#farmer!ghost

you're close, so close you can't stop shaking, muscles fluttering helplessly around him, and the word tears out of you without permission against the broad of his shoulder.

"please, daddy, let me—"

you clamp your teeth shut the second it's out, shame flooding you so hot it almost burns. the word hums in your ears, thrumming in your skull like a struck bell, impossible to unring.

but Simon doesn't give you a second to wallow. his hand slides up, palm rough from rope and earth, fingers curling around the underside of your jaw until you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

his gaze doesn't waver, not for a heartbeat.

"if that's what ya need," he growls, voice steady, unshaken, "then that's what you'll 'ave. look at daddy while you come."

the command is iron, leaving no crack for shame to slip through. he rides you harder, his forehead against yours, gritting his teeth, a dark and hungry groan spilling from his throat when he feels the bite of your nails on his skin. you're on fire, and he knows it— knows what your breaking point feels like, and when he takes you to the edge again, this time he doesn't let you fall without him.

i feel personally attacked cuz i ain't got meg thee stallion's knees so i'm useful for like 3 min tops before i'm panting like a dog in the summer. i—

your body gives out long before Simon does. Every bounce on his cock feels like it's tearing you in two, your thighs screaming from the effort, but the burn is nothing compared to the way his length grinds into you, splitting you open again and again. Each drag of him inside your slick, swollen heat makes you jerk, makes your nail sink deeper into the corded muscle of his shoulders as if you could anchor yourself against him.

your rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and you gasp his name, pleading, weak, trembling.

"simon—" you gasp, shaking your head, "i can't—"

"you can't" he spits back, mocking, his hands like iron around your hips. "can't even last a few minutes sittin' pretty on your man's cock." his chest presses to yours as he pulls you down hard, grinding you against the thick root of him, your nerves sparking white. a choked sound bursts free, and he eats it with a snarl against your hair.

"thought you wanted work, eh? thought you wanted somethin' to keep ya busy?"

he gives you no time to breathe, planting his boots to the floor, and takes over, snapping his hips up into you. the chair complains under the force, wood straining, every thrust rattling your bones, twisting your insides tighter. your body jerks helplessly with the force, your breath leaving in ragged sobs as slick soaks the denim stretched taut over his thighs.

"this—" his cock punches deep, and you choke on a whimper, "is work." another thrust, sharper, deeper, until you're keening against his shoulder. "me fuckin' you stupid." his fingers dig bruises into your waist as his pace quickens, merciless. "fuckin' you til your legs give out. 'til you can't walk a step straight after."

he's not chasing pleasure; he's delivering consequence, and you take it because your body listens to him before it listens to you.

your mouth opens because his thumb said so. your gaze locks because the fist in your hair demands it. and when he says, "take it," you do.

Simon's a man who notices patterns. he was built on it. when he was a boy, the only way to stay ahead of a bad hand at home was to know the signs before they showed. those early years trained him the same way a dog gets trained: smell the air, read the room, move before the blow lands. it's not conscious anymore. he's like a coyote with his nose to the wind. everything around him is information that folds into a map he carries in his head.

so when you start fiddling with your pill pack, when your trips to the bathroom start to line up with new excuses, when you suddenly want him at the right times, soft voice, open thighs— he knows. he doesn't even have to look in the trash to know.

at first it amuses him. a little secret you're trying to keep from him, like a calf ducking under a fence thinking it's gotten away. something in his chest goes dark and sweet.

medieval fertility mindset is far too funny. half of em are named after storms or saints, sure, but he's addicted to the process. the nesting, the swelling, the way you slow down and lean into him without even realizing. when you ask him to lift a sack of feed or to rub your back when the weight drags at you, it feeds something deep and wordless in him.

pregnancy makes you soft. heavy. dependent. and he soaks in it.

oh oh because Simon's hands have always been sure. Heavy, strong, experienced. They know how to take, how to steady, how to guide. But then— mid-thrust, mid-whimper— your hand comes up, a soft, trembling reach.

Your fingers curl around his, desperate and without thought, and Simon feels himself falter. It's not the grip that gets him; it's the search. The way your hand found his like it was looking for a lifeline, for him. For something to hold onto when the pleasure rises too high and words can no longer do.

He threads his fingers through yours delicately, and your hand stretches only partway across his palm, fingertips barely reaching the base of his. His long fingers curl over yours like a cage, like a vow.

It wrecks him.

This isn't something he can control. It's something he has to answer to.

And he fucks you like that, fingers laced tight, breath tangled between kisses, his pace slow and tender. Every stroke, every pulse inside you sharpens because now he can feel your heartbeat in his hand, your small quivers matching the roll of his hips.

His jaw tightens, a ragged sound leaving him as he buries his face against the heat of your neck.

the day felt harmless, warm enough to coax you into town for a few things. you wouldn't be long either.

the shop bell gave its tired little clang when you stepped inside, the store smelling of grain and sawdust, familiar in the way small towns are— same scuffed counter, same clerk half-distracted by the paper, same tired creak of the ceiling fan overhead. you kept your list short: eggs, flour, sugar if they had it. quick in, quick out.

but even five minutes was long enough.

you'd just lifted a sack of flour onto your hip when you felt the weight of someone behind you, close enough to stir the little hairs at your neck. a brush at your back. at first, you thought someone was passing through, the aisle too narrow— but then the hand lingered. the weight of it made your skin crawl.

"easy, sugar," the man slurred, voice thick with alcohol even this early. he leaned too close, his laugh not warm but oily, the kind that wanted to stick. "didn't mean to startle ya." you stepped back, clutching the bag of flour tighter, but he moved with you, his leer calling you something small.

the clerk shifted his weight but said nothing. a woman bagging seed glanced up, then down again, cheeks tight, as if she hadn't seen. that silence pressed heavier than the man's hand— the townsfolk choosing to look away because looking is work.

your pulse jumped hard enough to sting your throat, but you kept your eyes down, face away, muttering something— 'scuse me, sorry— as you slid past. his fingers grazed your hip when you brushed him, not an accident, not even pretending.

you hurried to the counter, set down the eggs too hard so one cracked in the carton. paid without looking up. the man's gaze followed you out the door, like wet wool. heavy. impossible to shake.

on the drive home, the flour pressed hard into your side, you told yourself Simon couldn't know. You told yourself you'd keep it quiet, that it would sit in your chest like a stone and eventually wear smooth.

by the time Simon got back from work, sweat streaked into the lines of his shirt, you were already home, sitting at the kitchen table with your hands folded into dough so tight your knuckles ached. he stopped in the doorway and watched you.

"what happened?" he asked, but it didn't really feel a question. his voice was flat, empty of curiosity. like he can see the answer written on you.

you shook your head. "nothing."

he doesn't push, doesn't press; lets you have your lie. Simon was a man who lived on instinct, and instinct already told him what he needed to know.

that night, you caught sight of him through the kitchen window, shoulders bent over the field at the far end of the property. the spade bit into the ground again and again, until a neat, dark mound of soil sat where there had been only grass. by morning it was tamped flat, smoothed like it had always been there.

you don't ask when Simon eventually tells you to keep away from that patch.

and the townsfolk notice things— the man who didn't come back to his usual stoop, the rumor that drifts around like smoke. but small towns have their ways: whispers turned into superstition, explanations dangled and then discarded. some will say he ran off with a woman in the next county; others will say he got himself killed in a card game. a few old-timers will glance at Simon but nod when he passes, respectful, not friendly. they don't pry.

oh i can’t go out alone? you best believe i pick the moment he’s the furthest away from the house he can physically be and go take a walk or something lol, just to prove to myself (and to him bcs that’s where the fun’s at) that i can. he’d hate me i fear ehe

it'd be a hunt!

you think you know him. the farmer with dirt under his nails, sunburned skin, and brute strength. the man who feeds the animals before sunrise and sharpens his tools at a workbench. but the moment he's chasing you through the corn, it's like watching him transform into something else entirely.

you wait until he's halfway across the property, down by the south fence line, boots sunk deep in mud and hands full of wire. that's when you slip out— quiet, a little smug, the hem of your dress catching dew as you wander past the hedgerows like you've no one to answer to.

Simon spots the empty porch first. then the open gate. the faint drag of your footprints in the dirt. his jaw locks. the wire drops. his body stills, then shifts— slow, lethal, trained. and Ghost wakes up.

he moves silent, brutal— precision incarnate, a predator in human form, coiled and with purpose. he tracks: the broken stems, the ghost of your step pressed into the soil, the sound of your breath breaking in the air. he reads you like terrain, like a threat, like a target. Simon doesn't need to be fast; he needs to be right.

The morning light on the farm never felt soft. It poured over the fields like hot steel, bleaching the fence posts, clinging to the barn roof. You wiped your brow with the back of your wrist and glanced up from the humble little garden thatch you were bent over. Simon was already at the gate, one hand braced against the iron latch, watching you like he always did— quiet, unreadable, the curls on his head damp with sweat and shadowed beneath his hat.