simon is suddenly lost in his view.

Time seemingly ceases to exist. The world he once knew unravels before him. His core beliefs—his ingrained convictions after years of moving through life with grit are now being questioned. His soul that is tempered by struggle and unyielding resolve, weathering the harshness of whatever finds him; it slips through his fingers like sand. 

The meaning of life. The purpose of his existence is suddenly here. In a wholesale warehouse. With you.

This sudden domestic bliss. Unfamiliar, surreal, hopeful—it makes him sick and yet he craves it all the same. 

His ghost leaves him for a mere moment, leaving him whole and human. For the first time he is unsure, can someone like him be deserving of something so good—something so innocent and pure? After all he’s done, what he’s seen—does he even deserve someone like you? 

Simon is not above stealing. No stranger to the sins condemned in every house of god. Anything shiny he’ll take—no moral conundrum in himself or as to how his actions would make him seem to those who have the chance to perceive him. 

And yet he is laughably wary and wanting. He wants to earn it, wants it given to him freely, unconditionally—can’t pull your hand in his and drive off in his truck to where you’ll cease to exist to none other than him in this world. No—you’ll run for the hills, won’t look at him the same way ever again, he’ll be lost to you forever. 

This time something is different. He doesn't know what happened—but something happened.

All Simon knows is that he wants you to keep calling him ‘honey,’ introduce him as your big, silly husband to the masses—wants you to want him just the same, and you’re making it so hard for him to stay grounded to reality. 

He doesn’t allow himself to be deluded enough to believe your kindness was only reserved for him—there are others before, and a part of him finds himself resenting you for that. 

It doesn’t matter. In the end he’ll have you on your knees begging for his forgiveness, pleading for mercy for how could you possibly think to be so generous to anyone other than him. Just the mere fact that this isn’t your first time is enough for him to persecute you. There will be no leniency—won’t hear it, doesn’t care if you weren’t aware of his existence prior to this; he’s astute in his jurisdiction. 

Simon slouches languidly against the handles with his arms crossed in front of him. His eyes follow your swinging hips as you walk ahead, blissfully unaware of his perverted fantasy to bend you over his knee and have you atone for the sins you’ve transgressed against him; he’ll make you believe as if kindness and decency were crimes worth condemning. Simon will do proper work to get through to you. A scornful, apathetic woman to the rest; a simpering, delicate bird just for him. 

The cart quickly fills up with time. You begin to feel your shoulders drop, slowly learning to be comfortable with the silence, but you never let it linger long enough for it to be prolonged; always at the ready to share your personal opinion on the products you meticulously choose. You point out their longevity, their taste—hell, you’re sharing with him how much he can save by doing calculations on your phone. 

Your prattle doesn’t seem to exhaust him, even if all he replies is in either a grunt or a nod; his eyes and demeanor tells you he’s ready to receive whatever you have to say. An oddly endearing feeling. 

“Oh—Simon,” you stop him in the middle of traversing into another aisle. “They’re handing out free samples!” You're embarrassingly too excited about this. You catch yourself when he gives you a slight huff accompanied by a faint grin. “Would you mind waiting? O-Or you’re free to go on ahead without me, I’ll catch up with you later.” 

You turn and join the small hoard of customers waiting for the next fresh batch of dumplings to be served. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, you do not dare to look back—instead, your attention is now solely on the savoury pieces of steam-fried morsels of assorted meat and vegetables. You await your turn with impatience, feeling anxious at the time you’re taking away from the man and his one, single item he means to purchase. 

Finally, when you stand at the front of the counter, the woman behind gives you two pieces in lieu of one as per everyone else. When you think it’s just good karma coming your way, she acknowledges you with a gushingly, sweet grin, “you two are absolutely adorable.” 

“Oh..” Your mind works overtime to generate the meaning behind her comment before you grasp it entirely. Simon stands imposingly behind you—eyeing the dumplings wrapped in parchment paper liners in your hands.

You look back at the woman to give a bashful smile. “We’re not–” Strong arm winds its way naturally around your waist, guiding you gently into the gravity of his being. The words fall silent at your lips; your eyes search for his, glancing up cautiously and gauging his face to read into his intentions. Simon instead softly envelopes your wrist and leads it to his mouth, easily capturing the sample with a quick swipe. 

Your bewilderment must have been plain on your face, seizing your features altogether as he chews absentmindedly to the side and gives a curt nod to the cooing woman before him. 

“It’s good,” he approves with calm indifference. 

You don’t reply; a spell enchants you, rendering you useless in speech. 

You wonder if this is appropriate, whether you both had gone too far for a simple subscription to shop in a discounted store. Granted, you were the one who initiated the ruse of being a married couple—however, with this man, it is difficult to gauge if he is a willing participant in the silly, white lie of your own making. 

So you are entirely blindsighted when he leans in and soothes the sides of your hip with his thumb, casually asking you if you wanted a bag to take for home. 

In the end, two bags of dumplings now sits neatly at the front of your cart—one spicy, the other original. Simon has yet to let go of you, even when you both are far out of line of sight from the woman who enthusiastically asked far too many questions for you to be comfortable with.

It was easy to put out a blanket statement, but turning the lie into something more personal, something more lucrative—knowing you could never back it up if you ever come across her again—made you restless, for this particular Costco was one of your usual haunts. 

When the temperature shifts, indicating that the fresh meat and seafood selection is near, you vacantly pull from his embrace to busy yourself by scanning at the rows of packaged salmon, studying its vibrancy in colour with tunnel vision to conceal the tremor in your chest. 

Too absorbed in your own focus, you fail to notice the disappointment that flickers across his face—how his hand follows the spot he previously occupied longingly; Simon clenches his fist in defeat and lets it fall limp at his side. 

He picks up two packs of Aberdeen Angus in one hand and returns to his post by the cart. You look back and set the kilo of salmon back down to join him readily with an air of ease. A moment of solitude with you and the fishes is enough for you to gather your thoughts and dismiss your need to read into the meaning between the lines that were never written.

“All done?” you ask, pushing the cart towards the entrance to check out. Simon trails behind you, and this time you don’t endeavour to fill in the silent gaps with your small talks—though every part of you inclines to do the opposite—it feels somewhat natural, to leave what is needlessly complicated behind and forgotten on this busy Saturday morning.

Walking up to a slightly less crowded register, you begin to unload your items into the conveyor belt strategically, placing your boxed and compact goods before your fresh and delicate produce. When you’ve empty the bottom of your cart, you take the sizable prime cuts of meat from his hand with a reassuring smile and place it among your other items as well.

Simon lets you, albeit not without a quiet struggle of hesitancy from his end—in which you find rather gentlemanly of his character. He’s even more so when he joins you at your side to help you load the checked items back into the trolley, effortlessly deciphering your preferences and aligning them to your own design.

After you sort the final pieces neatly together, you sift through your purse once again for your membership card to the cashier. He gives your ID a quick once-over, nods in routine satisfaction and hands it back over to you. Just as you’re pulling your credit card from its tight confines to pay, you hear a mechanical beep quickly following suit.

The receipt monotonously rolls out a copy of your invoice as Simon casually slips his wallet back in his back pocket. You’re reeling—you can’t fathom what just happened. He takes the receipt from the clerk without much thought and begins to drag the cart from the register with one hand to make way for the hoard waiting behind. 

“Simon!” You exclaim in quiet, eyes wide-eyed with disbelief, trailing after him as he takes the lead towards the exit. 

He only spares you a sideways glance, waiting for you to continue, as if what he just did were nothing at all; but you wait a beat for him to explain. Comment on the reimbursement of his purchase on your behalf. Elaborate on the efficiency he has done for you as a favour. Give a simple shrug. Anything. 

Instead, his countenance remains still, like he can’t quite understand you’re looking at him like that and calling out his name with such urgency. 

‘This man really has no social cues,’ you think—teetering on the verge of a crash out after a full morning reading into the obscurity of him as a being, second-guessing your words and gestures towards him. Your social energy is spent, and this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

You shake your head lightly and let out a soft sigh of laughter while still settling your gaze at him. Social diplomacy has always been part of your strength; avoiding direct demands and fluffing requests to preserve a sense of decorum is embedded in your speech and character. And now you find yourself getting tired of it—tired of him. He wants you to spell it out for him—and perhaps you should. You should figure by now he probably receives directness better than skirting around niceties. 

“Give me your bank account details.” You pull out your phone and tap your screen rapidly with haste. “I'll transfer you right now, who are you with?”

He’s lost interest entirely.

“Don’t worry 'bout it.” 

You blanch, unimpressed at his answer. “I can’t let you pay for over a hundred pounds worth of groceries for me.”

“Why?” he furrows his brows together. The question is not meant to challenge, but one to understand. 

“Simon,” you hold on to the handle of the cart he’s taken control of before he strays further from the exit. “It doesn’t feel right on my end to have someone else pay for something that substantial—especially when I’m fully capable of covering for it myself.”

He straightens at your words. Looking down at the space where your hand nearly meets his at the handle before looking at your steadfast disposition; he curses silently at your sweet face. 

In the end he could give fuck all about being reimbursed—but Simon isn’t quite ready for this dream to end just yet. And so, he expects this—expects the refusal from you. Fully aware that the unspoken rules of courtesy that you live by will keep you from accepting his act of generosity; tying him to you indefinitely until a similar, if not grander, gesture is repaid.

More than that, there is another incentive in this predicament he’s designed; he, a generous stranger who’s overpaid the favour, and you, will keep him in the back of your mind from now, always. 

“You saved me a trip back; I don’t come 'ome empty-handed,” He says simply. “Just payin' it forward, alright love.”

You begin to feel the invisible string that entangles you to him—a debt that grows with interest, compounding over time—and you mean to cut it. 

“Where'd you park?” 

A quiet conundrum remains with you, restless at the unresolved matter you take an issue with and even more so when your case is denied. In spite of all that, you guide him to your hatchback pulled in conveniently near the trolley bay; your apprehension is easy to see.

Simon helps you load your items into the back when you’ve unlocked it. You peer up at him from the corner of your eyes, looking for any kind of indication of smug—a sense of gratification or doubt that might flicker across his face. And yet he remains composed, simply focusing on lifting the heavier items you struggle to carry on your own and into the trunk thoughtfully.

Once you place the final item inside, you finally find your voice with a vestige of courage to offer him some goodwill to settle the debt there and then. 

“Would you like a membership card?” You ask hopefully. Recalling the reason why you are with him in the first place. It seems like the best outcome for both parties, honouring each others’ generosity and kindness and parting ways with no strings attached. “I would love to pay—in fact, I insist.”

Simon quickly shoots down your offer, head shaking in refusal. Simon sucks the air through his teeth to reinforce his answer. He looks off towards the vast parking lot, hands on his hips before his attention returns to you, “Doubt I’ll be back 'ere.” 

You’re deflated but you accept defeat in his answer, albeit not without one last attempt to repay the favour. Your phone unlocks with a single tap of your thumb as you navigate the home screen to your contacts application, handing it to him with a blank profile at the ready.

“Well, at least give me your number—just in case you ever need the money back, in some way or another.” you explain, unsure in the latter part of your words but you’re hopeful he’s sensibly across the meaning behind them. 

This he does not refuse.

Simon punches his numbers into your phone and dials it for good measure. When he feels the familiar buzz of his cell in his pocket, he presses the end call button before handing it to you.

“Thanks—and yes, call or text me anytime you need anything. And truly, thank you for paying for my groceries—you really, really didn’t have to.” You take a second to laugh softly behind your hands, alleviating the absurdity and the awkward tension of it all when he allows you to ramble by yourself.

“Uh.. I hope you enjoyed your first shopping experience here—so much so you might come back? Maybe? Not too late for me to shout you that card.”

With his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he shakes his head again with a slight curve playing in one corner of his lips.

“Well maybe the quality of that steak is so good you’ll dream of it for days and beg me for one when you run out.” 

Your smile strains when he doesn’t join in on your playful quip. Instead he looks amused, almost satisfied with how much you seem to be enjoying yourself in this one-sided conversation. If you were a bit more pessimistic, you would think that he’s making fun of you—but you would ruminate on that later in the late hours of the night when you’re trying to sleep.

“Alright then, it was nice to meet you—and yeah, let me know when.” You take your leave first, turning your feet around towards the driver’s seat, but not without looking back to give him a small wave to keep up pleasantries. “See you.” Your words travel light and fragile, but he receives it all the same. 

Simon nods in acknowledgement before taking his own leave when you shut the door beside you. Taking steady strides to his truck parked all the way across the lot, he repeats your registration plate like a mantra under his breath with an absentminded shadow of a smile painted across his face. 

When he finally disappears from view from your rearview mirror, you let your head fall against the headrest and sigh in relief. As if you’re Atlas, the weight on your shoulders is relieved when you no longer burden yourself with the world. Closing your eyes tight in exasperation before looking up at the ceiling of your car, you take a moment to settle in what you had done to over complicate a simple errand run. 

The feeling is heavy; being monetarily indebted to someone you don’t quite know—none other than that, to someone who is horribly unsociable and taciturn. This didn’t turn out exactly how you would want it to go, and now you sit and wonder just how you had let this happen.

First of all, there is no reason for you to turn the other cheek if it costs you more than you’re willing to give. It seemed simple enough back then. The man clearly intends to purchase from the store, there was no reason for that lady to berate him publicly. The woman must’ve thought that she’s just doing her job—but to you it felt like a power trip. And so you feel for him when he just stands there and takes it. 

Your overly big and sensitive heart felt the inconsiderate reprimand like it was also yours to receive. That’s why helping him felt like second nature to you. In your mind, you had it all planned out. You get to stick it to the needlessly strict corporate rules and he gets to shop in peace. You’ll both share the same sentiment of how cruel the public display was, he’ll profusely show his gratitude through kind words and you would feel a great sense of self-satisfaction knowing you’re a good person. 

Then you imagine the both of you exchanging in some playful banter, turning a rough start to a pleasant shopping experience in the early morning before you inevitably part ways—never to see each other again, but yet look back to think of this encounter as a fond memory to tell others. 

However, this man is different. 

You can’t read him as well as you do for others. You would rather him show his hands freely even if they're not the most agreeable to you. Preferring some kind of sign of indignation even, in lieu of being so reclusive and withdrawn yet—annoyingly rational.

And now he has your number and you’re sitting on the edge of your seat for his call at anytime. 

It’s at these times you catch yourself recognising your weakness in character. Your kindness, it’s performative. You know part of the reason why you help is that it’s so you could also feel good about yourself—and you’re only as good as your last impression, keeping it up is what you struggle with. You could only spare so much of yourself for a stranger before it gets too close for comfort. 

But that’s all meaningless now; your karma has been reversed. 

You strongly believe that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction—and it doesn’t apply to just physics. Your intention to help out a man shop for his own groceries, have him transfer you his fair share has now ended up with you being a-hundred-and-eighty-four pounds indebted towards him. It doesn’t feel good. The feeling still lingers even when you pull from the parking lot.

It starts with a bad day that cascades into a spate of misfortune, and ends with you scraping together the meagre remainder of your pay just to treat yourself to dinner after a series of stress-filled months and burnout. 

Half-hoping to relax—for once—in a comfortable restaurant, eat good food, and stuff the splintering chasm inside yourself with Amritsari Kulcha, Papri Chaat, Biryani, and Salty Lassi—a bandaid over a sinkhole, really; but it's infinitely better than the microwave dinners and Pepsi you've been surviving on for the past few weeks. 

Good food, after all, heals the soul. 

But midway through dinner, you meet an older man when your fingers are dripping with the rich gravy from your Kadhai Paneer. He's ruggedly handsome—tall, broad shouldered; hairy (what winks out at you from the tugged collar of his red flannel button-down can only be described as fur)—and decidedly interested in you for some reason. Asks why you're alone. Why you're eating alone. Seems annoyed by the idea of it, as if you sitting at a small table, discreetly trying to wipe the sauce off your fingers (and secretly mourning not being able to just lick it off—a waste of such delicious, gingered gravy, really) was an affront.

You're not one to open up to strangers, but sometimes it's easier to talk to people you don't know than it is the ones you do, so when he pulls a chair over, it just—

It just pours out.

A deluge that leaves you trauma dumping over Samosa Chaat. 

Opening up to a man, a stranger, this dangerously attractive is a new low—even for you—but you soothe the sting of humiliation when you reach the part about your recent performance review by clinging to the simple truth that you'll likely never see him again. And even if you could, you wouldn't—

Not after sheepishly admitting that you've been doing nothing except work, come home and slink into your depression roster of comfort shows (and trashy reality television when your patheticism reaches an all-time high and you need something, someone else, to soothe the burn of it), eat terrible food, and nap until your alarm goes off and you lay in bed staring at the waterlogged ceiling, contemplating the sheer relief you'd feel if you got into a minor accident—nothing major, you hastily tell him when those dark brows raise a touch; but you think it would be a little bit of a sweet reprieve to spend a few days in the hospital—before the sad realisation that no one else is around to pay the bills for you comes back, and you're forced to drag your limp, tired body out of sheets that reek of sleep and paste on some approximation of a friendly face before going out and getting chewed up by the gears of life that never stop turning.

(god, won't they ever stop turning?)

It's almost cathartic. 

He listens, too. Quietly. Mullish. Almost impassively, you'd say, if you couldn't see the tick in his jaw beneath a dense layer of fur. It almost shames you. Almost because when he notices where your gaze drifts, and the slow, sudden diffident curling around your words, he pulls back. Reshapes himself with a single breath. Gone is the ire, the flare of anger. The tick of his jaw. All that remains is the tight, rhythmic clench of his fist pulling together so tightly, his knuckles bleach stark white beneath the gold glow of the overhead lights. The veins lacing his thick, hairy forearms bulge in a series of blue-green rivulets that disappear under the haphazard, uneven fold of his sleeves just beneath his elbow.

After a moment of silence, a brief interlude where you're not sure if you should start monologuing about your terrible apartment or your boss, he leans back in his chair, legs spread, splayed out until his knee knocks into your thigh, and huffs:

"sounds like you need a drink."

And it does. But you can't. Won't. "No," you etch out between slow, steady breaths. "That's a habit I don't want to get into."

He absorbs your words quietly, but looks—

annoyed.

"Sorry," you offer, but you're not sure why. "I just don't—"

"It's fine," he grunts, shaking his head. The tick is back. "How 'bout a coffee, then, mm? Tea?"

"Oh, um—"

Your hesitation brings out a strange rumble in his chest. A quiet, loose purr.

"My treat."

Rent, bills—phone, internet, insurance, monthly bus pass—and groceries have left you with nothing except one hundred and fifty until your next pay—a solid eighty of which are currently spread out before you (an optimal choice because it was buy one, get one free—even if you think the owner was just making it up because he felt bad—and you'll have leftovers for the next two days) and the rest will likely be spent on something else that pops up, like the slow coagulation of water and mould between the upper floor and your ceiling. Turning down a free coffee, or tea, isn't really something you want to do, even if the man offering makes you a little nervous, a little wary.

like a child, you think. He just has this air about him that reeks of authority. Of a hidden meanness that is one more no away from rearing its ugly head.

So you say yes—yes, sir, actually, and ignore the wicked flare in his blue eyes (a portend, perhaps; your mother always warned you about blue-eyed devils, after all)—and slowly start gathering your things while he flags down the only waitress in the restaurant, a young girl popping her gum behind the til and scrolling through tiktok on her phone. She brings takeout containers and the bill, and both of you ignore the perplexing pinch in his brow—because maybe he just doesn't understand that Indian food is amazing served hot and fresh, but somehow even better after it cools, after all the aromatic spices have a chance to soak into the gravy, to congeal and rest, elevating it into something godlike. You're taking it home. All of it.

And do, adding it to a small tote she pulls from behind the counter with their logo on it. nah, don't worry, she says when you ask her how much it is. it's on the house. a sweet gesture—until she adds: "you used to come here, like, every weekend, anyway. And we got worried when you didn't show. Had to talk my parents out of calling in a welfare check—but that's only because I saw you on the subway—"

The strangled thanks! makes him chuff. Thick arms folding over his broad chest as he taunts every weekend, mm? and you try to disappear into the crater of foam on the seat between the split in the pleather upholstery.

He shakes his head, almost fond; but something shifts across his face: a small frisson. A sudden wash of darkness after a thick, dense cloud drifts over the sun—

But it's gone in seconds. Tucked back inside deep, ragged canyons of blue that are a little darker now than they were earlier. Hidden behind a smile that creases his eyes until they, too, are almost gone.

"C'mon. Been itchin' for some good coffee all day—"

The girl leaves, throwing a loose grin over her shoulder. You make to call her back, you haven't paid, but his hand curls over the takeout tote, tugging. Don't worry about it is rasped out soft and low: I already got it.

But he didn't ask, and you're not sure if you would have said yes. Coffee is one thing. A—ninety-eight dollar—meal is another. You wonder if he knows you're not interested in—in hooking up. Not with a man old enough to be your father. Not with a man who reeks of barely leashed anger, and oozes a palpable sense of unflinching control. You have a life—however pathetic it is—and you're too young for—

for that.

for him.

(to be twisted up into a doll. a housewife. shelved until it's needed. collecting dust until he decides it's playtime. you like your independence. you want freedom, not a cage—)

So when he grunts, jerks his chin to the side, and says: "comin'?"

You say—

yes.

(you've always had a problem with speaking your mind and saying no—)

And this defect, this flaw, becomes apparent when he leaves the restaurant with just your things, and nothing of his own:

"You, uh, you weren't eating...?"

He slants a long look in your direction. Something like—like derision bubbles to the surface. "Nah," he evades, lips quirking up into a sly smirk. "Jus' pickin' somethin' up."

A noise grates in your ears. In your head. A whirring. A warning. The static, uneasy buzz of bees—soldiers fluttering around in uniform chaos; screaming about the threat looming closer to the hive, to the queen. You feel hot. Restless.

He nudges you into a small alcove, the bulk of his body sealing off every exit until all you can see, all you feel and smell is him. Spiced with bad choices; leather and ruin. Something metallic—

(later, you'll realise the stone-like scent is pure iron; but that'll only be after the cage doors snap shut.)

Heady. Masculine. The scent of him is unlike anything you've ever smelled before. Equal parts comfort and safety (palo santo, sun-scorched sand; tobacco and dark, aged whiskey; rotting paper—lignin, furfural—and a damp, old basement in a house you don't remember but could never forget) and fear (stagnant water, kelp: like rotting wood pulled from from the deep sea; fire, smoke; sulphur; something rotten—cadaverine, putrescine—and sweat). The sharp dichotomy is dizzying. Paralyzing.

he pulls you in closer. His breath carries the smell of the ocean: the seafloor. His mouth splits into a grin. "Don't worry, sweetheart; nothin' is gonna hurt you—"

is what he says, but what you hear is: except me.

You swallow so hard, it aches.

But the no never comes. The no never has a chance to claw out from the sediment before he's pulling you along, dragging you into a place that's not a cafe, but a club. Pushing you into a booth. Boxing you in with a grunt, a barking demand for two whiskeys, neat. And a bottle of spring water.

You want to say i'm not drinking but what comes out instead is thank you, sir.

"Call me John when we're in public, sweetheart—"

The rest is nestled into the gleam of his teeth when leans down, hand cradling a glass full of murky amber, urging you to drink. Easy. jus' a sip. There's a good girl—

Simple words that rewrite your evening with a rough, calloused hand, and worn knuckles that scrape against the too-soft skin of your cheekbone when he grazes them over your flesh as the world turns into a smear, a kaleidoscope, of colour and sounds.

One sip turns into three, six. Into a full glass (two fingers, he grunts into your ear, teeth grazing your heated, feverish skin; remember tha'; it's how I like my whiskey, sweetheart—), another. Another—

Between the third and fourth, his fingers slipped between your lips. You slurp and gag around the thick spread of them as he watches, leaning back. Legs kicked apart, thick thighs spread. His other hand cradles his own glass—two fingers is slurred out against blunt nails; good girl comes with a scrape against your tongue that makes you shiver. At perfect, unquestionable ease with his fingers in your mouth. In public—shush, baby, no one is watchin'—with a stranger.

But the world tilts before the panic has a chance to rise. The swirling, sickening spill of colour is awash with black ink, and the last thing you see is drenched knuckles pasted across the background of gleaming teeth wrapped around a cigar.

"'bout time it kicked in—"

and then nothing more.

Marred in hazy, fracturing images is the weight of a body over yours.

A man. Palo Santo and the deep sea. Held between the unforgiving heat of a big, thick body—all hard lines and dense fur—and the soft, dampening cushion of a mattress.

It's all muddled. Stumbling out of a club you didn't want to go to, ankles wobbling on the pavement. The taste of whiskey and ginger-kissed tomato gravy on your tongue. Soft murmurs into your temple. Plans forming between alleys and streets. Takin' you home. You're a good girl. The best. Gonna be such a good—

The press of wood against your back. Fingers slipping, skating over slick flesh. Peeling your clothes off until they're pooled at your feet, sitting on the floor like a distant, murky polaroid. Familiar—in a faded, muted way; like flipping through a photo album and finding yourself nestled between the pages. Recognising yourself, but not the place. The event. A birthday party, maybe; but it's all wrapped up in cling film. Remember that? but the answer is always no.

He feels like that. The thick, soft thigh sliding between your knees, wrenching them apart, is a memory you keep reaching for, but can never catch. The rasp of hair against sensitive skin. The flicker of heat pooling behind your navel when he blunts his thigh against your cunt.

The no, too, is a memory you keep reaching for, but can never catch.

Kisses cut like little knives across your skin, leaving shallow lines that weep with the red-hot ooze of blood cooling in the stagnant air of a bedroom you don't belong in.

He says mm, you feel so good—

And it makes you feel good, too. A pat on the head. A kiss on your forehead. good job wrapped up in a i'm proud of you and a i love you that normally never comes.

It's easy, then, to find some form of comfort in him—however twisted up and rotten it might be. A succor. A facsimile of softness, of care. Like the bed—

The bed is soft. His body is, too. Soft and furry and hot. A bracket above you. His arms a tight, inescapable parenthesis curled beside your temple. He looms, arched overhead like a tower; a monument. Each roll brings him closer to you, close enough to blunt his damp chin into your sweat-slicked forehead. Small kisses to soothe the ache below: a steady, unending pain that grows, that throbs, when he rocks into you, giving you that kiss.

Everything is wrapped up in a wet, syrupy heat. The slick, slippery drag of your inner thighs over his ribs, the backs glueing to the damp fur on his chest when he bends down, and folds you into a new, unfamiliar shape. Opening you up wider. The slick, tacky pressure between your legs, at the apex of your hips; a burn—like a stretch, like a tear. A trickling drip of molten tar that makes his eyes roll when he sees it, head dropping back between thick, meaty shoulders as the groan is ripped out of him. Spilling into the satin drape of midnight with an echo that shudders through your bones.

The blunt press of him between your legs, inside of you, shifts with it, dragging him—his cock—deeper; the angle changing, deepening. Fuck, good girl—it's too much; too much but he doesn't stop—that's it, open up for me, c'mon, lemme in—he won't.

Your arms are rendered into paste. Into liquid. You can't even clench your hands around the thick fingers he threads between yours much less gather the ooze of your melting bones into your hand, strengthening them to push at his shoulders, his gut—anything to try and get him off.

But he bends down further, smothering you in the thick bed of hair on his chest; drowning you in the pool of sweat on his skin; and he takes. Ruthlessly. Brutally. Snaps his jaws around your throat, anchors your wrists in his hands, and slakes that simmering, barely leashed fury you glimpsed earlier into your swollen, sore flesh. Pounding into you hard enough to make your head rock, tossed back from the force. Only the bulk of his body keeps you pinned in place.

A shrill keen buoys amid the rough seas, but it just makes him groan along with it. Echoing your begs for mercy with his own blood-drenched monologue: so tight, such a pretty thing, good girl—

You don't feel good. You feel sick.

Seasick.

Each thrust is hard enough, deep enough, to make you gag. Choke. The quick swell of a simmering hypoxia is almost a blessing: a respite. and when he crushes your chest beneath his to drag his tongue over your cheek, quenching his thirst on the smear of your misery, you give in to that sirens call, and let whatever it is tugging on your ankle drag you down—

Misery coagulates into a thick line cresting over your eyelids.

A seal, you think, and for a long stretch of time (through hypnopompia—cool, damp sheets against feverish, aching skin; but you're running: fleeting from a beast with blue eyes and a gleaming grin, one that doesn't speak, but rumbles, like the rasp of a rockslide; gravel shorn against pavement; a hand biting through charred cork bark; the crunch of scorched, burnt duff underfoot; a clawing hand that gets closer with each rumble—to cognizance—the shift of sheets, a body moving beside you; the creak of a bed, a jostle; the hush of a breath whispered over your skin, words drowned out by the feverish thud of your heart banging inside its primordial cage), you consider keeping it intact. Sinking into the abyss between states where you can pretend your alarm is due to go off any moment now, and this is just another game you play where you pray to a higher power that it never will. That you can laze in a cotton cocoon; drifting between hypnagogia. Or pretend that you're an arthropoda buried in the rhizosphere—still a cog in the neverending grind of a big machine, but one that isn't sore in places you shouldn't be. Can't feel the heat of a body beside you. Or the ooze of something leaking out from between swollen, sore flesh and sliding down the back of your thigh before soaking into the sheets—a something that makes you feel sick to think about. to feel. To know is there, on your skin, inside of you—

You know your body. Know what's supposed to be there, and what isn't. And that—this thick, warm sensation oozing out from deep within—is not.

The worst of it all is that you can still smell the rich, spiced gravy on your fingers—once a comfort, a constant; the only splurge in the rigid confines of your ascetic life that you could reasonably allow, not desecrated. Marred with the reminder of tobacco and palo santo. Hadal breath.

The no that refused to dig itself out of the muck in the benthic zone.

But no amount of pretend can shape the sudden grip on your jaw into something it isn't.

Red-rimmed, bloodshot, and raw—you pry your eyes open through the ache, struggling through the haze, the smear, of sleep and tears, to stare at the grizzled face of a man you would have said yes to under different circumstances. The anger of last night is tucked back into those canyons, the crevasses of sharp blue, but a jagged edge of it lingers, poking through the shadows.

The look on his face culls the scream before it forms, but the penknife tapping across your chin buries it deep.

"Look," he rasps, and you think of that dream; the rockslide that tried to drown you in rubble. "This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, but you—"

The grip lessens. Slacks into something soft. Tender.

You'd fall for it, you think—

if the bevelled edge of a small, sharp blade wasn't stinging your skin.

He huffs. The blanket shifts over his hips, and it's the draw of the abyss that makes you look, but instead of that ink black promise of nothing, you find thick, matted fur—

and his cock.

Half-hard in the hazy spill of dawn. Thick and fat, resting against his furried thigh. The sheen of it—his cum, you think, nauseous—is tinged pink. Your cunt clenches—a small, tremulous pulse, a throb, and you feel it, then. The sting. The burn. A pain sharp enough to make you drag in a noisy, screeching breath.

He follows your gaze. Hums, unbothered by the whimpered gasp, or the awful twitch of his bare cock. "Been a long time," he offers, not sounding the slightest bit apologetic. "Might've torn you a bit—"

It makes you sick. All of it. The feeling. The pain. The bitter sting of anger—

The palpable helplessness of knowing there isn't anything you can do about it. A silent agony that carries the devastating awareness that he doesn't even need the knife to subdue you. To threaten. A thing that kills something inside of you. Runs it through with a knife, spilling abject misery into your guts.

"w—what do you want?" your throat hurts when you talk, and you wheeze the words out into the silt clotting across your vision.

He hums again, and presses his arm down into the sheets, elbow digging into the pillow before it lifts, filling the empty space between his shoulder and head. His chin resting in the crux of his palm as he stares down at you.

The look on his face is—

Primal. Predatory. Starved.

—contemplative.

But there's an animal quality to it. Something—not human. Not right.

And then it clicks: the look on his face reminds you of those grizzlies you saw at the zoo. Curious in the way an apex predator is when everything around it is potential food.

A sentiment made much worse when he simply states: "a wife."

You remember that uncanny sense of awareness about him from last night before the no began to rot in the back of your throat. When you looked at him, and recognised the look in his eye as a meticulous, unerring warden in search of a ward to shackle to his side. A toy. A playmate. A thing to shape into something new, something that preened under his commands, and begged for his authority. A passive, submissive pet in which he could permit to kneel between his feet.

A wife—in name only.

"A mother, too," he adds, and the bed jostles when he shrugs. "For my twins."

twins. You see it, then: etched into the emerald paint and soft copper trim is the smatterings of small handprints; the lingering marks of children tucked into neat, symmetrical lines. A small shirt thrown over the back of a chair. A dress folded on his dresser. The armoire door gapes open; in it, several suits hang on a rack—

Along with two little black dresses.

He cranes his head over his shoulder. Grunts. "Funeral," he rasps. "For their mother."

a sad thing, he adds, but there's no grief in his eyes. No pain. No approximation of loss or suffering—just want. A bleak, dark thread of intent as the knot begins to slowly unravel.

The penknife is pulled away with a quiet, rough better not do anythin' stupid trailing behind it. You're smart, though, soothes the sting, but only just because you soon discover that the knot is not a knot at all—

It's a web.

They lost their mother a year ago, he rumbles, and you stay as still as a ghost as he sits up, and pulls you into his lap. Smothering a wince of pain into the soft press of his tummy against your cheek. Going lax, docile, as he stretches his legs out beneath your body with a grunt. and now they need someone to take care of 'em. raise 'em.

The panic is nauseating. "What about my—my job—"

"Called 'em an hour ago and told 'em you quit."

"But—"

"Gonna lay some ground rules, mm?" his hand falls onto your crown, stroking you like a dog. "All kids need a mother—"

The soft touch firms: his fingers trail from the soothing stroke against your temple to dig into the seam of your lips, pressing in. Your mouth opens with a quiet, sticky sound and he groans at the easy, numbed obedience you offer, a hushed good girl whispered beneath the squelch of dry fingers on wet flesh. Nails grazing your tongue as he adds, darker, pulsing like a bruise:

"and every good man needs a good wife."

With his fingers buried in your mouth, you can't say anything at all—can only lay there, nursing on his knuckles as the threat of these hands, that knife, looms like a spectre in the background.

"and a good mother doesn't scream. doesn't yell. doesn't ignore her kids or try to run away—does she?" you shake your head, eyes wide. Burning. Stinging with unshed tears. "Good. And a good wife is obedient. She listens. And that's what you're gonna do, isn't it?"

You nod. The nausea almost chokes you, but you swallow it down, swallow around the thick, nicotine-tinged split of his fingers as he hums, staring down at you. half-mad, maybe. Or fully mad.

A mad man. He has to be—

But he's put together. Has a job, a good one. Won't need to worry 'bout money. and good girls, good mums, good wives, get spoiled fuckin' rotten, don't they, sweetheart?

and a house in the countryside—one far away from town. From people. your new home.

The place where you'll raise his kids. Take care of him.

He's a simple man, he says. jus' want dinner on the table. and if you can't handle the kids, we'll hire a nanny, mm? you don't have to worry about anythin' anymore—not your job, not rent. No stress—

just him. his kids. and nothing else.

"We'll make this marriage work. I know we will, mm, sweetheart? You're a smart girl. You won't end up like her."

The web is thick. The silk strands tighten into a noose as he lays the groundwork, the rules, of what to expect. And outside of the ache, the threat of that knife, the stench of the no rotting behind your teeth, it sounds like the epitome of what you've been craving for so long now. A fantasy you could easily slip into when he sets a standard for himself—he won't hit you, won't cheat, won't yell; the house is just as much yours as it is his. He'll lavish you with things. With clothes and gems and all the luxuries you could possibly want.

take you to India, mm? get you some real food. know you like it—

and places you've never been before. Places you could never go without him—the Azores, a weekend in Hong Kong, sailing along the Ivory Coast. A pretty doll dripping with luxury. A smiling, warm mother pulling his children into a tight embrace. A wife—

wanting. waiting for him to get home.

The scariest thing is that there's no delirium staining sapphire. no smears of insanity. Just the bright, clear gaze of a man anchored in reality, and willing to do whatever he must to bend fantasy until it falls into his living hand. carving dreams into daylight. Into flesh and blood. As sane as Pygmalion, chiselling into marble.

Between the bitter taste of skin, spit, and nicotine, an acrid tang surges up from the back of your throat. The rotted remains of that no resurfacing, spilling leachates all over your tongue. It's there, suddenly, between your teeth. Your tongue pushes against it, trying to shove the necrotised husk out of your mouth and onto the slope of his belly.

But he must feel it. Feel the skin sloughing off against his nails—

"Gonna be good for me, aren't you?"

Blunt nails cut through the mouldered tissue, shoving it down your throat until it slinks back into its esophageal prison—a whalefall sinking down into the abyss. Cradled in the siliceous ooze and turbidites.

All that remains is yes. A helpless nod drenched in spit and tears. In an acquiescence whispered over the bevelled edge of a blade and a warm, rough hand that curls around your jaw and lifts your head up to meet ruthless slate. Brine pools.

"''course you are," he purrs. It's louder, deeper with your head so close to his stomach. A chuff. A low roar. "I knew it from the moment I saw you, mm. Knew you'd be the best fuckin' thing to happen to us—"

His fingers slip out from beneath your chin, curling over your cheek, the shell of your ear. The soft give of your temple—a gentle press, a small, rough kiss—before curving over your nape, thumb brushing the fragile knob at the top as the fingers in your mouth drive deeper.

Beneath your belly, he thickens. Fattens up. New warmth, a new, sticky slickness dampens your skin when you gag around his knuckles, eyes fluttering. Watering. Tears drip down your hot, feverish cheeks as the nightmare shifts, solidifying under his hand. The tapestry of your life, your freedom, unravelling with each nudge of his fingers in your mouth, down your spine, until his thumb is digging into your tailbone, thick, calloused fingers splitting your cheeks apart—

he lingers there, pausing on a low, decisive groan as ink spills over your eyes at the deep, burring gonna fuck you here, too, mm, gonna have all of you—

all his, he adds, and his fingers sink lower, cock pulsing. Throbbing. His hand pushing between the backs of your thighs until you give, wincing in discomfort because the shift of your hips makes your cunt ache. The squeeze of your thighs against your folds keeps the pain at bay, but spread open, parted, the cool morning air is agony on your swollen, abused flesh. But he doesn't let it stay untouched for long.

He cups your aching cunt in his hand. Splaying it across your seam until his long, thick fingers are buried beneath your pelvis, middle finger dipping into the indent of your mons pubis, brushing the sensitive skin above your clit until you shiver.

Dissatisfied with just holding you, his heel nudging into your folds until they part around the thick of his wrist. You can feel him still—the slick, thick ooze of his release smearing against his palm as he opens you up. Spreads you wide. 

It’s sick. Demeaning. He burrs low in his throat at the mess he left behind—been savin’ it, he groans, and you yearn, desperately, for that sweet bliss of sleep: jus’ for you. Ever since I saw you, I knew—and nudges his palm harder; the pads of his finger toying with your clit. Rubbing your flesh until your belly churns with—

with disgust. with nausea. 

—with heat. 

His fingers are dry. Rough. Stroking the embers still smoldering between your hips, fanning the flames until they grow. Burning bright. Incandescent. 

You hate it. Hate how good it feels. How good he makes you feel—

With a quiet groan in the thick of his throat, he drags his fingers out of your mouth. Holds his hand up to the soft spill of dawn cutting through the open curtains, and draping across the bed. They're wet. Soaked. Sticky strands of spit web between the knuckles of his index and middle finger when he peels them apart. Messy girl, he grunts, but it's fond. 

He brushes his fingers across your cheek, smearing cold, tacky spit over your skin as he looks down at you with that same false tenderness as before. Soft and sweet. A loving touch that makes you feel sick. 

“Gonna fuck you again,” he rasps, voice firm. Full of promise. His hand peels away from your cheek, sliding his sticky, wet palm down your spine before he presses it flat across your dorsum. 

His knee draws up, slicing between your legs until his thick, wooly thigh taps against your cunt. Between your bodies, his fingers twitch. 

Then he shoves. Grinding you into his thigh. Into his palm. 

And you hate it. Hate it—

It feels good. The sting is there, burning bright; a flickering ache that rears with each bump of his thigh only to be soothed with the same pressure. A strange duality of sensation that hums in your belly, oscillating between pleasure and pain. Distress and comfort. Keeps you balanced, in perfect equilibrium, between the two. 

His cock twitches. His hand slides down to curl over the back of your thigh, fingers digging into soft, plush meat in a painful, pinching squeeze. Jerks your leg up, over his knees. 

“Wanna watch you, sweetheart,” he says, and his breath reeks of algae, of salt. The look on his face, in his eyes, is trenched in an unfathomable black; a void, a maw. He's an open mouth, all eager teeth; wanting to devour you whole. And he does just that. Shapes you into a meal, into prey. A malleable spill of meat and tissue to sink his desires into; grips your bones in his firm fist, and cracks them open like crab legs before slurping at the sweet kelp of your marrow. A feast he can have over and over again—

and will, he promises, thick hand wrapping firm around his fat cock as he nudges you up—a pretty doll, a pliable wife—and makes you sink down onto him. Like coming home, he says, but it doesn't feel like that at all. It aches. Burns. The pain of it steals the air from your lungs, but he doesn't let go of your hips. Doesn't relent. Keeps forcing his cock into your sore, swollen flesh and shushes your sobs, the hitching whimpers, with promises you don't want—

Will never want.  

Time to be a wife, he grunts, and tugs you down those last, painful inches until you're flush against his hips. A pretty wife him—

It's too much. The agony is white-hot and vicious, but all he does is lift up, and lick the tears streaming down your face with a deep, guttural groan; savouring the taste of your misery as he pulses deep inside of you. 

You're not the first lachrymose bride, and maybe it's easier for him to pretend, too—lie to himself and say the tears are of joy instead of agony. That you want this, want him—

But then he curls his hand around your throat, blunt nails like little knives that dig into your feverish skin. Holding firm, steady, even as he grinds your sore cunt over his cock. 

“Gonna be good for me, and then—” the hand tightens, the warning clear: obey or else. “When mommy and daddy are done lovin’ each other, we're gonna go wake the girls up, and have breakfast, mm?”

His hand curves up, cupping your jaw. Isn't that right?

The no is buried under silt. You think about reaching for it, just once—

But his hand is quicker. Deft fingers bury it deeper until it's unreachable. All that remains is the yes, and it trips off of your tongue when he adds:

as one big, happy family, mm?

(this, you think, is what the bottom of the ocean must feel like, smell like: cradled against his damp, heaving chest, breathing in the scent of tobacco and leather. sex and sweat. blood.

his mouth is cold, damp, when he smears his lips across your forehead. it reeks of algae and rot. iron. wrought shackles. a tightening chain. an anchor, rusting in the deep, being pulled up to shore. ice cold and rough. heavy with concretions. with long, dangling tendrils of rusticles that gather across your body—

There was a fire at the families home, started by Ghosts father who was always in a rage. Your father made sure your family stayed clear of him when you visited, he wasn’t too kind to quote, ‘big headed, posey, no good, city slickers.’ No one thought his rage would grow so large into trying to kill his whole family.

No one one besides Ghost made it out that night, there was rumored to be a large burn mark on his back to prove it.

You’d gotten found too fucking quick, “What the hell do you think you’re doin?” His voice booming on the highway road.

Simon Riley was blessed to have ears like an owl. Heard the car pull up and stop on his property, the rumbling of the engine— a beat passes— the car doors slamming shut and the far off hushed giggles. Nothing new, people had passed his property to spook whoever the hell they were with. Try to show how “evil spirits” ran rampant on his land, even if they were, he hadn’t ask for them to be there. But they’d never stop. They’d do it before.

They’d do it again.

But he heard that can of spray paint shake and his boots hit the floor before he even realized it.

Not the brown farmhouse gate he’d spent so long sanding down as a child with the help of his grandfather. Not the white ranch fence he’d spend so long getting together as soon as the land was properly handed to him and in his name, that’d he hand painted himself and fixed up the grass so people knew better than to drop any litter there.

No fucking way.

Your friends were already in the mustang you’d arrived in, those bastards, revving the engine and zooming off. You dropped the can, more spray getting on the grass fuck, fuck, fuck— your brown eyes slowly looked up, meeting a more than livid pair blue eyes.

You wanted to squeak out, ‘im sorry’ but where would there be room for that? Not in between the ranch fence that already had a squiggly line and crooked smiley face with black spray paint on it created by yours truly. There would absolutely be no room for an apology when his face was already screwed up, jaw clenching from underneath the bandana that hid his face, eyes narrowing into slits.

Well duh, babe. Move those feet!

And you did, turning at a 90 degree angle and sprinting like it was the end of the world. Ghost mumbled a ‘god damn it’, and ran right after you, his boot quickly meeting a carton of unopened eggs.

Oh you were definitely in for it now.

You ran through the Egyptian wheat, tall as the eye can see, green leaves scratching your arms and legs. You prayed to God there wasn’t any crazy animals hiding in there. You were panting, taking a quick glance behind you and you could only hear rustling of the large plants that surrounded you, feet hitting the floor.

Then you heard a distant yell in the field, “[+], you get back here!”

Well it wasn’t exactly the hardest to spot you out, you looked like your mother— who looked like her mother. You came from a family known for actually being good people, never hesitating to help or providing when need be. You’d met Mr. Riley a couple times in your 23 years of life. Quick instances that you vaguely remember. But you knew his face, and he knew yours.

Your mom had been one of the few good people making sure he was well taken care of when he was younger, she couldn’t raise him like she had wanted to with having to travel back and forth from the city for work as a children’s author. But she’d made sure he was taken care of in whatever home he was placed in, encouraged him to join the Boys and Girls club, something to ground him.

“Just needs someone to look after ‘em is all,” she’d ensisted while braiding your hair one night before heading to meet him at his group home, fingers weaving through your curls with purpose, you were around eight. “Some kids need a lil extra love, show ‘em someone’s there for ‘em. Simon’s one of those kids, so is your older brother, even though he’s a pain in my side at times. They’re all good in their core— their heart. It’s important to have someone nurture it. Gods called me to do that.”

Though, the relationship strained when the foster system let him go. “He’s just having boy troubles. Boys go through those weird hormones when they hit a certain age. Wants to prove ‘imself as a man. They get real hard headed [+]. He’ll get over it ‘nd pull through. He always does,” she’d say. So certain. Undoubting. Like a sixth sense.

And Simon did manage well enough, clearly, for him to have a proper farm for himself, one that was properly taken care of and thriving. You’d visited with your mom two years back. It was so clear to you now. Your mother practically smothering him in a hug when she got close enough. Simon was awkward at first, but accepted it. His eyes and whole body softing by her touch. She’d been family when no one else would be.

He looked towards you, you met a gorgeous shade of blue, long blonde lashes to match his short blonde hair, face with a few noticeable scars and half his face hidden under a black bandana. You were standing a ways off so you couldn’t hear what he or your mother was saying, but you saw him nod toward you. Your mother saying something and him nodding in response. She waved you over,

“[+] you know Simon— I mean, Mr. Riley since you’re a grown man now, ain’t that right.” She laughed.

“Whatever you want ma’am.” He looks down at you and extends his hand. You take it, butterflies fluttering in your stomach, and give it a firm shake.

“Good seein you.” It wasn’t just words, he was sincere, caring. Like seeing an old friend.

You nodded, “ ‘S good seeing you too.”

He showed you the farm after that in his truck. The big house that was farther toward the woods, properly fixed after the fire a decade ago, the Egyptian wheat field, the horses and chickens and the new blue barn he was building to accommodate them, the horse training area used to break in horses no one else would. It was a lot of land, a lot of work, but you could tell by the sound of his husk voice, he was proud of himself and the work he’d been able to accomplish. Even more happy when your mom praised him.

It finally clicked: that barn— and right on time, you’d caught sight of it. Not the one Mr. Riley had been fixing when you visited, the old one. Large and in charge that had old wood, and was definitely falling apart. But you made a bee line for it anyway.

What other option did you have?

Your heart was practically beating out of your chest, nerves on a high because you didn’t even notice how close Ghost was to you before you ducked so he couldn’t grab you. Kicking his shin and dashing towards the barn that was bones.

“You damn brat! fuck me!” He cursed, hopping to ease the new pain on his leg before running right after you.

You undid the large wooden latch, sliding the doors open and immediately trying to slide them close. But his hand shot through the opening, a shiver runs down your spin.

Up the steps you went, the only place you could go, and Ghost was right on your heels, quick, almost silent— didn’t call him Ghost for no reason. You tripped and fell on a pile of hay and wild chickens went fluttering and clucking down to the barn floor, clouding your vision. Next thing you knew, Ghost finally caught you. His hands grabbed hold of both of your arms as you rolled around and thrashed underneath him.

“You fuckin asshole! Let me go!” You grunted, trying to kick your legs where the sun didn’t shine but completely missing when the older man closed your legs, gripping them together under your knees in his hands. He had you like a pig about to be roasted.

“You ruin my property but I’m the asshole?” The fucking audacity of you. “Gonna teach you a fuckin lesson cause clearly they don’t teach you city folk manners.”

With ease, Ghost sat himself down on one of the old hay bails, bringing you over his lap. He grunts, keeping you as still as you can, and then like thunder— his large calloused hand comes down to your plump ass, echoing in the empty barn.

“Mr. Riley!” You gasp, your head shoots up, eyes widening— there’s no way- was he giving you a spanking? The next one yanks you out of your thoughts, brutal, harsh, that makes you scream his name again, “Mr. Riley, that’s enough!” But he’s completely ignoring you.

“Spray painting my fences,” SMACK!

“Tryin to egg my house,” SMACK!

“‘Nd Ruinin my fuckin crops?!” SMACK!

“You’ve lost,” SMACK! “you’re damn,” SMACK! “mind! little girl!” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!

You’re crying and whimpering, as his hand continues forming ripples in your ass. You’d gotten one singular whopping your whole life, from your grandma for breaking her good vase when she told you no ball throwing in the house. Life altering from one incident that made you into the goodest girl there ever was.

And then there’s this predicament, one that ripped your soul in two. One half fueled with hatred for doing something so crude— so audacious. And then the other that’s struggling to keep itself contained. one more hit that meets your tender bottom, one that hits you in a place you didn’t realize was boiling over— a smack to the ass that forces an egregious moan out of your trembling plump lips.

Simon stills, his eyes flicking over the state of you. You’re shaking, head down and legs finally not kicking. But he sees the way you try to hide yourself further into his lap, because you and he both know you just moaned because of a little whooping.

Oh— you're crazy.

You’d unknowingly created a fire and Simon would add lighter fluid to it.

He lifts the bottom of your short flower patterned dress, just to peak, you jump but still, your heart pounding even louder than it had before. And it’s a sight for the man to behold— your underwear soaked like the damn ocean. You squeeze your thighs together, trying to bring the hands down to hide the slick that was ever growing.

“D-don’t look.” You sniffle. Too damn cute.

But there’s a snicker, something that makes you look back at him and his eyes are shining with mischief, “My god, you’re a filthy lil thang, aren’t’chu?” It’s almost rhetorical, he’s not asking you, he’s asking your cunt. “Didn’t know you city broads were like that, learn somethin new every day, don’t you?”

You yelp when he yanks your underwear down to your knees, thrashing around once again, but Simon keeps you still. Your pretty pussys glistening as bright as sun on water, slick all over your fat second pair of lips. He brushes his fingers against them, sending shivers up your spine, you cant help but arch further into his touch.

You whine, “Mr. Riley-“

“—Shhhhh, gotta hear her,” he murmured, slowly slipping a finger in your drenched hole. Your pussys practically sputtering out with every thrust of his finger, slipping another one and coating it perfectly. He takes them out, sucking up the juices on his tongue that you’ve left on them, spitting down on your hole before stuffing his fingers back into you. He hums in satisfaction as you lose your mind, “such a fuckin slut, you just get this wet for anyone, don’t you?”

Your eyes reach the back of your head, breath hitching, “Nooo, I don’t- I wouldn’t!— ooh- agh- Mr. Riley!” your interrupting yourself with your own moans. Whatever anger you had before, folding into nothing.

He finally let’s go of your hands and you grip on to his leg, nails clawing at his jean cover thighs. Your stomach tightens running away as your orgasm builds but Simon follows, thrusting his fingers into your gummy walls even more, curving them to find your sweet spot with determination.

“Eaaasy now, don’t want to hurt you. Be good ‘nd cum. Know you want to, make a mess all over me darlin’.”

And that’s all it takes, with a twitch and a squeal, your cumming all over his hand. Simon thrusts his fingers a couple times, watching the wave of euphoria wash over you before sucking one of fingers clean, then bringing the other to your mouth.

“Come on, don’t be fuckin uppity, taste it lil girl” he tsked, you take the middle finger in your mouth, tasting your own arousol, swirling your tongue around it. Slowly pulling your head back with a ‘pop.’ It all goes straight to the blondes aching dick.

You hear it, the unbuckling of his belt, your stomach touching the tint that had built because of you. your mind finally snaps out of the trance he’s got you in. You barley manage to get out of his lap, scrambling through the hay, tripping over your underwear, on your as knees. Giving Simon the perfect view of your tender ass and the slick that’s dripping down to your thigh before you turn when you meet a wall. Pushing yourself into it.

“We- shit- someone- someone’ll come!” You ramble out, panting, still feeling the after effects of your orgasm. Your eyes avert to anything in this barn besides the man infront of you. But he made his way over to you, slow, stalking. And once he’s on his knees and hovering above you, he springs his cock from from his boxers. The blonde is hung, large and girthy, his tip strawberry red and leaking pre cum.

He bends down, sliding his fat cock between your wet folds, and then smacking his tip on your clit creating a plap, plap, plap. You can’t help but whimper at the sensation.

“You want it don’t you?” he whispers in your ear, taunting you, goosebumps wave over your skin. “Don’t want me all the way,” he traces over your belly, and then pokes right where your uterus is, “up here, hm?”

“Don’t want me to make you feel good pretty girl? Don’t wanna feel it once?”

Maybe it’s the adrenaline that’s pulsing through you, the way he’s looking down on you like you’re pathetic, dick crazed maniac. And maybe that’s exactly what you are, just once— you just want feel him stir your guts just. this. once.

“I do.”

And your soft voice is just enough for the brute to yank your legs open, Simon throwing your legs over his forearms and spreading your pretty hole open with just the tip. The man starts bullying himself inside the tightness of your pink walls.

He’s big. He’s too big. You hiccup, shoving at his shoulder while he’s splitting you in half, “Mr.Riley, ‘s so much! hicc- can’t. I can’t.”

He croons, slowly thrust more and more of his veiny length into you. “Come oooon city broad, thought you could take it? Don’t go runnin. Been runnin from me alllll this time little girl.”

“Bet you won’t do no shit like that again, ruining my damn property,” Simon hissed, smacking down your clit a few times. “Gonna fuck that nonsense outta that lil brain ‘f yours.”

“I won’t! I promise! Mmmph- I’ll be good! S-so good just for you. Always for you.” You mewled, one hands clawing at the wall behind you and other hand at his shoulder. He finally feels it, his cock reaching the very hilt of you, balls smacking your ass crack. The damn obscene sounds your syrupy pussy is making to keep him inside you, and his tip giving your cervix the messiest and he’s sure, the first kiss it’s ever received.

A baby.

You’d look so fucking sexy, being all plump with his fucking baby. He pushes your thighs back to you head further, jackhammering into your heat rough and mean.

“Five,” he mumbles, groping at one of your tits in his hand. Squeezing and kneading it like a vice.

“Wha-“

“You’ll give me five ‘f ‘em, won’t’cha? Make me a daddy.”

He’s talking nonsense, partially. Simon wasn’t dead set on five, he’d wanted a baseball team but he’d settle for whatever you wanted. One would do if it caused you too much strain. He’d take care of you and the baby, buy you whatever you asked for, have you sat on that back porch, in a rocking chair. Your hand on your full belly, watching him as he worked all lovingly.

Simon breath hitches, rolling his hips into yours with a grunt, fucking drunk at the thought of it. The thought of you, all while your pussy was squeezing on him like you were reading his fucking mind.

“C-christ almighty, I got lucky with you huh? A snug lil cunt like this deserves to be up filled up with my cum.”

You still couldn’t believe it, thee Simon Ghost Riley, was with you in this old barn fucking your brains out like you were fucking Eve in that damn garden, on top of a pile of hay. Both of you letting out moans and groans like animals that you’re sure anyone who stepped foot on property would be able to hear. It’s hot, and sweat is forming on both of your foreheads, your skin is sticky. Simon’s big balls hitting your ass every punch of his tip into you G Spot. both of your eyes hazy, stupid off the other getting off.

“Feel so gooood M-Mr. Riley! So much!” You keen, reach for the bandana hiding his face. He always pushes your hand away but then he remembers what you’re about to be— his lover, his wife— the mother of hic children.

“Mamma’s gotta know the face of ‘er children’s daddy right? pull it off.” And you do, tugging it. And god, maybe this whole ordeal got you lucky.

So damn pretty. A scar on his nose, another one at the end of his pink lips, blonde strands swaying everytime he ruts into you, “Mr. Riley’s sooo pretty,” you slur, talking to him like it’s some secret. You’re lucid in his cock, eyes squeezing shut in pleasure while you stomach coils up.

“Uh-uh, eyes on me city broad, look at me!” He squeezes your cheeks together, planting a fat kiss on your smooshed lips. He snaps his hips forward, and your head would’ve hit the wall from how good you feel. But Simons still got your pretty face in his hands.

“Gonna have ya allll bare foot ‘nd pregnant, waddlin yer cute ass ‘round here with a ring on that finger.” He’s telling you, as if this is already happened and he’s seein it with his own eyes. All you can do is moan at his words. You can’t even form a sentence at this point. Just nodding your ditzy little head while he gives you his dick.

“Gonna be a pretty fuckin mamma too, fu- shit baby, your pretty tits all full with milk for our kin— damn, you love the sound ‘f that dontcha? You can deny it all ya wont, but she’s achin for it.”

God, you are. She is too. You didn’t even know how greedy your pussy was being as he pistoned in and out of you, “Gonna— gonna cum, fuck I’m gonna-“

“-Yeah, thaaat’s it lucky, come all over your husbands cock.”

All you can utter is a ‘s-shit’ when your orgasm smacks you, your toes curling in your converses, thighs shaking in Simons hold.

The blonde gets you in a headlock, smooshing you down into the floor further, brushing your curls with hay out of your gorgeous face. rutting into you as your walls clamp onto him, begging for his all milk he’s able to give you.

Simon growls, and the strings of cum fill your womb. Your clammy bodies are still stuck together as he rocks the last bit of cum into. Mumbling while kissing your neck, “take it lucky it’s all yours. Gotta keep you nice ‘nd full if you’re gonna get pregnant.”

It’s quiet finally. The barn itself is old and creaks but you can hear the chickens right down the steps clucking, the cicadas chirping, the breeze passing through the trees. The only think you hear are his and your pants,

Simon scoops you up in his arms, adjusting your dress to cover the mess he’s created thats dripping down on that barn floor with every steps he takes.

“Mr. Riley, where are we- where are we going?” You hiccup, gripping onto his shirt. All you can look at is him, a little in shock, a little blissed out. The only thing your able to focus on is the handsome man holding you against his chest. The way his heart pounds louder as he looks down at you.

“To the house. It just won’t take after one go.”

a/n: a draft that’s sitting since last month. Luv you bubs. Can’t wait to write more country!simon

But sometimes he wakes with these annoying headaches that can’t be relieved till he lays flat on the hardwood floors for at least five minutes. Strange, he knows, but it helps. His brain trying to remember something, he figures.

The hairy man will close his eyes, let the house creek, he can hear the dog collars rings as the dogs walk around downstairs, the birds tweeting, cicadas singing, the cars in the distance. It’s calm. But he sees it sometimes.

A memory he can’t exactly make out, but you’re there, head in his lap, or tugging at him to look at something, but he can’t make out your face. John can hear your melodic laughter, your voice ringing in his ears like a wind chime, your curls in a ponytail, in your favorite pair of jeans, a simple t-shirt. And he wanted to stay there, stay in that moment for eternity because it felt like he should’ve been there, with what once was. You. In your arms. Or in his.

But he always wakes up, be it from the dogs he got licking his face, the uncomfortableness of the floor on his back or, from his girlfriend calling out to him. Back to that ache of reality, not remembering.

This time it’s just from the floor. He groans at the feeling, he’s getting too old. But something catches his eye, theres a half of floorboard missing right under his bed. And hes surprised he hasn’t noticed it till now. He reaches into the floor, hoping to find the broken piece of wood but his hands touch something— paper? Something laminated? He’s not sure but grabs it with the grunt, lifting himself off the floor and onto the bed.

It’s someone else’s hand writing on the back, ‘another endless beach day, me + Price, June 6th, 20XX.’ signed off with a heart. John turns the picture over and his heart aches all over, chills rolling down the hairs of his arms.

It’s you.

Sunset behind you, winking at the camera, Johns arm wrapped around your bare waist holding you close, sharing a towel on both of your heads, covering your wet hair, the swimsuit and your bodies are both soaked. And John can almost hear it, your voice rings in the back of his brain telling him to hurry up. It makes his heart pound a thousand times faster.

And there’s another picture, in the backyard, Johns swinging you in his arms, you have a baby blue sundress on, curls in a side part, the biggest smile on your face. Gorgeous, gorgeous thing, John remembers it, the feeling of his lips on your cheeks, over and over, till you’re laughing and playfully shoving at his shoulder.

It’s warm. John knows it is.

He huffs, your name is at the tip of his tongue, yearning to get out, but it’s not easy. Clearly you’re someone who John loved. More that important, more, more, more, he mumbles.

And he goes through the house one more time, just like he did before he started fresh. Maybe he missed something like he’d just done. Maybe he’d find another few memories— bits of you, in a kitchen drawer, or the bathroom closet, or in the spare bedroom, the reading nook at the end of the hallway, in the old guitar he hasn’t played in ages, the ring that’s sat on his nightstand that he’s been too scared to touch, the attic—

“If you knew how to paint professionally, you could turn this attic into a studio.” You said, sitting a box down the last of the box.

It was long due for a cleaning, and everytime John needed something from up there he was left in a fit of egregiously loud sneezes. So you both got up there and cleaned it, reorganizing what did and did not need to be there. Which led to a lot of John’s old man wining ‘what if I need this’ and ‘I haven’t seen this in ages.’

You had his old blue varsity jacket on from when he played football with his mates, David & William. It was large on you still, down to your hips, the shorts on you hugging your ass perfectly. You looked so cute, all his, which lead to him being sidetracked while you tried to do your tasks. Off guard pictures taken on that polaroid he had that had a little film left, feeling up on you while leaving kisses all over you. It was late now, around ten a clock and you’d finally finished cleaning. You were both exhausted.

“Well I’m no artist, but if you want a studio to paint—“

“I don’t want a studio, I’m just throwin out ideas.” You giggle, throwing yourself in his hold.

“A studio for our child then?” He quips, moving the braids out of your face, entertaining your fingers. He’s in no rush to start a family, but the idea of one, with you, swirls his mind. You with his baby in your arms, looking a little bit like you and a little like him. Ugh, so cute.

“And if they can’t paint?”

“At least they’re taking after their parents.” He grunts, pulling you into his chest. You laugh, resting your chin on hard muscles.

“But raising our kids in this house,” he breaths out, hand trailing under the jacket you had on and to your back. “I’d like to do that more than ever with you, sweetheart.”

Your heartbeat speeds up, you want a future with John. To grow old with him, start a life together, but— “I want them to have consistency.”

“And I’ll give you that.”

“John.” Your voice is soft, but you get his attention in an instant. your brown eyes meet his blue ones, and you’re praying what he tells you is the truth. He knows you’re scared, to lose him, to be left behind. You’d talked about it before, how your family was difficult. But Price understood, he was there for you. Apart of him took on that role for you. John knew he was your constant, he was your family. Even if everything went to shit, John would swoop in and save the day.

But his job was dangerous, and sometimes John himself didn’t even know if he’d make it back home. Uncertainty. You hated that.

You’d settled in the feeling, gave him a pained smile.

He winced at that, was he really so faulty? So used to empty promises. Or were you just not used to someone willing to do anything for you? He'd crawl back to you with one arm if he had to. All for you. Only for you.

“I’ll be here lovie,” he reassures you, caressed your cheek, his lips meeting yours, sealing your future with a kiss. Putting your foreheads together,

“I promise.”

And it’s when John decided to put you as his emergency contact, just in case. Put your name in his will. His life hand wrapped and tied with a bow and ready to be given to you, one of the few things he was certain about.

Just in case.

It’s there, in that chest to the far right of the attic that you moved when you cleaned it out, his copy of his will. Your first, last and middle name written in print, that’d you get every last thing in his name, a promise that you'd be taken care of even if he wasn’t there— consistency.

And maybe he lost track along the way, but Price knows, your his. Still his, and he’s yours. That the love he has for you was only sitting dormant, waiting to flourish in the depths of you.

And Price is sure it will.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

“You’re not gonna tell me how your date went?” Your co-worker, Dani, pestered as soon as you got your apron on.

Dating was- well- they were opportunities to enjoy food.

Even if the date was shit.

Everything in your life had changed.

The first right after moving out of his place being fired from the job John got you. And God did it fucking hurt when they let you go, ‘missed too many days’ it was a week max.

Maybe two.

You just couldn’t get out of bed. It’s hard to move on from a relationship you spent so much time building all for it to crumble in an instant. But it was probably for the best, right? It was one of your last attachments to Price.

A life without being so reliant on him.

One where you were fully independent. Just like you’d always been before him.

You found a job as a waitress at some cafe and you were good, dropped a couple orders, but got closer to the rest of the staff, got on your feet just fine. The dating scene though? Mortal enemy #1.

Your friends wanted you to quickly get over the breakup- hell— so did you. That didn’t mean you didn’t need to immediately start dating someone. You couldn’t be a heartbroken girl for a second without your friends pushing you to find someone better, younger and hotter than him.

Well, was there?

Another hard task you didn’t know if you could accomplish. You’d put it with your list of things ‘to do’.

Last night was another failed date, with a man who couldn’t stop rambling about women needing to stay at home and take care of the family while he worked as a "entrepreneur." AKA, a scammer, probably in some pyramid scheme. Your burger was dry but you ate it anyway, a way to avoid the topic of discussion but he made it worse. Saying something along the lines of, “why are you eating a burger with your hands? A proper woman would eat with a fork and knife.”

You paid for your end of the bill and went home.

You roll your eyes, grabbing a note pad and pen from the counter, “I’ll never let you convince me to go on a dating app ever again.”

She whines, right on your tail as you make your way to the order station, giving a few hellos to your other coworkers, “Was it that bad? I thought he said he was a real estate agent!”

“Are we shocked the real estate agent is good at lying? Let’s be serious—“

“—[+]! We need you at booth 7!” The manager interrupts, nodding toward the section.

You shrug to Dani, feet already on the move, “The dating scene just isn’t good. Let’s give up.”

She give you a smile, “We can’t give up! Have some faith [+]! There’s gotta be good person for you somewhere!”

Yeah, there was. But he wasn’t yours anymore.

He was a memory in the back of your brain, long cherished and stuck there.

Your John wasn’t coming back, he'd looked you dead in the face at the beach a year ago like-no- you were a complete stranger, and you had to bathe in that feeling. You’d settled with being stranger #6 and background character 2 in your own life now, getting a few scrapes and bruises from this harsh this we call life and blowing the dirt off it instead of properly patching it up. It’s what you knew how to do best.

The shift went by smoothly this time, no weird guys or uptight older ladies, getting home in your car and eating a bowl of instant ramen. The tv volume on low because you don’t want to bother anyone.

It’s simple routine, simple enough that it gives you the comfort you need: eat, drink water, shower, a bit of skin care and then a book or journaling on a good day. No electronics right before bed, not unless it's to set the alarm, or to play music. It keeps your mind at ease for once.

The light on your nightstand brightens up the space but keeps you tired, touching different parts of your room some shape or form, some objects getting little to no light. But there’s a jar that sits on your bookshelf, stuffed behind a bunch of books and trinkets, you just barley miss it. But it’s there. Light shimmers on the gold and silver objects that sit inside it.

It’s filled with jewelry you should be wearing before they start to rust, but it fills you with heartache, a little spite. It’s filled with things you used to wear, rings, a few bracelets, random scrunchies and rubber bands and a couple other things you got from him, a few things that you gifted him. You’d shoved everything in there last minute when you hauled ass out of that house. You took anything that could make him think about you. But you didn’t have the strength to go through it. Didn’t have the strength to let go either.

It was a memory now, stuck in time.

And you couldn’t ignore it, never. You give it a quick glance as you go about your day, or when you’re bored out your mind it’ll feel like the object is staring back at you. Just begging for you to look at what could’ve been.

But you don’t, because it’s at arms length, watching over you like some alter, and you give it a pained look as you shuffle over to your bed— maybe praying to the little thing, because truly, that’s the closest thing you’ll get to him.

And you were okay with that.

Because at least there, your John Price is something to you.

Even if it’s stuck on a shelf.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

“I didn’t take ye for one ‘f these kind’a places Captain.” Soap teased from his seat at the outdoor table.

They were at some bo-ho, “modern”, yet uptight cafe on a Saturday afternoon.

Did Price belong here? God, no.

Took him too long to decide what he wanted because there were too many options on the menu, the staff all looked to be in 21 or younger with customers who were 26 age or younger, and they were playing some generic indie music he thought was god awful.

The four of them stuck out like a sore thumb.

But he wasn’t exactly there for the tea that was just okay or the overprice the danish— he was staking out the place across the street.

A little stall outside a clothing shop, it sat there every Saturday. And you came there almost every weekend.

Sometimes just browsing, other times buying, and then sometimes donating, because it was a thrift type of stall.

It wasn’t like you disappeared off the face of the earth, you’re a civilian, if you wanted to hide from Captain John Price of the task force 141, the first step should have been to move to another country by car, with cash only, not 40 minutes away. But that’s like Usain Bolt giving you a five second head start. You’d still get caught sooner than later. It wasn’t hard to track you down, well, tracking people down was also apart of the job. You had a small one bedroom flat that John felt had you too cooped up, a job that overworked you no matter how “nice” people were there, and a small group of friends who seemed to have good intentions.

You were always smiling when they left or out and about with them, so they must’ve been doing something right.

The first time he laid eyes on you in person, he knew you were his.

So pretty, even dressed plainly, rolling your eyes at something your friend had showed you on their phone. Your curls in your eyes, but you keep surveying your surroundings, observant, quick to move your friend out the street when a car is coming. Or picking up a wallet someone dropped and quickly returning it to them.

Despite the tiny spec of uncertainty on your face about whatever was on your mind, you're upright. Headstrong.

Atta girl.

Just like he knew you could be. Knew you would be.

John brings the tea up to his lips again, eyes still trained on the stall, the passerbyers and the old chap handling the few customers surrounding his makeshift register, till you appear by one of the racks. Ever so beautiful in that off white long sleeve dress that went down to your ankles, the fabric clinging to every divine curve on you. Cute black clogs on and your hair done in two slicked down low buns, parts in a zig zag with little curly flyaways. His eyes soften at the sight of you, Gaz catches it first.

Mumbling a curse when he sets eyes on you, “Bloody hell—“

“How did you-“

“—Did you expect me not to figure it out sooner or later?” He takes a sip of the tea, unflinching.

Soap looks between Simon and Gaz, clearing his throat, “ ‘S not tha Captain. Just- just- we thought this would be for the best. Not tellin ye since loosin your memory is so much.” He stutters.

But it just sounds like an excuse. John looks to Simon, thinking he’d get another weary look on his face, but he has that irritated look in his eyes, he sits back in the chair, finger slowly tapping the table.

“She didn’t want you to know, John. That’s what it is.” He finally speaks. And that’s what knocks John down a peg or two. Simon continues, “[+]— the girl— all ‘f us only met a couple ‘f times. But this was the one thing she asked of us. Didn’t cry or ask a laundry list of questions about the incident, just held herself together best she could. Called your parents and then she said she’d take care of everything at the house. Make sure all your medical bills were straight. But Asked if we could keep her- the whole relationship— a secret. She didn’t want to be another burden to carry John.”

Gaz takes a deep breath, he grieved, “And if you’d seen that look on her face man- like life'd been sucked out of her face, you would've given her that too.”

The air is tense around the table.

You’d given it all up. Not like you wanted to, surely. It wasn’t just something John alone went though, it was a loss for you too. Something that would've pulled you apart if you'd stay or not. John figures, you leaving was you giving the older man a chance for him to move on from the incident as if nothing happened.

But everything happened.

Everything changed right before his eyes and John had to move past it like you idea of you hadn’t been stuck in his head.

But you ran through his mind, over and over, had the man praying for a life that he just wouldn’t be able to get back.

He let out a ragged laugh, humorless, rubbing at his beard, it was times like this he prayed it was all some sick joke. But it’s not, it’s reality and he has to try.

“I don’t remember everything from back then, it’s a given.” He swallows, finding you amongst the crowd of people once more. But he’s straightens in his seat and looks at the rest of the team around him, confident, “But there’s a few things I do. Clearly I’ve been given another chance. I dont— I won’t lose her a second time.”

It’s almost as if he’d never left, Price is still the old captain who’s dead set on getting exactly what he wants. No matter the cost.

“You should hurry up then,” Gaz nods over to you, “She might just get scooped up before you get a chance.”

And you’re there still, with some younger guy now, model-esc kind of guy following you through the few clothing racks. Smiling. You couldn’t have been so perfectly dolled up for the likes of some fuck boy, could you?

No, no you wouldn’t.

That's what John tells himself.

John grimaces at the sight, taking a swing of his tea, he gruffs, “Won’t last.”

“Maybe her interests have changed mate, yer not the same ‘young man’ from a couple years ago…” Soap snickers.

“Gotten old, naps between missions, got some weight on you now, think she’ll like it?” Simon teases.

“Oh fuck off the lot of you, Jesus.” He scowled, still looking over at you.

You’re smiling, more that happy with the few items you’ve gotten but your face twists as you look at the guy, confusion and disgust flying all over. You shake it off, buying the items you have. As soon as you finish, he avoids your attempt to spark up conversation again, walking ahead of you while taking some phone call. The least bit of care about you as you trail behind him.

That cunt.

“So what do you plan on doin? Gonna go after her now?” Gaz raises a brow.

“Just looking for a soft spot.”

And it’s there, not just the way the prick walks ahead of you like you’re a stranger, that's an easy opening, but you rub your shoulder in annoyance. And there, or your right wrist, sitting between a stack of gold bracelets, is a watch with a green strap with a white dial with a silver bezel— a watch John remembers was his.

There are just a few glimpses of it, nothing serious. It was on the nightstand, and he remembered putting it on, and it came up in a few pictures with the guys. A gift for him, that was in your possession.

Hanging around some young guy but a bit of him lingering on you.

You were practically begging for Price to come and take you back where you belong.

Right up under him.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

“I just wanna go home and take a fuckin nap—“

“Language baby,” he chides, but there’s no bite, wrapping his arm around you.

“Don’t- ugh! what’s the point ‘f doin this when we could be goin home!” You whine, throwing your weight against him. And he takes it with an ‘umph’ as always, pulling you closer.

“Gets your stomach ready for dinner, just take a moment and relax.”

You two were sitting on the bench a fair distance away from the movie theater you just exited. It was a movie you were dying to see, so Price made it a date. And then you’d go home and make dinner together with a little wine, maybe have Price fuck you right in the kitchen before you could even finish eating—

But you couldn’t wait to get home, eager thing, how adorable?

Right before you can whine again, Johns tapping your forehead, gently nudging it in the direction of the crowd of people that just got out the theater. They’re all different of course but they have a few facial expressions that are similar.

“What movie do you think they saw? couldnt’ve been good.” John says.

And it’s simple, really, you could just ignore it and press him again. But you always cave at his calmness.

“Cats, the movie’s shit.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“The trailer is enough to see that the movie's shit,” you giggle, you nod towards the couple of guys heading to their car, laughing their ass off. “What about them? What do you think they saw?”

And John thinks for a moment, eyes flicking to the large movie posters that hung then rests his head atop of yours, “John Wick 3 is good, I think.”

“Don’t tell me part of the reason you chose it is because of your name.”

“Oh come on lovie,” and now he’s laughing at his own corniness, “But truly I didn’t mean to. The first John Wick was good!”

“That poor puppy.”

“God that puppy didn’t deserve that.”

It’s a comfortable silence after that, one that’s got your heart thunking, a little more love blooming inside you. John’s kisses your cheek, getting up from the bench and stretching. And he gives you that stupid smirk with that perfectly trimmed beard, eyes gleaming—

“See? Hanging out with your old man isn’t so bad, is it kid?”

“Oh fuck off!”

Such a silly memory always led you to some movie theater.

Hanging on the hood of your own car, just casually watching people enter and leave, or from a near by bench. The moon was high in the sky, stars dancing while cars past. The cool autumn breeze was present tonight, just barely feeling it through the thick of the hoodie you had on.

A group of people leave out the theatre, faces either hipper or stone cold. A group walks down the block.

“What do you think they saw? Think they saw Forrest Gump. They’re replayin that, yeah?” And the voice is so warm, so familiar it sends a chill up your spine. But you keep your eyes on the ever moving people going in and out the theatre. Maybe your hallucinating what you just heard. Maybe it’s coincidence.

“Well,” you start, leaning back on the bench, stuffing your hands in the pockets of your oversized sweatshirt, “They’re replaying The Truman Show too, so maybe that, I guess. It’s pretty good movie, fuckin crazy in retrospect.”

“Never seen it.”

You shake your head, rolling your eyes, “You’re shitting.”

And he laughs inward softly, “ ‘M not! Who’s in it again?”

“Jim Carey! How could you not’ve seen-” And you turn, the end of your lips curved up, but the sight sitting directly next to makes your breath hitch. Makes you want to fall into a million pieces, “-The- the Truman Show.” You mumble.

It’s John Price there. Right in the flesh. He looks older, in that old bomber you wore once, And this has to be some sort of hideous trick of fate. A joke, someone up there’s laughing at you— hell, maybe you were in your own version of the Truman Show.

You needed to find the cameras and turn them off.

Your eyes look elsewhere, to the street, and then behind you— maybe he’s with someone. You’re willing to use all the strength you have left to divert this whole situation. Be stranger #6 and background character #2 like you told yourself you could be.

“Sorry,” you whisper, looking back at John. And it pains you, right to the core. You clear your throat, rambling, “Been yapping to you, and you’re with someone, right? I-I’ll be on my way.”

And just as you find the will to move your feet, John grabs your wrist, making you look back at him.

“No, I’ve come here looking for you, [+].”

And you want to snatch yourself away, run as far as you can, but you can’t. Something is making you stay, maybe grief of what you lost? What could’ve been is right here, sitting so close to you, with that glint in his blue eyes.

You let out a ragged breath, feeling the lump in your throat swell and your brown eyes glossing over, “Please, don’t do this Price. I really- I can’t do this Price."

You’d let him go. That was supposed to be it.

Be with him in another lifetime. You’d prayed and prayed and prayed for it. Maybe then you’d have the heart to hold onto him—

“I know I’ve made a mistake [+], forgetting you— bloody hell- Darlin, if I’d known that I would’ve gotten amnesia during that mission, I wouldn’t’ve taken it. But I can’t help what happened, and neither can you. I’ve forgotten things, and I’m not even sure if I’ve got enough memories from back then to count on two hands—“

You try to tug yourself away, because it’s too much, maybe it’s breaking your heart in two all over again, you can feel the tears wetting your face, but he pulls you into his big arms,

“But I still— I still love you [+]. More than anything, I know for certain that this feeling in me that’s been annoying me this whole time, for you, is love. And it has always been you that I felt was missing. I can’t stand being apart from you anymore sweetheart. Please [+], please!”

And your knees almost go weak, your clutching John’s arms. You want to squeeze your eyes shut, wake back to the reality you settled for, because it felt like a dream. John filling you to the brim with that feeling you’ve been yearning for, for two years.

“Been so alone, John.” You hiccup through your cries, it’s the only thing you can sputter out. No more strength to push him away.

“And I’m sorry about that [+].” He sucks in a weary breath, cupping your face in his hands and wiping your tears from your face.

“ I’m not sure if I’ll remember much from back then, but if I can’t remember, I still want to start over with you. Spend the rest of my life loving you. And I’ll be here every step of the way, ‘m not leavin you behind sweetheart.”

And your heart melts, a strangled noise comes from you, letting him capture your lips onto his and your body into his arms. His beard pricks your face, it’s a kiss mixed with emotion, hunger and desperateration, love and sadness. John presses your foreheads together, panting, squeezing your hand.

“Let’s go home.”

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

You’d never seen John Price so desperate in your life. The drive home was a short one, maybe from him speeding like his life depended on it. His hand clutching your hand in his, kissing the back of it, then your knuckles and your wrist every chance he got.

You couldn’t even get through the door properly before you got yanked into his grasp, lips smashing into yours. Pulling whatever jackets you both had on, off. The front door finally shuts behind you, John so lost at the thought of you, breath growing more and more feverish the more he kisses you, he doesn’t know if he locked the door.

“Joh-“ you couldn't even get a word out, him slipping his tongue in your mouth, intertwining your tongues together until you were both breathless.

John grunts, hosting you up so your legs wrap around him, his hand holding you close, “[+], let me hold you.”

You stupidly nod, reattaching your lips as he takes you upstairs.

It doesn’t take long got the older man yo lift your naked body on top of him, pulling your bare chest against his hairy plush one. His large calloused hands have been all over you, taking his sweet time caressing and touching you. As if to remind himself and ingrain your very being in his brain. You can feel his growing hard cock hit your thigh. You shift, already reaching down to put it in, but John moved your hand away.

“Price mmm- please,” you beg, oh-so adorably.

“Gotta get you all wet sweetheart,” he says softly against your skin, sucking at it and creating little small hickies, “take it easy.”

He guides your hips, slowly rolling them against him, and he meets you. Rocking himself through your glistening folds and back, till you can hear how wet you’re making each other. You can’t help the little moans of frustration. It’s not enough, you want- no- you need more.

You whine, hazed brown eyes looking into his, hips bucking down on him when you feel his tip graze against your clit, “Ah- fuck- Need it Price-“

“What did Dad say?” His voice rumbles from his chest, deep, smooth, you shoot up, your own moans caught in your throat.

It’s electric, adding more fire to what’s already burning within you. Chills roll up your arms, and you feel John continue moving your hips with one hand, eyes low as he watches every twitch, every movement.

Part of him doesn’t know what’s come over him, truly, it’s completely different. But it rolls of the tongue like it’s instinct when he looks up at you, the way you bite your lip, face turning into one so obedient, longing— trying to contain yourself. The other half knows it’s a sweet spot for you. Like you need it, for him to come in and save the day.

Such a Daddy’s girl, despite being so independent. Or was it a façade—

His other hand dips down, pressing his thumb against your pulsing clit and rolling it around. “Such a needy little thing, hm? Always been like this?”

You can only moan in response, trying to hide your face with your hand over your mouth.

Just with you, just you, just you—

Your hand grips his shoulder, nails creating moons in his skin, you move your slutty hips faster at the friction, “Fuck lovie, look at you,” he sucks in a breath, gripping your hips tighter so you don’t fall on your back as you fall apart.

He flips you on your stomach, letting his fingers trail your back as he spreads your legs open just enough to get in between them. His fat, angry cockhead leaking pre, circles your sappy entrance.

He grits his teeth, “Gonna be a bit of a stretch honey, you’ll be good for Daddy ‘nd take it, yeah?”

He doesn’t even give you the time to respond, breaking you right in half as he slowly eased his massive girth inside you. Your mouth is left agape, clutching at the sheets, “S-so much, so muuuch Price!” And your voice goes up an octave.

Your hips wiggle, trying to adjust to only half of his thick, nine inches. Tears prick the corners of your brown eyes whilst he adjusts the arch of your back, “Eassy baby, breath out for me.”

You whine, face hitting the plush of the pillowcases, “Okayyy.”

And it’s just enough, with a swift motion, he rams it into you, your glutenous pussy taking every inch he’s got. He lets out a ragged sigh in relief, shuddering as your warm and dripping cunt encapsolizes him.

“Good girl darlin, so - hck- so fuckin good f’me.”

But he’s not stopping there, making sure his weight is properly onto, managing to get even deeper inside you, holding you close. You can’t help but let out a loud sob, the loud ‘clap’ of his hips meeting your ass with every slow pound of his cock.

“Missed you, shit dove, missed you so much.” He groans.

“I missed you- angh- much Daddy.” You so prettily moan.

His eyes flicker with mischief, leaving long kisses on your back as he breaths you in, he taunts, “Saw you- hah- saw you with that muppet not too long ago.”

If you were in your right mind, you’d ask, ‘how?’ But your brain has been turned into mush, only thinking of John, John, John, and the sweet feeling he’s giving your pussy. Every thrust rough but so painfully good as his dick kissed your sweet spots, doltish babbles leaving your two tone lips.

“I- nngh- I wasn’t- oooh fu- I couldn’t- with that guy—“

“I know pretty girl,” he hisses as you clamp around him, “But then I saw that green watch sitting right here,” his hands entertains with yours. Coming down and kissing your wrist.

“Why were you doing wearing my things while dating around?”

It was supposed to be a secret.

Your friend had dragged you onto a double date, and for once you finally gave yourself the leniency to try. Not just show up. But you just needed a little piece of him on you, for a little courage. John would want you to move on, is what you thought.

But he’s so thankful, thankful your head was so full of him that you couldn’t let go.

You’re too embarrassed, wanting to hide your face in the pillows, but John snakes a hand around yout throat, lifting your chin up with a squeeze as he keeps moving inside you, air barley getting to your brain, “let me hear you baby.”

You look back at him, his dilated pupils trained on, your pussy clamping down on him “Couldn’t stop thinkin ‘bout you- mmh- it’s always you Dad—“

And the words are like music to his ears, he mercilessly fucking you.

John isn’t stopping till you can’t walk tomorrow, with cum dripping out of your stuffed cunt and onto the bed. Sure to keep you in bed doing the exact same thing tomorrow.

You can see the sun peaking through, John has you both on your side, drilling his throbbing member into you once more. He peppers kisses all over you as your lashes flutter open, you let out a sweet mewl.

“You passed out on me kid, you alright?” He hums, brushing your curls back.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as he licks around your ear, barely able to catch up. “Shit- ugh- feels so gooood Daddy, feels-“ you’re slurring your words.

Price’s cock manages to hike up further inside you, curved and slamming in you, his balls smacking against your sobbing cunt. You can’t help the shrieks that come out of you, your body molasses, your elastic walls barley able to let him go as he rolls his hips into yours.

John snakes a hand around you, groping your perfect tit in his hand, swirling a finger over your hardened areola and then tweaking your hardened nipple as your legs shake, “Fuckin made- fuck- just for me sweetheart. All I’ve ever needed.”

You don’t even know what’s come over you, mumbles of ‘cumming’ while you slap at his hands, it’s so much. Almost too much. But John tilts your head back, giving you a sloppy French kiss as you fall apart around him, your velvety walls clinging to him. He groans in your mouth, spilling every drop of his seed inside you.

“That’s my girl.”

a/n: ngl I hate this. It’s shit. But I needed it out my face cause I’ve overthink it too much. I wish I could get better at writing smut and dialogue and plot :/. Anywho, happy birthday to me and John (my libra twin🙂‍↕️)

He’d call? You’d come. Somewhere in the middle, you’d thought Mark would fall in love with you though. That you weren’t just a pretty face, or a good fuck— you could do the emotional, the romance of it all. Not run. All Mark did he’d laugh at you.

“You’re not being reasonable, baby,” he chuckled snidely as he went around the large hotel room, picking up the littered clothing he’d left on the floor.

Reasonable? What was reasonable? Asking for a relationship was unreasonable? That doesn’t even sound right. Your face scrunches up.

Mark feigns a pout, cupping your face after adjusting his tie, “Don’t give me that face baby. You’re too pretty for it.”

“Then I’m just nothing to you Mark?” Your voice didn’t even sound like your own, tight and sharp. But it felt so much smaller.

He scuffs then sighs, gently kissing your lips, “You know you’re not nothing to me baby. You’re- you’re pretty, sweetheart. So gorgeous. You’ve— helped me… so much doll. Been so good to me this entire time. Don’t ruin this for me, please?”

Ah.

Don’t ruin it [+].

Just keep smiling, keep looking pretty, keep wearing that pretty dress and that pretty necklace he got you. Laugh at his jokes, get your own rocks off. But the thought of it just being a pretty and sitting object kept festering in the back of your mind. You wanted more, more, more. You deserved more. You should be able to ask for the whole damned world if you wanted to and receive it on a silver platter with the finest wine and a vanilla ice cream drizzled with chocolate with the cherry on fucking top.

You wouldn’t get that from Mark— you hit a dead end.

It was when you went to go get your friend a gift, you’d entered the revolving door mindlessly, then you heard the family crowd in on the other side. Two kids giggling, a pretty blonde wife smiling and then, fresh and neatly styled brunette hair, hazel brown eyes, dressy attire and a grey trench coat— Mark. The same loving smile he gave you on his face as he planted a kiss at her temple.

He didn’t even notice you.

Your feet stumbled, entering the building, dizzy. Heart trailing out of you and along with the bastard and his fucking generic tv looking family. You followed, back through the revolving door to try to get a glimpse of him.

One more time, one more fucking time— a bad habit. A bad decision. You’d let the man walk away with whatever you gave him today.

It was your fault for letting it get this far to begin with, getting so attached to such a guy who gave you almost everything you’d wanted. Everything but love.

You let out a ragged breath, your lip trembling as you stare at his back. Him trailing away on such joyace footing right along with the setting sun along with his family. Taking the day with him. While you’re stuck to face the music.

Be a big girl, [+]. You’re a big girl. That’s what you’ve always been.

You turn on your heels, no gift in hand, in the opposite direction. The dark blue overtaking the sky, click, click, click of your heels hitting the pavement with every step. Vision getting blurry the further you walk. You don’t even know where you’re going, just letting the tears fall, the pit in your stomach turn into a labyrinth. You could handle it. Just a big, silly, knee scraping fuck up.

Shit, you needed a drink.

It started with a one night stand, doesn’t it always? He’d been away for so long, too long, and just needed to get his mind back into civilization. No other way to do than to get his dick a little wet? And you were available. He’d seen you once before, on some social media. Your posts would attract anyone who saw them. An alluring little thing in that grimy filter, so pretty, had all your curls tossed to one side, smiling with your pretty brown eyes, lifting your shirt just a bit so you could see the black thong you were wearing— a little teaser.

It was an absolute miracle he found you sitting across him in that empty bar, you lifted your head from the counter, long lashes clumped together, mascara slightly smugged, adding to temptation. Ghost bet you’d look even prettier crying on his dick and not over whatever had you in tears that was so minuscule :(.

You were in a tight, cropped, long sleeve turtle neck, dark low rise jeans that oh-so-perfectly hugged your curves and a 90s layered haircut that went down your back. You pulled out your compact mirror, the tears dried up by themselves, you lightly patted your face with fingers. Your eyes wandered around you, then finally to Ghost. You studied him in curiosity, eyes flicking from his brown eyes to his skull faced balaclava. What the fuck was he wearing? You looked around the empty bar only to gain a smirk from him that was unbeknownst to you. He beckoned you over with two fingers.

You were admittedly a little tipsy, talking to someone, even to a masked muscular man would be better than mumbling into the bar tender who very visibly didn’t want to be working their shift. So you dragged yourself over. Ghost watched your hips swish with every motion, even with a couple shots in you, and your eyes a glossy, you were walking as if you hadn’t been through the ringer. Poised.

Ghost listened to your dumb sob story like the many women your age. Some guy fucking you over, but you liked him still. Wanted to be with him and for him to choose you. But he wasn’t going to choose you. Same script different character. Ghost would be kind to you though, at least for the moment—

“Should I help ease your mind then?” His voice raucous, almost obnoxiously deep, sent your brain swooning.

You wave him off, sniffling, “I don’t think I’ll forget this one. I think it was more of a wake up call.”

“Didn’t say I could make your forget,” and his hand reaches yours, pulling you just enough so you’re facing him but still sat in the bar stool. He rubbed your hand gently, “Asked you should I help ease your mind.”

Your heart goes haywire, you lick your lips, eyes flicking from his all black attire to his brown eyes that swam in your own.

“Trynna kill me?”

“Don’t think murderers admit that to their victims, do they?”

The ends of your lips curved up, giggling smacking your forehead and leaning on the bar, insanely gorgeous, “right of course.”

He got you there.

You looked between the brute and the rest of the dingy bar, lights flickering above you— you’d play your hand with the devil tonight.

“Then please do.”

Was it strange for you to follow a man with a mask out of a bar and to his place? Of course. Not an ounce of urgency or concern, he teased you about it with his thick fingers were two knuckles deep inside you as soon as he got you in his house about a 30 minute drive from the bar. “Brainless little thing aren’t ya?”

He tsked, his fingers curling, grazing your g-spot and getting a yelp from you. “Thinkin with your cunt, we’ll have to fix tha’.”

It was when he felt you drenching around his aching red tip with precum, Simon almost lost his mind. Maybe you were the one trying to kill him. Had to get more in you. Arched your back further, slowly stretching your sloppy cunt inch by fucking inch.

“Oh- oh my go- Ghost!” your breath hitched, toes curling, you lift your head just enough to look back at him with those big doe eyes, Christ, you were going to kill him. “Y-you said just the tip.”

He’s just barely acknowledging you, too consumed (literally) by how tight you were choking him length, he grunted, “Heh, Not when she’s begging for me to be inside ‘er. You crazy? Fuckin greedy little cunny you’ve got, as if the tip would be enough.”

And you were whining so beautifully as you clenched around him, clinging at the sheets because the bastard was so thick, so biiiig (just like you moaned), and he pulled you right back down on his length because you could take it. Had to.

He couldn’t even fit all of him inside you.

That’s when he knew he had to keep you on a leash. Not a tight one, loose enough to let you wander, let you think you could continue on like you’ve always been. Hopping around from man to man, unknowingly letting yourself be some bitch. No, no, no that wouldn’t fucking work, not anymore. Not for Ghost. Perfect kitty, soon enough he’d tighten it, just when the time was right, enough that he wouldn’t loose track of you, keep you in check.

Make you his.

You’d assumed Ghost was in the bathroom when you scrambled out his bed and out of his house. The man was a monster, in the best way imaginable, but one night is one night. You’d keep your end of the deal. A taxi was on the way because he truly did live in the middle of no where, no uber or lyft— it was £70 taxi well spent.

“You’re gone?” Ghost asks, wiping his hands with the towel that was in his back pocket. You didn’t know what time it was but the man already had a little smudge on his and face, unshaven stubble, sweat already bleeding through his shirt— he looked too handsome to be true. You’d already felt butterflies fluttering around in your stomach.

“Uh- yeah. I- ehem- it’s been fun.” You nod, curtly.

He hummed, “Sure.”

There’s an awkward silence only filled with the rock music coming from inside the garage. You check your phone, 10:45 am, new message; taxi service: I’ve arrived.

You look up from your phone but there’s absolutely no taxi.

Ghost sees the look of confusion on your face, he’s already moving to one of the cars parked in front of the garage, “Does it look like that taxis coming out here? We’re in the middle of the woods.”

“Oh…” you scatch the back of your neck, and sigh, “well I’ll just walk to meet him then.”

Ghost looked at you, raising an eyebrow, a silly little thing, “So you can miss the taxi and be stranded there for the next forty minutes? Don’t be dumb, baby. Just get in the car!” He barks out his orders, getting in his black truck and slamming it shut.

It’s a simple three minutes, down the long path of his drive way, through the paved brush in the woods to his mailbox. Exactly where the yellow taxi cab sat parked. The truck stilled, Ghost unmoving while you gathered your purse, double checking to make sure everything was there. Your glance at him once more, scars crawling up his neck to the mask, blonde hair, pretty long lashes, brown eyes—

Ghosts voice filled the silent car, just as you opened the passenger door. “You come back when you want.”

It was a simple sentence. A direction.

He was taunting you, had to be. You’d thought about his words for the entire car ride back to your flat. Then day or so, and if you didn’t get a sign from god, you’d move on with your life as if that never happened.

But while rummaging through your purse, on the inside pocket while looking for your wallet, there was a crumbled up piece of paper. Ghosts address and number on the back.

You found yourself back there a week later, after contemplating up and down the small walls of your apartment. you drove yourself this time, cursing to yourself that this was stupid and he wouldn’t want to see you again. But you knocked anyway…

Silence.

You knocked again, rocking on your heels and taking a step back to take a look at the fairly large house. Probably a five or six bedroom, it was old, but fixed up properly. A garage connecting to it, two different trucks outside of it.

Simon opened the door, shirtless, stomach with a little pudge over his untoned abs, tattoos on full display and biceps flexing— he should’ve been on the cover of Mens Health Magazine. A damn model. The blonde nodded towards something in the front garden.

“The keys under the flowerpot over there.”

Without another word, he stepped to the side, letting you into the house. A German shepherd came walking down the hall, immediately coming to sniff you out like you were a bad guy. You immediately went to pet him, your hands finding his collar, a bin shaped tag in the middle of his neck that read, ‘Slugger.’

“I’ve got some things to take care of. You do what you want.”

And with that, Ghost was down the hall. Leaving you in the foyer with his dog. And you’re in disbelief because wasn’t this supposed to be— well— a hookup? A quick, ‘hey, I’m signaling you to bone me.’ You grumble, “that ass,” slipping off your shoes and stepping further into the house.

“As if I’d sit around ‘nd wait, ‘m not some pet.”

Let’s not calling waiting then, you wasted time. Ghost's house was a shell of what once was. The leather couch’s and the tv were new. The end tables, coffee table and mirror that hung on the walls were testaments of time though. Old antiques that had to be from the 70s or 60s, a record player placed in the hallway towards the kitchen, still used, rock records spanning the last five decades sat in crates on the floor. Under the tv was a plethora of movies, vhs to dvd, old classics to new action movies.

There were no pictures though. No photo albums to show that a family once lived here in this old house, none on the walls either. Just old paintings of sceneries, a few wilting plants in the corners of the room. But you could tell, the old bannister that led upstairs, the way the house just barely creaked with you and Slugger’s movements, the pencil marks of growing heights on the wall. A family was here once, but it was long gone.

Being here was like intaking the last lifeless breaths of something, utterly still- stuck.

The couch sunk once you plopped down on it. You sighed, Slugger happily panting with his tongue out at you. Graciously waiting for head pats. You chuckled giving him a little ruffle at his cheeks, “Guess we’re both waitin for the same thing, huh?”

“Still busy?” Your voice was naturally sultry, alluring, popping your head into the room where you heard the keyboard being tapped. This room, Ghosts office, completely different from what surrounded it. New, fresh, sleek, renovated.

Ghost hadn’t intended to be stuck at his desk for the last hour, paper work irritated the blonde to no end. He’d rather hand it off to Price. But you’d shown up on your own accord. Didn’t fight when he told you he had something to do, sceptical but still wanting to see whatever he had out for you— patient, just like he wanted. Good kitty.

“No,” a little white lie, he patted his leg, “come on.”

You shift on your feet, footsteps on the smooth hardwood gliding you behind his desk and onto his leg. “I didn’t take you for a business man Ghost.”

“A nickname like mine and you thought business?” His eyebrow raises, amused.

“Related to it! It’s related, no?”

“The military. Lieutenant.” You giggle, shoving his shoulder, “Then I was half right! Not bad, if I do say so myself.” You go on talking, treading lightly on the tightrope, your heart rate picking up while his thumb brushing over your plump lips, lost at the sight of you, gorgeous.

You chuckle, eyes finding his, “You’re not even listenin to a word—“

“—You talk too much.” He murmurs, planting his lips on his. It’s quick. Too quick for your own liking, your grip his hair and put his lips back on yours. They part just enough for his tongue to slip through. It’s wet, it’s sloppy, it’s desperate. Ghost throws your shirt and bra on the cluttered desk, skirt hiked up above your hips, underwear hanging off your foot. It’s already feeling humid, his large hands groping the two large globes of your ass, gripping harshly as you slid his large pink tip between your folds.

“ ‘S not gonna fit-“ you babble, moaning at the simple feel of his dick on you. One of his hands move up your back, “It’ll fit, just like it did last time, don’t think about it so much.”

“B-but-“ Ghosts hand reaches the back of your neck, gripping, “-[+], I’m not askin you. I’m telling you. Put. It. In.” You snuck down on his cock, painfully slow. Eyes squeezing shut with a shaky breath as you tried to take Simon. You remembered the limit, dreamt about it in your sleep and woke up with soiled panties. But you wanted to try fitting more, more—

“Oi, don’t get fuckin greedy. You know what to take,” Simon grunted, giving your clit a nice flick.

“ mMmm’ I’m sorry, sorry.” You mewled. You felt your brain was already shot, eyes turning into your skull as you bounced up and down. Ghosts head coming down perfect to bite and suck on your hardened nipples. You were hiccuping and crying, feeling that vein while his dick scraped your soaking walls.

You hadn’t even realized how dumb you looked, head resting on his shoulder, your arms hooked up under his while Simon took hold of your hips, guiding you up and down, back and forth, on his cock, drool continuously forming that you had to suck back up and slurring out daddy, daddy, daddy.

There’s a snap in your face, a deep chuckle you feel that comes from the bottom of his stomach, “God, is that brain even on? Too fucked out to hear me?”

You keen, “feels- ooough! Feelsh so g-good daddy.”

“I knooow. Poor baby,” Simon fake coos, pulling you away so he could really get a look at that adorably stupid look on your face. Simon couldn’t wait to see more of it. “Can’t even think properly, huh? Don’t worry, Daddy’ll do the thinking for now on. You’d like that, hm? Need someone to guide your little head.”

You moan and bite your lip, looking at him with those pretty brown eyes while rutting your hips so desperately— “Need you, need you so- hicc— soooo-“ Your own gasp cuts you off, eyes widening and shutting and you fell into the crash of a orgasm.

So sweet, so good, a orgasm that got you so high, it would land you right back down into Ghost's arms.

The relationship was— well the situationship— it wasn’t a bad arrangement.

You found stability within Ghost. Shocker? To you, yes.

There were no set rules to him, you could come and go as you pleased— the key under the green flowerpot in the front yard were yours— and if Ghost was there, he’d fuck you just as you needed. Rough and deep, pulling at the blonde strands of his hair whilst he ate your swollen pussy after wearing you thin, crying and thrashing. And when you woke up Ghost was either gone, in the living room watching some 80s flick rerun or in the garage.

“Leaving?”

“Yeah, see you later.”

“Mm.”

He didn’t press, he didn’t pull. He was constant. Ghosts house become your little safe haven. Anytime you felt like running off, being alone yet not alone, you were back there, blast music whenever you wanted, dance around without your neighbors banging on the wall and you’d have a cute little dog to pet everytime you gad the chance, Even when he’d gone on a mission, he’d leave you a note, ‘replace what you eat’ or ‘take care of the house’ because he’d known you’d be there. That was the very least you could do, right?

Take Slugger on a walk or two, fill the fridge before ransacking it, leave a couple clothes in the bedroom because you always forgot something at your place. Buy the fashion magazines you’d been dying to read and set them right under the stack Ghost had left there.

It felt so nice to be in Ghosts big arms, you didn’t have to have that hard shell you worked so hard to create, let his calloused hands explore you. Gently from your stomach to your chin, caressing ever so softly, you couldn’t help but lean into it. Lashes fluttering, sitting idly in one of his shirts that went mid thigh or maybe in the little black and blue tank top and underwear set he bought you.The one with lace at the hem that showed off your plump ass and hard nipples— you waited patiently for whenever he came home. Be it 7 pm or 1 am.

Let him ruffle your hair before you could swat him away, let him get a long and good look at you after his long day. Bring your ankle to his lips on the other end of the couch you two were both slouched on, movie playing in the background, before playfully biting.

Simon would ask, “What’d you do all day, hm?”

“Work, bullshit, more work.” You’d scuff, playing your nails but you weren’t focused on them. Not at all, more focused on Ghosts reaction, none of course, “let’s hear the bullshit then.”

You couldn’t help but want to be there. Because Simon wanted to hear you, his sweet girl, go on and on till you got tired, all curled up in his lap. Dozed off and nuzzling into the man’s every touch. Simon adored that about you.

You hadn’t even realized how kept you were until he handed that card, telling you, “you should get your own dresser instead of hogging mine. And get Slugger that collar you wanted for him.” As if you’d forgotten.

Did you run because you could see a storm brewing a mile away? Felt yourself reverting to the girl you once were with Mark. Being left to your own devices then meant to be the stress reliever. Kept. That’s what Ghost had to see you as right? Nothing more than pretty object. Right?

No, this was your greed festering again. Something you should’ve shoved downs flight of stairs just when you got that little nibble of proper attention you wanted. Ever wanting, ever needing— More, more, more. Fuck the world, you wanted the galaxy— the universe. You’d dreamed of it one night, living peacefully in this house, warmth filling it, laid out in his truck, watching the stars pressed into the blondes side. But Ghost couldn’t give you the universe. You were stupidly sure of that— convinced every molecule to refute the idea of it. No man could. You’d accepted that.

You’d rather be alone than to be let down.

And maybe it’s on Simon for not tightening the leash when he had the chance. He shouldn’t have let you perch in his lap and rub into him without telling you that there was no backing out of— well— this. Another problem. He should’ve told you that you’d be his, no more of the back and forth. Settle you properly. You hadn't even known you’d slithered around a snake tamers neck.

You were so blatantly ignoring him. Ignoring his calls, his texts. And it’s not like he was harassing you, he’d call or text once a week. See if you’d bite, but he’d get nothing. But you were still going place to place (he had your location on), showing off all sexy and high tailed with your friends. Eating, clubbing, working, showing your pretty face to the camera. Like nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

It irritated Simon. To the point, the men working under him were even more terrified and exhausted of him after training. Soap had to remind him to ease up on them, “They’re wee babies aren’t they?”

No, they were annoying little brats, who should understand without being told. Just like you.

Simon realized his fault. He just needed to train you right. Strays are all the same. You could keep them around for so long, let them bite and scratch even as you pet them, they leave, maybe get roughed up a bit then— they’d be right back when they needed or wanted. Looking for comfort, to find out if anything had changed— safety. You’d known where you were supposed to be eventually.

He heard the front door open, gently shutting it closed and the zipper of your boots coming off.

“Where’ve you been?” Simon thundered. He was sat on the couches closer to the window, man spreading, brown eyes piercing you.

You glance off, voice just above a whisper, “Around.”

Around? Right. Just paying the person you gave your attention to, no mind. Not an answer that would fly, not in Simons book.

“I just came to get a jacket.”

But you don’t move, the tension is too thick. Almost suffocating. You didn’t know why you were back honestly. You wanted to see him, just for a bit. Even if it was to grab one of his old shirts. Say hi to Slugger. The jacket was an excuse.

“What’d’you want [+]?”

What do you want? You blinked. Once. Twice. To go home. A new thought because you so badly wanted to be here no matter what you did, your mind would trail back to being here, face pressed in Simons thigh, almost purring the way he rubbed the back of your nape, Slugger on his doggy bed sleeping, Simon telling you to hush because you were talking over the horror movie you were scared of— that’s what you wanted.

But is that what you deserved? Is that what Simon wanted? Simon was looking right through you, eyes deep and searching for any waver yet understanding. Oh, it wasn’t just a simple question. It was, ‘What do you want so I can make you stay?’ Fickle were the worries that crossed your mind to Simon. He saw the way you kept shifting foot to foot, eyes in a panic, playing with your nails and the rings on your finger—you were scared. He was driving you into a corner on purpose.

Run. Just like you always do. It’s better this way.

“I-I want my jacket.” You stammered out, swallowing the spit in your mouth, “I need to get it, then I’ll get out of your hair.”

Your reply was like a rejection, a smack in empty forrest. You move finally, up the stairs, and you hear it. It’s like a rare bell that chimes when you finally come to a realization— Simons chuckle. It’s short but deep, drenched in sarcasm.

Faster.

Ghost was on you before you could get down the hallway, throwing you over his shoulder— tightening.

It was wrangling a feral cat. This entire beginning to now, letting you come and go when you wanted, feeding you, cuddling you, gifting you— it was house training a stray. And now that you’d bit his hand, and I mean really bit it, he’d force you into a house cat—

Help your stupid little brain remember where you belonged.

Right up under Simons large build, your hands pinned together at your stomach in one of his hands, shoving your face down into the mattress of his bed with the other, dropping every fucking inch of his girth into your tight pussy. Squirming too much, mewling, “ ‘s too much- agh- daddy too much!”

And there’s a large hand that comes down on your ass, fixing your lower back to arch so you weren’t in fetal position, “Shut up ‘nd take it, take it, fucking take it.”

You’d never in your life felt so full, so stretched, so out of your mind. Your lucky Simon was giving you the opportunity to take those shaky breaths, try to get used to the size, but it didn’t make a difference. Your snug cunt was gripping him like a vice, he wanted to memorize every single bit of it.

He breaths through his nose, shuddering before snapping his hips into yours, “Fuckin hell, baby, all this f’me. Always been for me.” His thrusts are slow and mean, dragging himself out so his tip is right at the entrance of your hole then plowing back into you.

“Fuuuu- so full- so much,” you gasp, tears forming in your eyes.

“Holdin out on me, mmph- you were holdin out on me alllll this time. Like I wouldn’t- fuck- be able to fit in your pretty pussy ‘nd then leavin me high and dry,” he grunts, delirious on your gummy walls, thrusts becoming more rapid, his heavy balls hitting your clit with every movement, He snickers, “You lost your brain princess, this is where you should be. Turnin that dumb little brain off and takin my cock.”

Simon presses your hands down on your stomach, exactly here his dick was pressing your cervix, you flinch, sobbing out his name as you cream all over his dick. “Therrrre she goes, gorgeous fuckin slut you are. You've been aching for it haven't you?”

The blonde flips you onto your back, sliding back into your sensitive heat without a second thought. You claw at Ghosts back, eyes rolling into your head like a flimsy doll. Cockdrunk baby, he jaw clenches, that quick wave of jealousy washing over him, but he lets it out out in the way he fucks you. Getting three of his fat fingers and rubbing loud and sopping mess you’ve left around your clit. Getting you through three orgasms just by playing with that bundle of nerves.

He nibbled everywhere, sure to leave hickies around your neck and chest, then bites. literally. “To think, you’d go off without a word to me, like you don’t care. Who told you to run off like that? Huh? Daddy didn’t, did I?” The blonde presses all your weight down on you, swiveling his hips.

“N-no” you hiccup, his hand goes to your throat, giving it a nice squeeze, “No what? Don’t you have any manners doll?”

“No sir,” you yelp, that strawberry pink cockhead hitting your g-spot. The plap, plap, plap, of Ghost bottoming at your then giving your g-spot a knuckle sandwich with his dick.

“Told you, you over think too fuckin much,” Ghosts voice strangled, “Get out of your head, enough of the running.”

“I don’t,” you shake your head but Simon squeezes your cheeks together, throwing your legs over his shoulders, “don’t fuckin lie, [+], don’t feed me bullshit.”

And you feel smaller than you ever had, whimpering, the most vulnerable you've ever been, forcing everything out and handing over the key to Pandora’s box- “You- you can’t let go, okay? You have to- hicc- you have to be with me!”

As if you had to ask.

He just needed to hear it from your plump lips, even if it took you being overstimulated, tears on his shoulder and your mixed cum spilling out of your swollen pussy. He’d tame you over and over and over, just for you to stay with him. Keep you close.

“Open,” Ghosts mezmorized, your mouth falls open and a wad of his spit falls in. He closes your mouth with his thumb, “Swallow” and you did, throat bobbing in his hands. He pressed your forehead together, molding your lips, biting your lips so much you can feel the blood.

You're purring, eyes glazed over and slurring, “Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Daddy?”

“Princess,” he leers but you moan louder at that, arms wrapping around his tattooed broad shoulders.

Call and fucking response, the ends of Ghosts lips curve up. Such a sweetheart, checking to see if he was there, and he would always be right there.

“Sweet baby, learning to be greedy?” He hummed and you’re slowly nodding that clueless little head of yours, your walls clenching a few times, “-hmph want you, want it.”

“Gooood girl, my good girl. Gonna fill your little cunt, yeah? Just how you want, just how you need, right Kitty? Gonna take all of it?”

It doesn’t take much for you to fall off the edge of Simons words, back arching off the bed and Simons holding you tight, still slamming into you while leaving a tender kiss to your forehead. Till you feel those big fat globs of milky cum hitting your cervix.

Simon looks at the state of you, glowing, breathtaking even in your exhausted state, he could’ve moaned at the sight of you, pushing your curls out of your face and licking up the tears that once fell.

Gorgeous kitty, Simon would take care of you now.

a/n: this took forever. I love blackcat!reader the most. Lmk what you think pls

most recent masterlist more meanie!simon

For fucks sake, it was supposed to be a fun night out and if you were one of your friends, it would’ve been. You and your friends loved bar hopping, enjoying the vibe wherever you went and free alcohol that men and women would order for you. You don’t remember how many bars ago, but your phone died somewhere in the middle and you did spend about five minutes at the last 6 bars trying to find an outlet before your friends dragged you away to the dance floor. That had to count for something, right? You did try to get some form of life on your phone for thirty minutes!

You’d finally gotten to an outlet, right next to the fucking bathroom. ‘15 missed called 4 new messages.’ A string of curses leaving your mouth once you dialed that memorized phone number. And there Simon was, talking to you out the ass while the music was booming in the distance, you had your phone in one hand and a finger in the other trying to hear him properly, the smell of only-god-knows from god-knows-what filling your poor nose all so you could attempt to fix your accidental boo-boo :( — but that bastard had to have you crying in the club.

Like you were thirsty for his attention. you were.

No, none of this was your fault. You didn’t need to update the 6’4, blonde, hunk of a damn brat, when he hadn’t even bothered to contact you in a month.

Yup, the ghost was actually known for ghosting you.

Purposely declining your calls, leaving your texts on read or worse: replying with a ‘k’ when you tried to meet up when you knew (least for the most part) he kept to himself. When he was stationed near by, he was at his own fucking house minding his own business. He was the worst. And the cherry on top?

The fucker had your location on.

You swore he did this to get a rise out of you, to see you teetering off the brink of sanity— and you had to attempt to reel yourself back in every. fucking. time. You weren’t his little plaything, you didn’t need him.

“Don’t fuck with me.” you mumbled, salty tears hitting your mouth. Those would be the last for the night, you swore it. It was like the liquor finally left your heart and went to your brain. Liquid courage.

“What’dyou just say t’me?”

Louder, “I said, don’t fuck with me! I’m sick of your shit Simon!” You snapped. You weren’t an angry person, you’d just hit an annoying wall you needed to get though. The annoying wall called Ghost Riley.

“You always- always come out of the fucking blue ‘nd think you tell me what to do! I’m not a fucking idiot, I know what the fuck I’m doin! Don’t be bitchy at me cause I like to have a little fuckin fun with my friends even when you’ve been ignoring me. Fuckin ignoring me instead of telling me what’s up! The fuck do I gotta do to get you off my dick?!”

“You like the messy shit, Si! You like seein me pissed at you just so you’re the one who has to come and fix it! I can’t stand it. You should go find a bitch who likes that shit because I don’t! I hate how I feel right now and I hate that you can’t be one of those kind boyfriends who’ll come and fuckin hold me nice and shit! Hell, maybe I’ll go find someone to hold me realll nice like since you fuckin won’t!” You spat, nose flaring, you were trembling with rage.

“Pup,” one word. Cut throat. Yanking you right back down to reality. “You take your pretty ass home, ‘nd I’ll go easy on you, yeah?”

You felt your chest rising and falling rapidly, you were frustrated that he clearly didn’t listen to your little rant but you felt your panties get damp. Just a bit. Just like always when you saw a punishment coming. You couldn’t help yourself.

“I-“

“—She’s busy right now please leave a message after the beep. Beeeeeeep.” Your friend, Sharon, has snactched your phone out of you hand, quickly interjecting your conversation with the man and hanging up. She hiccuped, nodding her head in satisfaction.

“You can’t spend the whoooole night by this stinky ass bathroom. Let’s go daaaaance, or-or drink.” She giggled, taking your hands. “Or both!” She squealed at her own words.

Fuck it.

You went out with your friends so you could have a good time, and that’s exactly what you were going to do.

Simon had such a nice way of breaking you down to your knees, so you were the one sobbing and begging then bringing you back up. He didn’t do it often, he wasn’t that fucking mean, but he did it when you really pissed him off. Simon needed you to understand— you weren’t in charge. He was. The man doesn’t remember exactly what you did to piss him anymore, it had been a long and grueling month for him anyway. But he had to follow through with something because he’d be damned if he had to actually apologize, you being with your idiot friends didn’t help your case. So he threw it in the melting pot of why he had a right to bully you.

The motherfucker couldn’t help himself.

When he entered your empty and annoyingly small studio apartment, he added another mark to his ‘reasons to fuck babygirl up’ list. He told you to take your sweet ass home, didn’t he? And where were you?

He’d make sure the neighbors knew exactly who the fuck he was.

It should’ve been easy for you to check in, no? He worried about your safety above all else, but it always seemed to fly out the window when you were with your friends who were notorious and extreme party girls while you just went with the flow. He didn’t not like them sober, it’s when you went clubbing you, for some reason, would get hard headed, defiant. It pissed him off, which would always lead to an argument. Usually he’d come snatch you up while you were tipsy, you’d have a cry in the car, mumbling something about how you just knew the man didn’t like you or take you serious.

And partially, Ghost didn’t. He brushed your insecurities away at first, thinking nothing of it as you went about your life. But you kept being on edge drunk or sober. So he would be right there, finger fucking you otherwise while the car was still in motion. And maybe you were right, maybe he wasn’t the sweet and soft boyfriend you wanted who’d hold your cute little hand when you made him angry. He wasn’t the type to coddle you, chicken peck your face with kisses when you felt down. Simon Riley was the gruff and overbearing man you needed to set you straight, keep you grounded when the world went to shit.

That’s what your cute little tantrum was about, least part of it was. Simon knew he was distant, you just needed a reminder he was yours and you were his. And only his. You craved him like you needed food, it was obvious to anyone who saw you two together. He chuckled, couldn’t believe you even suggested fucking some other man. As if they could handle you, as if they knew what you needed.

He’d set that attitude straight.

The shower was running when the front door of your flat closed behind you. There’s no way you left it on this whole time, did you? You didn’t remember. The night turned into a long one.

No, you didn’t get black out drunk like your friends suggested. You had another shot or two, deciding to stay on the sober side with your DD. You two did smoke a fat blunt before hitting another club though, that made you feel like you were starting to lose your hearing. But it mellowed you out completely. The anger you felt, all that angst and sadness? Gone like a snap of your fingers. The person who was yelling and crying earlier? Technically it wasn’t you, you just needed a little peace. A little medicinal help.

After singing and dancing as hard as you could, your drunk friends taking blurry photos and videos of you that you’d probably post later, you persuaded them it’d be best to get something to eat and head home around two am. It took thirty minutes to find a convenience store that was open so you could chow down on something, and fifteen to get home. With a basically empty bag of chips in one hand, purse slung over your shoulder like a duffle, a bag of junk food in your other hand, low red eyes and a small smile— you finally got home.

You’d deal with that asshole tomorrow. Or next week— maybe next month if you gave enough of a fuck like he did.

Who knows.

You sat the bag of food on the coffee table, right now the priority was your skin care routine, then eat, then zonk out till 2 pm. You still can’t believe you left the shower and the bathroom light on that was now blinding your eyes but whatever. You’d turn it off as soon as you were done since it was warm due to the slight steam.

Routine, routine, routin— you stumbled over a pile of clothes. Large male clothes— okay, maybe you were in the wrong apartment.

Not your first rodeo.

You’d just slowly back out and try looking for your apartment. No big deal.

But the shower curtain swung open and you tripped over the clothes, falling right on your ass with a yelp.

“Ya can’t be that fuckin drunk, can ya?”

Your eyes darted open, right at the familiar deep cockney accent— Simon Riley was right there in the flesh, water dripping down his scarred and large body, making him dazzle like a God in that fucked up bathroom light.

Now that was blinding.

“Hello? Are ya listenin?”

Oh, he really wanted an answer.

“ ‘M not drunk.” You said breathlessly. Intoxicated? Yes. But not drunk. The shots had worn off ages ago. Hell, maybe your high was too at the sight of this brute.

What the fuck was he doing here?

The blonde ignored the confused look on your face. Taking a towel that sat on the sink and drying his hair. No point in drying off anything else, he was about to sweat.

So were you.

Simon continued on, stepping past you and you quickly got up, following right behind him like a starved puppy. For someone who hated your apartment, he sure walked around like he owned the place. Nude, large cock swinging, and the look of annoyance written on his handsome unmasked face.

He sat on the bed, manspreading nonchalantly. Knowing you were looking at it, your eyes immediately went elsewhere.

“What do you want?” You mumbled out, shifting from foot to foot.

As if you didn’t know what was bound to happen.

The older man laughed, sarcasm dripping down his throat.

“Be good ‘nd strip, won’t repeat myself.”

“Si-Simon!” Your breath hitched once a large hand came down on your ass, once for good measure.

“Who?” He slapped his thick member on your ass, sliding it through the crevice of your cheeks.

“But- but Simon-“ another slap.

“You’re gonna make it worse for yourself, call me proper.” He smacked his cock over your glistening folds. So fucking wet.

“Daddy mmph,” You moaned.

“All this ‘b-b-but’ bullshit from ya. You’ve pissed me off more than enough. You’ll take all of it today.” Simon slipped inside your hole, filling you to the brim even with half of that girthy cock in you. You both hissed, fuck, it was always so good when he was inside your walls. Simon slowly started to rock his hips into you, slowly but surely making sure you took every inch if his manhood had to offer.

It was when he bottomed out, you knew you were in for it. Simon wasn’t talking to you, he forced your head down on the bed, forcing your back to arch further as he thrusted right at your spot. Over and over and over.

“Gonna cum pa, gonna cum.” You stuttered, feeling the pit in your stomach starting to turn.

“No you’re not.”

“—But—”

“I dare you [+]. I know you’d just looove seein how that turns out.”

You hiccuped, tears brimming as Simons pace got faster. You could feel him throbbing inside you but he wouldn’t cave. He was making the both of you suffer over a petty argument— a mistake that in any normal relationship wouldn’t be that serious.

“I- no- anngh— I need to cum—”

“-You don’t need shit you greedy. fuckin. bitch.” He grunted, swatting your ass with every thrust.

The man yanked you up by your tosseled hair, “You had your oh-so lovin Daddy fuckin worried about’cha so you can be safe then when I finally get a hold of ya ‘nd tell you to go home, you ignore me. Threatenin to go fuck some idiot, but he couldn’t fuck you like I can? Can he? Can’t keep you pretty ‘nd upright? Can he?” His hand trailed from your throat to the buldge at your stomach. He scuffed, “now you’re itching t’cum just because I have my cock right here in ya? Fuckin dumb bitch shit,”

“You a dumb bitch?” He asked, making sure you were fucking him back. Ripples forming on your ass with every thrust.

“Noooo.” You cried out, trying to get away but it only made the brute dig into you further.

“What?”

“No sir.”

“Thaaats right princess. You're my smart little girl, listen to me next time. Good on you- fuck— for tryin to salvage yourself.” He huffed.

You didn’t realize your own toes curling at that small praise, your body trembling as you reached your peak.

“Hold it, did you just fuckin cum? When I told you not to?” He growled, forcing you to look at his eyes that were practically red with anger.

“Wait, wait, wait.” You really couldn’t help yourself, you’d been holding it for how long? And you were still kinda high which made you feel the sensations ten fold, Simon was drilling into you like no tomorrow and then he gave you an inch of kindness after being so mean to you this whole fucking time.

Your body unconsciously took a mile.

“Nope.” He yanked you back to lay your back on him, the rest of his drenched length in you, and lifted your leg so it was over your head, legs parted like the red sea. The first smack on your cunt for the night had you screaming, water spraying out.

Simon gripped your chin, forcing you to look down at the mess you created while harshly rubbing your pearl, still thrusting into you from behind, “You wanna act like a greedy bitch and think with your pussy? Then you cum like a greedy fuckin bitch. Cum you dirty pup.”

And he kept smacking down on your poor cunt, unable to stop yourself from cumming and squirting. Completely creaming Simons girthy cock so that a ring of cum formed around the base of his length.

“Daddy I can’t-“ you keened.

The man scowled, “-Shut. the fuck. up. You never shut the fuck up, the only thing I wanna hear is how fucking wet that pussy is. Keep fuckin cummin like a dirty slut you are.”

And you did.

You were wetting the bed like a dog. Water flying everywhere with every thwack of Simons hand on your abused and misused clit. You didn’t even know how many times you had cum by that point. Words? What were those? You wouldn’t even be able to read a street sign or name your favorite color if asked.

You were seeing pure white, the only thing you could hear was the loud squelching of Simon pumped himself in and out of you. He pulled out for a second causing you to whine at the loss of him, but he slipped back into your tight walls, fucking you in a nice missionary.

He gave your face a few light smacks to the face, tutting “Ah, ah, ah, pup, don’t you fuckin pass out. Eyes on Daddy.”

You managed to pry those long lashes open, hooded and lower than they could ever get when you were high.

“Therrrre my pretty girl is. Look so good bein fuckin stupid on my dick doll. This is alllll my girl needed. A good lesson, yeah? Remind ‘er who’s boss, huh?” He smirked, dragging himself down to you so your legs were at your chest.

“Shit baby, feel you squeezing down on me. Wanna cum with me? Missed me given it to ya just like you always need?” Oh, you were crying again. Yeah, you did miss his mean ass.

And his mean beautifully scarred up face, the mean way his muscles flexed when he did anything, his stupid fucking mouth that had to say some stupid shit touching your full lips, his disgustingly sexy muscular yet pudgy stomach with a happy trail touching your stomach everytime he wrapped those arms around you. His massive presence when he stood next to you, mean brown eyes watching while you did your hair, your makeup, or got dressed. Heartless hands that rubbed your neck everytime he didn’t know how to comfort you because that asshole trying his hardest to understand you.

And that undeniably cruel, overly massive cock fucking you like you were the final girl getting a well deserved an award for making it out the trenches in a horror film.

Your head was full with the thought of daddy, daddy, daddy— you shook your head but you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders. You hung on to whatever bullshit that man gave you. Only him. Always him.

“Wan- I wan it pa! Wan your cum in me.” you babbled through your sobs.

“Course ya fuckin do. Can’t do shit without me.” The older man crooned. He finally planted his lips on yours, you moaned at just the feel. Pink walls fluttering in ecstasy as he filled you to the brim. Slow thrusts making sure he pumped everything he had into your perfect cunt.

So much for not crying anymore.

The only sound you could be heard in that studio was you cries, like a fucking baby, bouncing off your thin walls. The headboard was finally able to rest, you knew for a fact your neighbors probably despise your being now.

“Why didn’t you- you come see me? I wanted- hicc- I wanted to see you. But- but- you wouldn’t come see me! Wouldn’t even talk to me on the phone,” You sobbed, tripping and falling through your words. “you must hate me.”

The older man rolled his eyes, “Didn’t ever say tha’. How can I hate’cha ‘nd your mine? Doesn’t make sense mama.”

“Didn’t call me though.” You were sprawled out on the bed now, fat tears escaping your eyes. The blonde was sitting on the bed, grabbing the bottled water that he kept in the nightstand, opening it and putting it to your lips to drink. You did, lifting just enough for a bit to go down your bound to be sore throat and flopping back on the bed.

“Was busy swee’art.” Half truth, half lie. Though it was habit, he was trying to keep you in the loop of his life this time. But old habits die hard. The man forgot to reply. His work schedule was fucked, and he was busy spending his free time moving house. The house he planned to give you, it just wasn’t ready yet. Simon was actually being good for you, for once.

“You’re not always busy Si, you just don’t like my annoying voice!” You whimpered.

It took everything in the older brute to not laugh, you were bein so fucking cute. Babbling nonsense but still clinging to him like a lifeline. Still wanting, still his baby girl.

“Told ya, you weren’t annoyin. Got a nice voice, so get it out silly skull.” He cooed, sitting you on your bottom to face him.

You sniffed, moaning and groaning in annoyance but choosing to accept those words. And only those though.

“Fucks sake, Stop it.”

“I caaaant.” You whined, profusely wiping your tears.

“No, dummy.” Simon pushed your hands off your own face, gently wiping the tears with his thumbs that continued to poor out, “Yer gonna throw a fuckin fit if your face ends up bein puffy cause you wipe your tears so damn rough. Take it easy.”

No one knew how to wipe your tears better than the man who created them.

“I wanna make up, you don’t want to?” That was as close to an apology you’d ever get. Always.

A proper Ghost apology was rare as is and you wouldn’t be getting that after your little tantrum tonight. So you ate up what you could get.

“I wanna- I wanna make up too Daddy.” You croaked, dragging out your words. Adorable princess.

“Pfft,” he ruffled your now messy, sweated out hair, “I gotcha.”

“Up you go.” Like a feather, Simon lifted you from the bed, walking to the bedroom you too had been at who knows how many hours ago. He gently sat you on the counter of the sink,

“Let’s get you all ready for bed, yeah?”