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tojisun · 6 months

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biker!simon (ghost) riley x fem reader

!! smut - minors dni; mask kink; D/s; off-screen scene discussion (like power play); dacryphilia; extended foreplay; petnames; mean simon // 2.6k words

biker!simon mlist

it is carnal. desperate. pawing hands finding each other, trying to get rid of the leather.

you fall on the bed with a huff, body bouncing as the mattress ripples, soft sheets tickling your bare skin. you look up, blinking past the haze, watching as simon gazes at you – clothed. helmeted.

there is something that stirs in your stomach at seeing the disparity – you, naked and bare for him; him guarded. shielded. like he is a mere spectator of your body. like you are made to have you served on a silver platter for him to nip at your flesh and to etch his passions on your skin. like all that you are is his to enjoy – a one-sided servitude.

you tremble with need, watching as he fiddles with his belt, metal clanking together when he goes to unbuckle it. you bite your bottom lip in anticipation, following the way his thick fingers pinch his zipper to tug downwards, giving you a glimpse of his black boxers. then, he reaches for his helmet.

“no!” you yelp, scrambling to stop simon from removing the gear. you don’t even register what you did or how the word ripped through your lips until it resonated in the room, your chest heaving when the realization struck.

simon’s head cocks to the side slowly, looking animated with his helmet. it makes you clench your thighs close, putting pressure on your throbbing clit, and you watch with bated breath as simon’s head dips down to follow the length of your legs.

there is something in not seeing his face that has you aching, desire creeping in from the base of your spine to the tips of your fingers. something that simon must have felt too because he unhooks his hand from his chin strap to continue shucking his cargos just low enough that you can see the chub underneath his boxers.

“like what you see?” he asks, his crooning voice muffled by his helmet.

your legs squeeze tighter, your arm unconsciously coming up to cover your tits. you do not answer him, too caught up in watching as he slowly palms himself through his boxers, cupping his hand around his tent like he’s reminding you what he’s packing.

like he’s showing you what he promises he’ll give you.

but your silence makes him snarl, his hand falling to his side before he stalks towards you. his shins bump the edge of the bed, then he bends forward, his big frame towering over your trembling figure. you feel like a prey caught before him, naked and grappling with the desire that chokes you because there is something addicting at being so powerless before him.

simon laughs, something faint and mean, like he knows what got you spiralling. like he understands.

he reaches a hand out and pushes your hair away from your face. “i should’ve known that y’r a slut for this.”

the words are whispered, barely breaching the mouth guard of his helmet, but they pierce through the building static between the two of you and you couldn’t help the whimper that falls from your lips nor the willowy gasp of his name.

simon breathes in sharply before surging towards you, his gloved hands reaching to tug your arms away from your body so he can see you again. you resist with a little pull on your end, your mind buzzing with a building fog, but simon’s hold only gains strength as he tightens his fists around your wrists.

“show me,” he grunts, pulling you towards him.

you glide across the sheets easily, simon’s overwhelming strength stirring your desires even more. shamefully, you feel your cunt dampen, slick gathering at the lips of your pussy just at having been manhandled by your lover. you want to press your face on the inside of your arm and hide how affected you are by simon’s display of dominance, but his hands are already sliding down your sides, hooking by your hips, before stopping just at the meat of your thighs.

you tumble backwards, head falling to the mattress when simon kneels between your legs, slotting himself there like that is his rightful spot; like that is where he has always belonged.

then, he stops. you think you know why.

“oh, sweetheart,” he croons, folding himself towards you just enough to make it easy for him to peer at your glistening heat. “look at you leakin’.”

you tear your eyes away from the ceiling to peer down at him, your cheeks burning at the attention he pours into your cunt, only to freeze, your breath getting stuck in your lungs.

because how could you even forget?

the expanse of your wet cunt is reflected on his visor, the details stark and clear, and you hiccup, ripping your eyes away from the image and thrashing to curl into yourself. shame unfurls in the pit of your stomach, snuffing out the rumbling want that had just overwhelmed you, but simon holds you down to make you stop.

“you have nothin’ to be shy about, kid,” he says, easing his hands away from your wrists to grip your hips. “look at me. i said look at me.”

you sniffle as you gaze back at him, flinching when all you see is your face reflected back. simon pauses at your reaction, his hold on your hips going lax.

“do you want the helmet off?” he asks, genuine concern now lining his voice.

you blink, twining your hands together now that simon isn’t holding them. yes please tickles your lips but you hesitate, battling with yourself because-

because you still want the thrill of this – the brief imbalance of power between the two of you where you are simon’s prey, and all that you are is at his mercy; the temporary display of his darkness, stretching over the horizon as he bears down onto you, diminishing your very being into nothing but his to use for pleasure.

because you ache to feel small.

so you shake your head slowly, steeling yourself as you continue to look at simon’s visor, trying to see past your reflection as though you can catch a glimpse of his eyes if only to show him that you still want this.

but more than your want, more than the hunger you have for simon, you want to show him that you trust him.

and when you feel simon’s hands spasming from where they are gripping your hips, you know he understands.

“okay,” he says, nodding. his bobbing head almost makes you giggle. “but tell me when you want to stop, alright sweetheart? remember your safeword?”

“mhmm,” you hum, writhing on the bed to get closer to him, sighing when your greedy hands finally get to rub along his abdomen. “cake pops.”

he cups your cheek, the leather smooth against your skin. “that’s right. cake pops.”

—

“please,” you sob, trembling in desperation as simon continues to tease his fingers along your slit. he has yet to give you a taste of what you want even when his cock weeps, staining the fabric of his boxers. you want to commend him for his self restraint but you know he is doing this to tease you. to drive you to insanity.

simon remains unmoved, pushing down on your stomach when your squirming turns erratic, before scooping out a glob of your slick and rubbing it along your hardened clit to make a mess out of your weeping cunt. you squeal, clawing at the sheets when his fingers pinch your clit, the muted pleasure razing into something that stings.

and yet it is still not enough.

“simon pleasepleaseplease,” you babble, blinking bleary eyes at him and shivering when all you’re met with is the sight of your tear-stained face.

you look like a wreck with your hair sticking to your damp face, your lips swollen from the way you have nibbled on them to bite down your sobs and whimpers whenever simon ripped his fingers out of your cunt every time he felt you tighten up.

“no cumming without my permission, doll,” he crooned, all mean and playful.

then he’d repeat the process – fucking his thick fingers into your pussy, pumping them with a broken tempo so that you’d never get use to the stretch, crooking them just right until your back arches off the bed with a broken scream, only for simon to push you back down again with a faux disappointed sigh.

“stay put or y’r not cumming.”

it isn’t like it mattered anyway if you had followed his commands, not when simon’s too familiar with your body; attuned to the way you react when you’re near your orgasm. and you know this is all a play to him – something that gets him off as he pulls you to the edge of your euphoria only to drag you back down from your high, crooning words lilting and fading into the background as your ringing ears struggle to grasp the sudden loss of your peaking orgasm.

he plants his hand on your belly, rubbing soothing circles as a sob racks your body. “y’ve been so good f’r me,” simon murmurs. his other hand swipes at your cunt again. “gonna reward you now, princess. gonna give you what you need.”

you sigh, a happy contented sound, and simon laughs at your reaction before lifting his hand up to cup your jaw. the action is tender and soft even when his thumb traces along your bitten lips, wiping away at the thin sheen of spit that pooled at the edge of your mouth.

you watch it all through his visor, feeling breathless at the image you make. at the image that simon reduces you to.

simon notices. of course he does.

“pretty, aren’t you, baby?” his head falls closer to you as he says this, purposefully encompassing your full visage so that your teary eyes could see your wrecked self.

you feel faint watching as his thumb finally dips into your mouth, pushing past your plush lips until the pad of it bumps into the front of your teeth. you move to suck at his finger even when he doesn’t ask, cataloguing the way your lips wrap around his thumb or how your cheeks hollow when you begin suckling.

you look erotic. sinful.

simon groans like he is thinking the same thing, his helmet bumping your forehead.

“christ, sweetheart. y’ve ruined me.”

you giggle softly as he nuzzles his helmet on your sweat-stained forehead and squeezes your jaw for the last time before pulling away. he leaves you there on the bed, your eyes blown wide as you watch him tug at his boxers to finally free his pretty, pretty cock.

the moan that leaves your lips is pornographic and carnal, and simon jolts, his hand coming up to fist his cock as the sound ricochets in the room. you see his chest heave and, had your mind not been reduced to a needy mush, you would have realized that he’s gripping his cock to stop himself from cumming just from the sound you made.

“spread y’r legs f’r me, baby,” he growls, his hand still gripping his cock.

and you do as he says: your hands ball on top of your chest as you spread your legs spread apart, the soles of your feet rustling against the sheets. cool air hits your dripping cunt and you mewl, feeling and seeing how exposed you are before simon.

“so pretty,” simon groans as he shuffles close, lining his cock against your cunt. “an’ it’s all mine, yeah?”

you nod, you think. you honestly don’t know. not when your attention is rooted to simon’s visor, watching with stuttering breaths as he moves to rub his cock along your folds. the first touch makes you squeal, the rush of pleasure jolts you into closing your legs. it’s only simon’s hand pressed on the inside of your thigh that stops you from doing so, the pressure he’s putting on your leg gluing your muscle onto the bed.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he croaks, still slicking his cock along your folds, the sounds so filthy as they filter through the air. “so fuckin’ wet f’r me.”

god, this is torturous. you need him so desperately, it hurts.

you break into sobs as you reach out to grasp at his arms, feeling untethered as your sanity slips under the fog, feeling it grow taut like a band that’s about to snap when simon’s cock rubs against your clit. he tilts his head up just enough that you know he’s watching you, his beautiful eyes roving over the devastation on your face.

knowing that he’s looking eggs you on – desperation clawing underneath your skin, needing to be itched. “inside, please! simon, please-!” you hiccup. “i wan’ feel you! i wan’-”

you scream, your words petering into a garbled wail when simon finally sinks his cock in you. your head falls back to the pillows, your eyes rolling back to your skull. but he keeps on sliding, keeps on thrusting in – his cock is so long, it feels endless.

you’re babbling, moans slithering into a noiseless squeal when simon’s pelvis finally bumps the inside of your thighs.

he’s in. you realize with a tremble. all of him, in you.

your ecstasy bloats, peaking, and your toes curl when it explodes, razing through your sanity until all you can feel is a buzz. you go numb, your ears ringing with a growing static and you fall lax on the bed. a marionette with strings cut.

“fuckin’ hell, princess,” simon hisses, almost like a happy purr. a muted thump somewhere beside the bed tickles your ears. “you jus’ squirted.”

what?

he laughs, the sound so giddy as it spills from his lips. lips which, you realize amidst the satiated thrums spreading throughout your body, you can see.

oh, you think with a start. his helmet’s gone.

“si?” you murmur, voice hoarse and rugged.

“i’m here, sweetheart,” simon replies, burying his face on the juncture between your neck and your shoulder. “y’came so good f’r me. so perfect f’r me.” he presses a kiss on your skin as he says this.

time stops becoming a blur for you and it trickles back to you in bits, starting from the buzz underneath your veins and the satisfying weight buried in your cunt.

oh-

“simon, i’m sorry-”

simon kisses your lips and devours your apology, his tongue licking into your mouth, claiming with such ferocity. you moan, feeling the expanding warmth running from your throbbing lips to your fluttering cunt; not yet satiated. needing more.

you gasp when he finally pulls back just enough that his lips hover above yours, ghosting a touch. clingy even when you are wrapped around him.

“y’came like a good girl,” simon murmurs, his breath tickling your spit-smeared lips. “my good girl.”

you let out a happy sigh when simon draws out, the drag of his cock slow and delicious, before he’s pressing it back in, filling you up once again. you feel the wet patch on his pants and his boxers, and your cheeks burn when you catalogue it as your mess.

but god, you want more.

“harder, si,” you mewl, weak hands coming up to tangle in his messy hair. “i want it harder.”

simon braces his arms on either side of your head, his nose rubbing along your damp cheeks until he’s pulling back just enough that you see the way his eyes are blown wide with his lust.

“anythin’ for you, sweetheart.”

he kisses your cheek – the last of his gentleness for the night.

“anythin’.”

#suns.f #biker!simon #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley smut #ghost smut #simon riley smut #suns #giggles and runs away in shame #his bike isnt mentioned at all im sorry 😭

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clockwayswrites · 12 days

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Danny is a minx and I am not responsible for him.

Okay, so, you all voted and I, um, failed? We didn't get to cuddling. There should be cuddling coming? Idk, darlings, this was my third start on this and Danny took over. I've got no say in this anymore. Canon-typical violence, crude language, cross dressing, discussions of prostitution

---

“You think you can fucking play us like that?!”

The shout carried easily through the crisp fall air. Red Hood sighed and changed direction away from his safe house and towards the noise.

“—fuck you up for that! Give us our fucking money back!”

“Fuck you,” snapped back a voice that Jason had come to recognize over the last several months. Right then the words dripped in fake, but damn convincing, heavy Crime Alley drawl, but Jason knew it all the same. “If yous don’t got it, don’t bet it. If yous don’t got game, don’t play it.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t think a little girl like you gets to say how this goes,” a third voice growled.

Hood clung to the edge of the roof just long enough to drop silently into the alleyway next to the dive bar. From the quick glance sent his way he was only noticed by the damn minx, so he leaned casually back against the grimy brick wall and unholstered his gun.

“Right? Yeah! Yeah, bitch! You don’t get to say how this goes!” the first voice shouted again. The guy’s shoulders were squared up as if he was some sort of threat in his overpriced, knock off bomber jacket and ill fitting jeans.

It almost made Jason want to sigh.

Actually, fuck it, Jason gave in and sighed loudly, knowing how it sounded through the modulation of his helmet. Bomber Jacket and his buddy, I Swear This is Real Italian Leather, spun around and then cowered so quick Jason swore they gave themselves whiplash.

“So,” Jason said with every ounce of disinterest he could put in his tone, “how does this go? Because right now, I’m thinking that it’s you two who are gonna be going before I put bullets between your eyes.”

“Right, um, yes Red Hood,” Bomber Jacket cowered and grabbed desperately at his friend’s pleather jacket to pull them out of there.

“And gentleman,” Jason said, making them freeze in their steps, “next time you lose your money to a pretty lady, you leave her the fuck alone about it.”

They nodded frantically as they backed the rest of the way out of alley and then took of running.

“I think you made one of ‘em piss himself,” the minx said, looking from the alley way to Jason with those striking aqua eyes.

Jason just shrugged and holstered his gun. “Probably.”

The short, tight skirt clung to the minx’s legs, pulling up enough with the sashaying steps that Jason had to wonder how everything stayed hidden. He kept still as fingers tipped in bright pink nails walked their way up his chest to the red bat. Aqua peered up from below thick, dark lashes. “And did I hear right? You think I’m a pretty lady?”

“Hair is nice like this,” Jason said brushing a gloved finger through the black strands that just brushed the edges of the chin. “But surprised your cock isn’t hanging out of that skirt with how short it is.”

Danny let out a started laugh, resting his forehead against Jason’s chest for a moment before he patted it and backed up to a more respectable distance.

“Duct tape and body shapers works miracles.” The fake Gotham accent was gone and replaced with the faint Midwestern drawl that Danny only seemed to let out around Red Hood. “And don’t make that face, the duct tape is outside of the panties.”

“You can’t see my face,” Jason pointed out, a bit grumpily because he had been grimacing at the thought.

“I was still right though,” Danny said with a smug little smiling pulling on his cherry red lips. It was a good color on him. He leaned back against the wall and spread his legs in a way that Jason couldn’t help but follow with this gaze. “Everything is fine down there, Boss, just a little squished. Offer’s still on the table if you want to check out the good. No charge for my darlin’ knight.”

Jason snorted at the continued offer from Danny; it was practically as good as ‘bye’ between them at this point since Danny seemed to offer it every time. “I’m not going to be one of your Johns, Danny.”

“Told you no charge. Could just be two people who like sex,” he offered with a little shrug, but pushed himself off the wall to leave. No, Danny pushed himself up off the wall with a wince.

Jason was at his side in an instant. “One of those fuckers get you?”

“No, so no hunting them down,” Danny said. His voice was confident, but the way he actually leaned on Jason’s offered arm was worrying. “Just a bad John— ex John. That’s why I’m sharking pool instead of working the corner.”

As if Danny had to work an actual corner anymore. He appealed to a very specific type of client that could pay to have something pretty and convincing on their arm and still get what they wanted between the legs and in the sheets.

“You taking anything for it?” Jason asked.

Danny just shrugged. “Nah, Boss, nothing over the counter works on me really.”

“Clinic?”

Danny snorted. “As if. They can test for STDs and that’s about as much as I want a clinic near me.”

Jason resisted the urge to cuss at Danny. He got it. After all, he only trusted Leslie or Alfred really— or a family member in a pinch.

Maybe he could just bluster Danny into getting some help. “Right, come on.”

“What?” Danny asked, digging his heels (and fuck those were some heels) into the ground.

Not willing to put with that right then, Jason just swung his arm under Danny’s legs and scooped him up like he was nothing. Fuck the Johns really had to be able to throw Danny around if they wanted that sort of thing.

“Boss, Hood, what the fuck?!” Danny hissed.

“Safe fucking house is what the fuck so I can check you over.”

“Boss, if you wanted in the skirt—”

“Danny, shut the fuck up and let me make sure you’re alright, alright?” Jason asked, looking down at him.

Danny stared back with a frown. Then his sighed, like it was the biggest concession in the world to make. Finally he rested his head against Jason’s chest. “Fine, Boss, whatever you say.”

“Thank you,” Jason said, more gently than he meant to.

Jason had to suck in several careful breaths as he took in the wound splashed across Danny’s ribs. “No fucking John did that to you and if they did—” if they took some sort of hot poker to Danny’s side— “I’ll kill them if they did.”

#tbcontinued #dp x dc #dead on main #minx

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marrowdrip · 1 month

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Part 1

As you step out of the walk-in closet, eyes focused on your wobbly heels, you look up at your Master, eyes shining with pride as your dress flows and shimmers, catching the light on the bright embroidered petals. But your smile fades as Master shakes his head.

"Too much, little one, try again."

You can hear the tenderness in his voice; of course... He's enjoying the show. Your head bobs and you return to the closet, cursing yourself for being such a dummy.

As your fingers leaf through the outfits on the rack, you can feel your pussy start to melt as your thoughts solidify again... Of course Master should control what his princess wears... I asked him to control me... It feels good to be controlled... After a while, you re-emerge from the closet, and you can feel something click in your brain... So warped from the constant brainwashing, the clothes you choose are shifting your attitude... Sporting a baby-pink crop top that is a touch too short, and a pleated pink microskirt that flares when you walk, a quick spin shows off your black panties, emblazoned with the words "Yes, Daddy?"" across the ass... Giggling, you give a little twirl, before innocently looking towards your Master... Your smile drops again when he shakes his head once more...

"Good try, sweetheart, but you're not quite there yet."

You can feel a tear well up, his words stinging as sharp as a spank... And yet, even wetter than your eyes is the spot on your panties, already dampening at the mere notion of control... As if in a trance, you slip into the closet and out of your outfit, peeling away your panties from your sopping wet pussy... Your thoughts are a mess as they swim around your head... I need Master to control me... Being obedient for Master makes me a good girl... I need to be a good girl..."

Wordlessly, you exit the closet, completely naked as you stand with your hand covering your dripping wet slit, your blonde hair in pig tails, leaving your sensitive little nipples on display... Eyes wide as you wonder up at Master, you beam as he nods with approval...

"Perfect, my doll, absolute perfection... Now, let's begin the inspection... Kneel."

He flashes a grin as you leak down your legs, a faint understanding of what's coming next grips your thoughts, before fading away, your head becoming as light as a pink cloud as you crawl into position, into safety... Naked, willing, eager, you smile up at him with your tongue drooling out of your mouth as you watch him slip on a pair of black leather gloves...

Part 2:

Your glutes find a comfortable position nestled between your ankles, as you kneel in anticipation. His bodyweight shifts slightly, and you catch a glimpse of the bed behind him… You crane your neck to the side to see, laying near the edge of the bed, a set of black silk rope, a black leather riding crop and a pink vibrator… The small display stirs something deep within you. Something is missing… Or… Wait… There is too much there…? What am I…? Your thoughts do not have a chance to fully form before you blink, a leather wrapped hand around your wrist; your empty stomach drops when you realize Master has been speaking. He yanks your hand up and lifts it above you, revealing a trail of nectar between your fingers, glistening in the warm light of the bedroom.

“Were you trying to hide this from me?” His words arrive to your ears in a low growl. “You know what happens to naughty girls who try to hide their arousal…” Your mouth opens to protest, but before the words can escape your lips, your breath catches. Your eyes widen and goosebumps form on your neck as you realize exactly what was missing on the bed. Time seems to slow down as Master begins to wrap a soft leather band around your neck. You sit up straight, your body instinctively taking the proper position to be collared; pushing out your chest, your nipples stand at attention as you flex your quads, drop your shoulders back and raise your chin, ever so slightly. With a click of cold steel, he clasps the collar around your throat. It is simple black leather, but with four cardinal silver rings instead of one. He attaches a medium-weight chain leash to the back ring and pulls you up, forcing you onto your tip toes… While still keeping the leash taught, he guides you forward to the bed; you can feel your pussy slicken with each tiny step… Your head flushes with embarrassment as you consider your position… I’m so depraved… I have strayed so far from who I was; I was innocent! Your heartbeat quickens as the thoughts roil in your head. Now I’m nothing but a naughty, aroused little slut who needs to be con-

*SMACK*

#bimbo brainwashing #bimbo doll #bimbo training #brainwashing #bimbo hypnosis #brain melting #brainwash bimbo #hypnosis #mind control #bimbo worship

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stararch4ngelqueen · 7 months

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Impatience

Time Written- 5:57 a.m

Jason Todd/fem!reader smut (yes, the helmet comes off)

His modulated rasps vertebrates along your back, fully plated muscles pressed firmly along against backbone, becoming the hard wall compared the soft mattress you were trapped against.

“How’s it feel, pretty girl? Feel good, huh? Fuuuck, thought of this pretty little pussy since the second I left. Just can’t help myself.”

Euphoric drops refused to stop trailing down your cheeks, blinding your vision from the silk pillow that caught most of your tears.

Six years ago, the idea of him using you as such erratic, heavily erotic stress relief would’ve made you wince with a furious blush.

You were enclosed in, too closed in to slip a hand down in between your sweaty body and the warm mattress to give your clit additional stimulation. Not that you particularly needed it.

His broad hips ground against your plush ass perfectly, heavy balls slapping against your sobbing cunt. The head of his dick perfectly brushing against your cervix nearly nonstop, drawing endless noises from your mouth, ranging from short yelps to loud, drawn out cries.

Red Hood; with a cock so good he knew just how to use it without even trying.

You didn’t go out to dinner the night before and have a man ogle at your choice of black slip dress, with thin silver chains for sleeves.

You didn’t stroll alongside Jason at a downtown Gotham park on a warm summer evening, catching attention via the faint sheen of sweat along your neck, decorating your faint show of cleavage from your tank top.

You most definitely didn’t rouse this man off the edge by your simple choice of sleepwear, a loose white shirt and a cherry, seductive red lace panty.

As if you didn’t purposely wear that for his viewing pleasure.

It wasn’t Jason being jealous, so to say. To put it politely, it was Jason being overbearing.

Chest nearly melted against your back, burly muscles keeping you trapped against soft cushion, his words contracting the brutality of his relentless pace.

“Please, baby,” he grunts, his modulated voice shooting firefly kisses along your skin. “Please, lemme use this pussy. Been a hard night.”

This could’ve happened after he dragged his heavy boots into a hot shower, but no. While he could’ve washed the night’s worth of sweat and grime off his body, yours was the only priority on his mind. All this beast of a man had done was pull grab you by your hips and adjust your body flat, yank himself free from his constrictive pants before stuffing his fat, aching cock between your thighs. His balls full and heavy after hours of aggravated patrol.

The grunt that rumbled through his modulated speaker forced a tingle of fresh slick to seep from your lips as he fucked your thighs, dampening that sexy underwear in seconds. A short chuckle followed after from feeling it, quickly filled out by another groan as he made do with hooking his finger through one of the lace flowers decorated along your ass, anchoring the hole large enough to fully rip the not so affordable fabric.

His gloved hands gripped hold of the back of your shirt collar, yanking the fabric apart in seconds, exposing your bare skin to the cool bedroom air. Scratchy, gloved hands rubbed along your over sensitive nipples before trailing downwards, quickly leaving muted fingerprints along your hips.

Four years of knowing him, one year of missing him, followed by another year of dating him, you knew very well by now that Jason wasn’t as patient as he presented and enforced himself to be.

No, especially not with you.

“Christ, that’s my good little girl, taking this dick like a champ.”

Devilish grunts against your freshly shampooed hair, his musk fully invading your senses as he straddles the back of your hips, bracing his dirty boots along your bedsheets as he fucks you like an expensive whore.

He drew climax after climax from you so very easily, catching your quivering cries in the palm of his gloved hand. Stale gunpowder filled your nose, his meaty forearm playing a rest to keep your head and neck supported.

You weren’t sure when exactly his helmet came off, never registering the dull thud of it carelessly tossed onto the pillow beside yours. Pale, milky eyes glared into yours, reminding you of the persona who’s hands crushed necks and broke bones, now using you as a pretty little cockslut he’d dote on for the rest of the morning after he’s positive you’re fully bred till sunrise.

He halts his persistent thrusting after your body settled into overstimulation, removing his palm to give you a chance to breathe. He didn’t completely stop, using his knees for leverage to grind his pelvis against you, the tip of his aching, perfectly angled cock brushing against all your sensitive spots perfectly.

His lightly stubbled cheek brushed against yours, his wet tongue licking the sickening saltiness of your sweat and tears, gutturally grunting from the lustful ambrosia your body provided him.

He makes a show of biting the tip of his gloved, middle finger out of the corner of your teary eye, spitting his glove off to the side before caressing your side, dipping his fingers underneath your stomach.

Just the slightest brush of his index finger against your long neglected clit made you buck your ass back against his hips, making Jason smirk at your involuntary, full bodied whimper.

“Think you got another one in ya, sweetheart?”

#Jason Todd #jason todd x y/n #Jason Todd smut #Jason Todd x reader smut #jason todd x reader #jason todd x fem!reader #it’s smut #it’s good stuff #he’s my comfort character #for many reasons #got inspired by big burly Jason images

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my-castles-crumbling · 16 days

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Courting

James was a pureblood in the physical sense, of course. But his family wasn't traditional. He hadn't been raised to follow certain customs or ideals.

So when Regulus approached him, looking like he was going to faint, and held out a small pin, James was a bit confused.

It was ornate, and the Black Family Crest was visible etched in the silver. Regulus's hand shook as he held it out, and James took it silently, quite nervous that he would somehow do the wrong thing and upset Regulus further. His boyfriend hardly ever showed his emotions at all, let alone something as vulnerable as nervousness or fear, so James wanted to make sure not to make it worse.

"Erm...is this for me?" James asked softly, turning the pin over in his hand.

"Only...only if you want it," Regulus murmured, his voice so raw and genuine and terrified that James was quite sure he was missing something.

But he couldn't stand letting Regulus feel afraid for another moment, his heart hurt as he looked at the other man, his face so clearly showing a fear of rejection. The gift obviously meant something to him, for some reason. So he said, feigning confidence, "Of course, baby. I love it."

And Regulus's face broke into the most beautiful, relieved smile.

For the next few weeks, Regulus continued to give James odd gifts, always in the same way. James could never figure out why he seemed to be so terrified when he gave these gifts, and why he was always so relieved when James accepted them. But James couldn't bear to make Regulus anything other than happy, so he accepted the strange gifts without a word.

But they were. Odd, that is. Besides the pin, there was a pair of gloves, a single red tulip, and a picture of the two of them. James kept them all on his bedside table, unsure of what to do with them. Except the pin. James put that on his jacket.

"What the bloody fuck is on your coat?" Sirius asked one day, as they got back to their shared flat.

"What? Oh, yeah. Reg gave it to me," James explained, running his finger over the small crest. "I'm not sure-"

"And you didn't tell me?" Sirius screeched, mouth agape.

James narrowed his eyebrows. "I...I'm sorry? I didn't think I had to-?"

"You didn't think you had to tell me you're engaged?" Sirius yelled, his voice higher-pitched than most baby screams, now.

"What?" James asked, yelling as well.

"Well," Sirius clarified, sitting on the couch. "Courting to be engaged. Same thing, really, but-"

But James wasn't paying attention. He was too busy remembering Regulus's behavior as he gave him the pin, the other strange gifts. He'd heard of courting before, but he hadn't realized...

And then it hit him. Regulus wanted to marry him. Regulus wanted to marry him. Regulus wanted to marry him.

"I have to go, Pads," James mumbled, grabbing his jacket again, grinning so widely his cheeks hurt.

And he ran out of the flat to find Regulus.

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battymommastuff · 2 months

Text

A Night with the Knight

Batmom x Batman, Batmom x Batfamily

Prompt: While digging through the attic, Dick Grayson and Jason Todd uncover a secret about their adoptive mother. A secret that reveals the true, and dark story of the most loved couple in Gotham City

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Masterlist

!!DISCLAIMER!! - This likely won't be comic accurate (Obviously), but I did draw inspiration from the comics. If you are looking for something accurate, then this fanfic isn't for you.

Wherever you were, it was warm. Warm, but cold at the same time. You felt safe, but you were also in danger. Maybe the danger was the freaky cult that tried recruiting you. The warmth, you came to realize was a blanket draped across your body. You'd woken up in a dark, unfamiliar place for the second time tonight. The sound of rushing water filled your ears along with the faint buzzing of the dim lights, and sounds of machines in every direction.

This place was far too dark to be a hospital, and you were glad for that. Any public setting was the last place you wanted to be right now. The last thing you remembered was Batman hovering over you after saving you from your kidnappers. After that were faint memories from you going in and out of consciousness. The city flying by faster than it ever did, the masked face of the man who saved you, and brief images of a black tailcoat with white gloves. All of these images were taking their sweet time processing in your mind. Your entire body felt like it was hit by a train despite you having the body of an acrobat.

Slowly, you got out of the hospital bed you were in. You wanted to find somebody. It was too quiet, and it felt like you had eyes on you at all times...which you did. Walking out of the little room you were in, you saw a massive screen that lit up the area around it. Pictures of your captors, the leader of the Court...and several members of the circus were all over the screen. You looked down to see the back of Batman's head as he typed away on the keyboard, "How are you feeling?" He asked, suddenly. You jumped then looked around. No one else was around, but how did he know you were there? You didn't make any noise.

"A-A little sore..." You answered while closing your robe around your body more. The warmth you felt was definitely from the blanket you had when you woke. It was freezing in here, "Where am I? I figured you would drop me off at the nearest hospital and leave me there." You asked, with a small laugh at the end. Batman stopped typing on the computer and turned his chair to face you. He stood up, and you were in awe at his size. Not only was he tall, he was very well built. No wonder it was so easy for him to take down all those Court members. You felt very intimidated by his presence, but oddly attracted to it.

"You're in the Batcave. It's too dangerous to take you into any public setting. You have knowledge of the most dangerous group in the city, the entire Court is no doubt hunting for you." Batman explained, in the most monotone voice. You already knew this, but hearing it just made it worse. Where would you go? All of your possessions, money, your life was still at the Circus. You didn't have any family that cared for you anymore, and you had nowhere safe to go. The more you thought about your life being over, the more emotional you got. It made the man in front of you highly uncomfortable to watch you break down.

"You could have broken the bad news to her in a more gentle way. Maybe start with offering her warm clothes, Sir?" A British voice asked, followed by the sounds of footsteps coming down metal steps. You wiped your eyes quickly then looked over to see the man in the tailcoat that you saw briefly. His face was very familiar, but where? As he stepped closer, your eyes widened. This man was the butler of billionaire Bruce Wayne. You've seen him in pictures as well as on the news when Bruce Wayne made an appearance at events for the city. You looked from him to Batman, and you could tell from the uncovered parts of his face who was under the mask. It seemed that Batman also knew what you were thinking, so he lowered his mask.

"Would you like some warm clothes?"

"Ugh...excuse him, his bedside manner is in need of work."

You looked between the two men who just told you the one thing that the entire world wanted to know, and acted as if it wasn't a big deal. Did they trust you to keep the secret? Of course you would keep it, but how did they know they could trust you? Did they have some memory wiping device that would erase your memory after they got what they needed out of you? Judging from the tech that covered the place, it didn't seem that far fetched, "W-Why are you telling me your identity?" You finally ask after several seconds of awkward silence.

"I'm going to move you into my manor, that I way I can monitor you as well as get information about the circus." Batman answered while turning back towards the computer. Your jaw dropped a bit. He didn't even consider if you wanted to live with him or not. Not that you were going to turn it down. The chance to live in a mansion? You'd be stupid to refuse, "I will retrieve your things later, but I will take you to buy a new wardrobe in the morning." You're going to be spoiled too? Maybe you should be thanking the Court for kidnapping you.

"I suppose I should thank you then, Mr. Wayne." You said with a small smile. He turned towards you and gave you a small smirk.

"Call me Bruce."

><><><><><><><><><><><

TAGLIST

@maxinehufflepuffprincess @tayswhp @rainycloud858 @luna-zendra-star @starlets-things @simpfourmarvel @kawaistrawberry21 @js-favnanadoongi @kodzukenmaaa @xxrougefangxx @pixviee @discocactus-world @b4tm4nn @minimoxha @crutoyu @nightw-izhu @legendarylearner18 @mangegeek17 @pixiedust0604 @that-one-fangirl-69 @ilovetaquitosmmmm @irelanrose @asterelz @angelxx7 @millies0bsimp @marie0v @starmansirius @amberpanda99 @hoshi-is-ult-bbg @inutheangel

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jasonsmirrorball · 9 months

Text

HALLWAY CRUSH JASON TODD (college!au)

↳ he's your boyfriend, but you've still got a massive crush on him

Four long, boring hours loom ahead of you when you walk to campus on Monday morning. Lectures all packed closely within the same building, on the same floor, you dread the day. Winter leaves your hands numb as you walk towards the building you’ll be spending your time in today, and you curse yourself for forgetting your gloves, sticking stiff fingers into your pockets.

There is only one other person in the lecture theatre when you walk in, sitting off to the side. You offer them a polite nod when their eyes meet yours, and continue up the stairs to take a seat, thankful for the warmth in the room. The both of you are early, and it’s quiet in the room as you take out your things, the faint smell of something lingering in the air, not entirely unpleasant, but peculiar in the way of old lecture halls.

It’s this smell you have to endure for the next two hours. When the hour draws closer to 9 and the rest of the few students who actually bother to show up to lectures in person begin to trickle in, you’re already fighting off a yawn and wishing you’d gotten coffee from one of the vending machines in the lobby.

You switch your phone on and off, peering down at the lockscreen fondly. The black and white photobooth strip stares back, three rectangular photos stacked atop each other. The dark haired boy in the picture winks through the pixels at you, and you hide a grin. When your professor walks in and begins to set up, you tuck your phone away, finding a bit of comfort in the pretty smile of a lover.

It only lasts so long, however, and you’re soon back to staring grumpily at a set of slides and fighting back tears at the strength of your yawns–you’ve gone through so many in the last twenty minutes it’s getting rude. It isn’t his fault, your poor old professor, that he speaks so slowly, or that you’re not made for morning classes. After yet another yawn, you rub your eyes tiredly, trying to make sense of what he’s saying.

The text comes through in the middle of your lecture, an hour into the history of corporations, and you flick your gaze down to the bubble that appears over your lockscreen. Your boyfriend’s contact photo accompanies the message, and you bite back a grin, reading the two words.

>> look up

Confused, you glance up to the door of the lecture theatre that looks out into the hallway, propped ajar with an old textbook. In the background, your lecturer takes a question, and you really should be listening, but you’re wondering whether the message was actually meant for you and then–

Jason, stupidly handsome, and bright eyed, walks past the door, peering in and grinning when you make eye contact. You just about jolt in your seat, unable to contain your own smile when he glances at your professor and shoots you a cheeky wink. Idiot, you think fondly.

He’s gone before you can blink, leaving you to return to the class once more. Only, how can you, when you’ve got to settle your silly little lovesick heart, grinning like a fool?

>> you’re so pretty baby

And just when you think you’ve got a handle on your heart, the butterflies spring forth anew with his next text.

i had to sit in the same lecture theatre for FOUR hours today can you believe. anyway made eye contact with everyone walking outside because i was so tired and i just kept imagining this stupid (affectionate) boy walking past and timing his text so you'd see him when you look up. because this is fanfiction. and i can make him do that!

this is separate from the last college!au piece but you can imagine it to be set in the same au if you want! i just think boyfriend jason in a college au is something that can be so special

#jasonsmirrorball #jason todd imagine #jason todd x reader #jason todd reader insert #jason todd fic #x reader #jay my heart #jersey boy au #jason todd college!au

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tlouadditc · 6 months

Text

take care of you.

warnings: smut [MEN AND MINORS DNI!], kinda gross desc of injury, ellies a pervert LMAOOO, small argument. ??, lowkey rushed but idc, slight choking mention, filthy mouth ellie ™️, scissoring, no official dynamic?? idk

its the last couple of hours in your small infirmary. its dark and muggy, but finally quiet. your shirt, slightly unbuttoned, and sleeves rolled to the top of your forearms as you work through the thick air. the patrols had been getting attacked all day, and god, you never thought the day would end.. but here you were, putting the last couple of boxes of gauze.

suddenly, you hear footsteps, and a faint male voice. "c'mon, we're almost there," the voice says. the voice is accompanied by a slight pained groan. the door busts open, a limping auburn woman gripping onto a tall, young man. you immediately recognize the two: jesse and ellie, your best friends.

"hey," jesses breathes, setting ellie onto the tile floor. there's scuffs all over him, a small cut sitting next to his eye. "ellie was- huff- she got stabbed in her calf," he explains. ellie wriggles in pain, face scrunched up as she sinks into the floor. "she'll fuckin' bleed out if she doesn't get something. i really have to go but please, please take care of her. i know you're supposed to be leaving right now but everyone else is gone."

you sigh heavily before reluctantly nodding. "thank you, y/n." he looks back at ellie, "hey, take care. i'll see you later."

jesse leaves, door frantically slamming behind him. you set the bed again, a protective sheet laying against the firm mattress. you walk over to where ellie resides, a sympathetic expression written on your face. "c'mon, tough girl," you say, kneeling down and throwing your arm across your shoulders. "let's get you onto the bed."

she hisses in pain as she rises and lays her weight onto you. it's only a few steps before she's plopped onto the bed, crawling to the top to lay her head on the pillow. as she lays back, you see the blood seeping through her jeans. theres a dark, soaked hole where the knife went through on her right calf. you speak as you don your gloves; "this is gonna hurt but i just need to see how bad it is, m'kay?"

she nods, breath getting jagged as you push her jeans up to her knee. the sight is horrendous; it's almost as if her calf got ripped open. the blood is still seeping out of the medium sized gash. if the knife would've went any deeper, she would've died of blood loss. "my god," you whisper, still assessing the damage.

"is it that bad?" she asks, arms above her head.

"i-" you sigh and gather your thoughts. "it's bad, yeah, but with a few stitches, you'll be back in no time."

she sighs with relief. you start gathering materials and your gear. "gonna need you to either pull your pants above your calf or take them off completely," you say, focusing on getting the materials. while getting the needle ready, you hear ellie's shirt hit the floor. when you turn around, she's left in her black sports bra. her chest moves up and down as she heavily breathes.

"hot as hell in here," she explains, a slight chuckle following the statement. she attempts to take her pants off, stopping right above the gash. you help her completely remove them and leave her in only her sports bra and boxers. the sight alone has a pool left in your bottoms.

you breathlessly giggle, "i agree. they need to get that AC running."

you lay all the materials next to her, "just a warning, this is gonna hurt, okay?" she nods, grabbing the pillow from behind her head and placing it between the grip of her two toned arms. she bites the pillow, in case she needs to muffle her sounds.

as you slowly thread the needle through her skin, a groan fills the room. "s-sorry," she apologizes. you go through the other side of the gash, running the thread through her skin. a string of curses leave her mouth as you continue, sometimes even a moan escaping her lips. you try to keep a composed demeanor as you finish off, attempting to ignore the second heartbeat in your pants.

as you wrap the protective layers of gauze around the stitched skin, she whispers, "sorry for all this," she chuckles, sitting up. "it's okay," you respond. you're starting to put your materials back in the low cabinets of your room, bending over as you push a box to the back. you look back to grab another box, but instead, you catch ellie eyeing your ass. she tries to look away, but you're too fast. confused, you act like you didn't see anything.

after you're done cleaning, you let her know she'll need to stay off her right leg until she's completely healed and use crutches. "i think they already packed them up, so you can get them tomorrow."

an annoyed groan leaves her throat, "seriously?"

"sorry! you came in when literally everyone but me left."

she turns over, grabbing her shirt off the floor. "are you sure i can't just go home right now?"

"ellie."

she huffs again, now staring up at the ceiling. "can you at least take me home with you? i cannot stay here."

her frustration is apparent, her face heating up with anger with every second passing. somehow, even in the worse circumstance, she looks so.. flawless. her heavy breathing from the thick air and the sweat slowly dripping down her freckled skin only draw you in more and more.

"uh.. y/n?"

you realize you've been checking her out. not only that, but you haven't listened to a THING she's said. you attempt to recall what she's said, or at least find an excuse to why you were checking her out.

you clear your throat, "sorry, i, uh.. yeah, you can stay with me tonight."

"we're not passing the fact you were just eyeing me."

your face heats up, a wave of sheer embarrassment washing over you. as you turn away from her, you mumble, "like you weren't doing the same," only loud enough for you to hear. or so you thought.

"i'm sorry, what was that? speak up."

you don't know if it's the longevity of the day or the heat, but you're fed up. you spit back, "i saw you staring at my ass, ellie. i'm not fuckin' stupid."

her confident demeanor fades. it's almost as if she's shrunken down, small below you. "not so tough now, hm?" you tease.

she attempts to get up, but before she can place another foot down, you slightly push her back onto the bed. "uh-uh," you warn, "you can't walk on that. and you're not leaving this conversation."

"what the fuck is your deal?" she hisses, moving your hand off her shoulder. "i can limp home at this point. you're pissing me the fuck off."

"oh, you were just asking to stay with me, though? and you have some goddamn nerve to be mad at me when i just took my time and care to help you!" you and ellie are barely inches apart now, her hot breath fanning across your heated face.

ellie's eyes soften, searching yours. you do the same, and before you know it, your lips are on hers. soft and supple, the kiss says everything you both want to. she whimpers, like she's been yearning for this since forever. both of you explore each others bodies with your hands, ellie's cold hands caressing your tits under your shirt. she breaks the kiss, panting, smiling at your breathlessness.

"so much for being mad at me," she taunts. you smile, "shut up." looking at her boxers, a slight glistening shines underneath the overhead light. she follows your gaze, slightly blushing at how turned on she is. you say nothing, only running your middle finger across her slit as she gasps. her legs spread a bit, the damp crotch now exposed. "fuck," she whispers, now slightly humping your palm. so desperate, you think.

------------------------------------------------------------

before you know it, both of you sit in your room, naked and sweating. you straddle between ellie's open legs, cunt to cunt. wet, squelches and moans fill the room, bouncing off the walls. ellie guides your hips as you hold onto the edge of the bed.

"fuuuck," she moans, fingernails digging into your hips. her eyes are locked in on the rocking of your hips against hers, your folds meeting with hers before moving forward again. her hips buck up, matching your rhythm. small whimpers and sobs leave your mouth. "keep goin', pretty girl, keep making those sounds for me," she coos, heavily breathing.

everything she's whispering to you is downright filthy; she knows how to push your buttons, getting you even wetter with every movement. "yea, grind that little pussy on me, c'mon," she's gripping your ass now, taking complete control over you. your legs shake, hips aching from the repetitive motion. "need you to cum, yes, please," she's begging now, huffing as she moves one hand from your hip to your neck, making your choke a little. "look at me while you bust on me, baby," she's so so so desperate, her eyebrows furrowing over her emerald eyes. your orgasm hits you like a bus, eyes tearing up, your choked moans getting louder and more drawn out. the wetness coats your inner thighs as well as ellie's crotch.

after a while of heavy panting filling the room, you attempt to get up, legs wobbly from your overbearing orgasm. she giggles, "now im not the only one not being able to walk."

"shut up," you laugh.

------------------------------------------------------------

an; heyhey sorry for my fatass hiatus yall i am back i think! anyway hope yall enjoy + sorry anon for no tag i keep forgetting to respond to the asks..

#tlouadditc #ellie williams smut #the last of us smut #tlou fic #ellie williams #the last of us x reader #tlou2 smut #ellie x f!reader #ellie williams audio

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sytoran · 4 months

Text

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝟎𝟎𝟕 — 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘

kinktober day 007 | bimbo!wanda x ghostface!reader

for years on end you've chased sweet revenge. from being your high school bully to the fount of your desires, wanda maximoff is your esteemed salvation and utter demise. today, you plan on taking it all back.

rating ♤ contains explicit smut, 18+

warnings ♤ mentions of violence, self-harm, homophobia, suicide. elements of non-con. read with caution. heterosexual sex (🤢) (it'll be worth it tho i swear)

word count ♤ 2543

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

It’s an eerily quiet night in Woodsboro.

Perhaps the odds are falling in your favour, for once. Your black robe gets dragged along the concrete pavement of Elm Street as you silently make your way towards the desired location. The metal handle of the scythe is cool in your hand, and you twirl it around in anticipation.

In the third house on the street, the light in one of the bedrooms is still switched on, and faint noises are emitted from that vicinity.

You approach the window of that bedroom, lurking in the shadows. The sight that greets you is sickeningly fantastic.

In the dimly lit bedroom, a male figure is bent over a female one. He’s entirely undressed, emitting low grunts of pleasure while chasing his own high.

“Shit, Wanda, you feel so good,” the male voice gasps, driving his hips into the young woman with shallow thrusts that could hardly elicit pleasure for her.

A sadistic smirk crawls up on your face behind the mask.

Wanda Maximoff.

She was your high school crush, your unrequited love, your hate-filled vengeance, and now your esteemed salvation.

Ultimately, Wanda was the fount of your desires.

Then, she had been unreachable, completely out of your league, condescending and sadistic towards you. The bratty cheerleader dubbed as ‘Queen Bee’, perched atop the school’s social hierarchy for her parents’ connections and wealth, being waited on hand and foot by just about everyone.

Now, she was lying under that miserable excuse of a high school quarterback, suffering through less-than-mediocre sex.

Who’s the one winning now, sweetheart?

You watch in unbridled glee as Wanda’s disinterested eyes flit across the room. She’s still half-clothed — you don’t take that for granted, a cool gaze gliding over the fragments of her exposed skin, a gaze with an underlying quivering rage to mark the pretty skin up — and she has a blank look adorning her half-illuminated features.

Wanda’s body moves with each of Vision’s thrusts but you can see it in her eyes that she’s not feeling any pleasure, and you grip your scythe a little tighter.

Look at me, pretty girl.

Almost as if Wanda could hear your thoughts, her gaze finally floats towards the window where you’re standing and her entire body stills.

You look back emotionlessly, your ghastly mask facing in her direction, the light of the streetlamps reflecting off your blade. You stare at Vision, then, and your heart rate rises, as it always does, in some kind of sick excitement at the prospect of taking a life.

None the wiser, the blonde man continues to fuck into her, oblivious of the looming danger that is your presence. Wanda’s mouth opens, terror draining the blood in her face, but you merely raise a gloved finger to your lips.

The threat goes unsaid. Wanda squirms under Vision with widened eyes, but she slowly closes her mouth.

Good girl.

It’s second nature for you to pry open the window. You almost scoff at the fact that it’s unlocked. The wind from outside rushes in, and it creates enough noise for Vision to get distracted from what he’s currently preoccupied with.

You look back at Wanda, raising your scythe, and she swallows harshly.

Wanda tugs Vision’s turning head back to her breasts, dragging her fingers over his scalp. “It’s nothing, baby,” she chokes out and looks back at you pleadingly. “Just fuck me.”

You imagine those three words are directed to you, and you can barely conceal your sadistic excitement. It’s lecherous, the way desire swells within your otherwise blase self at Wanda’s breathy little gasps.

You’re now standing tall in the confines of Wanda and Vision’s room. You reside in the corner, and Wanda’s eyes never leave you. Her eyes are wide and dancing with fear, but you swear you’re not imagining the hidden layer of sexual excitement beneath them.

You tilt your head to the side in expectancy, and Wanda looks frightened and confused, devout of understanding.

Stupid little girl.

Using the tip of your blade, you point towards Vision’s desperate form, his back facing you. You can see the embarrassment flush Wanda’s features once she understands your request.

You make an open gesture with your free gloved hand. Go ahead, it reads.

Albeit warily, Wanda wraps her legs around Vision, hands shakily combing through his blonde hair. “You- you can continue, Vis,” she murmurs, locks of hair falling into place. Heartbreakingly gorgeous was what she was.

“Oh- okay,” Vision sounds slightly winded already, stupidly enough. That man should either be on his knees in reverent worship of the threshold between her legs, or substantially rougher to draw out those pathetic little noises. There was no in-between, not with Wanda Maximoff.

Though you much rather preferred the latter, wishing to see Wanda relinquishing all control, Vision instead opts to continue those shallow thrusts as if he’s doing something. You tilt your head in slight boredom as Wanda’s body moves meaninglessly on the bed.

If you were Vision instead…..

To kill or not to kill. Was it really a question, in this situation? Did you have to consider your options, weigh the possibilities, and contemplate using your moral compass, when the answer was so blatantly clear right in front of you?

You’d never felt so alive.

Your heart raced beneath the confines of your earth-bound ribcage, pulsing with the sole need to chase that dopamine rush and adrenaline high. Wanda seems to acknowledge the change in the atmosphere of the room, looking up at you with fearful eyes as you approach the bed.

One step. Two steps.

You could always turn back, and navigate your way back to calmer times with the guidance of the angel on your right shoulder.

That was boring, though.

Three steps. Four steps.

Wanda lets out a choked scream as you raise your scythe. You can smell her fear, taste it, palpable and unyielding and the most delicious kind of terror you’d chanced upon. Her mouth was contorted, probably trying to plead but not being able to find her voice.

In for the kill.

The last thing Vision sees is the stricken look on Wanda’s face, frozen into submission, frantic and desperate, before your glimmering blade strikes.

You plunge your scythe into Vision’s back. The pieces fall into place like a demented symphony: the blade enters right from the centre of his back, and emerges from the front of his chest. Crimson blood spills freely from the wound like a faulty fire hydrant, spraying onto Wanda’s front.

His body falls limp in slow motion, rolling off to the side, leaving you to stare blankly at a completely vulnerable Wanda Maximoff.

“Who-who are— what are you?” Wanda trembles, her voice shaky.

Deathly satisfaction slugs inside of you as you watch her vulnerable form. It was everything you craved, finally getting back at your high school bully.

You remember locking yourself into a dismal bathroom stall, curling up into a ball, tears streaking your face. The jeering taunts of the girls outside had you shaking, but only one voice rings in your head.

“Come out, we wanna have some fun!” Wanda calls out in mock playfulness, and her stupid little giggles has your fury vibrating beneath the surface of your skin. “Coming out for the second time can’t be harder, right?”

That was just one of the many times Wanda had made your life a living hell.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” you answer, the mechanical voice changer inside your mask giving you a robotic tone that was humanly unrecognizable.

Wanda doesn’t seem at all eased by your dismissive response, and opens her mouth to retaliate, but she freezes when you raise the scythe again.

This time, you’re not seeking bloodshed. Instead, you let the sharp tip of the blade run across her bare skin, not hard enough to draw blood but firm enough to raise goosebumps.

Wanda swallows as she realizes she’s still completely naked in a room with her dead boyfriend and a cold-blooded murderer.

“Stop, please,” Wanda breathes shakily, her heart rate rising even further as your blade runs over her stomach. The cold metal sends tingles throughout her body, all the way south to between her legs.

“Oh, you want me to stop?” You ask with faux sympathy, the scythe stilling right above her cunt. A smirk washes over your face behind the mask as Wanda clenches her thighs shut.

No, a tiny voice in the back of her mind says. But that would be completely absurd and immoral, so Wanda nods hesitantly. “Stop, please.”

You pause, seemingly entertaining the idea of actually stopping. You can see from Wanda’s eyes that she’s been lulled into a false sense of security, as your blade relaxes against her skin.

But then your free gloved hand forces its way into the threshold between her legs, and Wanda lets out the most pathetic squeal.

“If you want me to stop then why’re you so fucking wet?” you growl heatedly, right next to her ear, two fingers easily sliding past her damp folds and sinking inside.

Wanda mewls at the intrusion, eyes going wide as your thick fingers stretch out her cunt. She’s embarrassingly wet, coating your fingers with slick, staring up into emotionless eyes.

Then it hits her that she shouldn’t be liking this, and Vision’s dead body was on the floor, and the stench of blood was invading her nostrils.

Tears prick at her eyes as she claws at your wrist, mouth wanting to voice out her disdain but only moans fall out. Your fingers are deliciously thick as they plunge into her sodden cunt, the fabric of your gloves adding to her simulation.

Yet, you’re unnerved by Wanda’s sharp nails digging into your skin, and then the cold metal of your scythe is taut against her neck.

“Try anything like that again and I’ll slice your pretty little neck off.”

Wanda gasps, and she feels so dirty because your filthy words cause another gush of arousal to flood her pussy. You, of course, notice it, and you press the blade a little harder.

Wanda chokes out a breath, because if her neck moved even a millimeter further you would draw blood. It’s so sick, but she’s so wet, and you’re the devil reincarnate.

You remember the blood on your arm as you held an army swiss knife in the other hand. You were shaking, shuddering, as Wanda stared at you with a crazed look in her eyes.

“I didn’t ask you to cut yourself, stupid litle bitch,” she barks out, staring at the blood dripping down your arm. You’d do it again for her. “You’re insane, fuck.”

“Fucking little slut, yeah?” you grunt, curling your fingers harshly inside her tight walls. Wanda’s teeth sinks into her lower lip to prevent more embarrassing sounds from escaping, but you don’t seem to like this.

You use the blade to tilt her chin up so her eyes are level with yours. “Asked you a question,” you say dangerously. “So you fucking answer.”

Wanda shouldn’t like this, she knows, but there’s something so alluring about your mask and your commandeering demeanor.

“Yes,” she responds tentatively with teary doe-eyes that are oh so pitiful. “Y-yes, I’m a… slut.”

“Mhm. Good girl,” you approve, and then your hands finally start moving again. Wanda keens at the praise with a helpless buck of her hips.

As if sensing her inner turmoil, you greedily push another finger against the opening of her dripping cunt. Wanda’s high-pitched moan turns into a breathy gasp.

“I- I can’t—”

“You will.”

Wanda sobs, three thick and gloved fingers stretching out her pussy. You’re merciless in the way you explore her sodden pussy, finding her sweet spots all too easily.

“Better than your asshole of a boyfriend?” you ask, already knowing the answer. Each of your calculated thrusts fills her up perfectly, and her velvet walls clench around you so tight.

“Y-yes! Please, more—”

Like you’ve flicked a switch, your gloved hand jackhammers into her sodden pussy so fast and so hard that Wanda can only let out the wettest, filthiest, little ‘uh’ sounds with every thrust.

“Oh, God, I’mna come,” Wanda mewls, rutting her hips against your palm in a devoted search of her ever-closening high. Sensations are flying all over her body, and Wanda’s head helplessly loll to the side.

“I know,” you respond smugly. Seeing your fated enemy unravelling before your very eyes brought a different kind of satisfaction, something so toxic and poisonous but so rewarding.

“Come like the little fucking slut you are,” You spit in the most degoratory tone known to mankind. You move the smooth metal part of your scythe to press against Wanda’s hardened bud, and that last sensation has her coming undone.

Wanda arches up against you with a broken cry escaping her throat, pebbled nipples pressing against the cold metal of your scythe.

Her hands twist into the fabric of the bed she once laid in with her boyfriend, but now her heated cunt was chasing your thick and talented fingers.

“Oh, fuck! Please, please, please, oh God, please—”

You drown in the filthy moans Wanda lets out, eyes burning in glorious victory. You grip her hips like it’s a forsaken altar, forcing her to choke on that pleasure and go to hell with it.

The pleasure, in question, is overwhelming, nothing like Wanda had ever experienced, lighting up every one of her nerves. Her body was alight, whipping flames tearing at the cruel night sky.

You bask in Wanda’s shaky breathing as she comes down from her high. You want to keep her vulnerability and lock it in a jar, hang it on your bedroom wall like a prized possession.

As Wanda regains her senses, you decide it’s time for the final piece of your grand plan to fall into place.

Slowly, you take off the mask that gave you the identity as Ghostface. You shake the hair out of your face, and Wanda’s breath constricts in her throat.

“Y-Y/N?” she chokes out, and you can see the million little things that flit through her mind.

The bullying. The boyfriend. The blood. All her fault.

You remember standing at the ledge of a very tall building, cold wind whipping in your hair. You remember thinking about Wanda’s poisonously breathtaking face, wondering whether she was worth it. You remember thinking that falling would be easier than seeing her again.

“My beloved,” you whisper with a deathly smile. “I hate you. Every cell of my being screams with burning rage for you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

You may have lost the battle, but you won the war.

No one could ever know your identity. How you had been spending the past years running around Woodsboro as Ghostface, killing all traceable contacts to Wanda Maximoff. Clawing back your dignity back piece by piece.

And it had all led up to this very moment.

Wanda can’t even tear the petrified scream out of her throat in time, before you raise your scythe again, for the last time.

“Goodbye, my beloved.”

A shining blade and crazed eyes are the last thing she sees before her final demise.

Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.

GUYS I THINK THIS MIGHT BE IN MY TOP 3 FAV KINKTOBER FICS I'VE WRITTEN..... reblog? pretty please? ☹️

fun fact: i've never watched any of the scream movies HAHA i'm just writing based off what i have in my head. (let me know how i did!)

@33-mrvl i know u were looking forward to this one, hope i did good 😉

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

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loveindefinitely · 4 months

Text

ghost and soap who don't know what to do with a sweet, innocent barista like you. [nsfw]

it starts when you first start working at the café a town over. just a shy, quiet-spoken girl, making coffee for the mysterious soldiers who come from the local military base.

when soap walks in one morning, expecting to find the kind old lady who runs the shop, imagine his surprise when he sees you bent over the counter, wiping it over with a damp rag. he damn near trips over his own feet when you look up at the sound of the bell, soft smile directed towards him. just for him.

when you ask for his order, it takes all of his focus to get the words out -- his own iced latte, and ghost's long black. all he can even think of is how your glossy lips would taste, or how your soft tits would feel against his bare chest. how your body would feel between him and simon, if the two of them were to ravage you in such a way.

that same night, when soap sneaks into ghost's room, he tells the man all about you between needy gasps. with johnny in simon's tight grip, the older man forces him to tell him everything, about what pervy things he had imagined. what he wanted.

when johnny finally spills over, it's with your name on his lips -- he's been playing it over and over in his mind since he first laid his eyes on your nametag.

it's two days later that an estranged man with a skull balaclava strides into your cafe, hands in his pockets. funnily enough, he makes the same order that the highly attractive scot had just a few days before.

when you hand him the two drinks with a bright smile, his gloved fingers brush yours, his voice low as he thanks you.

if your hand falls between your thighs later that night, thinking about your two new customers, then that's between you and your bedroom walls.

sometimes, weeks go by where you don't see either man. when that happens, you find yourself yearning to talk to them again -- to have their softened expressions filled with gratitude and... something else focused on you as you hand them their coffees.

even when they go, they always come back.

it's one thursday morning when, for the first time, both of them come in at the same time.

johnny's gesturing something wildly to his partner, while simon's hands remain in his pockets, patient expression solely directed at the shorter man.

and when both of them stop, to look at you?

if you were a weaker woman, you'd have fainted. you just ask them for their orders. you've already readied their cups.

after making their drinks, you move to hand them to the two, but a roughened hand around your wrist stops you in your tracks.

battering your lashes, you look up to find simon gazing down at you, something heated in his deep, brown eyes. when he leans down and offers you a day with them?

who are you to decline?

#⌨️ : love's writing #need them in a GUTTURAL way #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #soap x reader #ghost x reader #ghost call of duty #soap mw2 #soap cod #soapghost #soap x ghost #ghoap #ghoap x reader #soapghost x reader #poly cod

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agoofyannoyancetolaw · 5 months

Text

debt

a/n: a goofy lil graves post for my goofy lil graves enjoyers. If there’s any errors I wouldn’t know because I’m too tired to check

minors DNI

Too many drinks. Too many bets. Too many lost clients and personal savings going into shadow company- lead graves to something he promised never to do. Losing his pride, at a strip club no less, with only a cowboy hat and a black mask on, as well as some assless chaps and leather gloves, the feeling of his bare chest in the cold air of the club making the hair at the back of his neck stand up.

he could practically feel the burn of the eyes of people looking at him as if he was a toy or a pretty little housewife to take home- but he started to like it, having attention on him even if it was more as a showpiece then a commander, and the free drinks at the bar weren’t helping his ego.

he could hear some men whistle him over, to which he attempted to ignore despite it being his job.. his eyes instead focusing on you at the very back booth- one of his own men no less. And you were looking right back at him, blissfully unaware that the masked cowboy was your commander.

and of course, you had to whistle him over- he was just to pretty not to :(, his movement going from ego filled to nervous on minutes as he sat next to you, feeling your hand slide around his waist, and feeling you softly pull him onto your lap. He could feel your bulge against the thin jeans under his chaps, the warm sensation making him blush in embarrassment and humiliation but his member going hard none the less.

he felt so dirty. He wasn’t raised like this, let alone with one of his own men for some cash, but his mind couldn’t focus on that thought for too long as he heard you whisper “how much would it cost for a- private dance in my hotel room, hm?”.

your voice made him gulp- but money was money, so he agreed for a surprisingly low amount, hopping a cab with you and ending up laid out on the white sheets.

his hands clawed at the sheets as he felt you work him open with two digits, the cold lube on your fingers making him whine as you stretched him open enough that it wouldn’t hurt, before pulling down your boxers and sliding into him slowly, making him feel every inch until he was begging for you to move inside him, his voice muffled and whiny, slowly replaced with moans as he felt you thrust against his prostate and feeling your hands holding him down.

he could only imagine what his soldiers would think of him if they found him like this, being fucked by his own soldier for money while in a mask- his mind only snapping out of the thoughts when he felt you speed up, his walls clenching around you so hard as you bucked into him, your pace uneven as you chased your relief.

he came all over the perfect white sheets, ruining them and his torso with cum as you continued to thrust into him, finally finishing when your hips jittered to a stop and his hole milked your cock- him fainting right after from pure tiredness and waking up with money on the nightstand and your phone number scribbled on his thigh..

with the words ‘see you on duty, commander <3’ sprawled on his other thigh, making him blush a deep red as he realized you figured out who he was

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clockwayswrites · 2 months

Text

Masked

WC: 1054 CW: talk about slut shaming Phantom was the last person that Dick expected at his door, but there the other was. After almost three weeks of no contact, Phantom was back.

Phantom had disappeared; he did that.

Usually it was only for a few days, a week at most.

Usually it Phantom would still chime in on the group text.

Usually Phantom didn’t look so absolutely wrecked.

“Hey, um,” Phantom glanced away, as if that could hide how red rimmed his eyes were. The faint green glow just made the color all the more obvious. “I… sorry. Right, I know you weren’t expecting me, so if you have something else going on I can just…”

Dick just stepped back and held his door open for Phantom, who slipped inside.

“I mean it,” Phantom said. He was tugging on his sleeve. The end of it flickered, like a glitching screen, between various sleeves: his gloved suit, a hoodie, long sleeved, fraying knit. “You can tell me to go. I’m not going to crash your night if you, I mean, you might have invited someone else over or something and—”

Dick silenced Phantom with a soft kiss— both to silence Phantom and because he wanted to, needed to. The glitching was unnerving to watch and Dick just needed to know that Phantom was there and solid and real. Phantom’s breath hitched into the kiss.

Dick rubbed his hands up and down Phantom’s arms. His hands tingled. “Just breathe for me for a moment, okay boo?”

Phantom laughed, the sound worryingly hysterical, but he took an exaggerate breath and let it out slowly.

“Okay, good,” Dick praised when Phantom started to relax. “Do you need to eat anything? Or something to drink?”

“Something to drink,” Phantom said with a grimace like he was tasting something bad. “Sports drink or juice or whatever.”

“Sure.” Dick grabbed one of the little boxes of apple juices he kept in his room for when he needed a hit of sugar or woke up from nightmares tasting ash and blood.

Phantom speared the box with the little straw and sucked on it as he paced a little. He shook his arm not holding the drink out and the glitching finally settled into the fraying knit cuff. The rest of his outfit rippled and changed and the oversized, black sweater settled with a flop over green and white leggings. The empty juice box got crushed and tossed into the trash bin by the desk.

“Feeling better?” Dick asked. He changed stepping closer to Phantom. Sometimes the other seemed to crave touch and sometimes touch would only drive Phantom away. Dick was taking a chance that since Phantom came to him, touch would be welcome.

“Yeah,” Phantom said. His shoulders slumped and he started to pick at that frayed cuff of the sweater. “Sorry.”

“Okay, hey, boo,” Dick reached up and tilted Phantom’s chin up, “stop saying sorry. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I’m bothering you.”

“Bother away. I’m happy to have you here.”

Phantom tried to look away again, but Dick moved his hand up to Phantom’s pale cheek to stop him.

“Phantom, I mean it. I know that… I get that people say things about me, but I’m not actually a slut! And even if I were, because sure, we’re not exclusive or anything and haven’t talked about that, you’re still my friend and that means you get to bother me. You’re my boo.”

Phantom gave a little scoff at that, but finally there was a smile pulling at his lips. Dick had to lean in and press a quick kiss to the corner of that smile.

“I’m sorry,” Phantom said and then quickly followed up, “and not about that. I wasn’t trying to… imply you were doing anything wrong? Or were a slut or whatever?”

Dick shrugged and smile. “It’s fine.”

“I think maybe it isn’t really fine,” Phantom said. “Do people really say that about you? Like, in a bad way?”

“It’s maybe been a thing, and comments in that… realm. I guess if you wear a skin tight suit and have an ass as good as mine…”

“It still doesn’t give people permission to harass you. One, an outfit isn’t consent and two, most of us run around in a skin tight suit!”

Dick smiled sourly. “Yeah, but I’m friendly.”

“Do I have to go haunt people for you? I will. I’ll scare them shitless,” Phantom said, and Dick believed that he would. He was starting to drift up off the ground. “They’re acting like every creepy guy who ever thought the check out girl was flirting with them because she was in customer service mode. That shit is not okay!”

“No haunting people,” Dick said, even if it was tempting. “It’s just what people think. I mean… you thought that I was…”

Phantom landed back on the floor. “N, no! I thought… I just guess I figured if you were doing this stuff with me that you liked it, the feeling of it, and so that maybe you had other people you liked to do it with too. Like you said, we never talked about it, not past that I’m clean and can’t catch anything like that and you said you were clean too and— wow, I’m rambling. I didn’t mean it as anything bad, N, I just wanted to, you know, let you know I wouldn’t get in the way of anything.”

“Why are you saying ‘me’ like you’re some sort of bad catch?”

“What?” Phantom blinked. “No, look, that’s not the point of what I was saying. I just want you to know that I’m not judging you or looking down on you if you were fucking other people—”

“I’m not.”

“What?”

"I’m not sleeping around with anyone else right now,” Dick said as clearly and evenly as he could. This felt like risking everything, but he needed Phantom to understand. “That’s not what I like to do. I get that you don’t want to take things further, not while I’m masked, and we don’t have to, really, but when I’m with someone, I’m with them, not anyone else. You’re the only one I think about.”

The way the almost blue blush rose on Phantom’s cheeks was really beautiful, but Dick kept that thought to himself. He’d already said too much.

--- AN: Muse said that we were writing more of this, so who was I to say no? They're starting to clear some things up between them! But where will it go? And what had Phantom so upset?

Zero percent proof-read and I am very exhausted so sorry for any word salad. (Hopefully it came across but 100% full support on ethical non-monogamy and people who want to have fun with sex having fun. Dick- in this fic- is just very dedicated, even if it's to his 'fuck buddy'.)

#dp x dc #death defying #danny/dick #masked

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lycheedr3ams · 11 months

Text

Choke on It ~ (part 1)

Fem!reader x hard!dom!konig

MDNI! NSFW!

Part 2

This is complete filfth and probably the most sinful thing i've ever written. not proofread

TW: gun kink, mean konig, hard dom konig, choking on his massive dick, slight masochism, hair-pulling, mask kink, swallowing his cum, lmk if I missed anything

(I'm not sure if a gun kink counts as dark content, so just be aware of this. Always use safe words and enthusiastic consent! Don't try this stuff at home.)

A few weeks ago, you told Konig that you'd like to...experiment in the bedroom a bit. He was usually a little rough, given his massive size and strength, but his words and the way he looked at you was always so gentle and loving. And you were fucking tired of it. You wanted him to just use you like you knew he could.

"I just want you to be really rough, for once," you explained to him one night. "I know you can use me however you want. Please, just do that."

His eyes widened in surprise, with a hint of worry. "Are you sure, Liebling?" he asked, concerned. "I don't want to hurt you."

You looked him right in the eyes as you said, "That's exactly what I want, Konig. Show me that I belong to you. I want you to do anything. You can even... bring a gun into it. I don't care."

His breath stopped for a moment as he stared at you like a deer in the headlights. This massive beast of a soldier, who has killed so many people, is frightened by your words.

"If...if that's what you want...." he said nervously. But he couldn't help the excitement that started to blossom in his chest at the thought of finally being in control in the bedroom for once. He was always so willing to submit.

"Just surprise me, okay baby? Really, nothing is off the table."

Konig nodded and thought hard for the next few weeks.

.......

You didn't think it would happen tonight. You were just laying in your shared bed in you and Konig's apartment when he came back from maintenance training during his time off. When you heard the door shut as he entered, you got off the bed and happily walked up to him with a smile.

"Glad you're back from work," you say as you wrap your arms around his massive frame. But he doesn't hug you back. You look up at him, confused. "Are you all right? Did you have a bad day?" you ask.

His sniper hood was still on, and he was wearing the more casual camo pants and a tight black shirt, still drenched with sweat from his workout. He looked down at you without any emotion in his eyes.

"Kneel," he commanded with a low, raspy voice.

You looked up at him, blinking in confusion.

"Did you fucking hear me?" he asked as he looked down at you.

You gasped. "Y...yes. I was... just surprised, is all," you say as you begin to sink on your knees. Before both of your knees can even reach the hardwood floor, his gloved hand tangles tightly in your hair, and he pushes your face right into his crotch. You can smell his musk through his pants.

"You fucking wanted this, so you'll take it," he growled from above you. "You know what to do."

You look up at him with wide eyes before nodding and quickly undoing his belt and sliding the zipper down. Before you can even reach to pull him from his boxers, you can feel how hot and hard he is.

"You're so hard, Konig," you observed. He pulled your hair, and you yelped in pain.

"I didn't tell you to speak, now did I?" he said punishingly. "The only time your mouth should be open is when you're choking on my fucking cock. I haven't got all night."

Your heart fluttered in your chest at his words. This is it - this is exactly what you wanted, and you felt shame as you could feel yourself drenching your panties. You quickly pulled his hard length out from his sweaty boxers, and the scent of his sweat almost made you faint. You pumped his thick, hot length in your hand before roughly pushed your hand away and shoved your mouth down on his cock with his thumb and index finger prying your mouth open. Tears instantly sprang into your eyes from the sting of his entire length shoved into your mouth so quickly. You could feel his thick, hot tip poking the back of your throat.

He groaned above you and shoved your face down so that your nose brushed against his pubes. You coughed and sputtered with him still in your mouth, and he shook his head at you.

"Come on, you're used to my length by now, are you not?" he mocked with a teasing smirk hidden by his sniper hood. "Fucking. Take. It." He commanded, each word punctuated by a thrust of his hips into your throat. His cock touched your tonsil each time and you couldn't stop choking. He roughly pulled you off his cock by your hair and stared down at you, shaking his head as you choked and spit dribbled out of your mouth and onto the hardwood floor.

"Fucking pathetic," Konig spat. You looked up at him, hoping for some sort of comfort from your normally loving boyfriend, but only saw a demon in that moment. "Relax your throat, yeah?" he said before suddenly shoving your mouth onto his wet cock again. You were more prepared for it this time, but nothing could stop your gags when he thrusted past your tonsils. He pulled you off his cock again and let go of your hair as he reached for something tucked in a back pocket.

Your eyes widened as you coughed when you saw him holding the hand-gun that he always conceal carries. He stared at you as he turned the safety on. But it was still loaded. You looked up at him, and he almost felt pity before he harshly reached down and dragged you back to your knees by your hair.

"You're going to fucking take it, and not choke, do you understand?" he commanded as he held the end of the gun right against your head. The cold metal poked into your skull, a contrast from the warm fingers of his gloved hand in your hair. You gulped as you look up at him. He shoved the gun deeper in your skull.

"I asked you a question," he growled as he bent over you.

"Yes! I understand!" You squeaked as you nodded.

Satisfied with your answer, Konig shoved you on his length again. One hand holding the back of your head and forcing you on his cock, the other holding the gun that was shoved against the side of your head. You felt completely powerless as he thrusted deep into your throat and groaned above you. You hollowed out your cheeks and wrapped your tongue around him, trying to focus on that rather than your gag reflex and the gun against your head.

"Scheisse," Konig hissed. He looked down at you and saw your heavenly face: your nose shoved right against his pubes, the tears flowing freely down your cheeks, and your throat bobbing as you struggled to take him.

"All you need is a gun to your head to make you behave, is that it?" he teased as his cock twitched. "I know you're so fucking wet right now. This is what you asked me for, remember?"

You closed your eyes as you tried to nod with his length halfway down your throat. Spit was dripping down your chin and down your throat, and Konig laughed at the sight.

"So desperate for this cock, aren't you?" he teased further. He suddenly stopped thrusting and instead used your hair to move your head up and down his cock, your lips wrapping perfectly around his thick length. You could feel one prominent vein slide against your bottom lip with each stroke. You sucked hard on his tip each thrust, and he began to tremble.

"Don't fucking stop," he said as he gripped your hair tighter. The tingling pain of having your hair pulled was almost just as unbearable as his cock down your throat. He dropped the gun and placed his hands on either side of your head as he thrusted into your mouth at a frantic pace before he came loudly down your throat. You could feel his hot cum spurting and sliding down your esophagus. He finally pulled you off of him, and you nearly collapsed on the floor as you gripped your throat, coughing loudly and with spit dripping down your chin.

Konig took off his sniper hood and sat on the floor with you. He placed his hands on your shoulders and squeezed gently.

"My love, are you okay?" he asked with worry plainly laced in his voice. "I hope I wasn't too rough with you..."

You shook your head, your throat unable to form words. You offered him a tired smile as you placed your hand on his thigh.

"Oh, you can't speak?" he asked as you shook your head "no."

"I'm sorry, Liebling, here," he picked you up easily and set you down on the couch. Part of you wishes he would throw you around the living room too. "Let me get you some water." Konig disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water, which you drank gratefully. He sat next to you and you cuddled close to him as he gently stroked your hair and undid the knots he created.

hehe

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evermoreal · 4 months

Text

it always leads to you ࿐

pairing: simon riley x reader

genre: dad’s best friend au, fluff, smut, a touch of angst

cw: smut - this is 18+ minors dni, age gap (ghost is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s), fem!reader, reader is implied to be shorter than ghost, unprotected sex (bad idea!!!!!), praise kink (excessive use of ‘good girl’), oral (m & f receiving), face-fucking (he’s gentle abt it), ummmm a man that is Not ghost makes unwanted sexual advances, small mention of blood (someone gets a cut on their forehead). please lmk if i missed anything !!!!!!

summary: coming home for the holidays is both a blessing and a curse — cheesy music, bittersweet nostalgia, and simon riley, your father’s best friend and the man you’ve had a stupidly big crush on for years.

author’s note: hiii!! um a Few things . firstly, i seldom write smut & when i do i never post it. i have put off posting this for so long bc i was so nervous — it was originally meant to be a christmas gift to u guys 😭😭 n e ways we Prevail. also i despite being Obsessed w him i’ve never written for ghost !!!! i want to do soo much more for him & the other cod men, so if u have any reqs/ideas, my asks are always open !!! love u guys soooooo much i hope i enjoy ! 💋💋

word count: 11k (sorry 😭)

credits: title is from tis the damn season by taylor swift, and the beauuuutifullll render/edit of ghost is by user dwisesz on twitter!

before you met him, you’d heard endless stories. for as long as you could remember, your father recounted tales of his friend ‘ghost’ from the army. every time he came back from deployment, there’d be something new — ghost’s snipe from 2,700 meters away, ghost making your dad laugh so hard beer came out of his nose, ghost making a new recruit cry simply by staring at them.

there were others, of course, too; gaz, who your father had quite the soft spot for; john, who quickly became your favourite when you met him a few years ago and he snuck you a sip of wine at dinner; soap, who was new to the team but had enough passion to carry an entire army on his back.

ghost, though — he was your dad’s favourite. though he claimed to be too honourable for favourites, the way your father spoke about him made it clear. a simultaneous respect and affection woven through every recounted story.

it was a shock you didn’t meet him until your freshman year of college. your father and ghost’s leave fell around the same time, and your father had invited him to stay with your family. your father never revealed much about ghost’s history, but you knew it was dark and splattered with blood. he was alone now, and though he claimed he preferred it that way, he’d accepted your father’s invitation.

from your bedroom, you’d heard the front door creak open, and without so much as a breath you were bounding down the stairs, bare feet smacking against the hardwood. your father was in the midst of putting down his bags when you threw your arms around him. “dad!”

he reciprocated immediately, pulling you tightly against him. “hi, honey. i missed you.”

as you pulled back, he patted your head, and you spotted a shadow along the floor. following it toward the still-open door, you found a broad, menacing figure, blocking most of the sunlight. he was nearly as wide as the doorway, and the top of his head just barely made it under the threshold. over his face was hidden by a black balaclava with the faint impression of a skull along the front, faded with age and use. despite the endless stories, you were immediately intimidated, and stepped closer to your father.

your dad squeezed your arm, chuckling. “lieutenant, this is my daughter.”

looking between the two of you, simon took a slow step forward, and extended his hand. his movements were careful, like you were a wild animal he didn’t want to spook.

hesitating briefly, you slipped your hand into his. the warmth of ghost’s hand bled through the gloves he wore as he squeezed yours once. “nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

“it’s nice to meet you, um, mr ghost.” you had to crane your neck to look him in the eye.

a low, raspy chuckle rumbled from his chest, and beneath the balaclava, his eyes creased into tiny half-moons. “just simon is fine, love.”

and, really, he didn’t even give you a chance. there was no warning, no preamble. in an instant, fear ignited into something far more dangerous — attraction.

with a warm stomach, you smiled, and tried your hardest to keep it from growing too wide. “right. um. simon. yes.” you bit your cheek. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”

finally releasing your hand, he murmured, “terrible things, i assume.” his wink was quick and cheeky and certainly wasn’t meant to release a swarm of butterflies in your stomach, and yet . . .

“mostly,” you joked, and beside you, your father laughed. it was a rude awakening — ice water splashed over your silly little daydream. this man was only a few years younger than your father — in no universe would he give you a chance, and in no world should you want him to.

as quickly and as unassumingly as you could, you excused yourself, claiming you were in the middle of packing — which was mostly true. you were due on campus in less than two weeks, and if you didn’t start now, you’d leave it until the night before and end up forgetting something.

initially, you’d dreaded spending two weeks under the same roof as simon. it was a surefire plan to end up embarrassing yourself, because you’d never really been able to act normally around a crush, especially one in the shape of a 6-foot-whatever behemoth. yet, as the days went on, that dread steadily began to lift. despite your school girl crush, simon was easy to talk to. a lot of the time he was quiet, but his eyes never wavered from you, listening intently and humming where it mattered. he was fun, too — he recommended good movies, took you shopping while your father ran errands, taught you the best places to hit a man if one attacked you.

(a picture of simon, dramatically curled up in pain after you’d accidentally kicked him in the balls during a lesson now sits in your phone’s ‘favourites’ folder).

two weeks went by far too quickly, and before you knew it, your dad and simon were lugging your belongings up and into your dorm. not a single bag was left for you — you were tasked with the important duty of telling them what went where. when all was said and done, simon handed you a tiny piece of paper with a ten-digit number scrawled messily across it.

“in case you ever need me,” he explained, warm brown eyes peering at you beneath terribly long lashes. “i know your dad’s always there, but — just in case.”

then, he’d patted your head and squeezed your shoulder, murmuring a, “good luck, kid.”

and, though he was lovely to look at and talk with and exist around, you knew it would never be anything more. no matter how desperately a silly little part of you wished it. he spent time with you because he didn’t have anyone else. never had a daughter or a niece to spoil or playfight with. it was endearing, the way he interacted with you. wholesome and innocent and if that was all you’d ever get, you’d be happy.

— ∘♡༉∘ —

college was a lot. it was simultaneously the best and worst time of your life, passing by at both a snail’s and bullet’s pace. somehow, you ended up halfway through your final year. the holidays had rolled around, leaving you on a train, weaving over the tracks as you made your way back home.

in the years you’d been away, you’d kept in contact with simon. he joined your family for every holiday, and beyond that, you texted him often. sent him photos of your proudest grades, spirit days, or yummy meals. he’d even occasionally text you first, asking how your classes were going, if it was raining there like it was here, if you got home safe on the nights he knew you went out.

the landlord he’d rented his shitty apartment from ended up selling the place and simon had to relocate, finding a place only a few minutes from your dad’s. they loved to bug you, now — sending selfies and videos. to occupy themselves on their offtime, they’d opened a car repair shop together, and it only got worse.

you weren’t supposed to be home until tomorrow, but you were feeling homesick and your bags were already packed. before long, you were stepping out of a taxi, bags in hand, and ambling up to the shop.

the reception area was tiny, sweetly decorated for the holidays and playing some generic christmas station. leaning against the desk was soap, slyly flirting with the blushing woman behind it.

his eyes lit up upon seeing you. “the fuck’re you doin’ ‘ere, lass?” he questioned far too loudly. immediately, you shushed him, and he caught on. “ooh, i love surprises. they’re back in the garage, workin’ away. y’want me t’film it?”

giggling, you shook your head, accepting the quick side hug he gave you. when you slipped through the garage door — opening it bit by bit, never too quickly lest it creak, soap returned to the customer.

the garage was stocked with cars in disrepair and various parts you couldn’t name if your life depended on it. the stench of motor oil, cigar smoke, and antifreeze stung your nose as you made your way over, where simon was wheeled beneath a car, thick thighs flexed inside oil-stained jeans. your father was turned away from you, bent over a shoddy metal table table and observing an array of papers. an ancient radio sat next to them, croaking out a rock song from your childhood.

“one of these days, i’m gonna teach you to use spotify,” you called, voice bouncing off the cement walls and ceiling.

a bang proceeded your words, and in the same instant, your father turned around, exclaiming your name and wrapping you in the world’s tightest bear-hug.

“we were supposed to pick you up tomorrow!” he said, voice muffled to your ears beneath the suffocating squeeze of his arms.

“figured i’d surprise you,” you supplied, stepping back from his grasp once it loosened. immediately after, you were enveloped by simon, who stunk of grease, cheap cologne, and tobacco. you inhaled; it was lovely.

“my favourite college student,” he murmured into the top of your head. “how y’been, trouble?”

when you pulled away, a dark splotch caught your eye. a small but growing patch of blood stained the top of his balaclava, turning the black fabric a murky shade of brown.

“shit! you’re bleeding!” you yelped, stepping away from him and searching your surroundings — there wasn’t much for medical supplies in a garage.

beside you, your dad was laughing; a deep, wheezy sound. “did y’hit your head?”

simon grunted, shooting you a playful glare. “if college doesn’t work out, kid, y’ve got an easy spot on the one-four-one. you’re quiet as a mouse. scared the shit outta me.”

despite yourself, you snorted. “i’ll keep that in mind. d’you guys have any bandaids?”

“there’s some in the office. bottom drawer of my desk,” your father replied, voice tinged with amusement.

“thank you, dad. simon, come. i took a first-aid course in high school.”

obediently, simon followed, keeping just a step behind as you moved through the garage. from his table, john called, “we’re going out for dinner tonight, don’t make plans!”

“sir yes sir!”

simon and your father’s office was a small room just off the garage. carpeted, with off-white walls and dusty blinds letting in yellowish rays of sunlight. dusty photos hung from the wall; a few of you and your father; the 141; a german shepherd simon adored.

moving to the desk, you bent over and dug through the mountain of junk in the bottom drawer. the box of bandaids was shoved into the corner, bent and creased. simon copied your movements, rounding the desk and sitting on the worn desk chair.

“d’you know if you have anything to clean it with? hydrogen peroxide, saline, any kind of antiseptic?” you questioned, opening the drawer above it, which contained only invoices and a chequebook.

humming, simon stood, moving to the cabinet and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. at the roll of your eyes, he chuckled. “it works, doesn’t it?”

“i suppose it does,” you replied, collecting the fast food napkins you’d spotted while searching for the bandaids. then, after he’d sat once more, you softy placed your fingers at the bottom of simon’s balaclava. “may i?”

whenever simon’s eyes met yours, your breath hitched. every single time. whether it was because of that stupid crush that never went away or because his gaze were simply so intense, like an entire world existed within small pools of deep brown. pulling you in, drowning you. it was impossible to look away.

again, he hummed, granting you permission. gently, you rolled the fabric up, revealing his face inch by inch. this wouldn’t be the first time you’d seen his face — he spent far too much time around you to hide it. he still wore it more often than not, though, and every time he bothered to tug it off, it was like seeing it for the first time. roman nose, full lips, the scar across his brow, the prickly dusting of facial hair along his jaw. it was a shame he hated photographs — you’d frame it if you had any less sanity.

in your distraction, the tension had grown thick, humming in the silence of the room. clearing your throat, you took the whiskey from him, turning it over in your hands. “this stuff is shit.”

his face twisted. “how the hell d’you know what whiskey tastes like?”

snorting, you uncapped the bottle, and began to soak the corner of a napkin. “y’know, riley, i’ve been legal for a while now.”

his lip twitched, forming a crooked smile. “i know. it’s hard not to. y’keep growing. every time i see you, you’re . . .”

he trailed off. placing a gentle hand on his forehead, you tilted his head backward, and began to gently wipe at the cut. “i’m what?”

imperceptibly, he shook his head, careful not to jostle you. “more of a woman.”

you barked a laugh at that, and his smile grew. “more of a woman? what does that mean? i had tits when i met you, simon.”

simon rolled his eyes. “that’s not — what i meant. you’re . . . not a kid. you’re meaner now, for one.”

resuming the cleaning of his wound, you pouted. “mean? you wound me. maybe i’m just not scared of you anymore.”

“no, you’re not mean. always been a sweetheart.” his eyes fluttered shut beneath your ministrations. “you were scared of me?”

you giggled, and placed the bloodied napkin in the trash. then, you dug out a bandaid. “no, not really. nervous, maybe. intimidated.”

“is my handsome face really so daunting?”

this time, your laugh was lacklustre — he’d hit the nail straight on the head. “you’re bigfoot in a skull mask. before you spoke, i was a bit nervous.”

“but you’re not? now?”

peeling the parchment from the back of the bandaid, you met his gaze. “no. why would i be?”

this time, it was simon that looked away. you delicately placed the band-aid over the cut, before he said, “thank you, angel.”

you smiled, and, like you were drunk of the proximity of him, placed a quick, daring kiss to the band-aid. “if i wasn’t such a generous nurse, i’d say you owe me. you’re lucky.”

simon breathed laugh, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think the tops of his cheeks were pink. clenching and unclenching his jaw, he murmured, “lucky indeed.”

— ∘♡༉∘ —

in hindsight, believing your high school friends were capable of growing up was one of your less intelligent ideas. call it boredom or stupidity, but when a few of your old friends invited you out to the bar, you were compelled to accept.

it, unsurprisingly, went dreadfully. the first half of the night was fine — the first round of shots was purchased by one of the sweeter ones. you caught up over murky-coloured cocktails, swapping stories about your new lives and reminiscing over your old ones. the alcohol warmed your skin and loosened your limbs. the night went on and the amount of patrons doubled; you recognized a lot of them from old classes or bus rides or kindergarten friendships.

a boy from high school, one that hadn’t said a single nice thing to you in the entire four years, approached you with something that was supposed to be a smirk. you were polite at first, nodding along to his slurred words, exhaling when he attempted a joke. he dragged a hand over your thigh, and when you shifted away he easily followed. you excused yourself, muttering something about using the restroom, and he took it as an invitation.

“y’like it public, huh? never took you as the type,” he garbled, sliding off the barstool and following your movements. “i like whatever you like, baby.”

“no, i — actually need to pee,” you stated, glancing around the bar for your lost friends. he stared at you for a long minute, eyes narrowing.

“mm, fine. i’ll — i’ll pull up my car, we can head back to my place.”

“no, i—” you began, eyeing his sleazy grin and glazed-over leer. “i don’t want to go home with you. i’m not interested. i’m sorry.”

it takes a few moments for him to wrap his head around your words; each one spelled out across his face as it’s processed. finally, his expression twisted into a sneer.

“should’ve fuckin’ known not to waste my time with you,” he barked, unfocused eyes glaring daggers at you. “once a whore always a whore, huh?”

the most embarrassing part of this was the tears. you didn’t let him see them — too prideful to let them fall before you muttered a “fuck you,” and escaped out the side door.

the night air was freezing, twinged with the sharp bite of early winter. without a jacket or alcohol — you’d sobered up as soon as his hand touched your leg — to warm you, you were left hugging yourself, digging your phone out of your purse.

you could have sobbed when a red battery symbol lights up the screen, before flickering back off, dead. you just might have had you not spotted a pay-phone a few meters away.

there were only a few coins in your purse. had it not been kept for just-in-case situations like these, there would be none at all. shoving a few into the coin slot, you dial the number you’d had memorized from childhood.

it rang several times, wind whistling in your other ear, before your father’s voice stated, “sorry, can’t reach the phone. leave a message.”

a choked sound left your throat. what the hell were you supposed to do? most of your friends had split off into tiny sub-groups, and you were too ashamed to ask any of them for a ride. there was the option of asking a bartender to call a cab, though the idea of that was, for no real reason, profusely embarrassing. then, you remembered the one other phone number you’d memorized.

you don’t really know why — there was no reason for you to remember it, especially over any other phone number. yet, when he’d handed you that crumbled sheet of paper, your eyes had traced over the shapes of the numbers, and for some reason committed them to memory with no further effort.

whatever the reason was, you didn’t feel like questioning it. you were merely thankful you did. with cold fingertips, you pressed the digits into the payphone.

he picked up on the fourth ring. “who’s this?” was the greeting.

“it’s me,” you replied, and you barely were able to finish saying your name before he was cutting you off.

”what’s wrong? are you alright?”

huffing a quiet laugh, you said, “‘m fine, simon. i just—” you sighed, clutching the phone tighter in your hand. “i went out with my friends, an’ i—i’m just not having a good time. i tried to call my dad, but it’s past ten, so he’s passed out. i’m sorry—”

“where are you?” he asked, and there was a rustling in the background.

there were only a few bars in town—he knew immediately where this one was. “i’m on my way, i’ll be there in ten. are you in a safe spot, sweetheart?”

“i’m in a telephone booth. my phone died.”

“of course it did. would you be willing to go in an’ ask the bartender to use the phone?”

“no.”

“alright. okay. just stay on the line with me then, okay? d’you have any extra change, in case y’run outta minutes?”

”yeah. i should be good. i’m—listen, si, i’m really sorry—”

“if i hear that word come outta y’r mouth again we’re gonna have issues,” he said, and you laughed despite yourself. “‘m glad you called. now i’ll get t’see your pretty face.”

a girlish giggle sounded from your chest, and if it weren’t so damn cold, you might’ve been embarrassed. “i hate bars.”

“y’go to the wrong ones,” he replied. “one day i’ll take you out to one of my favourites. show you a decent drink.”

“my drinks are decent,” you argued. there was a whooshing sound on the line, and you panicked. “you’re not driving your motorcycle, are you?”

“didn’t have anything else with me,” he said. “y’got a problem with my harley, trouble?”

“your harley is a death machine.”

simon chuckled. “i’ll drive slow with you.”

“you should be driving slow now.”

another laugh. “i’ll be there in three.”

“simon!” you admonished. “you said ten!”

“that was four minutes ago.”

shaking your head, you said, “your lack of self-preservation should be studied.”

in the few seconds he took to reply, your teeth clacked together, and simon swiftly asked, “are you chattering?”

your lack of response served as one on its own, and he continued, “doll, what’re you wearing in this telephone booth?”

“um,” you started, chewing your bottom lip. “a skirt.”

“and a jacket?”

“uh.”

“christ,” he swore. “your lack of self-preservation should be studied. it’s not even 5° out.”

“jackets are a lot of work to carry around in a bar,” you argued, though you knew it was fruitless. “and i wasn’t really planning on spending any time in a telephone booth.”

“y’should always prepare for the worst,” he stated. “what if i hadn’t picked up, hm?”

“you always pick up.”

for a short moment, the other line was quiet, with only the quiet whoosh of the wind brushing past the speakers. then, “yeah, i do.”

the way he said it — so tenderly, like an admission — had any response dying on your tongue. your heart felt oddly warm, and didn’t quite know what to do with yourself, curling and uncurling the phone cord around your fingers.

“‘m here, trouble,” simon said, saving you from further awkward silence. a headlight glared against the glass of the phone booth, hallowing fingerprints and rain stains. squeaking out an, “okay,” you hung up the phone with a click and stepped out.

he was off his motorcycle already, immediately tugging off his jacket and wrapping it around your shoulders before pulling you against him.

“god, you’re a fuckin’ ice cube, sweetheart,” he said. he held you like that for a while, arms wrapped so tightly around your frame that you worried you’d morph into him. not that you minded — he was warm.

afterwards, simon cupped your cheeks, tilting your head upward as he examined you, as if you were ill or injured. furrowing his brow, he asked, “were you crying?”

you attempted to look away, ashamed, but in his grip it proved futile. “not much.”

“what happened?” he asked, and there was something in his voice, laced in the low rumble of it, that sounded threatening. it wasn’t meant for you, that was clear — he’d never direct anything hostile toward you. before he had even the barest idea of who or what made you cry, he was already furious at it.

“it’s nothing.”

“tell me,” he demanded. then, softer, “please. i just — need to know.”

moving your gaze from a far-off shape in the night towards his, you were unable to keep it from him. “i—this guy. i went to high school with him.”

a spark lit his gaze. “what’d he do?”

for a few breaths, you were quiet, trying to sort the words into something only mildly wrath-inducing. “he wanted, um, to take me home. i didn’t want to. he got upset.”

the spark caught, lighting his gaze into a furious blaze. even beneath the balaclava, you could see his jaw clench. he stepped away from you and set on a warpath toward the bar.

“simon—no,” you yelped, hurrying to catch up with him. it was a difficult task—your shoes weren’t comfortable and his long legs moved swiftly. finally, you caught his leather sleeve in your grasp. “don’t. please, don’t.”

at the sound of your voice, soft and warbled, he stopped, turning to face you once more, and whatever he saw on your face had his eyes softening.

“i don’t want to deal with him any more than i already have,” you said, staring up at him. “i just—i just want to leave. can we go to your house, please? i don’t want to be alone. i don’t want to think.”

the neon bar lights cast strange shadows across your frames, illuminating you in various bright colours as you stood, gazes caught in one another. simon seemed to fight with himself for a moment, fury and something far more tender battling for authority. the latter won out; he exhaled a long breath, hand cupping the back of your head and pulling you into him once more.

“let’s go, yeah?”

you nodded, following with your arm wrapped around his as he led you to the bike. attached to the back was an extra helmet, which he placed atop your head, adjusting it with a heady stare you couldn’t meet. the helmet smelled like pine and tobacco and vanilla and simon — it was everywhere, and you blissfully drowned in it.

when it was to his satisfaction, he tugged his gloves off and pulled them over your fingers. they were large and loose on you, and they were still warm from his skin. afterward, he pulled his own helmet back on, and held a hand out, helping you onto the back of the machine. large hands adjusted your hips, manhandling you into the right position, and it took everything in you not to make some sort of embarrassing squeak.

“okay,” he murmured, bent over your shoulder. “i’m gonna sit on the front here. you’ll have your arms wrapped around my torso, okay? and you’re not gonna let go, at all. yeah?”

you nodded. “mmhmm.”

“i need to hear your words, love.”

meeting his gaze for the briefest second, you repeated, “i won’t let go.”

“good. i won’t too fast with you, but if y’need me to pullover, just let me know, yeah?”

another nod, and this time he gave you a pointed look. “i’ll let you know,” you stated, lips just barely twitching.

with a gloved hand, simon pat your helmet and mounted the bike. after the briefest moment of hesitation, you wrapped your arms around his middle. even through the leather, he was warm; you couldn’t help but burrow a bit further into him. with merely a glance at simon, it was obvious he was built — far more than any other man you knew. to feel it beneath you, though, was an entirely separate thing. he was solid and unyielding but not harsh; a thin layer of fat kept him just soft enough.

“good girl,” he praised, patting the hands you’d entwined in front of his belly. you pressed your eager grin between his shoulders.

the motorcycle rumbled beneath you, and, slowly, he eased the gas, weaving through the tightly-crammed parking lot. just as he was about to exit the lot, he asked, above the exhaust, “you alright?”

“mmhmm,” you hummed, cheek pressed against leather. then, “yes.”

with that, he accelerated onto the road, joining the late-night traffic. the wind whistled in your ears and bit at your exposed legs; you pressed yourself further against him, and his back vibrated with the sound he made in acknowledgment. above, yellowish streetlights warmed the pavement and passing cars. gas stations and markets and various homes passed by in a colourful blur.

at a red light, while you sat still, simon’s hand came down, brushing over your knuckles in slow circles. the movement was featherlight and you wondered if it was unconscious — as soon as it flicked back to green, he moved the hand back to the handles without any acknowledgment.

the ride to his place was closer than it would have been to yours. simon lived in a small, red brick townhouse, far enough from downtown to be quiet, and close enough to access it without any hassle. he could afford better, though he opted for this because ‘it was all he needed.’ a stove to cook on, quiet neighbours, and a bed to sleep in — these were his only requirements.

steering the motorcycle beside the curb, he parked it there, and leaned backward into you. “how was that?” he asked. the world seemed strangely quiet without the hum of the engine.

“fast,” you said lamely, honestly. “not as bad as i thought, but i still prefer cars. they have walls. and heat.”

simon laughed, shaking his head. the sound echoed through his shoulders, which you were still pressed against. “when i get you a jacket i’ll make sure it’s heated.”

the idea of simon purchasing you a leather jacket to ride with him more often — it made your face heat up and your cheeks ache with a restrained grin. you were barely able to get yourself under control before he was sliding off the bike and offering a hand to you. even with his help, maneuvering your way off with mostly-numb legs was a difficult task. you just barely were able to land steady-footed on the pavement. as if simon knew this, he kept a hand on the small of your back as you walked up the steps to his home.

inside, it smelled like simon. pine, english breakfast tea, and something unique to him. the only thing missing was the stench of a cigarette; you knew he refused to smoke inside.

the decorations were minimal yet cozy; it was surprisingly neat. besides the pair he’d just kicked off, the shoes were lined up along the wall. you’d been inside very few times, and never long enough to observe. in the living room, the lamp was still on, bathing the room in warmth. there was a cup of tea on the coffee table, only a few sips left. beside it was a novel you didn’t recognize, dog-eared halfway through.

every detail felt important, like a glimpse into him. had the bar not left you feeling sticky and unkempt, you could have stayed here observing for hours. yet, your shirt felt suffocating across your chest, and the nape of your neck felt sweaty despite the earlier chill.

“um,” you began ungracefully. “do you mind if i use your shower? i feel . . . icky.”

his lips twitched at your choice of words, and he nodded. “yeah. lemme show you the bathroom, sweets.”

following him up the stairs, he directed you to the bathroom, pulling two towels out of his linen-closet. then, he said, “shower’s fuckin’ complicated. too fancy. lemme get it started for you.”

you watched as he ducked in, fiddling with buttons and knobs until steam danced over the glass doors. afterward, he looked back at you, peering at your figure. “that’s not very comfortable.”

you followed his gaze, glancing over your outfit. “well, no.”

he huffed. “i’ll get y’something of mine,” he stated, and made his way toward the door. “i’ll leave it on my bed, yeah? just down the hall. if y’need anything, sweetheart, just shout. i’ll be downstairs.”

giving a soft smile, you nodded and said, “okay. thank you, simon. really.”

“no need. i’d let y’live here if it meant never going to that fuckin’ shitehole again.”

“it wasn’t that bad of a bar.”

he gave you a dead-pan stare. “shite. hole.”

amused, you rolled your eyes, and pushed the door shut. on the other side, you heard a chuckle — the smile that bloomed on your face at the sound was unbidden.

it’d be a lie to say it didn’t feel strange to strip in simon’s house. the fact that only a few walls stood between you sent a strange thrill through you. it was in your best interest to ignore it — your heart and body had incredibly inappropriate reactions to the man, and tonight they seemed to be at an all time high.

he was being kind, nothing else.

once your clothes were peeled off and discarded on the tiled floor, you stepped into the shower. immediately, the warmth enveloped you, melting the tension out of your muscles and washing it away.

simon didn’t have much of a selection when it came to soaps. you were thankful he had a decent face wash, though — at least there were no three-in-ones.

the body wash smelled lovely — that dizzying, woodsy scent native to simon danced alongside the steam in the bathroom as you lathered it across your skin. though it was tempting to stay for longer, you didn’t want to waste too much of his water. you stepped out, and wrapped a shockingly soft towel around your abdomen.

the house was quiet when you stepped out of the restroom, clothes collected in your hands as you padded toward simon’s bedroom. this was the one room you hadn’t yet seen, though you could have predicted quite a bit of it. neat, minimal decorations. a king-sized bed because anything smaller wouldn’t fit him. folded atop were joggers and a sweatshirt.

it wasn’t a surprise you had to roll up the pant legs until they were ridiculously cuffed at the bottom. the sight of yourself in the mirror made you snort; you were drowning in simon’s clothes. butterflies swarmed your tummy, too—you were in his clothes, like you belonged to him. the train of thought was dangerous, you quickly looked away.

exiting his bedroom, you heard a quiet, continuous popping sound. padding down the stairs, you followed it into the kitchen where simon stood, collecting a bit of butter and a salt shaker.

though your steps were quiet, simon’s eyes were on you before you even stepped inside the room. his gaze swept your figure, dwarfed in his clothes, lingering just long enough for you to catch it before he was shifting it away, jaw twitching beneath his balaclava.

after a moment too long, he said, “hey, trouble.” his voice was low. “making popcorn. there’s tea.” he gestured with his chin to the counter where two mugs sat, one of which you’d gifted to him nearly three years ago now. a black cat was painted on the front, a grumpy expression wrinkling it’s little face (“it reminds me of you,” you’d said). in a significantly less interesting mug was your tea, several shades lighter than his black.

“thank you,” you murmured against the lip of the glass, wincing slightly when a sip burned your tongue.

“do you—” he began, taking the popcorn out of the microwave and pouring it into a bowl. “how’s a movie sound?”

you grinned. “it sounds lovely.”

“there’re dvds in the cupboard out there,” he explained, sifting the butter and salt through the popcorn. “take your pick.”

a snort. “why am i not surprised you still use dvds?”

simon raised a brow. “i spend half my life in barracks. netflix is a scam, love.”

“sure,” you said, grinning impishly. “grandpa.”

despite your teasing, his movie collection was vast. a lot of them you hadn’t heard of, though you picked out a familiar one, presenting him with your choice when he joined you in the living room.

“diehard, hm?” he gave a crooked smile. “tis the season, i suppose. you have good taste, sweetheart.”

“i know,” you stated proudly. “but you should keep complimenting me.”

simon huffed a laugh, and placed the disc in the dvd player. “i already feed your ego too much.”

making yourself comfortable on his couch, you agreed, “you really do.” then, when he procured a blanket and draped it across your lap, you snorted. “this isn’t helping.”

placing the popcorn between you, simon shoved a few pieces in his mouth, and said, “sorry, sweets. can’t help it.” his smile was lopsided and boyish, charming. the tv flickered on, basking the room in a blueish glow, before simon clicked ‘play’ on the movie.

together, you watched the opening scenes of the movie. a few jokes were muttered back and forth, but, other than that and the sounds of the film, it was quiet. the popcorn was delicious, lathered in an unhealthy amount of butter and salt, you shovelled it into your mouth.

the tea, too, was lovely. warm and sweet, and, combined with the comfort of simon’s presence, you were sleepily lulling back into the plush couch. with low eyelids, you tried to make yourself comfortable, manoeuvring your body this way and that. huffing, you stared down at the couch, searching for a decent position, when you spotted simon’s lap.

all muscled and soft, he’d make the perfect pillow. would he mind? you sincerely doubted he would. it was innocent, after all. you simply wanted to relax. the only one it might be awkward for was you, and if you could get past your stupid crush for a single hour, it’d be perfect.

after one more moment of doubt, you stretched yourself out and hesitantly laid your head on simon’s lap. beneath you, he tensed for a moment, and you just about thought you’d fucked everything up before he relaxed back into the couch. a large hand made a home on your back, running soothingly up and down your spine.

laying against simon like this — it was so peaceful. your mind hushed to a low hum as you nestled further into him, eyes trained on the screen. his fingers trailed upward, tracing a pattern on the nape of your neck and returning south.

the movie was entertaining, though you felt yourself slipping into sleep. occasionally, simon’s fingers would slip over a ticklish slip of skin, and you’d shiver, causing him to exhale a chuckle.

slowly, as your mind quieted, so did the sound of the film, until it was an unintelligible mumble. the world started and ended with simon’s thighs beneath your cheek, and his hand against your shoulders.

against your eyelids, the screen was bright, lighting them up uncomfortably. huffing sleepily, you pressed your face into simon’s lap, burrowing further in an attempt to make yourself comfortable. beneath you, something firm prodded against your cheek, and at once you were very awake.

simon, suddenly, stiffened. the hand on your back halted, fingers hovering over your skin before dropping away completely. “oh, fuck—christ, sweetheart, i’m so sorry. i’ll drive you home, okay? or—i’ll call a cab, if you’d rather that—”

“simon.” the word was firm enough to catch his attention, quieting him if only for a moment. your mind swam—a mess of confusion, lust, excitement, and need. when it proved too difficult to sift through, too impossible to cohere, you voiced the one word you could manage:

“please.”

though concealed by his balaclava, the reaction simon had was the clearest you’d ever seen. his breath hitched, chest rising and falling rapidly. his gaze, so dilated it was almost entirely black, narrowed on your face. it darted between your features, like he was searching for some sort of hidden meaning in your words, like he didn’t quite believe you.

in retaliation, your hand, trembling only slightly, came up and grazed the too-large tent in his trousers. immediately simon’s hand gripped your wrist, squeezing his eyes shut and inhaling sharply.

“kid—” he said then, and the word was wrapped in molten heat. it was gravelly in a way you’d never heard before, a rumble in his chest. goosebumps broke out along your skin. “don’t start something you’ll regret.”

“i’m not,” you stated bravely, daringly. you adjusted your position, only to face him better, and he did not let go of your wrist. you hoped he couldn’t feel the rapid thrum of your pulse beneath his thumb. “please, simon. i want this. i’ve wanted this.”

that snagged on something in his brain; caught his attention and held it. he stared at you, intense as ever. behind his gaze was a dilemma; a war you could only see traces of. after a few suffocatingly long moments spent beneath heavy tension, something won out, and the grip on your wrist loosened.

immediately, with years of want behind your touch, you grazed your hand over his clothed length once more. the breath in your chest stuttered when you grasped it, feeling just how big he was beneath your fingers.

a sound rumbled in simon’s chest; a groan of sorts. exploratorily, you tilted your head down, holding his burning gaze as you brushed your lips over his trousers.

“fuck,” simon cursed, hand grasping the back of your skull. he didn’t push or move you at all; he simply held it there, like he couldn’t bare to not be touching you himself.

the button of his trousers was difficult to undo with shaking hands, but you managed, pulling down his fly barely seconds after. with uneven breaths, you delved beneath the band of his briefs, pulling him up and out of the fabric.

the sight of simon’s cock was enough to get you off on it’s own; too thick for one of your hands to wrap around it, long enough that it bobbed against his shirt as you stared, too entranced for embarrassment. he was uncut, and there was a mound of curly, dirty-blond hair at the base, trimmed just enough to stay out of the way. you exhaled, breath ghosting along his length. the grip simon had on you tightened

again, you looked up at him. simon’s gaze was unwavering, as if looking away was some sin he was too pious to commit. it was then, as he gazed down at you with a burning gaze, that he seemed to read something in your expression. a pleading, a search for guidance. whatever it was, it had him speaking. “go ahead, sweet girl. get y’mouth on me.”

like his words triggered some sort of instinctual response in your body, your mouth was immediately moving. you licked a long, languid stripe from base to tip, revelling in the warm, salty taste. then, your lips wrapped around the head, suckling slightly before descending another inch.

“fuck,” he cursed again, hand moving in soothing circles against the back of your skull. “good fuckin’ girl. such a good listener, aren’t you?“

the words pulled a whimper from your throat. you released his dick for the briefest moment, a string of saliva connecting you, before wrapping your lips around him again, hollowed cheeks taking as much as you could manage. the fact that it was only half was disappointing.

“christ, angel. y’mouth is — heaven. fuck.” the choked sound of his voice only emphasized his point. when you made another noise, something between a whimper and a whine, he chuckled, and said, “like me talking to you like that? telling you how good you are? fuck, y’re so sweet. my sweet girl.”

moaning against him, you attempted to take more. betrayed by your gag reflex, you pulled back, choking, eyes glistening with tears.

simon cooed, hands cupping your jaw and thumb brushing over your cheek, wiping away a tear that’d escaped. “oh, angel, y’don’t need to take so much so fast. you’re doing so well. lemme show you. is that okay? can i help you?”

swallowing the excess drool in your mouth, you nodded, and his eyes crinkled with a smile. then, he was pulling his balaclava up, the seam stretched over his nose as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“words, love.” though his voice was soft, it was a command. “thought i taught you this already.”

“please,” you whispered. “show me how,” his face was close enough to see the thin wrinkles around his eyes, the soft dusting of a five o’clock shadow over his jaw. “wanna make you feel good.”

simon’s lips curved before they pressed against yours, all gentle and soft like you’d break if he were any rougher. it was inebriating to be treated so reverently, hands holding your jaw like you were something precious. simon made you feel like you were.

his lips moved languidly. he took control of it easily, guiding your lips with his own. he didn’t escalate it, didn’t shove his tongue into your mouth like so many other boys had. he kissed like he found pleasure in this alone.

arms tangling around his neck, you gently ran your nails over the nape of his neck, where fabric met skin. simon groaned, softly nipping at your bottom lip. you giggled.

as much as you adored this — you’d kiss simon for hours if he’d let you — you were getting impatient. you’d gotten a taste for him, and you were quickly becoming addicted.

when you pulled away, he let you, stare darting between your kiss-swollen lips and glazed-over eyes. he watched your gaze trail back down to his crotch, and chuckled quietly.

“eager thing, aren’t you?” he questioned, leaning in to press one last kiss to the corner of your mouth. “go ahead, trouble.”

you didn’t need to be told twice — keeping your head on his lap, you laid out on your belly, across the couch. his hand found your head again, and this time, he gently guided you forward, allowing your lips to find his cock once more.

“that’s it, love,” he murmured. he had you stay like that for a while, suckling contentedly on the head and lapping your tongue over his slit.

“if y’need to come up for air, tap my thigh, alright?” he instructed. you nodded, before correcting yourself, allowing him to slip from your mouth only to voice, “okay.”

simon exhaled, the sound shaking towards the end as your long laved the underside of the head. “good fuckin’ girl.”

though you’d blown guys before, this — simon — was different. something about him, his scent or the sound of his voice or simply his presence, created a haze that had your mind going cloudy. with your lips wrapped tightly around his cock, your world started and ended with simon riley.

little by little, he inched you down his cock. never too quick and never too much. in that moment, he seemed to know your body better than you. always stopping just before your gag reflex was triggered, just before your limit was reached.

“look at you, breathing outta your nose. you’re a natural.”

your breathy moan vibrated against simon’s cock; his thighs tensed, though he didn’t buck his hips or push you down. he continued his languid pace, inching you down only when you could handle it.

“so good,” he muttered. at this point you’d taken more than half of of him. breathing steadily out of your nose, you used a spare hand to grip the remaining length, pumping it in time with your mouth. “fuck. ah, angel, ‘m gonna cum if you keep tha’ up.”

spurred on, you hollowed your cheeks and took another inch, blinking away tears. his pelvis barely a few centimeters from your nose, now, and with one last deep breath, you swallowed back the rest of his cock.

“fucking christ—!” simon swore, pulling you off of him as gently as he could manage. you sputtered, coughing and sniffling as tears ran freely from your eyes.

“oh, none of that now, love,” he cooed, big hands cradling your jaw as he kissed away your tears.

“did i do something wrong?” you asked. your voice was raw.

“no, no. of course not, love. you could never do anything wrong,” he stated, pressing a lingering kiss to your hairline. then, he chuckled, warm breath ghosting along your skin. “‘m not as young as i used to be, pretty girl. ‘n if i’m finishing tonight, i want it to be in this sweet cunt.” to make his point, he cupped you over your panties, which had become embarrassingly wet over the last bit. sensitive, you whimpered, curling further into him and grinding down. “how’s that sound, hm? y’gonna let me fill y’up?”

vehemently, you nod, gripping the wrist that’d snuck up your skirt for support. “please. yeah, yeah. i want that, si.”

with shaking hands, you gripped the bottom of your top in an attempt to yank it off. swiftly, simon stopped you, one hand large enough to catch the both of yours. “mm-mm. if ‘m gonna fuck you, ‘m gonna do it proper. y’deserve better than a shitty couch, dove.”

in the next breath, you were swept up into simon’s arms, legs wrapped tightly around his torso. a high-pitched squeak escaped you and tapered into a laugh as he carried you up the stairs, towards his bedroom.

“such a gentleman,” you joked, toying with the collar of his shirt.

“i try’,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your palm when it cupped his jaw.

after closing the door behind him, simon gently dropped you on the bed. you giggled as you bounced, bracing yourself on your elbows and looking up at him. for a moment, simon stood, gaze locked on your frame, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“fucking hell,” he cursed, finally. “you’re a dream.”

“a dream?” you echoed, grin simpering into a smirk. “y’been dreamin’ about me, riley?”

in a single, fluid motion, simon tugged his shirt off. he was a mass of muscle, age just barely softening his edges. tattoos ran up his arms and across most of his chest, where hair the same shade as his happy trail grew.

“‘course i have,” he answered, like it was obvious. then, he kicked off his slippers and fit himself between your legs, arms bracing himself just inches above you. “making me act like a fucking teenager again, wakin’ up to wet boxers.”

the thought of simon having wet dreams about you made your head spin. dumbly, you blinked up at him, and found yourself unimpressed with the balaclava still covering the upper-half of his face.

“can i?” you asked, voice quiet enough you wondered if he’d even be able to hear it. his small smile, though, gave him away. he nodded.

little by little, you rolled the offending material upward, revealing every mesmerizing inch of his face. tossing it to the side, you took a long moment to admire him: the long blond lashes, the sloping scars, the light spattering of freckles, his crooked nose.

“y’so pretty,” you stated, honestly. rose blossomed across his cheeks and nose, leaving you with a wide grin. simon pressed a kiss behind your ear, though you had a sneaking suspicion it was to hide his face.

“think that’s supposed t’be my line, love,” simon replied, gently nipping your throat. as you giggled, he continued downward, kisses growing sloppier as they reached your collarbones. then, he pulled back, fingers slipping over the hem of your shirt. he met your gaze for a brief second, searching for the permission you’d always give him, and tugged it off.

left in only the lacy scrap the lingerie shop deemed a bra, simon stated openly at you. this time, it was your turn to squirm, hands instinctively reaching to hide your face. easily, he caught your wrists.

“no. no. i wanna see you,” he said, squeezing your arms once. “cover your face and i stop, alright?”

huffing, you kept your hands at your side, and he twitched his lips. afterward, he smoothed large hands across your skin, over your stomach and ribs, cupping your chest. “so gorgeous.” he squeezed. “fuckin’ hate the idea of you going out in somethin’ like this when i’m not with you. no more. if y’wearin’ this, it’s for me, yeah? no one else.”

biting your lip, you nodded, not trusting your voice enough to speak. simon disagreed with your decision, seeing as he pinched your side. “no one else,” you affirmed.

“good girl.” he drew out the words, eyes trained on your chest, before he was reaching behind and unclamping your bra with his fingers. sliding it off, he tossed it haphazardly into the growing pile of clothes on his floor.

simon wasted no time in resuming his assault on your skin, leaving a kiss here and a bite there. he swirled his tongue over your tits, paying special attention to your nipples, playing with one while he had his mouth on the other. little marks littered your saliva-soaked skin when he reached the top of your skirt.

one more glance at you and he was tugging it down, along with the flimsy nylons you’d worn. swiftly, he pressed an open-mouthed kissed to your cloth-covered cunt, easily keeping your hips down when they tried to buck.

the air was cold against your soaked cunt when he peeled back the fabric, pulling it over your ankles and discarding it on the floor. as had become his habit, simon took a moment to admire you. eyes blazing and turning the skin beneath it warm. your hands fisted the blankets as you resisted the urge to cover up.

“so pretty,” he said, moving backward down the bed and climbing off it. then, he tugged you with him, earning a tiny yelp, before kneeling at the end of it. “wanted t’taste you for fucking ever. y’gonna let me, sweetheart? hm? you gonna let me taste your sweet cunt?”

nodding, you squeezed your eyes shut and breathed, “please, simon.”

his fingers, warm and steady, trailed up your thighs, pulling a shiver from you. “spread your legs a little wider for me, baby. there y’go. good.” then, slowly, they inched towards your centre, spreading you open. you didn’t have to look to know he was staring.

all at once, his tongue was on you, licking a long stripe up your folds and over your clit. you moaned embarrassingly loudly, trailing off into a long whine when he didn’t let up. your fingers knitted themselves in his blond waves, tugging as gently as you could manage. he groaned in approval, the sound vibrating through your cunt and sending your back arching.

“fuck! simon,” you yelped. his hands held your legs apart when they attempted to close, overwhelmed by pleasure.

he slipped away from your heat only to say, “keep sayin’ my name.”

whining, you pushed his head back into you, and he chuckled, resuming his ministrations on your cunt. simon was talented with his tongue — something jealous burned you at the thought of how he got so good. the thought was quickly scrubbed from your brain, though, when he flicked the tip of his tongue over your clit, circling it once, twice, before descending again.

“please,” you whined, though you didn’t know what you were asking for. his pace had slowed, now, sloppily making out with your cunt like it was something he could worship. “simon . . . ”

the pleasure was inescapable; your body was torn between grinding down on his mouth and trying to wriggle away from it. it didn’t help that he was doing it so leisurely; tongue moving languidly through your folds and over your clit like it was for his pleasure instead of yours. that thought got you off all the more.

your legs trembled, winding around simon’s head and damn near suffocating him — not that he cared. when you glanced down, he was watching you, nose shiny as it brushed against your clit. simon smirked — you could feel the movement against you.

had you been in any other state, the sound you made as you tumbled over the edge might have embarrassed you. as it was, though, you didn’t have the mind for anything other than pleasure as your back bowed off the bed and your legs tightened around simon’s skull.

he was saying something — you only understood bits of it, but it sounded like a mindless litany of praise. “there you are, there we go. so good, so fucking good.”

he paired each praise with a kiss to your cunt until you were trembling from overstimulation, just pushing past the edge of too much. simon climbed up the bed and pressed wet kisses across your face; when he licked into your mouth and you tasted yourself, you moaned.

“you’re a fuckin’ vision, sweetheart. never knew you’d cum so pretty. y’gonna let me see it again? hm? y’gonna let me fuck you, baby?”

you were nodding before the words were even out of his mouth, snaking your arms around his neck and kissing him deeply. without breaking it for longer than a few seconds, simon moved the two of you further up the bed until your head rested against his surprisingly soft pillows.

simon groaned appreciatively when your nails scraped against his skull. you grinned, and breathed, “you like pain just as much as me.”

simon chuckled, biting your chin. “maybe. when it’s you.”

“what was that you said earlier? something ‘bout feeding my ego?”

another laugh, and he joked, “i’m too far gone, now, i think. i’m just here to serve.”

“prove it.” your lips curved into a lust-drunk smile. “fuck me.”

with one last peck against your lips, simon smirked, and said, “yes ma’am.”

he leaned over you, then, tugging open the creaky drawer to his bedside table and fishing around. “shit.”

“hm?” you hummed, following his gaze to the foil packet between his fingers.

“‘s fuckin’ expired.” simon’s brow furrowed, and he brought the packet closer, squinting. you grabbed it from him, tossing it on the floor.

“i don’t care,” you said, probably stupidly, but the thought of not fucking simon right now had something foul twisting in your belly. “want you.”

running broad hands over your legs, simon gazed down at you, like your expression would say otherwise. you rolled your eyes. “i’m clean. i’m assuming you’re clean, if your condoms are expired.” simon pinched your side, and you giggled. ”please? want you to fuck me, simon.”

simon exhaled, and shook his head, smirking. “yeah?” he asked, fingers trailing over your belly. “y’want me to fuck you? cum in this little cunt?”

“yeah, yeah. please. want that.”

his lips press against yours again, hands continuing their journey downward until he was exploring your sensitive folds. you whimpered, quietly, but simon caught the sound and tutted. “i know, sweets. but i’ve gotta stretch you. don’t wanna hurt you, right? not tonight.”

lubing his fingers up with your slick, he started with his middle, circling your hole before slowly pushing inward. your earlier orgasm had relaxed you already, and he was able to add a second in no time. he explored for a moment, pumping his fingers in and out, curling them upward until he found that spongy spot that had your head rolling back in pleasure.

“there it is,” he said, and though your eyes were squeezed shut, you felt his smirk against your skin; heard it in his voice. “that feel good, pretty?”

the answering nod you gave was shaky and sudden, hands gripping onto his forearm for dear life. “fuck me, si. please—want your cock.”

“i know, i know. one more finger, how about that? then we can give you what you need.”

with a groan, you nodded, and sent him a short glare. he snorted, and muttered, “so impatient.”

“been waiting for fucking years,” you argued, though your point might’ve been lost in the quiver of your voice. “‘m allowed to be a little impatient.”

“years, hm?” his third finger prodded at your entrance. “guess i should hurry, then. poor thing.”

the way you dug your nails into his skin was both in pleasure and retaliation. three thick fingers pumped slowly in and out of you, curling in a way that had your thighs shaking.

finally, he slipped the fingers from you, the whine you gave turning into a moan when he plunged them into his mouth instead, savouring every bit of you. “so fuckin’ sweet.”

when simon’s fat tip ran through your folds, you tensed, and questioned if three fingers would really be enough. “simon . . . ”

though his voice was strained, he stopped, glancing up at you. “yeah, sweetheart?”

“i don’t—” his tip ran over your clit ”—fuck, i don’t know if you’ll fit.”

simon tsked, the hand not controlling his cock coming up to brush the hair out of your face. “don’t gimme that, sweets. you can take it, i know you can.” he kissed your jaw. “i’ll make it fit, yeah? how’s that?”

shakily, you exhaled, meeting his gaze. truly, you didn’t know if it’d wavered from your face all night. his eyes were so sure — you could do nothing but believe him. it’d fit. you nodded.

“yeah, yeah. there’s my girl.” again, his lips were on yours, tongue licking into your mouth. minty toothpaste, tea, and cigarettes overwhelmed your senses as his thick tip pushed inside, swallowing every moan you gave.

when he’d made it a few inches, simon pulled back. “how’s that?” he questioned. “y’okay, lovey? want me to keep going?”

you couldn’t nod fast enough. there was a bit of pain, but the pleasure of the stretch won out easily. tangling your hands in his hair, you yanked simon back down for a long, messy kiss. really, it was more so a clash of teeth and tongue and heavy breathing than a kiss, but you digress.

by the time simon was fully sheathed inside you, it felt like he was in your fucking lungs. he gave you as much time as you needed to adjust, though the way his fists clenched and unclenched beside your head proved how greatly he wanted to move. digging one of the legs wrapped around him further into his skin, you urged him to.

“fucking christ,” he groaned. simon dropped his head for a moment, hot breath fanning over your neck as he slowly rocked in and out. “y’so fucking tight.”

“m’not tight, you’re just huge,” you argued, a furrow in your brow. simon bit the juncture between your throat and shoulder—you giggled, the sound delirious.

propping himself up on his forearms once more, simon slowly pulled out, leaving only his tip inside of you, before swiftly thrusting back in, setting a harsh, steady pace.

little high-pitched sounds came from your chest with every thrust, cock abusing that spongy spot inside you that lit fireworks behind your eyelids. with the way you were clawing at his back, you’d be surprised if simon didn’t look like he was mauled by a wildcat tomorrow.

“so good. gripping me like a fuckin’ vice. swear it was like you were made for me,” he breathed, teeth grazing over your ear.

sense had long since left you — you only nodded, murmuring back, “for you, f’you.”

maybe the way his cock kissed your cervix would have you cursing tomorrow, maybe the way your back bowed with pleasured tension would have you hunching over in the morning — you didn’t care. right now, your world consisted of simon’s searing brown eyes and the toe-curling pleasure he supplied.

“feels so good.” your words were breathy, punctuated with a tug to his hair.

“yeah?” he questioned, smiling lopsidedly. “good. gonna fucking ruin you. you’ll never be able to take another cock without thinking of me—thinking of how good i made you feel.”

shaking your head, you whines, “no. no one else. only you.”

simon growled, thrusting especially hard as he licked and sucked at your throat. “yeah. you’re mine, aren’t you? my girl.”

“yours,” you nodded. “‘m yours, f’rever.”

simon groaned out a slew of curses, cock twitching inside of you. one hand reached down toy with your clit, making quick, slippery circles. “want you to cum again, baby. ‘m not gonna last much longer and — fuck — i need t’see it again.”

you’d already been dancing along the edge — his thick fingers and raspy words were a harsh push, leaving you dangling by one hand.

your eyes rolled back into your head, and his other hand was swiftly gripping your chin, gently shaking you. “on me, love, keep y’r eyes on me.”

with great effort, you kept your hazy gaze on his face, which was twisted in the effort to stave off his orgasm. you whimpered, and murmured, “say it again. say i’m yours. please.”

“oh, sweetheart,” he groaned, head dipping into the crook of your neck for a moment before finding your eyes again. “you’re mine, ain’t ya? my sweet girl. yeah. an’ i’m yours — always will be.”

the second the words left his mouth, you tumbled over the edge. your entire body shook, curving inward and wrapping itself around simon like it was trying to burrow inside him. in the haze of it, you heard simon shout, before warmth was spilling inside your cunt, filling you up to the fucking brim. if simon wasn’t simon, you were sure the grip you had on him would’ve broken something by now.

when you came back to, the world was quiet — soft breathing echoed through your ears, his and yours indistinguishable from each other. simon’s head was buried in your neck, the weight of him just bridging the edge of uncomfortable. it was bliss.

eventually, he rolled over, cock pulling out with an equally disgusting and enticing squelch. his spend leaked out of you, dirtying his sheets. neither of you minded, it seemed — he easily pulled you across his chest, pressing his lips to your warm forehead.

“y’with me, lovie?” his voice was barely more than a murmur.

you hummed, hand moving upward to trace over his sweat-soaked chest. “i think so.”

a quiet laugh vibrated in his chest, breath dancing across your face. you smiled in turn, crooking your neck to gaze at him. keeping in theme with the rest of the night, simon was already staring at you — his eyes seemed to shine when they found yours, and his lips curled up in a rare smile. you were met with the embarrassing urge to take a picture.

“you’re a mess,” he stated, chuckling quietly as his eyes darted across your face and body.

narrowing your eyes, you pinched his pec, and his chuckle became a laugh. “a beautiful mess, sweetheart. ‘s the prettiest you’ve ever looked, i promise.”

you rolled your eyes, and argued, “‘s your fault.” then, attempted to sit up — though his strong grip on your shoulder kept you down. simon frowned. “where d’you think you’re going?”

“i need to pee,” you stated, and he let you up with a huff. “then i need to fucking shower, again.”

simon made a sound. “how ‘bout i run you a bath, hm? lemme do the work.”

smiling softly, you glanced back at him. he took your hand that lingered on his chest and brought it to his mouth, pressing kisses over your knuckles. “that’d be lovely.”

simon stood, and when you looked over him, you smiled. hair mussed, lips swollen, skin glazed in sweat — he was just as much of a mess as you. in a single movement, simon swept you into his arms. with a yelp, you clung to him, and he carried you, bridal-style, into the bathroom.

placing you on the lip of the bathtub, simon left for only a moment to dig through his linen closet, and returned with a wash cloth. after running it under warm water in the sink, he helped you up once more and gently ran it between your legs.

afterward, while you used the restroom, simon ran the bath, using that intoxicating body-wash as bubble bath. spotting his back, which was covered in bright-red scratches, you giggled, feeling only a little bad.

“i’d say sorry for y’back, but really i look no better,” you stated. hickies and bite-marks littered your skin, decorating your neck, chest, and thighs.

snorting, simon moved to look in the mirror, eyes tracing the pinkish abrasions trailing from shoulders to spine. “i’ll wear ‘em with pride.”

once the tub had filled, steam dancing around the mound of bubbles, simon, again, helped you up. his skin was warm, and if the bath wasn’t so enticing, you’d be tempted to stay here, pressed against him.

easily, he lifted you up and into the bath, following you not long afterward. it was a shock he could fit all of his limbs in the tub, even moreso when you could fit between his legs. it was a bit squishy, but you couldn’t have traded it for anything — laying against his chest while his hands ran up and down your body. thighs, stomach, chest, arms — he touched you softly, reverently, lips pressing behind your ear.

“did you mean it?” you asked. the quiet hum of your voice seemed loud in the silence of the room.

“mean what, love?”

swallowing, you played with his fingers, and supplied, “that ‘m yours. that you’re mine.”

simon exhaled, and you could feel the small curve of his lips against the back of your neck. “i meant it.”

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