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shrenvents · 8 months ago

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Spellbound

Warnings: Minors dni, smut, oral, cunnilingus, unprotected, fluff, some violence, biting

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Witch reader

Summary: You're a witch with a specific skill set, one that has intrigued a certain hybrid.

Word count: 2.7k

...

Voodoo. Magic. Impulse. Obsession.

She was his newest fascination.

He heard her laughter cracking through the walls of the barren bar before it cut short. Klaus observed how the sunlight blazed across her, poorly parked, car. His lips slanted in mild amusement. He told himself, that’s all it was, all she was. Mild amusement for an immortal. Though, something felt different.

He strutted into the place, head hung high as he scanned the bare vicinity. His eyes halted on a man behind the bar, rinsing glass cups. The bartender's eyes adverted from Klaus, the second he caught his stare. The man's nerves were duly noted as Klaus approached him.

“I’ll have a glass of your finest red,” Klaus spoke artfully, with a fake smile plastered on his face. The worker shuddered. “Ug- we’re not serving right now.”

“No worries mate,” his mellifluous voice paused. “The red I fancy isn’t something I’d find on your menu.” The man's gaze shot up to Klaus’s. His lips trembled as Klaus continued his jest. “Unless you intend to provide me with a bite, I suggest you tell me where she’s hidden.” Klaus’s threat echoed through the building, till silence took its place.

Suddenly, the sound of a back door, opening and slamming shut jolted Klaus away from the bartender. He instantly raced to the door, ripping it open. He watched as her frame scattered into her rusted car. He growled. There was no way he'd let her escape once again...

Your body was convulsing with anxiety. Who were you to know a little magic truce with the “other side,” would have a certain hybrid on your front doorstep. It didn’t help when you levitated everything in your apartment at him, including your freshly made spaghetti with bolognese. It was to be expected, that would piss him off...

Yanking the car door shut, you forced the key in and started the engine.

“Where are we headed this time darling?”

“Ahhh!” You screamed, snapping your head to the uninvited passenger. Klaus sat leisurely beside you, and you swear your life flashed before your eyes. “I must say, I enjoyed our time in Chicago. Perhaps San Fran may be the next best thing, love.” His smug face adorned your features, absorbing the way your face contorted in both fear and frustration.

“Jesus,” you huff, and Klaus’s smirk grows. “As much as I love the idea, somehow becoming your personal chauffeur isn’t that appealing.” Klaus chuckles lowly, leaning in, more and more.

“Well, if you hadn’t decided to run off, you crafty little thing," he drawls sweetly, "We wouldn’t have the pleasure.”

“If you weren’t trying to kill me, maybe I’d stick around.” Klaus’s brows twist like he's appalled by your words. “Who said I was interested in killing you?”

“You- I- then, what do you want?” You stammer. Klaus went quiet. You watched as his expression goes blank, before he acts as though he was in deep thought. Then, his mouth gaped in 'awe,' as if the answer suddenly came to him. “Your talents of course.”

“My talents.” You repeat, baffled.

“Yes, do keep up, my dear.”

“Why? You could have any witch at your disposal, at a moment's notice.”

The corner of his lips elevate once more. “I’m flattered.”

He’s become so close now, you feel his breath, and you try not to shiver as it grazes your neck. He, on the other hand, basks in your scent.

“But, unlike my other witches, you have a gift,” he muses. “Your connection with the dead is something to behold, and something I crave.”

After a prolonged silence, you speak. “If I help you with whatever," you move further into your seat, "When it comes to an end, you’ll let me walk away, unscathed?” Your brow quirks, and with every fibre of your being, you manage to maintain eye contact. “Yes, you have my word.” Klaus’s expression went stoic, holding an unflinching seriousness that made your heart rate stutter. And strangely, you knew you could trust him.

That's how you ended up as his lackey. For the past 5 weeks, you were at his beck and call as he tormented humans, werewolves, and vampires alike.

Like any other day, your conscious is eating away at you, as you call upon another ancestor of those he plagues. Today though, you finally broke. He had been cruelly punishing a guy for hours, as you questioned his late brother through the veil.

“That’s enough!” Klaus’s eyes dart to yours, and his angry appearance softens. Instinctively, he grips your forearm and drags you out of the motel room.

“Love, what’s wrong?”

“What's wrong is that I’m tired, and his brother is telling me jack shit about those ‘hunters.’” You huff, closing your eyes.

Klaus firmly presses himself stock-still, resisting every urge that wishes to devour you, as you naively allow him to hold you so close, let your guard down, and close your eyes. Such an urge that has only worsened, and become insatiable since you started your venture together…

“Love, why don’t you grab a bite from the cafe across the street, while I fill up the car's tank?” He says heartfeltly, "That way we both can have a break."

Your eyes flutter open, and you nearly tremble at the gentle look that flickers in his gaze. However, his body language, which clutches you tightly, suggests he is anything but. “Okay.”

After five minutes alone in a booth, you gather up the last of the courage you were trying to dispel. Now, heading back to the rented room, to release the hostage. Stupid, very stupid, you think. But you can’t help it.

When you enter the room, the door slowly creaks shut, and shadows engulf you. It’s too quiet, and you can’t see the hostage. Unease fills your system, and you begin to regret this decision. That impending regret soon became alarms going off, when the captive grabs your torso, roughly caging your arms. His grip is inescapable, and when you try to scream, his free hand covers your mouth.

“You fucking bitch,” he murmurs with disgust, and you wince. “How about I leave you bleeding out here, all laid out for you bloodthirsty master.” The man crackles with humourless laughter. “I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”

While his venomous words made you cower, you relentlessly struggle against him, fighting with all that you could muster. Unfortunately, your captor was a werewolf, and far too strong for you to at least break free, to cast a spell.

He muffles Klaus’s name with his palm, and tears prick your eyes. Even after the numerous times you’d bicker and argue, he was still the first person who came to mind, who you hopelessly called out to.

The man began lifting your body towards the door, urgently turning the knob. Just as the outside light cuts into your vision, you're wrenched from him, pulled into a powerful embrace. With ease, Klaus’s arms carry you away, swiftly placing you in the backseat of your car, locked safely inside.

His figure then disappears just as quickly, and you hear your aggressor's voice wail in pain. Shaking, you curl over yourself, covering both ears pathetically.

After what feels like an eternity, two large hands cup your tear-stained cheeks, bringing you out of your shell. He quiets you, as he slides inside the vehicle, smoothly pulling you onto his lap. One of his arms supports your back, while the other strokes your hair. Calming you down, he mutters things like: 'Everything’s fine now love,' 'I’m here,' 'I’ll take care of you...'

“I’ve never felt so helpless,” you mumble.

He shakes his head. “There’s nothing you could've done to stop a werewolf, especially when a full moon draws near,” he soothes. You press your cheek further into his broad chest. “Though, I wish you would’ve just listened to me for once, and stayed put.”

You shoot your head up, adjusting to face him, close enough that your noses nearly meet. “If I listened to you, I’d probably be dead by now.”

“Oh really?” He grins, eyes creasing, “How so?”

“Well, for one, that time you ordered me to question that vampire chick's dead boyfriend about his affair, right in front of her.” Klaus guffaws. “You're laughing, but she would've bit my head off.”

“She wouldn’t have,” he denies, still chuckling.

“Yes, she would have Klaus.” You start to laugh too.

“You know, I wouldn’t have let her.” His face deadpans, “Like I didn’t let our were-friend hurt you," he voices, airily. "I gave you my word.”

“Yes, of course, your word.” You giggle nervously, glancing at the hand currently bracing your thigh, gliding its thumb back and forth. “It’s not all that I’ve given you.”

You look up and are met with a mysterious look this time. Your brows furrow in confusion. He smiles dreamily, “Your skills as a witch truly know no bounds.”

“The hell are you talking about now?” You retort, making Klaus laugh loudly.

“I’m talking about your spell," he whispers. "The one that has bewitched me.”

You freeze, heart dropping.

“You don’t mean that...” Your sentence trails off as Klaus stares through you.

He’s so unpredictable, that a part of you believes he's most likely playing some sick game. But, there was also a possibility that he meant it, and all the hidden desires, for your unconventional boss, were about to bubble to the surface.

“I've meant every word, from the moment I met you, when you got the better of me.” He smirks, breath fanning your face. “Witchcraft.”

Then his lips take yours, slow at first, but the entanglement shortly turns desperate. Slightly hesitant, you grind on him, eager to pull him closer. He groans, and his hands enthusiastically roam your waist and back, beckoning you nearer.

Moving in a frenzy, as your fingers tangle in his locks, you swing your leg to straddle him. He moans your name in between kisses, and palms your ass.

Continuously rolling your body into him, makes you feel his arousal, causing a whine to escape. When your lips break apart, his mouth runs down your jaw, to your neck. You gasp, but you don’t stop him. He audibly tells you how much he’s enjoying himself, and you squeeze your thighs over his.

“I can only imagine how sinful you taste here darling.” He remarks as his hand slides over your core, and you whimper. “How about you let me try?” He hums politely. “You know you want me to.”

“No,” you huff.

“No?” His voice rises questioningly, and a hand gropes your chest, while the other grips your chin, tilting your head down to peer into his eyes. “Not here,” you finish, and he smirks wildly.

“Then, I’ll just have to get us a private room?” He purrs seductively into you ear, making you shiver. “One that is, unoccupied,” he rolls his tongue, and you shiver again at the double meaning behind his words. You don’t even want to think about what he did to your assailant…

“Please,” you sigh into a kiss, pecking his lips, which seems to surprise Klaus momentarily. His surprise briskly turns into a beaming smile. “To be continued,” he utters before shifting you off him, and rushing out the car.

Not long after, Klaus reappears with that same childlike cheer gracing his features. Jerking the door open, he outstretches his hand like a gentleman. You accept it, and his palm completely envelops yours. He tugs you to his hip, and nibbles on your earlobe while you walk to a random room.

As soon as the door locks behind you, he presses himself against your backside. “Now, how about that taste?” He mutters while lifting your hair to kiss your nape, and rubbing himself against you. You press closer, before spinning around to enclose your mouth on his again. He groans into your mouth approvingly, backing your body toward the queen-size bed.

His lips free yours when your back legs hit the edge, and you fall backwards with a yelp. His hands soon make work of your lower half, removing your clothes as he kneels infront of your cunt. You inhale deeply, as cool air hits your bare body.

He goes silent, so you raise your head to peek at him. Klaus ogles you heatedly, like the predator he is. “Lovely,” he sing-songs.

He abruptly grips your thighs and heaves your core to his mouth, so close, his breath warms your skin. “K-Klaus.”

“Hmmm,” he hums shortly, before delving into you. You sob a cry of shock. His tongue expertly runs over your folds, sucking the nub with such a slow deliberation, like he can’t decide how he wishes to take you at first, as if he’s imagined every which way he could.

You whine, motioning him to make his choice, bucking up, feeling his stubble scratch you. Then he grows aggressive, hungrily lapping your clit, over and over, until he ushers out your orgasm.

When your lengthy climax finishes, he moves to sigh pleasantly into the crook of your neck. “You’re incredible,” he emits with a chant of your name, thoroughly relaxing your shaking form.

“Fuck, take off your clothes,” you beg. He immediately abides by your command, tearing off his shirt and pants. You grab his necklaces to haul his lips to yours. You savour every inch of yourself on his tongue, and he relishes in how dirty the act is.

“There’s only so much I can do before dawn, and it won't nearly be enough to satisfy my hunger for you.” His poetic words erupt something within. You exhale, “It seems you’re going to break your promise then.”

He stills at your words, befuddled. You elaborate, “There’s no way I’m coming out of this unscathed.” A timid smile spreads across your face, and he almost nods in understanding, feeling a strange quiver in his chest.

Wordlessly, he pulls himself from his slacks, and you take off the last of your clothes. Suddenly feeling a little out of body, you decide to take back some control of the situation. So, you flip your positions, once again, surprising Klaus, though he allows it.

You straddle him, and lower yourself onto his thick cock. You whimper the second the tip enters, and he growls, pressing his fingertips into your hips, definitely leaving bruises.

“You’re too big,” you gasp.

“You can handle it, sweetheart,” he states mindlessly. He wraps his arms around your waist and arms, pulling you down onto him. His hips press completely into you, pushing himself inside to the hilt. A wheeze leaves your lungs as he grounds into you. “Klaus, it’s too-“

“It’s perfect,” he finishes for you. You barely have any time to adapt to his size before he begins pounding. Pleasure wracks through you, and he takes whatever control you had away. His pace is unnerving, and you utter incoherent words, while his fangs graze your neck.

“Tell me,” he groans through his panting. “Tell me you want me.” He demands, though it almost sounds like he’s begging for it. “I-I want you.” The words stumble out as his thrusts reach your center.

“More,” he just about whines.

“I want you Klaus,” you shout. “You feel so good- fuck I’ve always wanted this, you.” You ramble, egged on by him. He loves it, and you feel it in his strength. He holds you tighter, and the air abandons your body.

Feeling his leg tremble, you know he’s close. “Bite me.” His clamped-shut eyelids pop open, and his dark pupils bore into yours. You kiss him, and take his bottom lip between your teeth. “Bite me while you cum,” you command.

He gulps before taking his last few pumps into you. He moans into your neck as his teeth puncture your flesh. You cry out at the mixture of pain and pleasure that shatters you both.

After almost 10 minutes, he releases you from his firm caress and kisses the holes in your neck.

Still inside, he turns you both on your sides. You catch your breath. “How are you still hard?” You sigh in exasperation, and he chuckles breezily. “I told you, you’ve bewitched my very soul darling.” He smirks.

“This is only the beginning.”

If you enjoyed this, i'm currently writing a klaus fanfic! it’ll be posted on my wattpad @ shrenvents <33

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ceilidho · 3 months ago

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hound dog

prompt: You pick up Ghost from a bar for a one night stand. Too bad Ghost isn't interested in a casual hook up. (nsfw, 6.7k) [based on this old post] [on ao3 here]

Rare is the day when a stupid girl doesn’t do stupid things.

This is just one of many such occurrences. Stepping into the dimly lit dive bar—the one miles from your place, reeking of tobacco and leather and motor oil, the noxious perfume of week old sweat and weed stinking up the joint, pardon the pun—with too much eyeliner and mascara on, and a skirt too short for you—and would you just stop fiddling with it? But you can’t because that would mean admitting that it barely fits over your ass, that putting on a skirt so short was a choice, an invite, a teasing little taunt to the men in the bar saying, what are you waiting for? I’m asking for it, aren’t I—

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

It’s why you’re planted at the bat some six weeks after being dumped, two weeks after being ghosted for the third time in a row, a smile on your face despite your crumbling self-esteem. Pride hanging in tatters. Grimacing when you find the bartop sticky with congealed liquor, the residue sticking to your skin when you quickly lift your elbows off. But there’s a time for self-pity and a time for getting it the fuck togther. This just happens to be one of the latter times.

“What’m I gettin’ you?” the bartender in front of you asks, barely impressed with your get-up. Not even attempting to conceal his distaste when he eyes you up and down, lingering on the way your tits are practically spilling out of your top.

“Do you have any cocktails?” you ask. Wrong question. The eye roll isn’t even suppressed for your benefit when he makes it clear to you, in no uncertain terms, that it’s whatever he can pour straight from a bottle or the fancy bar for cityfolk down the road. He says it like that, the word practically sneered out. Cityfolk.

Nerves shaken, you sip at your red wine after he leaves you to your own devices, your glass poured straight from the box. It could function passably as lighter fluid if the circumstances called for it. Still, you swallow it with a positive attitude, emboldened by the knowledge that you’re here for one thing and one thing only:

to get fucked within an inch of your life by one of the greasy-haired, cut-wearing, cigarette-smoking men lining the bar.

Even the thought sends a thrill down your spine.

It’s an age old question, isn’t it? What’s a girl to do (when her love life’s falling apart / when her credit score just bottomed out because her ex-boyfriend ran up her credit cards behind her back / when her job’s steadily becoming unbearable but quitting would mean scrambling to find a job that’ll pay anywhere near to what this one’s paying her) to get a drink around here?

Evidently, the answer isn’t to use a dating app; you can say that confidently after waiting around in fancier bars than this for several no-show dates.

You’re feeling appropriately over the whole thing. Ready to call it quits. Uninstall all of the apps on your phone and hire a matchmaker or ask a friend to set you up with a coworker of theirs. But that’ll be later, down the line when you aren’t dealing with the issue at hand.

The issue being that—

you’re really fucking horny.

Embarrassingly so. Enough that you were willing to travel miles away from home to avoid accidentally hooking up with anyone you might run into later on while out getting groceries or on a morning run.

It’s just better to play things close to your chest. Keep your romantic life and your sexual exploits far apart (not that you’d know much about keeping things separate; you’ve never had much of a sex life to keep hidden) lest you get mired in a stickier situation than you’re comfortable being in.

Despite the rough start, the bar you chose seems promising. There’s a man at the other side of the bar that keeps drawing your eye. It’s the hulking size of him at first, then the grime clinging to the folds of his skin, worn in from years of hard labor. He looks like a man fresh off a fourteen-hour shift or a fortnight spent on an oil rig in the middle of the Baltic sea, freshly washed ashore, kelp and barnacles still fused to his skin, not yet pried off.

Rough is the only word you’d use to describe him. A face covered in nicks and old scars, his upper lip slightly puckered and scarred from cleft lip surgery. When he turns his head to say something to the bartender, you catch a glimpse of a cauliflower ear, the cartilage of his tragus and antihelix swollen and deformed.

He’s exactly what you’ve been looking for. If you’d given it more thought, you think you could’ve conjured up an image of the man across the bar all by yourself. It’s like someone plucked him straight out of your head. Big and brawny, broad shoulders that you can imagine dangling your ankles off, and well-muscled arms that you can imagine digging your nails into. It would take both of your hands and extra to wrap around his bicep. The thought makes you shiver.

You try to catch his attention subtly. Looking over at him from under your lashes, quick, smoldering glances meant to draw his attention to you, so that he approaches you first. You keep waiting for the moment when he’ll notice your stare and hold your gaze, a question being asked and answered between your eyes before reeling him in with a coy little smile.

But when a half hour goes by without a single glance your way, your hope begins to wane.

He doesn’t look up no matter how many times you glance over at him. It’s frustrating; you know he feels the weight of your stare. His disregard is purposeful, deliberate; like he knows your attention is fixed on him but he can’t be bothered to so much as return your stare. You wonder if that means he’s got a lady at home, a little bird cooped up in his house that he’s more eager to get back to after he’s had a drink to take off the edge than flirt with some trussed up floozy at the bar.

That makes you squirm, self-consciousness rearing its ugly head again. Maybe you made a mistake coming here.

It’s not as though you’re being completely ignored, it’s just that the caliber of men that have approached you so far haven’t really inspired much, carnally speaking. You’ve sent the few braver ones away, a half-hearted thanks but no thanks when they offer to buy you a drink. Most leave without a word, though a few mutter obscenities under their breath before shoving their hands in their pockets and stalking away. Bitch. Dumb cunt.

Calling it a night feels like a natural next step. With the attitude you keep getting from the bartender and the way the only man you’re remotely attracted to refuses to so much as glance your way, it doesn’t feel right to stay out any longer. Embarrassment heats you like a low grade fever, warm in your belly. Wine sloshes around in your stomach when you slip off the stool, hunger now another pressing concern.

You’ll ask him on your way back from the bathroom. If he turns you down after that, you’ll slink off into the night with your tail tucked between your legs. There’ll always be next weekend to try again. You promise yourself that because the alternative is acknowledging how defeated this entire experience has left you, no less disappointing than going on the same boring first date with a guy from Tinder.

In the bathroom, you dab your face with water and stare at your reflection in the dirty mirror. It looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years; finger smudges and white strains streaked across the glass. You wonder how many strangers have fucked in this bathroom over the years. The thought makes you grimace even more when you notice that the floor is slightly sticky, the ground sounding tacky beneath your shoes.

When you come out, the man from across the bar is waiting by the door, so close that you flinch, eyes widening. The narrow hallway means that he’s barely three feet from you when you stand in the doorframe.

“We leavin’ or what?” he growls, voice as deep as you thought it might be, gruff and husky.

He’s just as imposing in front of you as he was from across the bar. Maybe more so. You’re forced to crane your neck to look up at him this close, lips parting on an inaudible exhale. There’s something about a brutish man that’s always taken your breath away; everything from the blunt chin to the pronounced brow. His face is flecked with pale, keloidal skin; rubbery nodules from old injuries.

Dumbstruck, you can only nod, following behind him when he turns away from you, headed towards the parking lot out back where his truck is parked.

You’re really doing this. You’re really doing this. That’s the only thought in your head when he unlocks his truck and pops the door open for you, waiting until you’re buckled in before slamming the door shut.

He’s quiet on the car ride back to his place, unconcerned with getting to know you or defusing the tension in the truck. You can’t say you blame him. There’s a reason you chose a bar so far from home as a hunting ground. If you wanted to get to know someone, you would’ve met someone at a coffee shop.

When you ask his name, he grunts it out like it’s an inconvenience. Simon. He doesn’t give you more than that, even when you awkwardly ask him what he does for work. Blatantly ignores your questions. The rebuff smarts for some reason, makes you frown and duck your chin to your chest, shoulders hunched.

His demeanor is so off-putting that halfway through the drive, you wonder if you misunderstood him somehow, if he means to drive you home instead of taking you back to his place (but that can’t be right, otherwise wouldn’t he have asked for your address?). It’s just hard to reconcile his churlish attitude towards you with his ostensible invitation to fuck.

Maybe he doesn’t intend to fuck you at all. Maybe you managed to pick up the one serial killer in a twenty mile radius and stupidly followed him back to his truck without telling anyone who you planned to go home with. Your blood curdles at the thought, hackles raised when you imagine him sizing you up from across the bar, all prettied up and doe-eyed, easy prey.

Your breathing picks up. “I, um…actually, c-could you…could you just drop me off at my place?”

Simon rolls his eyes so hard that it’s almost audible. “Not gonna kill ya, bird.”

That doesn’t go a long way towards reassuring you, but you don’t dig your heels in and demand he take you home either.

“Do you live nearby?” you ask, suddenly chatty. Why, oh why.

Simon looks over at you, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift. He drives a manual, you notice. A few too many seconds go by in silence. You wish somebody would just staple your mouth shut already.

“Yeah,” he says finally, turning back to watch the road, taking a left turn up ahead without using his signal. So it’s that kind of drive.

You keep your mouth shut for the rest of it lest he decide you’re too much of a hassle and turn back. You’re poised right on the edge of something new and exciting, and the thought of that slipping through your fingers makes you feel a bit crazy. So many men before have shown you that same snap dislike. Like you’re tolerable over text or as a dimensionless photo, but not as a flesh and blood person, the real mechanics of you all wrong. It’s an intolerable thought—that people can only like you when you smile and keep your mouth shut.

Still, you’ll do it now, for a price.

Part of you expects him to pull you into his lap when he pulls into his driveway and puts the truck in park. It’s what you’ve seen in movies. The rest of the night plays out in your head in piecemeal flashes; ravenous passion, hands tearing clothes off each other’s bodies, a shoe left on the porch in your hurry to get inside. Hungry, devouring; slick mouths parting for barely long enough to breathe.

Then Simon cuts the engine and gets out of the truck without so much as a glance your way, like you aren’t even there.

He still comes around to open the door for you. You frown at him through the window, affronted. Baffled at his continued nonchalance. Like even keeping your mouth shut isn’t enough to keep a man’s interest. Where you expected passion and fervor, you’re met with cool indifference.

Simon pops the door open. “Get out.”

The house itself is nothing special. A two-story cookie-cutter house built in the seventies; weathered, beige-coloured vinyl siding and a neatly trimmed lawn, with a few patches of overgrown grass and weeds. There’s a trailer parked in front of the closed garage, a few planks of wood strapped down in the bed. When you follow him up the walkway, you notice how quiet the neighborhood is, and for some reason that makes you even more jittery.

You stop in the doorway, frustration breaking your timidity like snapping an ampoule. “Do you even want to—” fuck me, goes unsaid. Too humiliating to even ask. But you ask anyway, the question itself implicit even in so few words.

Dark eyes stare down at you, impenetrable. You’re struck by the sense of something primordial slithering under his skin. His expression is hard, his face carved from granite; when his expression shifts, it’s like watching tectonic plates create mountains, plates pushed upward by mantle plumes.

He fits a big paw under your chin, fingers pressing into the fat of your cheeks hard enough to make your lips purse. Your heart skips a beat when he angles your head from side to side, looking you over like a pet he’s considering bringing home. You almost go cross-eyed when he bends down, his forehead nearly brushing yours, so close that you can smell the scent of cigarettes clinging to his clothes, see the grease smudged on his face and the folds around his eyes.

A grin flickers across his lips, gone as it came. “Yeah. I do.”

And doesn’t that tie your stomach in a knot? Your nerves in a pretty bow?

Inside, his house is just as unremarkable. You’d know in a single glance that a single man lived here; a functional, no-frills living space. Nothing more than a worn couch, a TV, and a few pieces of obvious hand-me-down furniture. It’s hard to glean anything from the minimal decoration around his place, but he doesn’t give you much of a chance to look around. That’s not the point of why you’re in his house.

“Eat anything yet, bird?” Simon asks from the kitchen, opening the fridge without purpose. It looks like more of a reflex than anything, the first thing he does the second he gets home for the night and the last thing he does before going to bed. From the size of him, it makes sense; his body is muscle on muscle, covered by a healthy layer of fat, just a surface layer over the bulk beneath.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Have a bite, then.”

“I’m not, uh, hungry though,” you deflect rather than saying the obvious, which is, I came to your house to have sex, not make sandwiches at the kitchen counter together.

He shuts the fridge door, pinning you with his stare. “Your call. Could’ve used the energy though.”

You swallow.

The first thing you do after he herds you into the bedroom is try to pull him into a kiss, cupping his cheeks and standing up on your tiptoes. Before your eyelids flutter shut, you catch a glimpse of a cocked brow. Then you press your lips to a slack mouth that doesn’t move no matter how much passion you infuse in your kiss and feel embarrassment flare up in your guts.

Bastard. You should’ve expected that he wouldn’t kiss you back.

“Sorry,” you mutter, breaking the facsimile of a kiss and dropping back down onto your heels.

You flinch when he grabs you by the back of the neck and reels you back in, forcing you back onto your tiptoes, “Don’t be,” grunted against your mouth before fusing your lips together. A pathetic keen climbs up your throat, eyelids slipping shut.

His greed leaks from him like tar, his kiss so messy and violent that you��re almost too jarred to do anything apart from hang on. Teeth clack against yours, a horrid sensation, the lust in your belly abating long enough for the real world to slink back in and you get flashes of it: hands winding around a thick neck, a scratchy cheek against your lip when he twists his head to angle your noses better, a tongue shoving into your mouth unceremoniously, no finesse at all. Straight to the main point.

A shudder wracks you from head to toe when you try to break the kiss only to find the hand on your neck firm, holding you in place. The subtle reminder that he can do whatever he wants with you, that you willingly went home with a man big and strong enough to pin you down and fuck you however rough he wants.

“Simon,” you whine, squirming against him, gasping a breath and his name again when he wrestles you back into the kiss. “No—Simon—”

“Stay fuckin’ still,” he snarls against your lips, and you freeze, knees going weak when his fingers dig into your jaw to hold you in place.

The endorphin rush nearly makes your vision white out. A sudden winter storm, the blood rushing to your cheeks and the tip of your nose, your breath coming out quick and choppy. Lungs barely filling up with each inhale.

“Get this off,” Simon growls, tugging on your skirt when you don’t move fast enough. He doesn’t wait for you to catch up, content to wrench your skirt off himself instead, your panties along with it.

It takes your breath away, how fast you go from clothed to partially nude. Trying to match his fervor is a losing game, so you just try to keep up. Your hands tug at his belt, desperately trying to undo it, and he chuckles when he notices; big hands paw at your ass while you shakily pop the buckle out of the first loop.

He takes over after that, popping the button on his jeans one-handed.

“Wanna handle the rest?” he prompts, an eyebrow jutting up, expectant. Lazy with his arrogance; oozing rugged masculinity. It’d infuriate you if it didn’t get you so hot.

Your fingers are numb by the time you pull his jeans down, kneeling at his feet and gazing up at him with wide eyed devotion as he kicks off his boots and shakes the pants off his legs, nothing under his jeans. His pale white thighs are dusted in fine blond hairs, mottled with burns and scars and old, faded cigarette marks, like someone used his legs as an ashtray. The thought makes your throat close up.

He shucks off his shirt while you stare at the shaft heavy with blood hanging between his legs, drooping with its own weight. Flushed red at the head and streaked with dark veins, leaking a steady drip of precum. The hair at the base of his dick is of a darker shade, gold like straw.

Your stomach swoops at the sight, dropping to the pits of you. You swallow. Maybe you’ve bit off a little more than you can chew. A lot more.

As if sensing your unease, a wide hand is suddenly firm on the back of your head, urging you closer. “Gonna give it a kiss?”

It’s not a question. You know that and you know that you’re way out of your league; that if you panic now you’ll flounder. So instead of fighting it, you lean forward and press a shy kiss to the weeping head of his dick.

You lick your lips instinctively when you draw back, lapping up the precum smeared across them. The taste makes you wrinkle your nose. It’s salty; bitter. Not altogether pleasant.

Simon wraps a hand around his dick and holds it to your lips. “Open your mouth, bird. Get me nice ‘n wet.”

A shudder rolls through you, but there’s little else you can do except part your lips and squeeze your eyes shut. It’s a struggle to fit more than just the head in your mouth, his dick too wide to take more than that. Your eyes water at the stretch, the musky taste of his cum overwhelming.

Any experience you’ve had before this pales in comparison. It’s like the first time all over again. His cock is heavy on your tongue, instantly making your eyes water. The grip he still has on the base of his cock tells you that he doesn’t expect you to swallow the whole length (an impossible task; you go cold with dread at even the thought), but Simon doesn’t hesitate to grip your head firmer when he feels you falter, forcing you to take as much as you can.

When you gag, he shushes you. “Keep at it—you’re fine.”

You wonder if he thinks by saying it, it makes it true. You’re very much not fine, struggling to breathe through your nose and suck him off without scraping his cock with your teeth.

Your exhale when he pulls you off his cock by your hair is full of both relief and trepidation. Your lips feel swollen and tender when you touch them with your fingers.

“Can we please have sex now?” you ask, dazed enough to be bold.

Simon cracks a smile at that, endeared somehow. “Gotta get up for that, bird.”

You have to brace your hands against his chest when you get to your feet, the blood that rushes to your head making you wobbly. Even on your feet, he’s so much taller than you, a behemoth. Men like him have always been your type, but Simon is really in a league of his own.

Glancing up at him from under your lashes, you bite your lip. You’ve seen that in movies before, starlettes bringing men to their knees with just a look. Coquette; demure. It’s harder to replicate than you thought, but you’ve never rehearsed this before. This is a one-time, live performance. The culmination of everything you’ve ever read or watched or studied.

You keep up the ruse of being sexy by crawling onto his bed on your hands and knees, dropping down onto your elbows once situated in the middle of the mattress. The debauchery of wiggling your ass back at the man who took you home from the bar would overwhelm you if you weren’t playing a part right now. Role playing. This isn’t who you usually are, but if it’s only for one night, you can force out the self-scrutiny and timidity.

Silence hangs in the air like a bubble, waiting to be burst. You fight the urge to look over your shoulder at him.

Then Simon exhales, breaking the silence. Goosebumps ripple down your arms.

The mattress dips under his weight when he settles behind you, hands immediately sinking into the flesh of your ass and pulling your cheeks apart. No preamble. You open your mouth to say something, but thick, coarse fingers are already dipping between your thighs and playing with your hole, sinking a finger in up to the first knuckle.

You breathe out shakily, shoulders tensing. The sheets reek of him, musky and ripe; you concentrate on that instead of the fingers penetrating you, getting you ready for his dick. Your walls squeeze tight around his fingers when he forces another one in.

When he finally feeds his cock into you, the stretch is nearly unbearable. The sharp stab of pain that accompanies it almost makes you flinch away, but Simon drags you back by your hips.

“You’re not going anywhere, bird,” he rumbles. “Relax. It’s going in.”

What can you say to something like that?

His whole frame presses you into the mattress, the breath forced from your lungs. Bigger now that he’s got you on your belly. Suddenly making two hundred pounds seem less abstract, more real. He bullies as much of his cock into you as he can, paying no mind to the way you squeal and kick your legs.

“Real tight cunt,” Simon grunts, humming with his pleasure when his hips punch forward and your pussy squelches around his length. So lewd.

His knees on either side of you keep you trapped in place, nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. All you can do is lie under him and let him rut between your thighs, gasping for breath with every thrust. The sweat is slick down your back, half yours and half his.

“Ya let other men fuck this cunt, bird?” he asks. It sounds hypothetical, like it’s said half to rile himself up, and though it prickles at your nerves, you don’t complain too much because he fucks you rougher after the words slip out of his mouth.

When you don’t answer him though, concentrating more on filling your lungs and not biting your tongue off, he grabs your face and twists your head until you’re looking over your shoulder at him, neck aching with the strain.

“Answer me,” he demands, sounding almost pissed off.

“N-no—”

“Good,” he grunts. Satisfied.

His words should piss you off. How dare he ask you about fucking other men as if he were your husband or boyfriend. You have half a mind to cuss him out, but then he pumps his hips forward and your face goes numb from pleasure. Electric impulses zip up and down your skin, sizzling your nerves.

Besides, maybe it’s hot that he’s acting like you belong to him. Like you’re his; his girl that he picked up from the bar after a long shift, eager to go home and lay her out on the bed so he could fuck his pretty girl into a tongue-tied stupor. It certainly does it for you, a thin filigree of pleasure winding its way down your spine.

It’s an intoxicating fantasy—being wanted by a man in a real, visceral way. It’s one you’ve never gotten close to before, never even grazed with the tips of your fingers, no matter how far you stretched out your arms. You don’t know what men see when they look at you, but it can’t be anything worth keeping.

He fucks you like he wants to pry you open and leave a piece of him inside. A big hand fits around your neck and tightens; a collar, a manacle.

Hard to feel anything but grateful though. It’s everything you wanted but never thought you’d get out of this experience. You expected to feel like a body on a butcher’s block, hacked limb from limb. Marble ribbing on the inside. Brought to a high only to be left out in the cold after.

You never expected apotheosis. You never expected the filth murmured into your ear, the lurid, coarse diatribe in surround sound, all perfect fuckin’ pussy, can’t wait to shove my tongue inside, gonna make you suck my cock while I eat that perfect cunt out—

All—

Perfect fuckin’ girl; you don’t give this to anyone else, do ya? Knew you were gaggin’ for it back in the bar, but wanted to wait ‘n see; turned the rest of ‘em down, didn’t ya? Not a fuckin’ slut. Jus’ for me—only hungry for my cock—

It’s too rough, too much. Overpowering. Musk and body heat and raw strength, his forearms planted on the mattress on either side of your head. The scent of him suffocating, smothering. Heady. In your pores, on the back of your tongue, in your belly. He’s everywhere.

If only you could put it into words. The fire in your belly growing so wild, so out of control, that it threatens to incinerate you. Thinking dangerous thoughts—that you could be his, that he wants you so bad he can’t stand the idea of anyone having you before him, that he’ll kill anyone that touched you before, rip them apart with his bare hands, cut out their hearts and slice it ‘em up real thin so he could feed you the strips with his hands—

“Fuck—” Simon pants in your ear, pulling his cock out of your cunt. You whine, clenching down on nothing, suddenly empty, until he turns you roughly over onto your back and grabs one of your flailing ankles, hooking it over a burly shoulder. “Cunt this good oughta be locked down. Should just chain your leg to the bed so I can wake up to this pussy every day. Would’ya like that, bird?”

Like it? You think wildly—

Keep me, keep me, keep me, pleasepleaseplease.

The leg not hooked over Simon’s shoulder gets pulled around his hip, spreading your legs wider to accommodate the width of him between them. The scour of his voice threatens to erode you, smash you to pieces. There won’t be anything left after he’s done with you.

He’s just so big. Built like an ox, broad and solid. When he braces his forearms on either side of you, his biceps bulge, skin pulling taut over the muscle. The dark hair of his pits is stark against pale flesh.

Blood roars in your ears and over you, he moves like a wave, filling you up again and again. You’re swimming in uncharted waters now; gazing out into an unfamiliar and dangerous sea. A swell this big might take you right under.

Too bad for you, the hazy adumbration of danger in his words is pitted against the maw in your soul, the deep, cavernous hole that yawns wider with each passing year.

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: overlooking a sea of evergreen peaks illuminated by a silky moonlight hue, winding a long, narrow road darkened on both sides by tightly clustered trees, your arms wrapped around your chest. Cold layered like a skin, sinking deep into your bones, cold wet like a damp hate; trees clustered around your wandering soul, spurned into wandering like a little undead ghost with teeth clattering in Morse code, saying: so many wrongs done, it is almost incomprehensible.

Is it too much to ask to be wanted?

You need it like air.

The issue is that—

more than horny, you’re really, really fucking lonely.

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: a dream of being a lighthouse keeper, skin saltwater slick, seafoam on the backs of your knuckles, slathering over frozen fingers clutching at the gallery railing. Beckoning something to you.

What it is, you do not know.

“Look at tha’,” Simon says wonderingly, grabbing your face and yanking it towards him, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “Just needed to get turned out on a fat cock, didn’t ya?”

“Yeah,” you gasp. “So good, Simon, ohmygod—”

“Only this needy for me, right?” The glint in his eye is terrifying.

“Only you, only you—”

“That’s right,” he growls, bearing all of his weight down on you, forehead to forehead. His sweat-slick chest slides against yours, cock buried so deep that you can taste him at the back of your throat. Dark eyes stare down at you with an intensity that steals the breath from you, glossy like he’s rapidly losing the ability to be consciously present, but ever attentive to the pleasure rippling across your face.

When his cock grinds into the soft plug of your womb, his eyes narrow when yours bulge, and he batters that spot until you seize up and spasm around him. His buzz cut gives you nothing to hold onto, so you dig your nails into the bulky planes of his back instead.

“Fuck—hold on, Christ, fuck; here it comes,” he spits, the veins in his neck protruding when he grits his teeth.

Your blood goes red hot when he rams deep into you, each thrust deliberate. Hips losing their rhythm. You don’t notice the first spurt of cum, too preoccupied with the smell and weight of him blanketing you, infiltrating every crevice of your body, but the second is hot. Scorching. You ignore the screaming alarm at the back of your head, barely coherent enough to parse out its meaning. All you can focus on is the warmth spreading inside you and your own walls pulsing around his cock, milking his release out of him.

Time blurs. You lose some of it.

You don’t come back until Simon rolls over onto his back, taking you with him. His cock is still buried inside of you, his cum running out in rivulets, pooling at the base of his dick lodged at your entrance. You’re going to be messy when he finally pulls out.

Despite the ache already setting in, you feel reborn. Renewed. The old, dead skin flayed off. You can’t imagine how you’ll feel when you’ve got your energy back, when even tracing your eyes across the other side of his room doesn’t take tremendous effort. The traces of him littered around the room make you curious. A half empty glass. Steel-toed boots sticking out of a half-opened closet. A damp towel crumpled into a ball on the floor.

You squeeze your eyes shut. There’s no use trying to fill the gaps in. Whoever Simon is won’t matter in the light of day. You repeat this to yourself until it sticks.

When you try to get up, planting both hands on his chest, he pulls you back down, forcing your head onto the pillow of his chest. “Simon, the sheets are wet—”

“I’ll deal with it later,” Simon says, eyes already shut, on the verge of falling asleep. “Now shut up. You’re ruining the fucking afterglow.”

You wake up the next morning covered in bruises and bite marks and dried cum between your thighs and on your belly, so sore that even twitching your finger hurts.

It takes awhile for everything to come back to you. When it finally does, consciousness snaps back into you, discomfort giving way to quiet self-satisfaction. You managed to do it. Your first one-night stand. A real milestone. The tacky sheets beneath you are proof enough of your accomplishment.

The sadness slithers in when you realize that it’s over. One and done. In a half hour or so, the man plastered against your back and breathing heavily on the crown of your head will wake up, groggy and bleary eyed, and side-eye you until you put back on your clothes from the night before and slink out, tail tucked between your legs. A few hours delayed from when you were planning to throw in the towel at the bar, but still. In the end, it always comes around.

A gruff voice at your side tells you to quiet, bird—s'too early for your bitchin’ before manhandling you onto your stomach and shoving his raw cock into your cunt and it’s only now that it dawns on you that you were too horny last night to remember to ask him to use protection.

The thought is wiped from your head when he bucks his hips forward, impaling you on his swollen length. You lose track of time after that.

Breakfast is an informal affair. Cereal from a box and a bit too much milk, and a cup of instant coffee. You wince when you sit down across from Simon at the kitchen table, your inner thighs still tender and pussy sore from the battering it just took. If it strokes his ego to see how gingerly you sit down, he doesn’t show it.

It’s weird sitting across the table from him after last night. Hard to just leave it unaddressed, the truth simmering in the air. The red marks across his back make you wince, cheeks heating. Thin crescent marks and scored nails. It’s hard to reconcile yourself with the girl from last night.

He eats in silence for the most part though, ravenous after the night before. Doesn’t comment on the state of his shoulders or the way you shift on your chair. Not even bothering to make eye contact with you. Your appetite takes a bit of a hit watching him shovel food into his mouth, hardly even pausing long enough to breathe, but you’ve seen plenty of hungry men eat before.

Still though, silence has always had a way of getting under your skin. You’re not comfortable around it, prone to chattering. So you can’t help the way your mouth opens and the words come out involuntarily.

“Do you do this a lot?”

“I don’t shit where I eat,” Simon grunts dismissively.

The expression makes you grimace. “So do you usually pick up girls elsewhere or—”

The look he gives you could melt the flesh off your bones. You realize your misstep, interrogating the man you just fucked about his other hookups. Best not to ask questions. It’s not like you’ll see him again after this.

These last few moments are bittersweet. There won’t be many opportunities like this in the future, mainly because you don’t think you’re cut out for one-night stands. Last night proved that. As good as it was—and for as many times as you came, another time in the wee hours of the morning when Simon rolled over on top of you and shoved your legs apart to eat you out (a midnight snack)—in the light of day, you feel world weary. Like something monumental happened and passed you by.

You almost want to thank him for making it special, but the anxiety around finally pissing him off is more than you can bear. You want to leave on a good note. It’s better this way. You’ll never have confirmation about whether he’d eventually grow tired of you like everyone else. Never know if he’d one day manage to lose interest in the real you, not the made up sex kitten from the bar.

It’s better this way.

You tell yourself that when you push your chair out and stand up, hands fisting in the oversized shirt Simon made you wear before leaving the bedroom. “I should get going.”

He stops eating, staring up at you. His eyes are inscrutable, and the longer he stares, the less you understand his look.

You shift from foot to foot. “Thanks for… I had a good time.”

Simon doesn’t say anything, but when he drops his spoon into the bowl, the metal clang makes you flinch.

His silence leaves you off balance, like you’ve overstepped somehow. All motion stills under his scrutiny.

“Got somewhere ya need to be?” he asks, a vague, almost menacing undercurrent in his voice. It’s said like a warning. There shouldn’t be anywhere else you need to be.

“I…—don’t you want me to leave?”

He looks distinctly unimpressed. “You gonna walk home like that?” His words make you tug at his shirt, pulling it down to cover your thighs.

Your whole life has been made up of misunderstandings. Missed opportunities. Men who you thought loved you vanishing into thin air. You’re a poem often lost in translation. A long game of hide and seek; people run towards you then feign right, leaving you in the dust.

Whatever this is, you don’t recognize it.

You swallow on a dry throat. “…No?”

Simon searches your expression for something before he nods, satisfied. “Then sit the fuck back down. Finish your damn breakfast.”

You sit back down (wincing when you do) because the alternative is admitting that you don’t know what’s next. That you’re out of step again, but this time without that sinking feeling in your belly. A wild fluttering instead. That thought again that maybe you’ve bit off more than you can chew.

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you

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