Work Text:
The thing no one really thinks about with running an empire is the paperwork. It’s all fun and games, drugs and guns and nice suits and fancy cars, good shit all around, but that all has to be grounded somewhere, and that grounding is fucking paperwork. Logbooks are a constant in his life, little black books of locations and deals and money changing hands. Neat shorthand plainly dictating the most recent weapons deal, the influx of protection payments, the fucking drink tab at the usual bar.
Could certainly change the world those things, especially in the wrong hands. He should know, he’s dealt with plenty of those greedy mitts personally, did it so much at one point that he genuinely considered the merit of a few old-fashioned sigils, chopped and pickled and hanging over his front fucking door. Tell them all exactly how he dealt with thieves.
Still, it’s all enough to make a man reminisce, to think about the younger years when his knees didn’t ache and the only thoughts in his head were blood and violence. A time before he had to while away hours of his day going cross-eyed over numbers and backhanded wording, the scum of the earth trying to slide deals past his eye. Like he’ll be as easy to fool as their last boss, whoever they were before they became a stain on the pavement.
He sighs, pausing to ash his cigar and tap his pen a few times, trying to get the ink to work with him awhile longer. This is not one of the worst deals he’s ever seen, he supposes. Gaz knows better than to fuck him over, they’ve known each other too long for that, but he still can’t help but think that some of these terms have been influenced by outside sources. He wonders if maybe it would be easiest to simply invite him and this old soul he’s pulled from the cold over for a drink and a discuss, see if the dick is as good as this is implying. Lord knows Roach could use a treat after that last job, his poor bug all stressed and strained and acting the part until he pops. Yet another problem to be solved.
There’s a shuffle of fabric off to his right and he decides to give himself a break, glancing over to the artistry that’s waiting for him when he’s done with this seemingly neverending stack. It’s been a few hours since he got started and he has to admit, there’s something quite impressive to how inert they’ve managed to stay. Simon he’s not surprised by, he thinks the boy wouldn’t blink if he told him not to with any amount of seriousness, but their guest? Well trained indeed. He’ll have to compliment that scrawny little gang boss when he gives his pet monster back, let him know he appreciates them both showing some initiative. He’d never be stupid enough to show them any particular favoritism for this, that’s a good way to get even more shitty little upstarts trying to hop into his bed, but he can see the benefit in occasionally agreeing with an offer. Let them know he’s magnanimous when he wants to be. Especially considering this one has seemed more than happy to be of use, taking the fall for him and letting his poor cock recover from Simon damn near riding it off last week. He’s too old for the kind of energy they all have, he doesn’t know where they get it all from. One more joke about little blue pills and he’s going hang the little shit from the rafters by his ankles and finger him into a faucet.
Still though, he’s hardly going to find fault in the view. Simon is pretty, pale and purpled and perfect, dappled with bruises from his last job and trembling, ever so slightly. Breathing slow and shivering breaths, in and out, trying so hard to be a good little pet and get his reward. With how little sun he gets, always so covered up, always so secretive, it makes every little mark shine, like brushstrokes maybe, or perhaps closer to the welded points on mosaic glass windows from his childhood church. Something holy, something delicate at core but wrought with iron in all its forms. The blush spread across him pops, the red marks from the straps holding him down onto his living seat standing out against his scarred and muscled thighs in ways he’s going to have to examine more closely later. His cunt makes a centerpiece of it, swollen and speared on a truly unholy girth he doesn’t think has even approached going down once.
Artwork really. If he wasn’t so possessive of the view he’d think about recreating it, making a sketch to paint in full. Hell, maybe he will, keep it only for his bedroom, something to decorate that bare wall he hasn’t quite found the right thing for. Maybe make another in a few years that he can compare against, admire the size difference he’s expecting to have changed.
See, Simon isn’t a small man, far from it. A few inches taller than him in fact, if a bit reedy from not eating enough as a kid. Built in a way that suggests a few more years of good food and good exercise will fill him out into something truly spectacular. A mountain of a man, a monster that obeys his every order and still comes back home after to fall apart on his fingers like a virgin taking his first cock. His pretty toy no matter the size, no matter the heft. His little pet to train as he sees fit, for bloodshed and bed. His Ghost, reputation built on bodies, knelt at his command. But he digresses; Simon isn’t small, but the man whose cock he’s warming is the size of a damn bus. Leaky sluts the both of them, dripping all over his nice suede couch, but such a pretty view.
He wonders if it’ll still be as nice once Simon’s filled out. He expects it’ll be twice as much.
Spirits lifted, he goes back to his work. The contract from Gaz gets put to the side with a note to discuss in person, the next pages below it just bills and simple outlines of potential deals. Easy to lose himself in until finally his pen once more touches wood. Done, at least for now. Once more his attention drifts back to his couch and he can’t help but grin at the mess he sees, the sticky wet disaster of their thighs even worse than it was before. With effort he schools his voice down into disappointment, biting down on the amusement that surges in him as he tuts and they both flinch, guilty.
“Believe I said not t’come, aye?”
Two blindfolded faces turn towards him, seeking absolution. Hands twitching where they’ve pressed obediently against the couch for hours, untied to tempt them with disobedience. The same way the ties around their thighs are simple cord, easily broken if they wanted to. He’ll have to look into proper rope for next time. With a sigh he stubs out the remnants of his second cigar, using the sound to mask how he pushes to his feet and circles around. They jolt as he speaks again, inches from them.
“How many times? Be honest now.”
“Zwei, sir.”
Very well-trained indeed. Accurate too, if those low groans he heard were anything to go by. He watches Simon debate with himself, biting his pretty lips before he gives his answer, with far more confidence than he should.
“Three.”
The next sound out of him is a scream, as a hand comes striking down against his exposed little cock, “Don’t lie. Ye don’t want to disappoint me, do ye?”
He knows Simon doesn’t, but he also likes to be punished, he knows. Likes being put in his place when the mood strikes. So when he opens his mouth to do just that, he just slaps him again, enjoying how the clench against the pain ripples through him and into their guest. Then he does it again, and again, and again. Five slaps for each orgasmic little whimper he heard, five for each time he saw him spasm and gasp out of the corner of his eye. By the end Simon’s trembling again, already on the brink. He can’t help but grin at just how wet both the blindfold and his couch has become. Such a mess, but so worth it.
With effort he carefully crouches down to get a better look, a rough finger reaching out to trace the line of the heavy balls resting against the ruined suede, then tracking up a particularly significant vein to where it disappears into Simon’s fat little cunt, all puffy and pink and trembling. It punches a noise out of his borrowed toy, one he easily talks over.
“Can’t help but wonder if they call ye king because you’re such an obedient slut, aye? Like callin’ a man tiny. Though, maybe they call ye that too.”
The cock jumps against his hand, eager to please. It draws a smile to his lips, and this time he doesn’t bother to tamp it down. He’s a merciful sort, after all.
With a quiet snick, the knife he always keeps in his pocket unfolds, trailing along their paired thighs teasingly, maybe a little harder than he needs to, trailing little spots of blood up Simon’s pale skin until he finally slips the blade under one knot, then another. For a second he pauses, resting the blade against a faded scar, initials he watched Simon carve there with pride. A forever brand in his name. For a second he indulges himself, scraping over it, leaving it with the tiniest little tracing to remind him of its shape.
Then he slips the knife away and stands, yanking their blindfolds free as he goes. Two pairs of watery eyes blink up at him, desperate, as he steps back towards the desk.
“Fuck.”
The intwined sculpture before him comes to life in an instant, massive hands coming down to bite into Simon’s plush hips, his feet scrambling to get underneath him, to get leverage as he’s picked up and used like a doll, like the soaked and frothing cunt that he is. Their worlds narrow down to animal heat and feral gasps, to that beaten pussy speared open, intrusion too big to even think of closing. He relights his cigar, wondering how badly he’ll gape when this is all over.
When Simon is flipped over onto the couch, grasping blindly against flesh and fabric alike, something about the angle makes him shriek. His hand reaches back blindly to claw at their guest, desperate, trembling, the words fighting free, “Too deep! Can’t!”
He lets his gaze drift to the bulge weighing down his stomach, just how deep it is, “Oh pet, he fuckin’ ye in? Worried he’s gonna break ye?”
He pauses, waits for a signal. When none comes he grins at the hulking beast paused over Simon, “Continue. Hold ‘im down if he squirms.”
One massive hand wraps around the back of Simon’s skull, mashing him into the mess they made as he rails him, quiet grunts under his shrill cries. He watches them, watches pale hips buck and writhe and push back against the bruising thrusts, unable to get leverage but so so desperate. He hums thoughtfully.
“Might be dangerous t’let him come in ye again pet, s’pecially that deep,” It isn’t, not with the pills in his desk and the hormones in their cabinets, “Might knock ye up, and then what would I do wi’ ye? Might have t’let th’men have ye. Let y’be their whore instead.”
Simon comes with a sob, shaking like a leaf. He ashes his cigar, leaning to watch his precious body struggle against the bulging beast breaking it apart, shuddering and squirting as he’s given no respite. His arms give out entirely, his body going entirely limp only to be yanked up again as the hand clenches into his hair, forced to take every centimeter. Tears stream down his face, mouth an endless babble of sound.
Truly a sight. He’ll have to treat himself again.