Simon âGhostâ Riley x Reader | 18+
You get a new job out in the countryside and settle into the living space above a diner. The owner is kindâattentive, even. Maybe too attentive. He keeps feeding you like he's worried you might leave too soon.
fem!reader, explicit sexual content, feeding kink, food play, finger sucking, size kink, size difference, praise kink, pet names, mild dub/con, plot what plot/porn without plot, simon can coooook
You stand in the big open space of the visitors center, pacing across the marbled floors. Each footfall clicks softly beneath you, slow and steady. Your eyes stay fixed on the double doors. Overhead, sunlight spills through the skylights in wide golden squares. You pause inside one, close your eyes, and tip your face toward the warmth.
You frown, lids lifting when nobody enters.
Youâd moved out of the city and into the countryside once you got the jobâjust last month. A glorified Visitor Center Attendant. Not your idea of a dream job, but itâd work for now. You're young and there's still plenty of other options in the future.
You pivot slowly and make your way back to the desk, heels tapping softly. Your slacks are pressed, your blouse a crisp white, light enough to breathe, your name tag pinned to your chest. Your hairâs pulled back into a neat twist.
No one would ever guess how long it took you to get ready this morning.
They wouldnât know how long you spent in the mirror just trying to re-curl your lashes, fussing with your hair till it began to puff up, frizzy pieces sticking out in weird places till you had to tame them back into submission. No one would know how many times you had to run back into your closet for a different clothing item, trying on different odds and ends until sweat prickled your underarms. They wouldn't know how sick you felt when you left the house wearing this ridiculous get-up.
How you almost turned around and drove back home, risked clocking in late, because you were terrified of being looked at the wrong way.
Now it all feels silly. Thereâs no one here.
School should be in session, but there are no scheduled field trips. Just the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the low creak of the building settling.
Youâre not sure if you like that fact today.
You fiddle with a stack of pamphlets, your fingers grazing the glossy edges as you gather the scattered paper guides into a single pile. You align their corners with excessive precision, tapping the stack against the desktop onceâtwiceâuntil they stand upright.
Then, with a soft clack, you let them fall. A neat little line. Perfect.
Suddenly, you have something to do.
You seize it like a lifeline.
Your hands move quickly, sweeping up loose pens that hadnât bothered you a moment ago. You click each oneâonce, twiceâbefore dropping it into the pencil holder. But itâs a little off center⌠you shift it slightly. Then again. Until it looks just⌠right.
You open a drawer. Shut it. Open another. Shuffle things, rearrange, pretend you're looking for something important. Paperclips. Extra name tagsâbatteries, maybe. Anything.
You circle the front desk like a tethered animal, hands running along the surface, smoothing invisible creases on the counter, straightening another stack of brochuresâand then again. The hum of the vending machine in the corner grows louder in the silence, and for a brief moment, you consider pretending you're hungry just for the excuse to press buttons and shuffle through a couple bills.
You glance at the doors. Still shut.
The building creaks softly above you, laughing you suppose. Dust dances in the sunbeams, drifting down in lazy spirals, as if time itself is stalledâcaught in the same loop you are. You look at the clock.
Only four minutes have passed.
You let out a heavy breath and return to your chair.
Eventuallyâhours laterâa family of five stumbles in. You hear them before you see them: the creak of the doors, the clatter of hurried footsteps, the confused murmur of voices bouncing off tile and glass. You sit up straighter, heart pricking with sudden alertness. Your fingers smooth the front of your blouse and straighten your name tag, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
They pause just past the threshold, blinking into the bright space as if theyâre on a different planet, feverishly scanning their surroundings.
The dad is the first to spot you. His face lights up, a little âAh !â slipping from his mouth like a minor revelation.
He strides toward the desk with purpose. You rise to your feet, readyâfinally readyâto offer directions, trail maps, animal facts, something useful. Or even just a simple exchange of pleasantries.
And then he asks, âIs there a bathroom in here?â
You point him in the right direction, âDown that hall and to your left,â give the faintest smile, and sit back down before theyâre even out of sight.
They never so much as glance at the pamphlets.
When they leaveâten minutes later, the youngest one still struggling with the sticky zipper on his pantsâyou feel it flush out of you. All that readiness. All that effort. Down the drain.
By closing time, you feel empty. Not tired exactly, just hollowed out. Scooped clean.
You rise slowly, bones aching in a way that doesnât come from use. In the back room, you gather your things from the narrow locker: your bag, your half-full water bottle, a pair of sunglasses you wonât be needing now. You sling your bag over your shoulder, fingers fumbling for the right key, clumsy from disuse, until you find the one that fits the front door.
The sky is a bruised purple, fading into an orange that slowly crawls behind the craggy horizon. The air is thickâsweet and wet, steeped in the smell of earth and blooming wildflowers. Your skin feels tacky with sweat by the time you reach your car.
You climb in and slam the door shut. Heat swells around you instantly, oppressive and stale. The steering wheel is nearly too hot to touch. You crank the engine, roll down the windows, and blast the AC. It sputters to life, coughing out lukewarm air before it ever gets cold.
You drive home in silence. No music. No podcasts. Not even the familiar shuffle of your favorite playlist. The aux cord dangles, unused. You let the sound of tires on pavement fill the space instead.
Your heart gives its usual little jitter as you round the bend just outside your temporary residency: Dead Manâs Diner. It always does, especially on a Friday evening around 8:15. Lights glowing warm through the smudged front windows, a hoard of trucks and motorcycles parked out front like loyal dogs.
The place is worn down and teetering on its last leg, but Simon has kept it alive longer than anyone expected. Itâs the place to be among the townsfolkâyou came to learn that quickly.
Simon let you take the space upstairs. He doesnât ask much in rentâjust enough to keep the lights on. For that, youâre grateful.
Itâs not fancy. One bedroom, one bathroom, a cramped kitchen teeming with appliances, and a sliver of living space with a sagging couch and creaky floorboards. But itâs fully furnished, and it's yours. Quiet, tucked away, just enough for you.
The parking lot behind the bar crunches under your tires as you pull in, gravel skipping out beneath the wheels. You ease into your usual spot, near the rusted dumpster and a faded "Tenants Only" sign that no one really honors. The air outside is thicker now, darker. The last of the sunset has bled out, leaving only the thrum of summer dusk and the faint neon red flicker from the sign above the diner.
Your eyes flit throughout the parking lot, scanning the cars. You slow to a halt and shove the gearshift into park before killing the engine. You take a moment and suck in a breath, preparing yourself. You gather all your things into your lap, eyes skimming the seats to see if you missed anything. Your car door creaks as you push it open. Warm air hits your face like a wave, thick with summer sweat and the faint sting of gasoline, grilled meat, and cheap liquor. You step out slowly, keys in one hand, bag in the other.
You make your way up to the diner, pressing the lock button twice on your key fob. Your car chirps, as you push inside. Itâs in this little alcove between the second pair of doors that you hear laughter, music, and the low hum of people.
The place is alive tonight.
You shoulder your way through the last set of doors, and nearly get swept up in the warmth of the placeâthe clink of glasses, the scrape of boots on floorboards, the low hum of conversation stitched together with bursts of laughter. The smell of fried food and tobacco clings to the air, comforting in its own way.
You hug your work bag closer to your chest, shuffling in further, trying to worm your way through moving bodies without bumping into anyone. You stumble just slightly when a man shoves up from his table without looking behind him, raucous laughter booming as he steps into your personal space. He doesnât even realize you're there, and you make no move to signal your presence. Just dart out quickly from behind him.
Youâve nearly made it to the staircase at the back when your gaze drifts toward the counter.
The broad-shouldered man himself behind the bar, sleeves pushed up over his forearms, one hand polishing a glass while the other rests lazy against the counter. His head is slightly bowed, a cigarette tucked between two fingers, smoke curling upward before the ceiling fan drags it away.
Heâs talking to someone. You can see his lips moving, but you canât make out what heâs saying. Then he looks up.
Steel-blue eyes catch yours. Sharp even in the dim, warm haze of the diner. He studies you for a beat too long, then rises to his full height, the corner of his mouth twitching before it settles into a grin. Then he tosses you a wink.
Simonâs taken to making you breakfast in the morning.
Big man rolls out of bed and shuffles into the kitchen like clockworkâpajama pants riding low, white t-shirt clinging to the extra layer around his middle, short hair mussed from sleep. Gets to work before he opens up shop for the day, before a few of his employees come in to help prep.
He leaves the food out fresh and hot just before you head out to work. No note. Just there.
But on the weekends, when you have no workâand he opens later than on weekdaysâhe makes a second plate. Insists you sit down and eat with him like itâs a privilege that he does this for you.
âSleep doesnât come easy like it used to once you start getting older,â he told you after your first week. âLeast I can do is make my pretty tenant somethinâ warm to start the day.â
You laughed, not just to be polite but slightly caught off guard by how easily he said it. Some people could get away with lines like that without making them feel heavy. It wasnât anything bad, and it flowed easily. It was just the way they spoke. Simon was one of those people.
Until other things started to slip.
âBet ya never had it this easy,â he said one morning, cracking a smile as he fried eggs in butter, eyes cutting sideways toward you. âMan makinâ you breakfast every morninâ. Fillinâ up your belly nice and full for the day, huh?â
You hid behind your glass, swallowed whatever you were about to say. Heat pricking your cheeks and flooding down your neck. He reached for the salt shaker, then the pepper next, and you took another bite, figuring the conversation was over.
âDonâ I take care of ya, birdie?â He pushed.
You pursed your lips around a mouthful of waffles, nodding vigorously when he pinned you with his stare, âMhm.â
âThaâs right,â he muttered, more to himself than to you once he turned back around. âTake care of ya real nice.â
This morning you wake to a routine message from him, asking if youâre hungry. Your bodyâs already half-awake, your internal clock twitching to life even before the text. You groan softly and roll out of bed, still foggy as you fumble into shorts and a T-shirt. No makeup. No bra. You pick at a wedgie just before turning the corner into the diner.
âMorninâ,â he says, as you shuffle over to your usual table and sit down.
âGood morning,â you whisper, rubbing at your eyes as you yawn.
He sets a plate down in front of youâavocado toast and a glass of orange juiceâbefore pulling out a chair across from you, easing himself down with a grunt.
He looks ridiculous sitting across from you. Mammoth compared to the table. A tiny little apron tied around his waist with stitching across the front that reads: Kiss the Cook. He started wearing it recently you noticed. You have to fight to control your smile whenever you look at it.
His plate is loaded with a massive omelet, a glass of milk on the side. He digs in like heâs starving.
âWatcha up to today?â he asks through a mouthful of egg, watching you over his fork.
You take a sip of orange juice and shrug. âNot sure yet⌠Maybe give me a chance to wake up, and then we can talk.â
He laughs at thatâsharp and sudden, like youâve told a real joke.
âAâright,â he says, shifting in his seat with a creak of old wood. His elbows land on the table, and it groans under his weight as he leans in just a little. âWhenever youâre ready.â
You two sit in silence for a moment, before you answer. Something vague about spring cleaning, and then taking a swim in the lake.
Heâs interested in that. Wants to know how long youâll be there, if he should make you a little something to snack on. If youâll be going on your own or with friends. Recommends a nice spot for you to set up too. Vocalizes his thoughts on what kind of bathing suit he thinks youâd wear. You the type ta let your ass hang out, birdie? When you shake your head, he implores you to come to him if you need anything. You nod along, not really intent on the idea, but letting him know youâll think about it and get back to him.
Soon enough, your plateâs nearly cleared. The toast was goodâfresh avocado, little sprinkle of salt, citrusy tang of lemon. His food is good. He always cooks well. Thatâs never been the problem.
Simon leans back in his chair, chewing slowly, eyes still on you. You try not to notice how long they linger. Eyes flitting everywhere but at him. Towards the shelves lined with colorful liquors behind the bar. Past his shoulder at the shutters drawn over the windows. Down at your half-eaten toast, before drifting towards his ridiculously large thigh jutting out past the table leg, straining against the starched denim of his jeans.
âYâknow,â he says finally, voice dropping low, almost conspiratorial, âyou could do better than that little concierge gig.â
You blink up at him, still mid-chew. âHuh?â
He shrugs, casual, words spilling like itâs nothing. âJust sayinâ. Pretty thing like you? Youâre wastinâ your time handinâ out trail maps and what not. Donât gotta work so hard, birdie. You got... other things goinâ for ya.â
Your stomach tightensâquietlyâdipping embarrassingly low at the suggestion in his tone. A decrepit little thing that lurks within you. You shift in your seat, heart suddenly pattering rabbit-quick in your chest. Youâre not quite sure you understand, though thereâs a small piece in you that has a feeling. You reach for your juice, taking a sip just so you wonât have to say anything.
âI mean hell,â he says, voice rougher now, âif you were mine, I wouldnât have you liftinâ a finger.â
You freeze, barely a second.
But he sees it. You know he does. He keeps going, encouraged.
âIâd cook for you every day, yâknow. Let ya sleep in. Rub your back while you told me âbout your dreamsâIâd love to hear âem. Send you off to the lake everyday. Might even take ya myself a couple times.â
He speaks like heâs thought about it before, imagined it. Your fork clinks a little too hard against the plate. A tiny slip, your fingers trembling just slightly.
âSimon,â you breathe, softly, and he hums with a coy little smile, prompting you to answer. âI think youâre confusing breakfast with a date.â
He chuckles, but doesnât back off. Just tips his glass toward you. âAinât sayinâ itâs a bad idea.â
You feel your breath catch. Itâs all so sudden, you donât know what to say, and you don't push him for any clarification. All that slips out is some flustered, lame excuse to flee the situation: âWell, I should head up. Got some cleaning to do.â
He doesnât stop you. But he rises with you, real slow, pushing up from the table and towers above you. He takes your plate and doesnât bat an eye when you flinch as his fingers brush yours. He tracks your every movement like heâs memorizing the way you move and tucking it away.
You try not to think about the solid bulk of him at your back as you shuffle toward the staircase. Try not to notice how he leans against the wall when you glance over your shoulder, bicep swelling where his elbow rests. Or how his shirt rides up a bit and you can see his hard abdomen. How itâs dusted with fine hairs that condense into an unruly thatch that starts at his navel and dips beneath the hem of his sweatpantsâŚ
Your mouth opens like you might say something, then shuts again, useless. He just swipes a strand of hair from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. His fingers trace along your jaw before one thick knuckle hooks under your chin, tilting your head up to meet him.
âAnytime you get tired of hustlinâ around for tips and givinâ out trail facts,â he murmurs, âyou come on down, birdie. Iâll take real good care of ya. Youâll do that for me, wonâtcha?â
Your throat works, but no words come. His thumb presses firm at your chin, guiding you into a nod before you can think better of it. The slow grin that spreads across his mouth makes your knees weak.
He lets you go, though it feels reluctant, his hand falling away with a final press of his thumb. You turn slowly, like you don't want to part ways just yet.
âGo on,â he rumbles, punctuating it with a light swat to your hip that makes you stumble forward.
You scurry up the steps, breath uneven, heart hammering so hard you think he can hear it. At your door, you turn back.
Heâs still there, at the bottom of the stairs, broad shoulders filling the space as he waits. Watching. Not moving until youâre safely inside.
Things between you and Simon start to shift. Slowly, almost imperceptibly.
On weekends, you creep downstairs, half-expecting breakfast to be waiting. But more often than not, it isnât. Heâll be in the kitchen, moving around, pulling out appliances, ingredients lined up on the counter like little soldiers. Other times heâll be in the middle of mixing, sometimes heâs just starting prepâeither way, he always calls you over to help. Never insisting, always suggesting, like he knows you'd never disagree. Like he's proposing the idea just to hear you tell him yes, you'd love to help make breakfast.
And who were you to turn him down anyway? You always help him without any complaints, a sense of obligation carrying your feet behind the counter.
One early morning, the sun barely brushing the horizon, he sets you to work with dicing strawberries. He shows you how he wants it done, chest pressed to your back for the first minute to make sure you don't cut yourself. Like that, he tells you, but not too big. Gotta save some if you want pancakes tomorrow.
Under his watch, you fumble with the knife like you've never touched one before. You can't help it. He makes you nervous, so itâs slow going. Youâre meticulous, not wanting him to critique you too hard when he comes over to check on you every so often.
When he leaves, you toss a few glances over your shoulder just to make sure his back is still faced towards you before you pop several slices into your mouth. You wipe the sticky sweet juice on your apron when it gets all over your fingers. Ridding yourself of the evidence of your thievery.
He calls over to you suddenly when your cheeks are bulging, mouth full, âCâmere.â
You chew frantically, only turning to face him when you're positive you've licked the insides of your cheeks clean. Heâs holding out his hand towards you, a dab of whipped cream on his finger. You just stand there, looking up at him with wide eyes.
âI wantcha to try this for me,â he tells you. âI canât tell if itâs too sweet or not.â
Your knife clatters softly as you set it down, hands brushing against your apron as you wipe them again, stomach tight. You shuffle towards him, eyes flicking around the counter, scanning for some sort of utensil.
âWant me to get a spoon orâŚâ your voice trails off when he steps closer.
âI got it nice and ready for you right here,â he says.
It takes you a moment before you realize. He coaxes you into opening your mouth and his finger settles heavy on your tongue. He watches as you suck it off, his lids going heavy before you release his finger with a wet pop.
âHowâs âat taste?â He asks, voice gruff, eyes fixed on your lips as your tongue darts out to chase the sweetness.
You swallow. Hard. Heart fluttering up in your throat.
âItâs good.â Then after a beat when he doesnât say anything, âPerfect.â
He nods slightly, and then turns around to gather more on his finger. Makes you suck it off again. Your eyes bulge when he slips his finger in a tad bit furtherâMake sure ya get it all. Don't waste my cream. The third time he swabs the bowl, thereâs a polite refusal on the tip of your tongue. But it doesnât make it out in time, so you turn your head a bitâhe only smears the cream against the corner of your mouth instead.
His brows raise in mock disbelief, âAw birdie⌠Look what ya made me do.â
Youâre not prepared for his big hand to come around and cup your nape. To drag you the slightest bit closer as his head ducks low. Youâre suddenly dizzy just from the sheer mass of him, of his proximity to you. Not ready for his tongue to press hot against your mouth and lick up the cream instead.
You squeak, and it feels like fire is suddenly flooding your face. When he pulls away, the whisper of air against the wet spot heâs licked, feels cold. You just stand there, bewildered.
âThaâs good,â he tells you with a little bob of his head. âThink itâs perfect now.â
You open your mouth like you might say something, but then you close it, nod, and spin around, hurrying back to your cutting board. Your hands shake just slightly when you go to pick up your knife. Knees knocking like youâre having trouble keeping yourself upright.
Youâve become a sort of taste-tester for Simon.
Itâs not like you volunteered. It just⌠happened.
It started with something simpleâsoup from the pot, ladled onto a spoon and held out to you. He stood there with one brow raised, waiting for your verdict as though it mattered more than anything else in the world, muttering a soft, Tell me if it needs more salt.
But then the spoon disappeared.
Now itâs the pad of his thumb dipped into a sauce, pressed to your lips before you have time to think. Or a strip of bacon cooled just enough for him to slide it between your teeth. Once, a smear of jam he dragged slowly across your bottom lip, waitingâwatchingâuntil your tongue darted out to catch it. Eyes flaring bright when your face lit up, a surprised mmm leaving you.
Heâs stopped asking if you want it. He just tilts your chin up, brings the morsel to your mouth, and waits until you open.
His approval rumbles deep in his chest, âYa like that, birdie?â
You want to be embarrassed. It feels weird, this thing between you two, but the way he watches you makes you forget to feel silly. Makes you feel like your opinion is the only one that matters to him. Like he wonât be satisfied till you do like it.
After one particularly brutal day at work, you push open the diner doors and donât so much as glance toward the counter. You keep your eyes forward and your pace brisk. Your boots thud against the stairs, two at a time, until you reach your little apartment above and slam the door behind you.
Your work bag hits the couch with a dull thud, and you decide in that exact moment: you hate children. At least today you do. Herding multiple classes of sixth graders around on back-to-back tours has you swearing off the entire species.
Youâd barely gotten your first fun fact outâ"Hummingbirds have amazing memories. They can remember every flower and feeder theyâve visited.ââwhen the laughter erupted. Not the delighted, charmed kind. No, the cruel snickers that tell you theyâre laughing at you, not with you. You had flushed hot under their stares, your rehearsed smile faltering.
And that little incident only breached the surface of your torment.
By the time you close yourself off in the shower, youâre simmeringâclothes discarded carelessly on the floor, steam curling thick around you. You lean against the tile, back to the cold wall, letting the water drum against your head until itâs all just white noise. No dinner. No distractions. Just exhaustion gnawing at your bones.
You drag yourself into bed without even drying your hair, curling tight beneath the sheets. Somewhere below, you know Simon is still moving around, a quiet, steady mass. Wiping down counters, switching off lights. When he comes to terms with the fact that you never came back down, never spoke to him, you wonder what heâll do.
He sends you a text at 11:00 pm, long after the dinerâs closed.
Youâre laying in bed, tucked beneath the sheets, scrolling through your phone when it comes: âI want you to try something real quick.â
He replies almost instantly. âItâs good. Trust me.â
You roll over on your side. âI already ate.â
Thereâs a moment of silence. You think itâs over and rest your phone on the night stand, closing your eyes. Your phone vibrates in that moment though, the screen illuminating your room.
You huff out a breath and snatch the device back to your chest.
âDonât make me come up there.â
The words sit heavy in your mind. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, but no excuse comes. Youâre aware of your pulse, of how still the room feels except for the faint hum of the refrigerator, the soft rush of cars passing by on the street outside.
Would he really come up? Disturb your silence?
You entertain the thought for a moment. He has a key to your place. Would he knock, or just enter? Would he search for you? Push into your bedroom, plate in hand, sit at the edge of your bed and feed you? Ask you where you were? Tell you how you left him all alone down there?
You decide itâs not worth the trouble.
You swing your legs over the bed, shoving your feet into slippers, and pause before heading downstairs. Youâre in nothing but a long t-shirt that barely brushes your knees. No bra. No shorts. Just the thin cotton and the cool air of the apartment making you shiver slightly. You tell yourself you should be fine though, and make your way down.
The diner is dark, the only light spilling warm and amber from the kitchen. The scent of cleaner and mopped floors hangs in the air, sharp and familiar. You round the bar and push through the double doors into the kitchen.
Simonâs waiting for you, leaning against the counter.
He pushes up as soon as you enter, eyes flaring at the sight of you. Soft and freshly washed in your oversized t-shirt. His gaze lingers on your bare legs. Freshly shaved. You tuck your hair behind your ears and cross your arms, suddenly wishing you wore a bra.
âWhat is it?â you say.
âThought I wouldnât notice?â he asks.
âDidnât wanna come say hi, huh?â
You huff out a laugh, because of course heâd say that. You saw it coming. You even predicted it. But he doesnât laugh with you. Doesnât even smile. He just ushers you back out to the bar. Makes you round the counter and sit at a stool while he pulls a plate out of the oven. The smell hits firstârich, buttery, thick.
You suck in a breath when he sets the plate down in front of you.
âI kept it warm for you,â he says, eyes on you, not the food. âDidnât know how ya took your meat, so I cooked it rare, jusâ how I like it. That okay, birdie?â
You stare down at your plate. Itâs steaming, and it smells heavenly. The steak is thick-cut, dripping with butter and spices, a fresh sprig of rosemary on top, roasted vegetables on the side. Youâve never had a problem with your food, youâre not that picky, but this? This is entirely too much.
He just cracks a smile and leans against the counter, âTake a bite. Then weâll see how much ya can stomach.â
âSimon, I really donât think I can eat all of thisââ
In that moment, your stomach whines before descending into a low, hollow growl. He arches an eyebrow.
You glare at him, but you pick up the knife and fork anyway.
He watches you eat. Observing every mouthful, tracking each bob of your throat as you swallow. When you ask for a napkin, he just takes his thumb and wipes at the mess dripping down your chin, swiping along the plush of your bottom lip. Tells you, Jus' one more bite, when you start to complain about how full you are. Starts finger-feeding you the vegetables when you say you really canât take another bite. Goes so far as to pour you a tall glass of milk when you ask for water.
You refuse, telling him you donât drink milk plain like that, but he just waves off all your fussing. âI drink it everyday. Ya think I got this size offa water?â
You just rest your head in your arms, mouth coated in grease, belly full and throbbing. Ignoring him, closing your eyes so you won't have to look at him.
He pokes your elbow and you huff, pulling away. âIâll pass.â
Thereâs silence on his end. You still donât look up. You feel him move though, pulling away from the counter. You listen closely, track his footsteps as he rounds the counter to sit on the barstool beside you.
âI think youâre beinâ ungrateful,â he says at last.
You sit up almost immediately, looking at him incredulously, the crease between your brow deepening. âWell thatâs not fair.â
âNo,â he counters smoothly. âWhatâs not fair is you bein' all picky.â He plucks the glass of milk and drags it toward himself. âIâve fed you how many times? And now youâre jusâ gonna let my milk go to waste?â
âIt wonât go to waste!â you blurt. âJustâjust pour it back in the jug!â
âNot how it works, birdie," he tuts. "Guess Iâll just have to pour this down the drainâŚâ
You slump back with a frown, guilt tugging at your chest. âFine. Iâll drink it.â
He starts to stand as if he doesnât hear you, heading back, but you scramble after him, hands encircling his forearm.
âSimon, I said Iâd drink it!â
That gets him to sit down again. He pushes the glass back to you, chin angled at you as if heâs not convinced. But you take it in both hands, and bring it to your lips, eyes darting warily between him and the milk. He watches you with a glint in his eye. Leaning back, big, muscled arms folding across his broad chest.
âGood girl,â he tells you with a wry smile.
When you finish, you set the glass down and slide off the stool, with a pout on your lips, heading to the staircase at the back. Your steps are slow.
Simon calls after you tauntingly, âWhereâre you goinâ, little bird?â
You donât turn to look at him, âBed.â
You donât even hear him approach. Heâs silent as a ghost.
You squeal when his arms come around you, scooping you off the floor. He carries you swiftly up to your apartment like you weigh nothing, big legs pumping up the steps with ease. He brings you to your living room, sits down on the couch with you in his lap, guiding your legs so they straddle his hips. You donât bother squirming, donât even care about the situation under your shirt. That the only thing separating him from you is a pair of underwear. You just slump against his front, cheek pressed against the pillow of his chest.
His hands run up your back in soothing strokes, "Somethin' bothering you?"
You shake your head. You don't know why you're so adamant about not letting him know about your day at work. Don't know if it's because you don't want him to make fun of you. Getting upset at kids for not laughing at your jokes... You're more surprised by the fact that he doesn't push for an answer though.
You lay there in silence for a bit, just breathing in and out when you feel his hands creep under your shirt. You squirm instinctively, suddenly conscious of the protrusion of your belly when he runs his fingers along your sides. Worried about how full you still are, and that he can feel it.
He just hums into the crown of your head. "Round lil' belly you've got there, birdie."
You can feel your cheeks growing warm. "Stop it."
His hands circle around to your back and he pulls you closer to him. "Food was good, wasn' it?"
You don't grant him an answer. Your silence only makes him push harder.
âCâmon birdie, donâ I take care of you?â
You sniff, trying to shrink back, pull off of him, but a sharp swat to your backside stops the motion. You jerk with a gasp, burying your face into his chest.
âYes, okay? Is that what you wanna hear?â
He chuckles, hand lingering, squeezing where he just struck, nuzzling your temple, voice low in your ear. âMhm, and who gave you a place to stay when ya needed it?â
You turn your head, trying to outrun his voice, âYou did.â
He finds you easily, hands wandering lower down your front while he burrows his face in your neck, placing a kiss under your jaw. âAnd who feeds you every day?â
âThaâs right, birdie. I do,â he lifts your chin with a firm touch, making you look at him. âThink I deserve a little thanks. Donât you?â
Who knew thanks would include you on your stomach, your shirt bunched up around your shoulders, face mashed into your rumpled sheets, a pillow shoved beneath your stomach, legs dangling off the side of your bed, taking his cock inch by inch? His big hands stroke heavily down the sides of your hips, telling you to breathe. Petting your ass, dimpling flesh, and squeezing tight as he pulls you back, cramming himself in just a tiny bit more. You scrabble to get away, trying to ease some of the pressure, but he keeps you pinned.
He insisted on leaving your overhead light on. Told you he wanted to see you. How pretty you looked beneath him. You just feel more naked than you already are. Especially since he still wears his stupid fucking apron.
âSi-Simonâshitâcan barely br-eathe,â you grunt, trying to suck a breath into your lungs.
A low groan expels from him, his head rolling back. âYour wound up tight today, birdie. Jus'ârelax.â
He grunts when your pussy spasms, inner walls gripping him tighter, hips bucking involuntarily. You fist the sheets, wailing around the sheer mass of him, feet twitching, trying to find purchase against the floor. Your toes only manage to whisper across the grain of the carpet. He just crowds you in, forearms bracketing your head, fingers interlocking with your own.
âI's a lot, ain' it?" he whispers in your ear, as he snaps his hips forward, grinning like some twisted beast. You gasp when they slap against your ass, crying out when he drags his cock out slowly. "But your bein' so good fâme, arenât you?â
You whimper, squirm and try to wriggle free. Itâs too much, you canât even move. Just have to take what he gives you. Wet, little pants breaking free from you.
âLetâs get this offa you, huh?â He mutters, easing you out of your shirt completely.
He flings it off into your room and it lands balled in the corner.
His big hand searches down your leg, gripping the back of your thigh above your knee, hefting it onto the mattress. As soon as he does that, itâs like heâs split you wide open down the middle. Bared you completely to his lecherous eyes. All your little private bits on display.
That's when you feel him bottom out completely, a heavy groan oozing deep from in his chest.
His forehead drops down to rest in the middle of your back.
âFfffuck,â he huffs, voice hoarse.
He pulls out just the tiniest bit and then shoves right back in. Keeping you fuller than you already are.
You canât even speak. Tight little pants and squeaks are snatched from your chest with each shallow thrust. You can feel his breath, hot against your back, groans that he bites off too late spilling down your spine and tangling in a knot in your stomach.
You keen into the sheets when his thumbs fit under your ass cheeks, pulling your thighs apart as he draws his hips back slowly, mesmerized at how much of his dick heâs able to stuff inside you. Only to sink back in, achingly slow. You wail at the invariable press inward. Itâs like you can feel him at the back of your throat.
âLookit âer suckinâ me in,â his voice shakes with amusement. âYâfeel that?â
You donât bother answering him, too busy drooling. Canât even close your mouth or it feels like you're suffocating.
âSheâs hungryâjusâ like you,â he says. âGobblinâ up my cock so well.â
"Shut up," you bleat, all pathetic.
When he reaches under you to pet your aching clit, you seize up, limbs locking in place. His calloused finger titillating the swollen bud in tight little circles.
âYâlike that?â he pants into your ear.
A high-pitched whine escapes you as you turn the other way. He moves with you, lips pressed close to your ear again.
âTell me it feels good, birdie.â
You moan, low and wounded, "F-fuck."
His hands encircle your hips, fingers pressing you and holding you down against his cock. His grip is bruising as he grinds his hips up in you. It makes you want to scream.
You can feel it now. It's intense, the building pressure.
â'M waiting,â he growls, reaching back between your legs, poking and prodding with inquisitive fingers.
âI-itâs good,â you break at last, tears leaking from your eyes. âYou fuckingâshit, it feels goodâ â
When he comes, he clutches you to his chest, burying his face in your neck to stifle his groans. Works your clit a little faster just to bring you over the edge with him. Just to feel the way you clench up around him. Soft, spongy walls holding him tight.
Lookit you, he says in your ear when you squirt. Voice dripping with honey. Saccharine sweet. Such a good little bird. He doesnât pull out, just holds you still while he fucks his cum into you with long strokes. Till your tears are spilling past your water line and wetting the sheets.
A soft mewl escapes you when he pulls out of you, and sinks to his knees. Hands locking around the backs of your knees and holding you down while you lay there limp, trying to catch your breath. Laps and slurps at the mess leaking from your cunt like he's been starving for days. Till your legs are twitching, eyes rolling to the back of your head.
He ignores your whimpers and pleas for release. Drags it out as long as he can, teasing you. He runs his nose through your slippery folds, biting and sucking at the soft flesh of your inner thighs, chuckling when you jerk and whine and quietly curse at him.
He has no qualms about pinching your backsideâDirty mouth.
Your second orgasm crashes through you, sudden and violent. It yanks you under and floods your lungs. Every muscle locks up, taut and trembling. But Simon's right there the whole time, easing you through it. When the swell breaks, it spits you out in pieces. Till you're nothing but a brittle husk of the girl you once were. You lay slumped against the mattress, boneless, shaking, the last tremors easing out of you.
When Simon drags you up his chest, he kisses you slow and deep. His tongue dipping into your mouth. Your lashes flutter shut, your weight sinking into him, every ounce of strength sucked out of you. He licks up your tears like he can't get enough of you, Sweet little bird.
He tells you he'll get his dick up in your mouth another day, but for now, you should rest. You don't even have the energy to hit him for his brazen words.
"Why're you in such a bad mood t'day?" he asks, tugging a blanket up and wrapping it snug around your shoulders.
You breathe in deep, peeling your cheek away from his sweat-tacked chest. "Bad day at work."
"Quit the job, Iâll take care of ya,â he says simply, like it's that easy. "Won't have to keep waking up so early."
ââS good money,â you mumble, lids growing heavier by the minute.
âBut I own this place.â When you don't answer he pokes your side. "D'you at least feel better?"
You just hum your agreement, nuzzle deeper into his chest, eyes finally drifting shut. You donât even recall falling asleep, just blunt nails dragging softly across your back.
You only start lingering at the diner after work because Simon insists on being the one to feed you dinner. Says heâll come find you upstairs if you donâtâAnd we both know how that ended last time, huh birdie?
At first he sits you up front, but before long heâs relocated you to the booth at the back, claiming itâs warmer and cozy and private.
He slides in beside you every time, crowding your side until his arm and thigh are pressed flush against yours. Sometimes he pins you into the wall with the sheer breadth of him, unmovable until you shove at him with a begrudging smile. He always relents, playfully reluctantâlike heâs humoring you. But you know, bone-deep, that if he wanted to keep you there, he could. Big man that he is.
âHowâs your day, birdie?â he asks, sliding a plate of food in front of you, and you tell him. You spill everything, words tumbling fast just to fill the space he takes up. Just to keep him at bay a little longer. He listens without interruption, gaze steady, heavy, until your voice thins and falters, dying out. Thatâs when he movesâducking his head, nuzzling into the crook of your neck like a lost pup.
His mouth finds you in wet, unhurried kisses. Your jaw, your shoulder, the corner of your lips. Lazy, claiming pecks that leave your skin tingling. He even goes so far as to sneak a hand up your skirt one evening. Tries to get you to eat while he finger-fucks you beneath the table.
You swat at him, cheeks flushed, reminding him that there's people all around, but he only grins wider. Like heâs testing how much resistance youâve got left in you.
Like he knows itâs less every time.
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