Jon Bernthal As Frank Castle In The Punisher.

telling simon you have a breeding kink so now he's looking up where he can get his vasectomy reversed by tomorrow

nothing done by halves here

kyaaaa I'm late to vampire school *runs out while holding a dude by the neck in my mouth*

fiction and fantasy are so fun because it's like. if i met this man in real life i would drop kick him off a cliff within three seconds of him opening his mouth. luckily for him he doesn't exist so we can all happily ignore those red flags and pretend we could fix him

finger

kate laswell x f!reader | ~3.6k words tags: alcohol, age gap (Kate is in her late 40s, Reader is in her 30s), cunnilingus, fingering, slight mommy kink, x2 'good girls', x1 'brat', porn with a dash of plot a/n: kate isn't married in this. reader has hair long enough for kate to grab. happy pride.

Forty swipes deep into dating app hell and down to the dregs of a beer, the bartender exchanges your glass for a tumbler. Face smushed into a palm, you stare incredulously at the liquor. You definitely didn’t order whiskey. Definitely can’t afford it. Even at a dive like this, your budget demands whatever’s on special, tonight being Rainier.

You’re quick to correct the bartender. No way you’re overdrafting again. “Hey–I didn’t order this.”

A knowing smile curves his mouth, and he jerks his head over a shoulder. “No, but she did.”

It’s a surprise your neck doesn’t snap when you look and a second that your jaw doesn’t hit the counter on its way to the floor. The she in question sits at the corner with her arm draped over the back of another stool. Older than you, maybe by a decade. She looks like a suit or off-duty fed, with a dress shirt undone to the top of her sternum, a blazer draped over her seat, and sandy hair pulled into a bun. Your eyes linger on the triangle of skin below her neck, and heat rushes up your neck when they pan to her face.

Though the color is difficult to discern in the dim light, they’re half-lidded and fixed to you over the rim of her glass. She taps the top of the empty seat beside her—as if the free drink wasn't a clear enough invitation.

Not your usual type, but a drink is a drink. It’s polite to respond.

Your thumb swipes the app shut, and you pocket your phone, scooting off your stool on an invisible leash. A warm ball of excitement tugging you across the sticky floor, slowing time in your head. You ferry the whiskey like it’s some grand gift, desperately not wanting to spill a drop and make a fool of yourself in front of whoever the hell this woman is.

Her eyes drop, appraising you on the approach. You think you might be buzzing as loud as the lights. 

“Hi,” you pass behind as her arm lifts off the stool, allowing you to sidle into the gap between and hoist yourself up. You set the whiskey on a coaster and tap it with a finger. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Hope neat’s alright.” She replies, head tilting slightly, body turning angling toward you. “Bad day?”

“Bad night,” you correct sheepishly. “I, uh, had a date but they canceled at the last second.”

Her tongue clicks, setting her glass down to undo the cuff buttons of her sleeves. “That’s bad manners. Their loss, though. You’re a knockout.”

The way she says it so casually, oozing confidence you only dream of, momentarily stuns you. You’ve been called ‘cute’ and ‘pretty’, but—Your brain short circuits at the sight of her deftly rolling her sleeves. Slight tan, a dusting of freckles, and a couple of interesting scars. Your eyes flick to hers, an amused smile telling you she’s caught you ogling for the second time.

“Thanks. That’s kind of you to say.” you finally reply, taking a sip of the whiskey in a move you hope exudes poise.

She tucks the fabric to one elbow and starts the other. “It looked like you could use something stronger. Thought a finger or two would help.”

The whiskey nearly shoots out of your nose, but you swallow after an embarrassing choke.

She merely chuckles and extends a hand to pat your back gently. “Of bourbon, that is.”

“Y-Yeah, no, I know,” you sputter and pluck a cocktail napkin from a stack, wiping your mouth and praying for a spontaneous, you-sized sinkhole to open beneath your seat.

“I’m Kate.” She rubs a slow circle near the top of your spine, then flattens her hand to rest her thumb on the nape of your neck. It brushes over the skin once when you give her your name. She repeats it, lifting her glass. “I’ll take their place for the night, unless you object?”

The assertiveness is a stark contrast to your fumbling and the coy indecisiveness of women you typically attract. The question hangs off her tongue, dangling like a worm on a hook. She wants you to bite, you feel it in the heat of her gaze, and let her in. She must be a fed with a focus like that; no way she’s corporate. You’ve lived in the DMV long enough to spot them. Can’t throw a rock without hitting one, anyway. 

You smile, feeling the warmth of Kate’s palm through your shirt. “I’d like that.” 

“Yeah? Good.” She sips, shifting further until her knee skims the outside of your thigh. “Tell me about yourself, kid.”

That does something for you, and you file it away for later. You mirror Kate’s posture, turning so your knees interlace. You know how intimate this must look to the handful of other patrons, to the bartender, as if you’re already a couple. Yet it feels natural, like you’re supposed to meld into the complete stranger because she bought you a drink. A breath slips out when her hand leaves your back, the angle too far to be comfortable, and drops to your kneecap. It’s like a game of chicken, all these small touches, and you kind of want to lose.

You prattle off the basics. How you moved to D.C. two years ago for work, how the city’s grown on you, and on a tangent, that you’re actually pretty lonely. It spills out of you freely, unable to look away from the steel blues seemingly hanging off every word. It’s the most attention you’ve received outside of work in a long time. It’s that and the whiskey, must be, why the butterflies in your stomach migrate to your chest, evolving into the thrum of a bird’s wings. 

To your quiet delight, her attention isn’t the only thing she gives you—it’s her interest. She hums and affirms. She asks questions. Digs into the meat of the story you spout off about your shitty landlord. And she squeezes your knee when you share how you spent the last holiday alone in the city. You try to turn it around once or twice, though you abandon that line of questioning after she tells you she’s a ‘contractor’.

Before you know it, you’re finished with a second whiskey and incredibly warm and wanting.

Kate hits you with the Let’s get out of here and loops an arm around your waist outside the bar. In the cab, you let her slide her hand up your leg, stopping in time to eat up your pathetic whine with a languid kiss. Though she pays the fare, you leave a big tip—an apology for the makeout he couldn’t’ve missed through the rearview.

You float through the hotel lobby in a haze of alcohol and lust, barely appreciating the swankiness of the place. Whatever ‘contractor’ really means, it pays well. She practically lassoes you into the elevator with one arm, her suit jacket draped over the other. 

“You can back out anytime.” She says, punching the button for her floor. “No hurt feelings.”

The blood in your veins itches with need as you grab her waist and haul her closer. You unabashedly stare, glossy-eyed. This woman, who’s been nothing but kind and attentive and generous—you want to return the favor. Tenfold. Something about her draws it out. “I don’t want to,” You whisper, the elevator softly dinging with each passing floor. “I want more.”

She smiles, hand fitting over the nape of your neck again like it belongs there, and reels you in for another kiss. It leaves you gasping when the lift stops.

Her room is a suite, another token of her apparent success. The best place you’ve ever stayed at came with a coffee maker. There isn’t much of a chance to admire it, though, since she plants you on the wall the moment the door clicks, latching it shut with her free hand. It’s a long, heated stumble further into the room, most of your clothes coming off with each step. It doesn’t hit you until she holds you at arm’s length to sit on the edge of her bed. She smirks up at you, tugging on the waistband of your underwear. Not to take them off but as direction.

You kneel between her open legs without a second thought.

“You still want more?”

Hours earlier, when your date texted a poor excuse to cancel, you didn’t think this was where the night would go. The weight of Kate’s gaze is heavy, almost as intoxicating as the whiskey lingering on your tongue. The anticipation is electric, and the view is…Well, you could get used to sitting on your knees if it’s her holding the reins.

You lay your hands on her thighs and feel the muscles beneath her pants shift. It’s heady, knowing someone this composed and enigmatic wants you, too.

“Yes.” You finally manage, hands sliding up to unbutton her fly and curling over the band to tug them down along with her underwear. Above, Kate chuckles, lifting her hips to allow you to peel them to her ankles. God, how desperate you must look when your eyes whip from her face to the patch of hair before you. Your mouth hangs open, drool already gathering on your tongue.

“You’ll catch flies like that.” she teases. 

Her hand lands atop your head. No pull or pressure. Yet. 

“But good answer,” Her fingers flex against your scalp. “Show me how good that pretty little mouth of yours is, shall we?”

Yes ma'am.

Without hesitation, you press open-mouthed kisses to Kate’s spread thighs, relishing the sigh of relief from above. You lay another on the hair above her pussy, inhaling her scent appreciatively, then give a few exploratory licks to her labia, avoiding where she wants you to wind her up. Something about a woman in control that makes you want to pick at a frayed edge and unwind her, even just a little bit. 

The hand in your hair tightens after more teasing, a silent Get to it. You still spare a couple more wet kisses, then lick a stripe over her hole before slipping it in. Her hips jut toward your mouth, pressure finally applied to your skull. You oblige her, searching for more of the vinous taste coating your tongue. You think it might be the best night of your life when she moans, your hands joining your mouth to gently spread her open.

“That’s it, just like that…” She rasps, voice thin and shaky. “That’s a good girl.” 

Your chest bursts at the praise, heat doubling in your cheeks. It cracks your eyes open, vision glazed. The sight of her, brow furrowed and lip caught between teeth—you did that. 

You dutifully continue, responding to each jerk of your head with soft groans, each one a direct line to your cunt. Pressing your thighs together, you feel how soaked you are, the cotton sticking. By the time you drag your tongue up to her clit, her legs shake, thighs trembling and bumping against your ears. Kate’s trying to keep them still; the tension beneath your hands charged and telling. When you wrap your lips around her clit to suck, you watch her eyes roll back and square your shoulders to keep her open.

“Atta girl.” She grits between her teeth, the fingers in your hair tightening to pull you snugly against her pussy. Her other hand fists the comforter, the fabric crinkling in her white-knuckled grip. “Don’t stop,” It’s almost a whine, bitten back and forced into a grunt. You could die here, nose buried in her bush and tongue stuck to her clit, chin slipping through her wetness. Drown or suffocate. It’d be a hell of a way to go.

But she comes, eyebrows pinched and mouth wide, going stock-still and rigid until the tension snaps. Kate shakes through it, letting all of one moan loose before clamping her mouth shut, baring her teeth to hiss instead. Her hips buck, and you carefully move with her, intent on catching everything she gives, greedily lapping at her until she tugs your head back.

A wet sheen paints your upper lip to your chin, possibly your throat, and you stare, hands on her knees, up at Kate. Her chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, her eyes dark and color high on her cheeks. Mild carpet burn bites your knees, but you don’t dare move. 

It’s like that for a few minutes. Her hand loosens its grip to pet your hair, her breathing gradually leveling out. Her scent permeates the air and your skin. God, even if you never see her again after this, she’s a part of you now.

“Up,” She suddenly says, standing and gesturing to the bed. “Take off the rest, then on your back.”

You scramble, wincing at the pops of your knees, but she doesn’t seem to notice. The clasp of your bra works with you, unfastening easily, and you shiver when the damp gusset of your underwear slaps wetly against your thigh on the way off. She grabs bottled water from the nightstand instead, drinking deeply, looking away at the curtains covering the windows.

Turning around, she twists the cap and sets the water aside, licking her lip free of a stray droplet. The pink tip of her tongue enough to expel a sharp breath.

Peculiarly, she leaves her shirt on but joins you, crawling onto the bed with a smile that might’ve passed for soft if her eyes weren’t so sharp. She leaves barely any breathing space, draping a warm leg over yours and pulling it toward her. Her elbow rests beneath her, propping her up with a closed fist to her temple. Her other hand drifts from the crease of your thigh, over your stomach, and between your breasts. Head tilting, her tongue darts out again in apparent study, drinking you in. Her attention to the physical is just as reverent as it is in conversation. 

You cannot bring yourself to speak, afraid you’ll break the spell. But you twitch once, when her fingers ghost over a hard nipple, and she smirks.

“Yes?”

“Please,” You whisper, not too proud to beg, and reach for her hand. “Please touch me. I am so fucking—”

Kate tuts, freezing your hand’s approach, then softens it with a hushed laugh. “Impatient. If that’s what you want, then let me work.” She pinches the bud between her fingers, slowly maneuvering to her knees. “You were so sweet at the bar. Don’t tell me I’ve brought a selfish brat home.”

A frustrated groan slips out, stuttering into a whimper as she withdraws to sit on her heels. Your teeth catch your lip to silence another when she moves between your legs, not sparing a single glance to her prize. Her hands spider up your shins and down your calves. It’s torture, and she’s incredible at it. 

Never in your life have you been called a brat past childhood, and certainly not in the bedroom. It pokes at that earlier inkling, urges it out into the open, but you stubbornly smother it. Maybe you are—but you don’t want to be for her. 

“Kate, please,” you plead again. “Please, I just–I just got worked up when I–”

“Shh. I know. I’m being awfully rude. I’ll take care of you, pretty thing.” Kate purrs, finally lowering her gaze to your dripping center, and her lip curls. It’s calculated, the glacial speed with which she approaches your cunt. Situates herself nice between your spread legs, returning the favor of littering your shaking thighs with kisses, adding teeth into the meatiest parts. 

Her nails lightly comb south through your thatch of hair, two callused fingers tracing over either side of your sex. A third finger teasing a trail through the wet, before dipping into the first knuckle. “Fuck,” she gaps, marveling at the ease. “You weren’t kidding.”

Surely you’d think of a smarter comeback other than the nonsensical babble you stammer instead.

Your stomach twists into knots as a second finger joins the first, easing deeper, thumb hovering over your clit like a trigger. Her fingers move slowly and deliberately, but within seconds you’re taking them to the webbing. They crook and drag against your inner walls, coaxing a stream of needy sounds from your lips.

“Wish you could see yourself,” Kate rasps, voice a hair lower. Brow narrowed with rapt attention. “Think you can take three?” She chuckles at the breathy little in a minute you force out. “Good girl, telling me how it is.”

Her fingers start to scissor and stretch, thumb occasionally tapping your clit to see your hips jolt. Your eyes are rolled back into oblivion when her tongue makes contact, and they snap open so fast you need to blink away black spots. Your hands hover over her head, unsure if she’s—fuck, if she’s—

She unlatches from your clit, giving it a peck before nodding at your outstretched palms. As if all business, she sinks back into your cunt mouth-first and closes her eyes with a groan. Your pussy squeezes at the sight, a needy whimper accompanying your fingers as they thread through her hair, ruining her bun. 

Kate alternates between devouring your pussy and tongue-fucking your hole, showcasing an almost animalistic side to the controlled woman who charmed you at the bar. The sounds muffled by your thighs, so hungry and urgent, it’s almost too much. You suck your lip into your mouth as the heat flooding your abdomen steadily migrates.

“K-Kate, fuck, I’m close.”

With a wet pop, she lifts her head, face flushed and mouth drenched. Though you quietly protest, your orgasm dancing out of reach, you let a curse shrivel on your tongue. Her fingers slow to allow a third to prod at your hole. It’s a stretch, even as slick as you are. The two of you groan as she feeds them into you. She drops a kiss to your thigh once they’re in, gaze flitting up to read your face on the first languid push and pull.

“Yeah?”

“Y-Yeah, oh, oh fuck.” Your answer turns stupid at the insistence behind Kate’s renewed thrusts. The lewd, squelching sound drowns whatever shreds of coherency and possibly dignity you have left.

Her mouth returns, sawing your clit back and forth, applying pressure in tandem with the plunge of her fingers. 

If she minds the number you’re doing to her scalp, she doesn’t show it. Her hair comes undone under your desperate hands, trying to fuse your cunt to her jaw. Tit for tat, though maybe she thinks as you do, finding a warm and wet pussy a suitable demise. 

With deliberate timing, her fingers bury themselves, bullying through the tight clasp of your walls, and teeth graze your clit. They sever the last thread of control, and your vision whites out. Head tipped against the pillow and heels digging into the bed, you shatter, voice unrestrained and echoing through the hotel room. A sliver of embarrassment stitches through the silence after, the neighboring suites an afterthought.

Kate cleans you in the afterglow. Your legs twitch uncontrollably as a towel dips between your legs, brain too muddled to appreciate her undoubtedly flattering words. 

She climbs into bed after that, tucking the pair of you underneath the sheets. You guess you’re staying the night when she folds around you in a spoon. She sighs, deep and satisfied, breath tickling your ear. “Good?”

“Better than good.” A tired giggle ekes out, snuggling into the bedding. Your eyelids droop, your head blissfully swimming from the faint smell of Kate on your lips. You swallow, unable to stop yourself from sleepily asking, “What’s after this?”

Her lips press to your temple in a prolonged kiss. Long enough to make you think you made a mistake. Then she whispers. “Sleep. A shower. Then room service in the morning.” She must sense your unease, though, as she adds, “We’ll talk then.”

You nod, half-lost to slumber already, savoring the figure eights she traces on your side. 

In the morning, you wake to an empty bed and a knock on the door. One foot in post-sex sleep-induced delirium, you find a robe in the ensuite and greet an amused-looking hotel employee at the door. Cart in tow, they breeze past you, lifting a cloche from a mouth-watering breakfast and a small carafe of coffee.

“Do I need to…pay for this?” You ask, head as scrambled as the eggs on the plate. 

“No, it’s being charged to the room.” The man says as he unloads the cart onto the room’s table. He delays his departure, though, and you get the message. He leaves with the last of your cash, and you spot a note tucked under Kate’s pillow.

Sorry to leave you like this. Duty calls. Take your time with the room. No one will bother you beyond delivering breakfast. You can reach me at this number if you need a finger or three, again. - Kate

You snort and shove a piece of bacon into your mouth to distract yourself from the ache between your legs.

Later, you consider adjusting your age preferences up a bracket across your dating apps before deleting them altogether. You send a text, and it’s under a minute that three dots appear. 

>> Miss me already, kid?

Yeah, look, I’m alone. I’ve been alone so long, I… I like it. You know, I hide in it.

@andromedaa-tonks requested 🍂 FRANK CASTLE portrayed by Jon Bernthal in DAREDEVIL | THE PUNISHER

posting WIPs before vacation. got a whole load of nothing queued.

it's feminism and gay rights to have an m/m/f pairing because women deserve to have two boyfriends and guys should have gay sex with each other

touch starved reader with an oral fixation x kidnapper!Simon who’s all punishment and no physical affection? Please Simon just a little kiss? with tongues? :( (i just wanna make out with this man while my heart aches for him)

by Allah, you people are dogs. i will write the filth as usual.

DEAD DOVE, 18+ | dubcon. kidnapping. mean!Simon. dom!Simon. masking corporal punishment as affection. kissing. size kink, size difference. some thigh riding. degradation + humiliation (verbal). non-con pet play. marking (heavyyyyyy mentions of Simon biting you like a chew toy). choking. daddy kink (but in the awful, demeaning way). manipulation. forced affection. coersion. forced/manufactured dependency. brief mention of Simon stepping on your back to hold you down so he can whip you w a cat o nine tails. yanno. the usual Friday night.

idk. there's something so hot about you, completely naked, riding Simon's clothed thigh as he holds you up by your neck. tongue out, desperate for a kiss while he just mocks you the whole time.

It's survival. 

At first.  

A means of masking the innate horror of being stripped of your agency, your autonomy, by a man you barely even know. One you met once before (fate sealed), and now—outside of your apartment complex where he was idling by the foothold, smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the brick wall, head turned. Gaze narrowed as you approached. 

Waiting for someone, you assumed, thinking nothing else about the matter. 

Nothing else, except—

He looked familiar. You think you saw him before. He was staring at you. Hadn't stopped. Hasn't said a word, either. The silence was oppressive. Heavy. Your hands fumbled with the keys. Shaking. Trembling. 

He's pretty, you thought, suddenly. In the way car wrecks can sometimes be. Jarring and awful and hideous, but—

Mesmerising. 

Macabre. And that's what he is. Everything from the mask on his face (skulls, go figure), to the absurdity in his size, his width. The way space itself seemed to move around him, bending and distorting just to let him pass. His own gravitational pull. Magnetic. You feel it tugging on you as he pulls another lungful of smoke. Another. Another.  

(like an hourglass, a timebomb, almost. you wonder what will happen when it runs out—)

He gives you the creeps. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. A visceral sense of unease curdling in the pit of your belly as he keeps staring, staring. Eyes—crystalline under the broken headlamp, washout into crushed topaz—drilling into your back, sharp enough to flay skin. Everything inside of you says to run, but your key won't fit inside the lock. Won't—

Ever. 

And hindsight has always been a bitter thing, hasn't it? Cruel in her mockery. Had you known, then, that he wasn't a workman loitering by the complex, waiting for a friend; or a low-level drug dealer casting webs into the plum hewn aether, it might have saved you. Might have. 

Maybe. Because he was there, waiting for you, all along. 

Life has a funny way of paying back good deeds. All it took for your life to crumble down around you, rubble falling off of a shaking mountain, was kindness. Was seeing a large man in the pouring rain, already drenched. Black clothing sticking to the granite contours of his body, and offering sanctum in the shape of a rusting umbrella you found at a thrift store for three dollars. 

(“here,” you said, chipper. All smiles. “i live just down the street, and you look like you need it more than i do. do you want it?”

and he—

he simply stared. stared. his eyes liquid, molten, as they carelessly dropped, roaming down the length of your body at his own leisure. leering. assessing. it was odd. weird, but—

he huffed, then. seemingly satisfied by whatever you measured up to in his head. his neck lulled back, and he gazed at you from down the crooked length of his nose, tucked neatly away under the thick band of a facial mask. skulls. how could you be so stupid? 

slowly, like he was trying not to startle a mare, his gloved hand reached out, curling thick fingers around the hilt of it. he tugged once. in your stupor, you forgot to let go. embarrassment flooded in. he huffed again, quietly amused, as you untangled your numbed fingers from the umbrella. 

in your distraction, he moved closer. smelled of ash, of mildew. sweat and stale cigarettes. there was something predatory in the way he slipped through space. a preternatural quiet. an eerie stillness. 

you hadn't realised he was there, looming, until he rasped out, “more ‘n you could ever realise, pet.”

and you're sure why you do it. did it. but your hand slips into your shopping bag, eyes widen. heart thundering in your chest. 

“are you hungry? i, uh, i just bought some apples, um—”

his eyes are lavascapes. shackles. chains. “i could eat.”)

And now—

Forced to play this strange cat and mouse of his where he treats you like soot on the bottom of his shoe, and you pretend that it's affection. Love. How godless.  

Protection, he calls it. 

("mine," he whispers, orison soft, into your ear. "ain't go' nowhere else to go, do you, pet? world's big. would eat a small thing like you up. safer here. wit' me. only me.") 

You wonder what he'd do if you told him the biggest danger here was the madness nestled inside your head, the one that sometimes made you look at him like he was your salvation instead of the warden holding the end of your leash in a firm hand. Unyielding—like everything he does. Is. 

Withholding, too. Everything must be earned. Nothing given. Nothing handed out. And you know that this is a ploy, a tactic. Subterfuge meant to chisel into your sense of self, dehumanise you. Turn you into a simpering, obedient little doll for him to play with as he wishes. You know this, and yet—

It's survival, you promise yourself as he tugs on the hook latched to your collar, testing it for weakness. Survival, when his hands—bare, bare; warmed skin against skin, you could just weep—brush over your throat, nails skimming goosebumped flesh as he wedges one, then two inside, hirsute knuckles tickling your pulse. It tightens the collar to near choking. Intentional, you know. He likes it when you beg—for air, for food, water, him. 

Vile man. Awful. 

(You want to roll on your belly at his feet.)

This cold, cruel touch lights a fire under your skin. It's been months since he's last done so. Always wearing gloves when he has to. Using paddles, belts, when you misbehave. Never his bare hand. Not anymore. 

(“m’hand is for good girls,” he slurred, words merging, meshing together, painted with exertion. He wedged his boot against the small of your back, holding you down, and cracked the end of a cat over your bare ass, thighs. Unbothered by your howls, your screams, as the whip bit into your skin. You've never so much as been hit as a child for misbehaving, and now, as an adult, you have a madman standing over you, introducing you to something called a cat o’nine tails—a favourite in the army, lovie. “bad girls,” his boot pressed down harder, heel digging into your spine. “Bad girls get the whip—”)

Bad. Bad. Because you tried to run, to leave him. He dressed you up, called you Mrs Riley, and you—

Ducked out the back door when he turned away for a second. 

Stupid. It was poor timing. A test. He set you up, measuring your loyalty to him, your commitment, and you failed. Failed. 

(“this is what ‘appens when spoiled little cunts get their way too much. they act out, don't they? bitin’ the ‘and that feeds. you'll learn soon enough, though—”)

Ghost—sir, sir (master, maker, god; you'll call him anything he wants if he touches you again)—pulls his fingers away, depriving you of his touch once more. And it's all so stupid. So fundamentally wrong, deplorable, but you follow. Needy. Whining for it in the back of your throat. 

It's been months. Months without touch. Without sensation outside of leather lashing across your thighs, your ass; harsh, gloved fingers digging into your jaw, braced against the back of your head, as you swallow down his cock in an effort to prove to him you've been good. So good. Can be good. His good girl. 

You need to touch him. Need his touch. Ache for it, for something outside of this nook he placed you inside of, denied the privilege of living upstairs with him after you tried to escape. 

You want to. Badly. Your fingers twitch. Ghost sees it. Hums. 

“Need somethin', pet?” 

Your mouth is dry. You swallow. It burns. It hurts. “Yes—”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir—”

Behind the mask he's yet to take off for you fully, only ever hitching it under his chin to devour your cunt whenever you've been good, his jaw tightens, the fabric bunching up. 

You reel back from the look of sheer displeasure etching harsh lines into the hollow gaps of his eyes. Heart thundering. Stomach churning. 

“Mas—” he cuts you off with a soft sigh. Marked with his irritation. “D—dad—”

Dad. A new one. Daddy. He didn't seem like the sort to be into this type of play, not with his sardonic, deadpan eyes. His mockery. His dessicated humour, awful and biting. You'd have sooner expected him to laugh at you—in that slow, deep hum he gives; a little chuff, full of condescension and jeer—than to get off on it. On you, kneeling between his legs with your chin braced against his palm, mouth open, tongue out, as he fucks into the tight clench of his fist, groaning as you beg daddy to give you a taste. 

It's gross. Disgusting. 

It's not done for anything else other than to humiliate you. To crush you under the heel of his boot—little bug—so that you will always know where your place is in this scenario. His little wife. Mother, mum—

He pulls on the leash, jerking you forward. Purrs, “good girl,” and then steps back, moving away from you. Cruel. Dismissive. You hate him, hate him—

(Need him so deeply. With every fibre of your being—)

You watch him as he goes, mourning the loss of his presence already, as he paces around your space, your cage. Broad shoulders barely fitting inside. Head ducking to avoid hitting his crown on the popcorn ceiling. It's strange seeing him here like this. Prowling. He usually comes when he wants you, when he needs to enact more merciless punishment on you for whatever perceived evils you committed (not greeting him with a kiss when he walked in, not letting him suffocate himself in your cunt when he had you sit on his face, not making him cum all over your face quick enough when you knew he had other engagements to get to—), or when he ruts, heavily, between your thighs, cold and detached. Seeking pleasure from your icy flesh, and giving nothing in return but white hot agony. 

Him here, idling in your presence, is revolutionary. 

“S–sir—?”

He hums, quiet. Sits in the chair as you gather the fragments of yourself littered on the ground. His mood is malleable, it seems. 

You push, fingertips sinking into the putty of his agreeable temperament. “Can I—”

You waver when his sharp eyes raze over your bare body—clothes are for good girls, after all—pupils sloshing over the edges, bleeding into midnight blue. 

Your body is a battlefield. Every inch of skin branded with his mark—pretty, thrawn rings of teeth tattooed in silver, haloed in black and red, desecrate your flesh: neck, collarbones, breasts, belly, thighs (a particular favourite of his), ass, mons; all bitten through, chewed up. It weeps when you move, has blood trickling down your skin. The cracking scabs make him coo, poor thing, all bloody fer me? and he licks at them, sucks, until only a pinkish wound in the mimesis of canines remains. 

Uprooted, turned into something new—

His chest expands when he settles his gaze on the sliver of space between your spread thighs. Concealed in tenebrous, hidden from his leering, lecherous view. He cocks his head, considers something unknown to you. His thoughts, his mind, worlds away. Untouchable. 

(only to bad girls, he’d snarled out when you asked why—)

“Testin’ my patience still?” He doesn't rip his gaze away from your cunt, speaks to it sometimes more than he speaks to you. “Thought this alone time might’a cleared your ‘ead.”

You flush. Embarrassment roiling through you. His displeasure is a palpable thing. Heavy. You hate the weight of it. 

“I need—I need you.”

Another toneless hum. “‘Course you do. Ain't got anyone else.”

He's awful. Hideous. You want to rip his tongue out of his mouth. “I—I want you. Please.”

Ghost doesn't answer. You stopped expecting him to a long time ago, his moods odd measures of ebbs and flows; passive and mild, cracking terrible, awful jokes as he strokes your back, hands riveted to your skin, and then biting and caustic the next. Pushing and pushing until you lash out, snap, so he has a reason to push you down, punished and smothered under his bulk, as he ruts into you like a beast, a man starved. Tells you it's for your own good. That you need him. Would be lost without him. 

Bludgeoning a hole into you wide enough for him to crawl inside of. Poisoning you from the inside out with the same nocuous rot that flows in his veins. 

Maybe that's been his agenda all along. Maybe. To make you want him as badly as he wanted you. Desperate, obsessive. Going so far as to follow you home, lost little mutt waiting in the shadows outside of your door until you threw him another bone. And when that didn't work, when the food stopped being enough—

He took you. Held you captive in his house deep in the wilderness. A place so endlessly green that you sometimes stare out at it—unfathomable sea of phalthos and jasper—and feel dizzy. You'll get lost out there—

just like he says. 

As he turns your obsecration over in his head, you wait, supplicant to this man as you rest on your knees. Pretty pet with a golden collar adorned in gems. 

Fitting, you find. With his head cradled against his thick knuckles, you can't help but shiver at the way he looks shrouded in the gloaming embers of a fading twilight. Leonine. A king perfectly at ease in this thick, caliginous atmosphere.

His eyes burn, magmatic, in the low light. Vats of endless ink. Black holes that will swallow you whole if you get too close. But he's poised. Contemplative. Assessing. 

And then grips the end of the leash tight in his other hand. Tugs.  

You obey the wordless command, crawling on your hands and knees to where he's spread out on the recliner. Laxed, dripping with a careless indifference as you wander to him, resting your chin on the spread of his knee. 

Looking up, up, at him, waiting. Wanting. 

There's so much of him—a fact that has been the catalyst to your downfall the moment you saw him standing under the awning; this massive creature. Thighs wider than the width of your body. Burly forearms. Broad shoulders. He's big. Indomitable. Thick, endlessly so. But there's a give to his body. Valleys of softness hiding corded muscle. Firm, but—

Your fingers sink into the soft give of his belly when you reach out, bracing against stomach. Pulling yourself further into the bracket of his spread thighs, inching closer to him. 

He meets your reverent stare, eyes liquid along his lower lash line.

“Thought you were gonna keep me waitin’ all night,” he muses, giving another pull on the leash. It destabilises you. Your nose bumps into his sternum, and you moan at the sting. 

There's a dissonance in the back of your head. A hairline fracture in the line that keeps a degree of separation between pleasure and pain. They meet against the crack in the divide, merging into a abysmal polyphony conducted by his hand. 

He watches, amused, as you whimper, sniffing harshly against the burn. It's not bleeding, and not broken—small mercies, you suppose—and you let it simmer into a dull ache as you slowly clamber into his lap.

Ghost leans back as you settle, greedily taking in the sight of your thighs stretched wide over his leg, cunt pressed, tight, against the rough scrape of his jeans. The touch burns. He hasn't touched your pussy in weeks—

“C’mon,” he urges, hand spanning the width of your lower back. Coaxing. “Show me ‘ow good you can be.”

It's all the permission you need. Slowly, slowly, your hips start to gyrate, dragging your slit over the coarse material. The friction is agony. You need more—

He draws his other hand up, curls it around your neck, forcing your head back, back. You gasp, staring at him, dizzy, from down the slope of your nose. The clasp of the collar digs into your skin. It hurts. It's too much. 

you don't want him to stop. 

His hand is huge. It spans the entire length of your neck, thumb to your pulse, pinky grazing the hollow of your throat. It forces you to lift your chin higher just to let him fit.

He likes it, too, you know. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of his bare hand, scarred and thick; dusted with a cropping of fine hairs along his scabbed knuckles, sitting against the whole of your throat. Swallowing you up. Can feel how much he enjoys the sheer depth between your sizes when his cock twitches, stiffening more

The look on his face is appraising, anatomising. There's a cold measure of distance in his gaze. A barren polynya. You want to cross it. Chart these untamed lands until they're deeply ingrained within your being. Cimmerian effigy burning to keep you warm. 

It's survival, you think, and arch into the palm of his hand. 

He holds you like a doll. One hand on your lower back, pressing your cunt to thigh. The other tightening around your throat. Bare skin against bare skin, and oh, you could just cry—

But this is not what you need. What you want. And he knows. He always does. Knows the inside of you like it's written down—inked on paper. Thumbs through the makeup of you, chapter by chapter, until no mystery remains. 

“Tell me what you need, pet. Beg for it.” 

“Let me—” his hands tighten, choking the air from your throat. Crushing your collar against your neck. “Lemme—kiss you, please, please—”

Tighter. Tighter. The world around you swims under a thin ocean. Phosphenes swim, untethered, in your periphery, ghosting along the curve of his shoulders. He might kill you yet. Keeping going, going, until those brittle, bird-like bones in your neck snap—

You'd let him, you think, muscles falling lax. Submissive. Just the way he says he likes even though you know he fucks you harder, touches you more, more, when you act out. Misbehave. 

“Kiss me?” He taunts, words abrasive. Strident. Scrubbing hard against your skin. “Ain't that jus’ the sweetest thing I ever ‘eard.” 

You burn, blister. “Please—”

“Reckon I ought to. Kissed your pretty cunt ‘fore I even kissed your lips, huh, pet?” 

Your chest folds over itself. Stomach knotting. Balling tight. Unease is a razor blade scraping your nerves. 

“Simon—”

“Ah, ah—” his hand tightens. Vicious. Chiding. “You ‘aven’t earned the privilege of sayin’ my name, ‘ave you? Cheeky thing. Might ‘ave to take a cane to you next.” 

“No, no, no—! I'm—”

“Sorry?” He mocks, cocking his head. Condescension drips from the corners of his eyes. 

“Please, sir—”

“Dad is gettin’ tired of this attitude of yours, pet—” his fingers dig into your skin, hard. Biting. A warning, you know. The blunt press of a blade to your jugular. But it thrums along the suture line to your desire, a wellspool of murk coiling low in your guts. You throb, cunt clenching down around nothing. Achingly empty. “Thought we got rid of it this time ‘round. Learned our lesson.”

The words are frank, prosaic. Had you any sense of self still malingering in the back of your head, you might have struck him for the blatant disrespect. But as you struggle to reach for it, pawing around in the vacuous abyss for any fragment of who you were before this, before him, you know—without any doubt—that none exists. Nothing. He’s too ingrained in your marrow, hewn into your skin. Copper sutures holding his filament within you. Cradled between your thighs, nestled in the rotting vacancy of your heart. 

He knows you. Every part—

“We did—we did, da—daddy, please—” 

It’s shallow. Muffled, like he’s trying to swallow it down, but you feel it rumble through his broad chest. A guttural sound. A groan. Drenched in pleasure, in want. So thick, you could almost taste it. 

He hides his need under a layer of derision. 

“Such a needy thing, ain't you? Desperate little slag like you wouldn't last out there, would you?” 

His hand digs into your hip, pushing you off of his thigh. Eyes skewering into the wet stain on his trousers. A huff spills out—the sound a near perfect mimicry of crushing charcoal in your hand. 

“No. You'd be eaten alive. Torn to pieces. World's too big for somethin' like you.”

Mindless, dazed, you nod. Arching into him. The leather leash snaps against your chest. “Yes, yes—”

His cock presses into your thigh, hard, fat. Your mouth waters. Drool dribbles down your chin. 

He smells of tinder when he leans in close, blood drenched words biting into your skin. “messy today, aren't you? Be lost without me. Tha’s why you wear a collar, isn't it?”

Pitifully, you nod. Eyes full of tears. Each word is a bludgeon into your resolve. Into your sense of self. 

But it earns you his affection, and his thumb presses into the corner of your mouth, unhinging your jaw until it falls open, lax. He holds you like that, mouth lax with his hand still around your neck. The other lifts away from your lips, goes to the thick band around the bridge of his nose, slips inside. 

There's no buildup to it. No lingering sense of anticipation. Practical, detached, he merely tugs it down, and lets it snap under his chin. 

Your breath is punched out of your lungs at the sight of him. Barefaced. Scarred. His nose is crooked; a jagged hook with scar tissue delineating the spots where it's been broken too many times. His lips are—

Full. 

Mangled. 

Scars run in thick slashes over them, denting the flesh in places. Burn marks line his pale flesh. Charcoal rubs into his eyes, highlighting the whites of his lashes against smeared soot. 

He's—

Pretty. 

Like a car crash. Calamity. The broken remains of a town after a hurricane, a tornado, ripped it apart. Ugly, brutal. His face looks like it's been mauled by a bear, a tiger. Scarred and hideous, and—

You shiver. His eyes drop, landing on your own lips. The soot on his brow flutters down, lands on his eyelashes when he lifts his brow up mockingly. Derision curdling an awful smirk on the corner of his mouth. Crooked. Like him. Like his teeth. His nose. His boxy jaw. His lips—

You kiss him. 

Can't help yourself, really. There's a pull. Gravitational. Magnetic. You need, need, to taste him. To quench this ache in your jaw that makes you want to wrap your tongue around something, play with it between your teeth. Soft and sweet—

Ghost's lips are plump beneath yours. The thick scar tissue is almost velveteen when it glides over your bottom lip. You moan into it, into the feeling; victory—however pyrrhic—swims like mercury in your veins. Finally. 

And he doesn't kiss you back. Doesn't make any effort to reciprocate at all, but he's not tense beneath you. Not stunned. Or reluctant. He’s pliant. Malleable. Agreeable, willing to let you devour his mouth, his taste, as much as you want. Doting. Letting you spoil yourself on him. With him.

Because you need him, don't you? 

Like the air you breathe. The food he gives you—apples, always, on rainy days; salmon and rice in a pretty bowl with your name etched into the porcelain—and the attention, the affection—

(suck my cock, pretty girl. don't make me put a gag on you—deeper, you can take it, can't you? take my fat cock all the way up inside your sweet little cunt—my pretty girl—)

—it’s all so divine. 

His hands on your body, your throat, spasm. Once. Just once. Against your leg, his cock twitches. Leaks prespend into the demin. You rut against his thigh, aching for it. Whimpering—

And then he's groaning into the kiss, snarling out your name until it wedges between your lungs, syphoned in from his scorching breath. Another brand in the shape of him. 

Ghost kisses the same way he eats—messy, sloppy; all teeth and tongue, and full pretty lips. Clumsy, like no one taught him how to properly hold his silverware and he's trying to mock what he saw on television. Brumish. A broken, contemptuous pastiche of sumptuosity. A starving dog, snarling around its plundered morsel. Protective. Possessive. 

It coils around you. Thick, smothering. 

He sucks your tongue into his mouth, catching it between his teeth. The sting brings tears to the corner of your eyes, and when you pry them open, you find him already staring at you (always, always, always—), lidded. Heavy pools of desire shaded in the brume of a winter dawn. A bonfire flickering in the distance of a whiteout. Sanctuary from the cold—

He seems to catch himself. Expression flickering. Warbling around the edges. It closes off in a blink. He pulls back. Locks into the ashlar veneer of this indifference he wears like a suit of armour. 

But you saw it. It was there. Within reach—

“Need me, don't you?” He drawls, timber a needlepoint between cruelty and desire. Sultry, low. Husky. He knows what it does to you. How he can unravel you at the seams with just his voice alone. “Need me so fuckin’ much, pet. Would be lost without me—”

“Please, Simon,” you whisper, feather-soft. Cunt throbbing, pulsing. Needy. “Please—”

The strident reprimand for using his name doesn't come. His hand tightens around your throat, unconscious. A paroxysm that has pleasure carving itself down your spine, electric. 

“Come get it, then,” he rasps, voice wrecked. Raw. Curling at the edges, thickening his accent until the words elide. 

Hand to your throat, he drags you close. Closer still. Keeps you sat pretty on his lap as he pulls you in for a bruising, hungry kiss. Tongue shoving between your teeth when you gasp.

His kisses are always hungry, but this is different. Greedy. He devours you whole. Eats you alive. His hand falls to your lower back, holding you tight to his chest.

You moan into it, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Squeezing until your knuckles blanche, joints twinging in discomfort. 

After months of nothing, this alone is bliss. His taste soaking onto your tongue, drenching it in the bitter tang of sage, wheatgrass, and stale cigarettes. Intoxicating. It leaks into you, nocuous. Infects from the inside out. 

His plan coming to fruition, you think. What he sought out to do all along, ever since you wandered close to this untameable Tartarean guard, and offered yourself up to the jowls of a starving beast. 

He pulls away with a heavy breath, eyes charing around the edges; brittle briquette. 

“Gonna be a good girl from now on? Come upstairs, be a good mum for dad? Or am I gonna ‘ave to cane this—” his hand drops, grabbing a fistful of your ass in his hand, fingers digging into the skin between your cheeks. Possessive. It cracks like a whip down your nerves. “—tight lit’le arse?”

You shake your head instantly. Quickly. “I'll be good,” you whisper into his chin, tongue flicking out to lick across his scars. The dried sweat on his skin tastes briny. Reminds you of the ocean on a brumous November evening. The incipient yawn of a ravenous hurricane gathering its lot on the shore. 

Sirens blare in the distance. Fear curdles in your guts, sits heavy like a stone. An anchor. 

“So sweet f’me,” he mutters, words deepening as his head falls back, letting you pepper kisses across the underside of his jaw. Mouthing along the constellation of scars. His voice is rumble. It shivers across your lips, tongue. Shakes the marrow in your bones. “Better stay this way, pet.”

Into his pulse, you murmur, “I think you like it better when I’m bad.” 

You can feel the snarl brimming in the back of his throat. Your ass stings with the phantom burn of when he lashed out with the whip. It drags a whimper out from deep within your chest. 

His hand tightens around your neck. A warning. “Got some guests over f’dinner tonight. Would love to finally introduce them to my sweet little wife—” deft fingers slip across the dewy skin of your folds, knuckles grazing over your drenched hole. The touch makes you squirm. “But if you’re gonna be bad, then I’ll leave you locked up down ‘ere.”

“I’ll be good,” you swear, words a hushed breath over his jugular. His finger flattens, drawls soft, slow circles around your clit. “Ah, I’ll—I’ll be so, so good, Simon—”

“Good girls deserve rewards, don’t they?” His palm flexes possessively around your throat when you nip at old scar tissue. “Maybe I’ll let you sleep in our bed tonight instead of in your dog house. We can ‘ouse together. I’ll fuck you proper—” he roughly shoves two fingers into your hole, leering when you gasp, back arching in a bow. “Know this pretty pussy has been achin’ for me, ‘asn’t it? Gonna breed it full—”

There’s static in your head, ringing in your ear. The noise distorted, pulled underwater. You think you say something, plead—no, no, no, anything but that—but his hand tightens around your throat, fingers pushing up, up into you, notching against that spot inside that makes your head swim, your vision flicker. The abyssal chasm inside of you aches, rages; its waters swell, currents frothing, slamming against the ceiling of its iron prison, and—

Simon pulls away. Fingers stilling inside of you. No friction, no relief. Hypoxia renders the world silent. Muted. Held in stasis, stagnating at the edge of a gaping precipice he holds you over, secured by the fragile curve of your neck, fine bone china. 

Phosphenes swim by. The chossy wobbles.

This distance is agony. You need to be closer, closer, to crawl inside of him, to live in the brackets of his ribs, safe and protected from the world he warns you about. Stone cold. You mewl, whine—

“Gonna be my good little wife?”

Gasping with broken lungs, you nod. Nod, nod until you’re nauseous. Dizzy. Sick—

His spit cools on your lip. Your hackles raise, body shuddering in revulsion—some primal part rears, hisses it’s infectious. Wrong. Get rid of it—

“Not gonna run?”

Slowly, you lick your lips, catching his sickness on your tongue. Swallowing it down until it sinks like a stone to the bottom of your belly. Heavy, for such a small, damning thing. 

How absurd, you think. How absolutely mad. 

Then you whisper, paperthin, “kiss me again, please, Simon—”

And he moves. Liquid in the gloam. Made more for shadows, midnight, than for golden apricity, where the light is harsh on his face, unveiling ruins and ravines; monoliths meant to be paid tribute to in the dark. Your hands lift to his jaw when he moves in, catching your lips in a bruising, biting kiss. 

His touch is searing. Owning. He isn't laying claim: no, you're already his. 

It's possessive and angry. No finesse. All slate teeth and tender tongue. They slide together in a strange game; little fawn stupidly nipping at the tiger's heel. He lets you, groaning into your mouth when you arch back, hips pushing into his fingers, taking him deeper. A pale pantomime of what's to come when he lays you on his soft bed, sweet and divine, and buries himself deep. 

It should scare you. Ought to. And maybe it does. Survival, you think, but you still pull him closer. Deeper. Because it’s bliss, you find. The world around you falling dead. Silent. Pulled into a vacuum. Teetering on the edge of a black hole, event horizon. He drags you in. 

Simon hums, pulling you closer. Touching you—soft, sweet. Palms a gyve. Shackles, chains. His fingers lift from your neck, trailing down the slope of your throat until he reaches the golden loop of your collar's hook. His gaze glides, magmatic, down to where your leash dangles between your heaving breasts.

It's almost tender when he grabs it into his fist. When he pulls, pulls—

Your back arching. His fingers slipping deeper inside your cunt. Obedient little doll.

When he lifts his eyes, the look you find is hot enough to char bone. You taste blood in the back of your throat—

Into the seam of your mouth, he purrs, “good girl.”

—and you swallow it down with a moan. 

(after all, you know better than to run from starving dogs—)

society needs more cat gifs

thinking about simon who’s watching you get another drink from the bar, counting the minutes until you return to the booth your team is currently occupying. he swirls the ice in his glass, glancing over every other second just to make sure you’re still within eyesight while he half listens to johnny talk about the most recent Manchester match. it’s already been 3 minutes. what is taking so bloody long?

“I’m pretty sure you’re burning a hole in the back of her head with that stare mate,” kyle says, lightly nudging simon’s shoulder. simon turns to face him, eyebrows knitting together. “m’just making sure she’s alright.”

the corner of kyle’s mouth twitches. “she’s a big girl, isn’t she? seems to be handling herself just fine.”

prick. simon takes a sip of his drink, glaring at him over the glass. he’s fully aware you can handle yourself, he’s seen you drop full grown men to their knees in the field without breaking a sweat. so why does it feel more dangerous to leave you alone in a stupid bar? another quick glance back to the bar reveals you laughing with the bartender, complimenting her hair and enjoying some small talk.

“and simon wants to handle her.” johnny’s words came out slow and a bit slurred, proof that he’d probably had one too many. if he’d been a little less intoxicated simon would’ve shoved him out of the booth. “looks like someone else does too,” kyle mumbled, lifting his glass and looking back in the direction of the bar. simon swears he feels his neck crack at the speed he turns to look.

who the fuck is that?

there's a tall blonde man standing close – too close – to you at the bar. toothpaste commercial smile, wavy hair…and hands that are way too antsy for simon’s taste. the way they move back and forth in the space between the two of you, resting on the bar next to your arm. there’s no need for him to get so close. simon ignores the bubbling pit of annoyance growing in his stomach – and johnny’s childish ‘oooh’ as he turns back to the table. “good for him.”

kyle lets out a bark of laughter, shaking his head as he looks down at the empty glass in his hands. “you're one stubborn git, I’ll tell ya.” placing the glass back down on the table, he looks back up at his masked friend. “you know, if I felt the way you do about her, she would’ve been mine a long time ago.”

simon’s eyes narrow into a glare. “what is that supposed to mean?”

“means exactly what I said.” he shrugs. “you want her so fucking bad, go get her. I wouldn’t let anything stop me if I was you.”

simon scoffs. if only it was that simple. there was no room for error with you. letting you in was a gamble in itself, and now…losing you was simply not an option. he’d managed to convince himself that it wouldn’t be possible to get attached, that being friendly was for the team’s sake. it definitely wasn’t because he was tired of only seeing you in flashes during dreams. and it absolutely was not because he found himself leaving every interaction with you feeling lighter. happier, almost.

“things are best as they are.” his answer was low, but kyle didn’t miss the tinge of sadness to his words.

“does she feel that way? did you ever bother to ask her? because I think if you did, she mi-“

“oh, shit.” johnny’s tone has considerably sobered as he looks past his friends at the bar where you stand. “she does not look happy.”

understatement of the century, simon thought as he turned back to you. hands on your hips, a scowl gracing your features. he swears he’s never seen someone look so angry and so beautiful at the same time. you’re glaring up at the prick with the pepsodent smile, spitting what looks to be venom at him while he looks down his nose at you condescendingly. if simon wasn’t overcome with irritation for whatever he’d done to piss you off, he would’ve enjoyed the sight. his little spitfire.

his. he needs to stop using that word when it comes to you. too dangerous to get used to.

she can handle it repeats in his head like a prayer. every muscle aches to run over and toss the man on the floor, not even stopping to find out what he had done to piss you off first, but he squeezes his glass to placate himself. she’s a big girl, like kyle said. a task force solider. if she needs help, she –

simon’s on his feet within seconds of your panicked gaze meeting his. there's something in your eyes, a look he’s ever seen before and is already planning on never seeing again. he barrels his way across the room as people part like the red sea, leading a path right to where you stand. the man has stepped closer to you, a slimy look on his face as he leers down at you. he may be tall, but simon towers over him as he steps up behind him, fists clenched. “oi.”

the man, who simon has decided is called dickhead, turns lazily to face him. his eyes widen slightly as he takes in the mountain of a man hovering behind him but he quickly masks it, trying his best to look bored.

“the fuck are you doing bothering my girl?”

dickhead has the balls to roll his eyes. simon imagines all the ways he could cut them out.

“i told you I have a boyfriend,” you snap. simon is pleasantly surprised by this, although what else does he expect? you obviously wanted this man to leave you alone, and that should have given him reason enough to do so. should have. he opens his mouth to speak but you cut him off.

“not so tough now that he’s not sitting all the way over there now, huh?”

simon nearly falls over. you told this guy that he was your boyfriend? he blinks once at you before he realizes that it’s not the time to digest this information. dickhead is still here and vertical, and that’s a problem. perhaps it’s the rounds of whiskey johnny kept talking him into, but something primal switches on when simon falls into the persona you’ve just created for him. the idea of you being his, needing him flooded his thoughts. dickhead must’ve seen the murderous expression slip onto his face just like one of his masks because the color drains from his face. simon’s voice lowers to a dangerous level.

“speak to her again and see how long you live. now walk away.”

a smart choice, simon hums to himself as dickhead scurries away looking slightly green. he has no idea how smart. simon snaps out of his musings as a hand softly rests on his forearm. wide, grateful eyes stare back up at him as he allows himself to take in current situation. “thank you so much simon, he was such a fucking creep. started asking me shit about my underwear and wouldn’t let me past him.”

“he’s lucky I didn’t know that before I let him go.” he’ll be less lucky later on. simon has a new errand to run, but that can wait until after you’re finished holding his arm and staring up at him like he hung the moon.

“so. when were you gonna tell me we were an item?” the joke tumbles out before he has time to think about it. by the look on your face, you're not about to take off running, so he continues. “y’should probably keep me in the loop about things like that, hm?” he braces himself for the what he thinks is the inevitable – I was only joking, simon…yeah, as if…I know, could you ever imagine that?

instead, the giggle that he receives in response makes his heart swell. laughter shouldn’t sound so musical and delicate. and it definitely shouldn’t come from a girl as beautiful as you when you're laughing. somehow, the fact that its him you're laughing at makes it sound even better. in that moment, simon’s hit with the bone chilling realization that he is fucked. so fucked it’s not even funny. the hours spent building his walls up just for you to tear them down again with a simple good morning, simon had been for nothing, because there was no running from this. and this is why he allows himself to wrap an arm around your waist as you formulate your reply.

if his show of affection takes you by surprise it doesn’t show. instead, you take a step closer to him, your hand coming to rest on his side as he pulls you to him. “seems like you were in the loop just fine, riley. after all, I'm ‘your girl’, right?” he wishes he could kiss you, press you back against the bar because yes, you are his girl, and to hear it in that teasing tone of voice is driving him to madness. he’s almost sure you know what you're doing, blinking up at him with those pretty eyes. it’s not fair to look at him like that, not if you don’t mean it. and simon isn’t 100% sure, but –

“I’m gonna put that on my resume. ‘simon riley’s girl’,” you chirp as you drag him back to your booth. simon smiles. he can settle for 99.9%.

a/n: this has been bouncing around in my head all day enjoy <33