kmi-02

[kmi-02]

My contribution for @blistersandbedrockzine ! It's a free to download zine, full of beautiful works, so go and grab it!🧨🔨

[kmi-02]

The Politics of Power - Chapter 3

Modern AU - Prof!Silco x GradStudentReader

The enigmatic Professor Silco takes you in as his student assistant. It's only one semester, just how hard could it be?

Chap 1 | Chap 2 | AO3 Link |

3.8k | Reader Insert | Eventual Smut | Slow Burn | Romance | Student/Teacher Relationship

Header by the wonderfully talented @pomegranatebat :)

Chapter 3

It had been three weeks.

You knew going in that the semester would be taxing, Professor Silco’s busy work in addition to your already immoderate classwork a challenge in itself.

You graded essays, tests, managed to teach a couple of his classes, met with students; everything you’d agreed to do over your numerous email correspondences and had been reaffirmed of on that first day.

You had been right, he was cantankerous; not old in age as much as old in manner, the stubborn refusal to adapt fully to the digital era spelled out in the piles of papers he laid on your desk each day to be graded by hand. The man owned a pricy laptop and was perfectly competent, could no doubt figure out how to move online if he so desired. He just didn’t want to.

It was who he was, you realized. A man who rejected change as if his very sanity depended on bowling through every expectation of him, flush with some rare sort of fire-eyed determination. Looked all the more as if he would burn the world over twice if it meant proving he was right.

And to the utmost misfortune of all those around him, he usually was.

Strange how you’d found you couldn’t get enough of it - something deliciously irate clawing wildly across the heated lining of your belly whenever that intelligence of his showed face. Whenever that tiny, sinister curl of his lips betrayed him, warning of an incoming putdown.

And he loved to put people in their place.

He rarely struck first but always had people marked, you’d noticed; was a cobra coiled delicately in the brush, waiting for his target to circle too close before he skewered into the only patch of exposed skin with precision and speed.

You he seemed to enjoy messing with most of all. You were certain, too, with your impregnable intuition that it had something, if not everything, to do with Vander. And if Vander and him were on the outs, then there was a chance he didn’t believe Vander wrote that glowing recommendation letter for you. So why had he hired you?

Not only that, but it was also the atypical errands you were running in conjunction with the usual work that had you speculating on whether or not he was punishing you, issuing you pointless tasks to waste what little time you had to yourself.

Once he’d had you pick up books for him at the library, a pain as the building was on the opposite side of campus. He had barely looked up when you’d piled them at the corner of his office desk, and you’d watched from your nook in the corner as they sat untouched, gathering a thin layer of dust before he bid you return them, unread. He’d had you draw out a lesson plan in detail only to scrap it last minute. Not to mention the two times he’d sent you down to the mail room to retrieve some expected parcel and you’d return empty-handed and sour, and he would chalk it up to simple oversight.

“Oh, don’t look so cross. I must have already grabbed it today, scatterbrained as I am. Simple mistake.”

But Professor Silco didn’t make mistakes.

Such small things were just innocent enough to pass over the head of a general observer, or perhaps to ascribe to a bout of forgetfulness. But out of a childhood of quiet instability grew a strong intuition, and you caught onto his scent quick.

It was late Friday, nearing the time that he’d normally force you to pack up, send you home for the weekend with a clipped word or two and a curt nod of his head. Your frustration felt a living, breathing thing today, prowling back and forth across your chest like a snarling tiger in captivity. A stack of ungraded essays sat before you, but it was hardly what you were focusing on.

Casual Friday. He wore a crisp black linen shirt, fitted snugly to his wiry frame, buttons fastened to the very top, only a slice of collarbone showing. The gold-cuffed sleeves were rolled up to his forearms as he worked. He wore pants of the same color; tailored herringbone trousers cut off just above the ankle, held at his waist by a black belt with a large, gold buckle. Glossy wingtip oxfords adorned his feet, which were crossed at the ankles.

His gaze darted up from above the hard brim of his glasses to snare your own and you stiffened, hotblooded embarrassment blooming in your chest as you swiftly looked away, hair falling blessedly to cover your expression.

It certainly wasn’t the first time you’d been caught.

Maddeningly, you’d found you couldn’t seem to keep your eyes off him for more than a few minutes, your gaze tracking unwittingly upward like clockwork, as if you and your fixation were attached to some sort of hypnotic pulley system.

Your phone buzzed and you hesitated before opening a text from your mom.

No hello. No how are you. Just a link guiding you to the University of Piltover’s Law School and a text.

Never too late to be a Piltie :)

Involuntarily, your hand clutched around the phone.

You felt the familiar sting, despite knowing there would be no payoff in attempting to please a mother who had never been satisfied with anything in her life. You could do just as she said: attend law school, become an affluent lawyer, but it still wouldn’t be enough. She would want you to be better. And there was always something better.

A prickling awareness hoisted you up from your internal strife and back into reality, your eyes ticking up from the pile of ungraded essays.

How could one ever get used to the shock of meeting that mismatched gaze? Invisible fingers gripped a tight fist of your lower abdomen.

“Yes?”

“You’re tapping your pen.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d scolded you on the matter – your aggravating little habits. Tapping your nails, bouncing your knee, chewing on your pen. Jitters only heightened by the presence of the other occupant of the room.

You turned back around, silent, unapologetic. Another minute passed.

“You’re drumming your nails.”

You hummed the affirmative.

“What has you distressed?”

“I’m not distressed.”

“You’re vibrating.”

“I’m breathing,” you said, becoming mildly annoyed by his persistence. You rolled your shoulders back. “Must have made the coffee strong today or something.”

The following long pause had your gaze flicking up once again to meet his narrowing one.

“So it was you then?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the brute who wreaked havoc in the break room this morning?”

You blinked.

“If by ‘wreaking havoc’ you mean I made coffee, then yes.”

Professor Silco exhaled, falling back into the soft plush of his desk chair, fingers propping at his temple, as if he’d been thoroughly defeated, teal eye fluttering closed briefly.

“There I was wishing on the culprit an untimely demise,” he sighed, “And it was my own TA.”

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“You do realize coffee is supposed to be a liquid, yes?”

“No one else seemed to have a problem with it,” you defended, but he remained unbothered, plucking the wire, rectangular frames off his face and taking his precious time searching the drawer beside for a cloth to clean them with.

“That’s because no one else was permitted the misfortune of tasting it after me.”

“You tossed the coffee I made for everyone?”

Professor Silco regarded you impassively beneath hooded lids, fingers languidly stroking the glass.

“And no doubt saved lives in the process.”

You scowled. “I’m not a barista.”

He adjusted the readers back on the bridge of his nose. “And thank goodness for that. Keep trying and you’ll make me a hero yet.”

There was something darkly amused twinkling in his eyes as he observed the annoyance tugging at the creases of your lips. But instead of allowing the moment to fade, he held it tight, and for each passing second, something pulled tauter between you as your own focus strayed, trailing to the long index finger ticking a light rhythm against his lower jaw.

Vander would be so disappointed in the way you held your tongue. Or would he? The man was a walking contradiction when it came to these things.

He loved to chant things like “Fortune favors the bold,” but the moment you dared shed that cloak of reticence and put a voice to that little flame in the pit of your stomach, you’d receive a look quite puzzling to you - one you thought spoke of an almost haunting, fearful recognition, as if for a blink of an eye he saw a ghost.

So, you just needed to keep your lid on and respect Vander for all he was - a brilliant professor and a good man, yet short-sighted.

Professor Silco shifted in his seat, crossing his legs. You thought, if it were possible, you could reach out and strum that humming connection in the air between the two of you.

You broke first, turning back to the subpar at best essay you’d been grading about the politics of warfare. And as the tension died, your thoughts drifted back to your mother.

Why couldn’t you be enough --No. You couldn’t afford to think that way. How could you ever be enough for a mother whose idea of success was an archaic set of rules, so rigid and stale, impossible to achieve.

You gnawed at the top of your pen as you stared out at the spined ridge of the Humanities building, etched with an eerie beauty against the backdrop of dusk.

Vander had so wanted you to follow in his sizeable footsteps; to mentor under him, become his little understudy. Take up that golden baton with his stamped seal of approval and climb the tallest mountain with it. He was trying. He knew where you came from. But he had his own visions for you and it was starting to feel like everyone had a pretty solid idea as to who you should be except for you.

“Do you plan on finishing tonight?” Professor Silco asked. “Or will I be forced to stay late once more on account of your musing.”

Your nose twitched in irritation as you stared out the window, contemplative before turning to him, the haughty way in which he regarded you down his nose enough to make your decision.

“Sorry, sir,” you said evenly, “I’ll be finished shortly.”

You got to work and didn’t look up until you were finished, until you’d offered nearly every student an extremely generous A.

Whatever game he was playing - if he wanted to clash at every turn, so be it.

~~~

The following Monday, you sat at your first department meeting staring so intently at the bulleted agenda in front of you that the dots began to blur together. You’d already given your little introduction speech, sighing internally when one of the more chipper professors insisted you simplify your existence down to your favorite extracurriculars and your favorite dessert.

Your gaze rose, the pen dangling in your fingers finding an absentminded home between your teeth as you watched Professor Silco lead the meeting, admiring his prowess. He wasn’t the type to open up the room, wasn’t a fan of your more Laissez-Faire approach of things.

No, he’d taken brutal hostage of the space as soon as he’d entered it, just as he always did in the classroom, a subtle but palpable hush falling as he’d prowled in like a lion on the hunt, lanky and unhurried, carrying with him a briefcase and a chilled breeze in his wake. He was in complete control at any given moment, his shoulders so taut it seemed a gale force wind couldn’t shake him. Cutting and often dismissive, but with a peculiar stroke of charisma and unmistakable competence that oddly softened the blow of his incivility.

He liked, no needed to be at the helm, that much was a given. He was stingy with his praise but positively reinforced just enough to make those below him covet those rare moments of graciousness. He was a master, a savant at wielding power to its highest effect.

And you couldn’t get enough of it, the thought of that vie for dominance sending a shock of heat slithering between your legs.

Only when he caught your eye did you realize the bite force you were impressing upon the poor pen in your mouth and you let up, tongue poking out distractedly against the top, expecting his gaze to float on. But it hung there for a moment too long, dropping to your lips almost imperceptibly before flickering away and immediately stealing another glance as he continued to speak, never breaking.

That terrible pull you felt to him - did he feel it, too?

Something dark and impulsive sunk its claws into your animal brain and delicately you pressed your lips to the side of the pen, almost as if in thought. His gaze immediately found your lips again and with a careful inexpression, you darted your tongue out lightning quick, licking a short stripe upward. Your thighs clenched just as his jaw did. And you wondered if you were the only one who heard that slight waver in his tone.

You whipped your head back to the paper in front of you, feeling dizzy suddenly as he started to close out the meeting, but the chime of your name had you jolting to attention minutes later. You stared wide-eyed at Professor Silco.

“I know you requested floor time at the end.”

You most certainly had not. You froze as chairs creaked and the full attention of the room turned upon you.

“Me?” you said stupidly, feeling a blush track across your cheeks. He allowed the moronic question to marinate in the hushed room.

“I just-“ you said, mind frantically throwing out nets to gather your wits. “Yes. I just wanted to say…” Professor Silco’s lip jerked cruelly. “Sorry- sorry, I’m not quite used to being on this side of things yet.” There was murmured laughter and you plastered what you hoped was a sheepish grin on your face. “All I wanted to say was thank you for allowing me to join you this semester. And Professor Silco,” you motioned to him, “I really appreciate the time you’ve taken thus far to accommodate me. I’m more than excited to work alongside every one of you. Thank you.”

What a load of crock, and you couldn’t appear more of a bootlicker if you tried, but it seemed to elicit a positive response.

Everybody filtering out slowly, Professor Silco scrutinized you quietly from the head of the table as you packed up, like you were some rare creature yet to be captured and studied. You stumbled in your haste to the door; grateful he didn’t call you back.

~~~

Fuck.

That had been so reckless to tempt the hands of fate like that. It was hardly anything, what you’d done; he could just as easily have not seen it at all, that brazen little tongue flick, his reaction just a making of your own imagination. And if he had seen it, well, it was nothing more than another one of your silly habits, chewing pens. But oh, had you felt it, and the feeling lingered yet, the dizzying headiness of that second glance, the tight, telling clench of his jaw.

You wanted to toy with that slice of power - couldn’t stop thinking about the way he commanded the room, how his fingers danced through the air like leaves on a breeze. His snakelike retaliation, your forced counterattack.

It had you squirming in your tiny office hours chair that day, the ache between your legs pulsing and persistent, no students showing face to offer any semblance of a distraction. Probably your own fault, tossing all those A’s out like free candy.

Office hours came to an end and you sat for a while longer, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm into the dappled desk as you contemplated.

How were you going to manage for an entire semester?

By dealing with it, sweaty and shamefaced in the privacy of your own apartment, that was how. Sighing, you made your way out of your office and down the hallway to Professor Silco’s.

Entering quietly, you hardly spared him a glance, taking a seat at your little desk and reaching for your paper tray, hand stilling when you found it empty.

“I’d hazard you’re looking for these,” Professor Silco said, lazily lifting the stack of ungraded essays. You swallowed the dryness from your throat before turning politely, fingers clasping in your lap to calm the nervous bounce of your leg. “I can give them to you.” He stood, grabbing the separate graded pile you’d laid on his desk last Friday in the other hand, giving you a pointed look. “Granted we brush up on the rubric again.”

A lazy saunter toward you might as well have been a sudden dead sprint with the paralyzing alarm you felt as he neared. A tall shadow fell across your seat and you became keenly aware of just how damp the fabric between your thighs really was and you crossed your legs, face heating as if you’d been entirely on display.

“I fear, despite our numerous correspondences predating your arrival here, you’ve already stopped pulling your fair share.” Your hands grew clammy, heart a clanging steel drum. “Did you not read these at all or have you always been so charitable?” You craned your neck up at him, hands dropping to frame the outsides of your thighs, mooring yourself. His eyebrow quirked. “A’s for everyone.”

“Not all.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you’re right. The long-winded atonement essay apologizing for not having had the time to complete said essay you gave a B+.”

Your eyes darted between his, trying to get a read. “I thought they all did a decent job.”

“Lies.” You opened your mouth in retort. “And I think you know that,” he purred and you nearly pitched forward from the shiver that danced coolly down your spine. “How is anyone supposed to hone their critical thinking skills when they’re rewarded for such drivel.”

“It was the first essay of the semester.”

“So you were doing them a favor?” You pressed your lips together. “Did you even read these?” He tossed both stacks of papers onto your desk.

“Yes.”

“I know. I saw.”

You studied him carefully. Then why accost you? “I’ll do better,” you murmured, gingerly taking the stack of papers.

“Speak up,” he commanded with a sharp tone, and you shot him a vicious glare.

“I hope you’re not cross with me,” you said before you could put a halt to your rashness, rearranging his own words steadily back to him, “Scatterbrained as I am, simple mistake.”

The irate furrow of his brow contradicted the tilt of his scarred lips, and for just a blink of a moment he looked terribly wicked as his features darkened.

His voice grew deceptively quiet. “I believe you dropped something earlier.”

He reached into his pants pocket and your eyes widened as he revealed the pen. You must have dropped it in your haste to leave earlier. Unwarranted confidence cracking, you went to go snatch it from his hands with a muttered thanks but he held tight, stepping forward until the narrowed toes of his oxfords were inches from your boots.

You were stock still, focus falling to the laces of his shoes before dragging back up to meet his shrewd gaze above you, his eyes glittering as bright and sharp as swords. He was so close – close enough you could stretch out your arm to run it across that shining brass buckle.

“Let go,” he coaxed, your tight-knuckled grip loosening on the pen until your hand hovered uselessly in the air. He offered you a tiny smirk of amusement.

“You know your Gods and monsters. Tell me, do you know of Proteus?”

Your free hand dropped to dig its fingers into your knee. Old man of the sea. Yes, yes of course you did, but you couldn’t free the words from your throat, trying in vain to speak as your jaw worked. You nearly choked when the pen in his hand found a starting point at the hinge of your jaw before dragging down the soft curve, descending beneath your chin to lever it upward in a slow nod.

“Smart girl, of course you do.”

A sharp burst of an exhale at the unexpected praise and he slid the pen across the smooth, sensitive curve of your jawbone – up to tickle beneath your earlobe then down to the point of your chin, swapping sides.

“Proteus’ power came from his ability to change shape at will, to be precisely what a moment required him to be. He knew all – past, present, future. The answers to life’s most poignant questions. Yet he answered to no one. Why is that?”

The capped pen traveled upward to settle briefly into the divot between your chin and bottom lip as he waited patiently for an answer, regarding you as a hawk would a mouse in the grass.

You worked your jaw, waiting for your throat to unstick before you spoke. “You had to capture him first.”

He hummed approvingly. “A difficult conquest. Whenever anyone would attempt to seize him, he could simply change form. Lion, butterfly, a serpent, he could become water to elude grasp. He was wise – knew which form to take in order to fool.”

You gazed up at him, utterly lost within the low timbre of his voice, every satin word slithering down to the growing, aching wetness between your thighs.

“Unless," he continued, "As you said, you captured him. Held him fast.” Your eyes fluttered as he slid the pen up to move around the border of your lips as he went on, tracing the two mountain peaks of your cupids bow lightly before swooping an arc around the bottom.

“If anyone succeeded, and only one ever did - he’d grant them profound insight, answer any questions they asked of him. Even the simplest of truths.”  The pen slid up to press against the plushness of your lips in the same gesture you’d performed earlier, effectively shushing you.

“Tell me. Who was it that wrote that letter?”

You dug your fingers painfully into your knee, mouth unconsciously parting against the pen as your eyes darted between his, the accusation fully in the open. And you weren't normally one to fight when the tides had turned so clearly against you, but a wicked excitement was growing steadily, a snaking suspicion gaining tread as his eyes glittered dangerously down on you from above. That he was enjoying this little game of yours.

So, with a tiny quirk of your lips, you finally answered.

“Vander.”

<3

Everyone PLEASE go check out this amazing art of Professor Silco that my darling @deny-the-issue did for this fic. I am losing my absolute marbles over it and they are so incredibly talented. Give them all the love! Fellow ratfolk, I hope you enjoyed! This chapter was a grueling one to write so please, if you feel so inclined - reblog, like, leave a comment or some nice tags. It really does mean the world to know people are enjoying.

Thank you to my wonderful beta readers @sherwood-forests and @x-amount-verbs for talking me through my anxieties surrounding this chapter and for the numerous others who put up with my chaos. I love you all so much and couldn't be more grateful for you.

Yours Truly, Sulty

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[kmi-02]

Disarmed

[kmi-02]

lieutenant price fucks nasty fr (18+)

clean shaven, and missing that smoker’s rasp from the back of his throat. he’s still got that twinkle in his eye, though.

he has more stamina. the movement of his hips are loser. his grunts aren’t as deep and he moans like a fucking pornstar as he bottoms out inside you.

head tossed back, adam’s apple working up and down his throat. sweat beads down the column of his neck and a few strands of his hair flop over on to his forehead. what a man.

you were laying at the very edge of the bed. john had one knee on the mattress as he gripped the fat of your hips with two large hands; the other leg remained planted firmly on the floor. he had leverage like this.

you whined loudly. his name, mostly. incantations of john! floating through your bedroom. he huffed and grunted in response, rutting himself into you hard and fast. your cunt sucked him in, the sounds of his thrusts graphically wet.

lieutenant john price was not the most vocal man on the job necessarily, but fucking hell, he was a yapper when he finally got his cock wet.

“you feel so good— pussy feels so good ‘round me,” he moaned, pulling you back against him to meet his thrusts. “made for me, weren’t you? pretty pussy like this was just made for me. made for my cock.”

the two of you weren’t even dating. maybe he was scared of commitment. maybe the idea of a girl back home while on deployment scared him. it became too real, then. this game of life.

but he was more than happy to talk about your cunt and come inside you. you cooked for him sometimes, too. and he slept over most weekdays off.

“you lovin’ this, sweetheart? you love my cock, don’t you? love my cock in this tight— fuckin’— pussy,” john uttered, punctuating with deep thrusts. there’s the john you know and love. cheeky, cocky. you wondered whether more time in the military will knock him into better shape.

but you nodded anyway. you nodded and nodded as he smirked down at you and fucked you into your mattress. you moaned, too— a preening whine as his cockhead knocked up against the best part inside you. your hands grabbed for him, anchoring, as he began pulling your climax from the base of your stomach. a fisherman reeling in his favourite catch.

your cunt drooled around him, puffy and wet. he’d spent the last hour kissing you there, sucking on your clit and burying his tongue inside you. he only stopped when he almost came, untouched, against the edge of your bed. he knew he wouldn’t have been able to live that down, no matter how hot you would have found it.

“you gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he whispered, leaning over you to kiss your cheek. wet and warm, he trailed his lips towards your jaw where he sucked harshly for a moment. he released, and then whispered into your ear, “be a good girl and come on daddy’s cock.”

you whited out. vision blurred, you came harshly around his cock, body spasming with sparks of pleasure from the very pits of your being.

your cunt clenched around him, arousal dripping out, smearing everywhere as he fucked into you, rutted into you like a man starved.

“yeah, that’s it. that’s is, baby,” he cooed, panting and grunting. then, he moaned, and managed to choke out, “mmohfuck,” before he pulled you closer to him and came inside you.

you moaned quietly, feeling the warmth inside you. and when he pulled out, you moaned again— this time, at the feeling of his cum leaking from your wet hole. you tried not to feel bashful as john stared at you from the edge of the bed.

the glint in his eyes made your stomach flip, and you were two seconds away from flipping onto your stomach and showing him your arse when you remembered something—

“daddy?” you smiled. “really?”

john shrugged with a smile. “seemed right.”

you laughed. “grow a beard and some greys and get back to me.”

“very funny.”

[kmi-02]

Phillip Graves, your handsome, friendly neighborhood asshole, has had his eyes on you from the moment you moved next door.

He helped you move in, of course. Helped you get situated, meet your other neighbors, and if there was anything that needed fixin', he was there to lend a hand. Or two.

Bastard's slicker than a can of oil; he has something up his sleeve, you feel it in your bones, but it's that smile. It's the goddamn smile, the southern drawl when he says howdy and calls you darlin', and most importantly, it's the barbecue.

The fucking barbecue.

He calls it the Gravepit. His underground barbecue pit and the place where he makes magic happen. The first time he invited you over, you swore he put crack in his food, it was so damn good, but Graves laughed it off and said he had the magic touch. All while his eyes bore into yours. Intensely. And he sent you on your way with leftovers to last the next couple days.

The next couple of times he had you over, he needed you to be his taste tester. Don't know what for, his food is always delicious, but you accepted because free food and good company when in reality, it's because Graves wanted to sus you out and plan his next moves accordingly.

And when he got the intel he wanted, realized that you were, in fact, as attracted to him as he was to you—no need to fight it, darlin'—Graves made his move. With the barbecue.

The fucking barbecue.

Long story short, he invited you over to sit and eat with him one Saturday afternoon. It started out with talking, talking turned into flirting, and flirting turned into you bent over the couch while he fucked you savagely from behind. And god, you felt better than everything he dreamed and stroked himself to, darlin'.

And that evening, when you were well and truly fucked, Graves fed you. Good, slow-cooked meat with all the fixins. Didn't send you on your way with leftovers this time. Hell no. Graves was gonna fuck and feed you until the cows came home, darlin'.

Told you he had the magic touch.

[kmi-02]

Thoughts on fem!tf141 and happy trails? Be it their own or on a partner?👀 I just love happy trails on women

Me 🤝 Fem 141

Loving happy trails soooo much!!! 👇

I think they all are absolutely team bush/body hair or at least very into their partner's personal preference in general tbh!

Price: keeps herself shaved, just because she finds it more comfortable during work- but on a long leave she lets it all go and FUCK if it isnt glorious. She loves a girl with a thick, dark, curly happy trail- likes to watch you reach up into cabinets and see your shirt lift up, drives her absolutely nuts!! (Puts her mugs on the top shelf and asks you to make her a cuppa, all on purpose) You cuddle after sex, she's got her fingers twirling in the hairs while she kisses your face and mutters about how wonderful you are, how lucky she is.

Gaz: seems like a trimmer kind of gal on herself, likes to keep it neat and shaped despite you begging her to let it all grow out. I adore the idea of her being ticklish, so you get to enjoy her happy trail AND hear her soft little giggles! Win-win! Gaz never ever ever goes down on you without kissing down that happy trail first, noses her way down before she gets to where you really want her. If you ever feel like she's too distracted with work stuff, all you gotta do is wear a crop top. Easy way to get her hands off her desk and where they belong: on you! She's also the kind to compliment your body hair before you can even think to be self conscious about it, thinks it looks so natural and beautiful on you unlike any man who's ever dared to comment on your body.

Soap: Soap lets it grow on herself absolutely and absolutely BEGS you to never shave yours because she's such a scent/hair person. (Let the trees retake the forest or however that phrase goes?) Laps at the coarse hairs while she looks up at you with her big puppy eyes, hands groping at your ass and thighs, wordlessly begging you to take your pants off because she looked at your happy trail for a second too long and got so horny she couldn't think.

Ghost: I am a pale blonde Ghost believer so I love the idea of Ghost having a LOT of body hair but it is virtually invisible. She's the shy one about it, tries to hide her stomach beneath her shirt, keep her pants on and just slide the strap over her jeans. You won't have any of that, not when she's just hiding her body hair. Once she's comfortable, whe's just as obsessed with your happy trail as you are with hers, she'll do anything for it. Groom it, washes it in the shower with gentle hands, etc.

P.s. Soap is a freak and she's fully going to pull on your body hair with her teeth because she likes how it makes you yelp in surprise and swat at her every time thanks for coming to my Ted talk!!

[kmi-02]

sorry I'm like.... obsessed with the idea of gaz just LOVING it when you're all soft and sleepy and clingy in his arms. not just because he gets to enjoy his little gf needy and wrapped around him like a little koala but also because he could do anything to you and you'd be whining and begging for it. there's been countless nights where he's had to mind you sleepily climbing into his lap and nuzzling your face into his neck, hips absentmindedly finding the ridge of his cock through his jeans and grinding until he's chubbing up in his pants. one of his arms is steady around your waist to make sure you dont fall, rubbing gentle circles on you skin to keep you in that dazed and half asleep state. the other one is under your skirt, pushing your panties aside and spreading you open so you're ready to take him and when you do, your head just lolls against his neck as you mumble his name half asleep. he thinks you're so fucking adorable like this while he's rocking into you gently. his cute little sleepy darling <3

AUUUUGH anon you get me, you are in my head, this is my lifeblood, omg,,

I don't read/write this as somno but gonna tag it as that just in case !

Gaz who loves you being sleepy because YES you are a little heat seeker and he is a radiator, a match made in heaven. Loves you being a heat seeker because he loves being physically close to you in any sense of the word. Loves you because you are his needy girl and absolutely loves to give you what you deserve.

You could probably cuddle for hours in that sweet spot between sleepy and horny, lights dim and AC on high while you're comfortable in bed. Get him in his PJ'S just because it's easier to feel his hard on through them- he adores the sweet feeling of holding you close, arms wrapped around you so he can grope at your chest, rocking himself up against your ass. Groans quietly, pretty lashes fluttering shut each time you grind your hips back for him. Neither one of you in a rush, just at a low simmer until finally you're soaking through your underwear and turning around under the covers so you can kiss him.

Gaz pulling away from the kiss and his lips are shiny when he smiles, breathlessly asking, "You ready, love?"

Everything still moving slow, soft, and quiet; the two of you only pulling off what clothes were strictly necessary as you straddle his hips. He takes the time to tuck up the covers over your shoulders to make sure the two of you stay warm while you line his cock up with your hole.

You lazily ride him, letting his length fill you slowly and you even take little breaks whenever your hips tire out or you want to just cuddle- the closest two people can be, him buried inside of you. Heartbeats so close together, him kissing your nose while you scratch gently at his scalp and shoulders- makes him groan in a different way, his body going limp beneath you.

"Gonna kill me angel," He whines, so you lift your hips and sink down on him again to make him gasp and grasp at you.

Tired smiles and hushed giggles, your fingers intertwining as he holds your hands as you pick up the pace.

"Gonna- shit, gonna make me cum like that, angel."

He's warning you- he would let you draw it out as long as you pleased, but maybe you're looking forward to your soon impending nap, maybe you're lost in the way his pretty brown eyes are rolling back in his head, maybe his little moans are getting the better of you- you don't stop riding.

"Yes, yes, ye-es--" His hips flex and buck up into you when he finishes, the both of you panting as you collapse on top of him.

He insisted he get up and clean the two of you off, which makes you whine indignantly, but he's swift and you're soon drifting off to dreamland, once again held in the warmth of Gaz's embrace.

[kmi-02]

I bet Gaz takes Ghost to get his first piercing.

Like Ghost grew up working class as fuck and getting a piercing as a teenager would have been a good way to get beaten up for being a fag so even though he always sort of wanted one it never happened.

Gaz meanwhile got his first piercing at a house party when he was 14. He's got a belly button piercing that nobody knew about until Soap caught a glimpse of it when Gaz stretched and it proceeded to nearly make Soap pass the fuck out from sudden and severe dehydration. And he sees the way Ghost looks at his piercings, he has fully clocked that this is a man who would never get a piercing even if he wants one from some sort of hangup.

So when Gaz wants to go get his next piercing he asks if Ghost will come. Asks if Ghost will get one first because Gaz is a little baby when it comes to this. And even if both of them know he's not and that this is his way of letting Ghost get a piercing, they do it anyway.

(And if we want the NSFW bit it is below)

Of course he's expecting this man to get something simple only for him to get a full view of Simon Riley whipping his cock out. Once it's all confirmed for placement they go to the bathroom first and Gaz gets hit with "won't be able to use it proper when it's healing, so if you wanted dicked down now's the time for it". And he just drops to his knees without thinking because holy shit yes. "Need t'be quick about it Gaz, stretch yourself open will you?". He's deep throating Ghost sloppy and fingering himself open and before he knows it he's being absolutely railed on the counter.

Doesn't remember getting the piercing much given the absolute skewering he got. Does remember watching Ghost get his. Proceeds to get tortured with the fact he now cannot get a repeat for the whole healing time. He gets so desperate and agitated that eventually Ghost drags Soap by the mohawk right into Gaz's lap and gives them detailed orders on what to do.

[kmi-02]

simon “gonna go home and fuck the missus” riley

[kmi-02]

poor lass

18+, afab reader, somno, perv soap

no thoughts, just best friend soap whispering in your ear as you’re doing mundane tasks, “if i were with you all the time, i’d never leave that pussy alone.” you could be working on base, sat in front of a computer and he’s leaning down to your level. his breath all hot against your ear. of course you couldn’t react, you had to be professional. but you couldn’t help but let your eyes widen, especially at his hand splayed across your back.

god forbid you make some off handed comment about how getting head is probably overrated (bc no ones ever given it to you before so you feel like everyone’s overreacting about it) and he just has to be the responsible best friend he is and show you how wrong you are 😨

“yer tellin’ me y’never got licked before? poor lass.”

sleeping over at your house without asking and sneaking into your room. you would wake up to wet noises and heat building in your core, your eyes peeking open to your best friend buried between your legs.

you wouldn’t even have time to question him or be startled before he’s dipping his tongue back in your cunt all over again, lips wrapping around your clit. any sounds of confusion would be immediately cut off by your own sharp moans and whimpers.

“oh, i know.” he would croon against your cunt, voice full of fake sympathy. “jus’ feels too good, huh? cannae even speak.”

you would feel him smiling against your soaked cunt as you squirm in his iron hold, his strong arms keeping you in place against his mouth.

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

[kmi-02]

cw dubcon (nudes shared without established consent)

Thinking about long, arduous missions in the middle of nowhere. Cellphones made useless due to hostile terrain, weather, what have you. The boredom that comes after meeting your basic needs. A bunch of sweaty, angry, bored men all stuck together on standby for their next directive- annoying each other, making each other laugh, a little bit of both. But the sun goes down, it gets a little colder, and suddenly it's easier to talk. They get nostalgic, talk about home. Family, childhood stories, dream vacations.

Then they think about women. Talk about their dream girls, get a little too descriptive. A little lost in their fantasy, eyes far away. They were a bunch of men facing a gueling but also frankly boring life or death scenario, packed like sardines in a little refuge- of course they would latch onto the dream of release.

Nobody's even got a bird back home, except for Ghost. That lucky fucker has you.

"Come awn, tell us about her Lt," Soap would try and goad him. They were leaned up against each other, shoulder to shoulder against the wall behind them.

It's a cramped little space between the four members of the 141. Legs tangled, shoulders touching, Price has an ashtray precariously perched on his knee for everyone to use.

Gaz doesn't bother to hide his interest, quickly backing up Soap. He's the easiest to work up, he's been half-hard for the last hour.

It isn't until Price meets Ghost's eyes, the glow of his cigar glinting in them- says, "Go on," does Ghost start talking.

"Prettiest girl you'll ever see. Sweetest thing, especially whenever I first get home. You can tell she cleans the house top to bottom right before I get home, she always smells like air freshener and cleaning solution. Can't cook for shit but she makes cakes that'll make your toes curl. I always feel bad, she gets me gifts for right when I get back, I never know what to bring home for her."

Gaz laughs, both surprised at hearing his Lieutenant sound so soft and offended he wasn't giving them what they really wanted. "Sounds like a lovely girl, yeah- Come off it, you know what we want to hear."

Ghost takes a drag of his cigarette, slow just to be mean. Just to make them wait, even a moment longer. "Does everything she's told, the perfect girl. Melts at just being told what to do, at getting praised for doing it well. You'd never be able to tell just by looking a' her, but she's a real filthy slag behind closed doors. Hides it under all her clothes. Also hides her perfect arse. Never seen something so fuckin'- biteable."

He holds his cig between his teeth as he pulls out his phone, pulls up photos of you he's taken himself. Photos of you fresh out of the shower, of your ass covered in bruises, pretty tits covered with bite marks and hickeys. Everyone's got their eyes wide, glued to the bright screen. They were happy with just words, but the photos certainly speak for themselves.

Gaz's thighs are flexing beneath his pants, adjusting the angle of his hips as he swallows, mouth suddenly dry. Soap was swearing under his breath, leaning so he could see as well as the other two could. Price unable to keep from letting out a low whistle.

"Likes getting slapped around a little. Likes taking control, just for a little in the beginning, 'cause she likes to have it taken away later. Had to teach her to not be shy asking to have her pussy eaten, but now that I got her trained with that I don't go a day without her asking. Insaitiable, grateful, sounds like a dream. She gets wet just from sucking cock, likes it when you fuck her mean."

Gaz forgoes any pretense first, gives up neutrality in favor of rubbing his palm against his hard-on over his pants. Ghost keeps swiping through his photos of you, pretty pictures of you on your knees, tied up and blindfolded. When there's a video of you kneeling at his feet, Ghost lets it play. They all watch your pretty wet eyes looking up at him- and you're begging for him, begging him to fuck you good as you nose at his cock, like you'd die without it- Price closes his eyes with a heavy sigh just to imagine it was him you were begging for.

"You should see her cum. Smiles when she does it, pretty doesn't begin to describe it. The way her whole body goes taut like a bow, how she crumbles after-"

"She squirt?" Soap cuts in hoarsely, and Ghost reaches over and pinches one of his nipples tight, making him wince and arch into the feeling.

"Yeah, she does. Only with my fingers. She said she didn't think she could, so I decided to prove her wrong. She was so shocked, overwhelmed- fuck- she couldn't talk for about five minutes after. But she's got a refractory period of about two seconds, and I've yet to have her reach a limit on how many consecutive orgasms I can give her."

Ghost swiped to another video, passed it over to Gaz and Price who hunched over it hungrily. Soap whined, went to move to try and see, but Ghost was quickly stopping him. Pulling Soap out of his pants and jerking him off without paying attention, focused on watching their other two men.

Price is spitting on his glove and fisting his cock, other hand fighting to remain steady as he held Ghost's phone. Gaz moves himself to a kneeling position, one hand on the ground for balance and the other touching himself, face forward to watch alongside Price. He's panting hoarsely, but it's drowned out by the sound of the video.

Ghost's fucking you while you're on your back, perfect body on full display. The camera misses nothing, captures every dip and swell of your form beneath Ghost, jerking up the bed at each of his powerful thrusts. They can see Ghost's free hand has his thumb rubbing at your clit, and you're tossing your head from side to side, moaning and whining wildly.

The real life Ghost leans back, stroking Soap in time to the video's loud, wet, slapping thrusts. His other hand slips down, cups Soap’s balls and squeezes, just so. "You know, leave is coming up. Somethin' my girl has always wanted was for a few people to take her all at once. Think you lot are up for it?"

That's all it takes for Soap's stomach to clench as his cock throbs and cum shoots out, head hitting the wall with the force he threw it back as he cries out.

Price comes soon after, growling and squeezing at his cockhead with his cigar clenched between his teeth. Cum dribbles out from between his fingers, messy as ever.

Gaz holds out the longest, eyes heavy lidded as Price continues to hold the phone for him. His hand moves faster, body heaving with his panting breaths. He watches until the video reaches your climax- comes at how everything said about your orgasm was true. Back bowing, hips flexing, cock shooting rope after rope of cum right on the ground with a keening moan.

"...Take that as a yes?" Ghost asks, smiling. His cock was hard, leaking, but left untouched. Ghost's mind was elsewhere- He knows what he's going to bring home for you next leave.

[kmi-02]

cw creepy assistant Ghost :3c

Ghost who gets an early medical discharge and has to find a civillian job so he becomes your personal assistant- filling the air in your tires, buying your groceries, filing your taxes, essentially a live in aid because you're a one woman law firm- a successful one, but you're way in over your head.

He's moved into your spare bedroom, you didn't need the space anyways. Makes it easier for him to fill your every need. You become so reliant upon him there's corners of your life you're not even aware he's managing.

Cooks you dinners, noting everything you do and don't like of his. It's a little strange how quickly he nails your palette, able to even make you things you'd never had before that you love. At least, it'd be creepy if you had the presence of mind to notice. You're just grateful to not be eating instant noddles and boxes salads like you had been.

He cleans your laundry. You're never home when he does it. You had also never asked him to do it, but of course he knows you need to be taken care of. Replaces your bras when the wire wears through the fabric, coordinates matching sets for you as some pairs of panties seem to go missing. Always lays out fresh, warm towels on your bed while you shower. Weird, you didn't hear him step into your room, but you're too busy enjoying the warmth of the towel on your cold, wet skin.

Decorates your house for the holidays. It's a welcome sight, it surprises you he found time to find your decorations in your attic. You hadn't even gone up there in years, a bunch of boxes were just childhood toys and family photos... and decorations, so you suppose it made sense Ghost would have looked up there.

Manages your schedule, which is constantly a rainbow of appointments. You get asked for your number at work or social events, you just give them Ghost’s. Ghost knows to fit them in if possible and you are so grateful he doesn't mind the strange task but... dates never seem to get scheduled anyways. You must be much busier than you realized.

Ghost is quiet. Absolutely accommodating and perfect at serving, but never in a way that truly felt like submission. Knew when to crack the right jokes, knew when to just excuse himself to his room when you were feeling particularly angry at a case. He also decides he knows when you need some.

Sees it by the tension in your shoulders, that worried furrowing of your eyebrows that doesn't seem to ever go away. The way he can hear you in your office while he's cooking in the kitchen, you slam down your phone with an angry, frustrated growl. He brings you your dinner, looking like it came from a 5- star restaurant, sets it down on an open space on your desk. You're too busy glaring at your computer screen to pay him much mind beyond a muttered 'thank you', but you see in your peripheral that he doesn't immediately leave like he usually does.

No, he's actually leaning on the desk as he's crouching down onto his knees. Your breath catches in your throat as the large man is suddenly making himself small, kneeling at your feet. His hands on the arm rests of the chair, turning you towards him. Intense eyes on you.

Words aren't forming in your mind, attention still halfway focused on the case you were working on. That distraction unraveled quickly as Ghost's big hands rested on your knees, skin so warm it was nearly hot. Spreading your legs slowly, the tight fabric of your skirt hitching up the further apart he pushed your thighs.

Your eyes fall shut the moment he hunches down further, stubble softly scratching your inner thighs as he breathes you in. He's a trained killer, you know his history, and when he starts to eat you out, you know for certain he's just as deadly precise with every other task.

After you've cum, thighs tight around his head and fingers curled in his hair, he quietly excuses himself. Makes no reference to it ever, doesn't offer it explicitly. All he does is quietly take control when he determines you need it, which you get used to relinquishing. He's efficient, dedicated, talented, and oddly professional about it. Doesn't try and push things further or take care of himself, despite the fat bulge in his pants each time he leaves you.

[kmi-02]

Ghost puts you in a headlock when he fucks you from behind because you get tighter when you're fighting to breathe send tweet

[kmi-02]

Simple Math / Part Fifteen

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader AO3 - 4.7k words Tags: 18+ mdni, nurse!reader, hospital setting, domesticity, feelings of anxiety, self doubt, anxiety about sex. PTSD. Tiny bit of a panic attack. Tiny smidge of Simon's past if you know where to look. Comfort. Cockwarming. Barebacking, anal fingering, masturbation, praise kink, daddy kink. Basically the guys fuck while Bunny watches.

You’ve been having dreams about the hospital.

It’s always the same one.

You’re running a code with an intern and a fleet of baby nurses. No one is moving as fast as you are, no one is following direction. You’re on fast forward, they’re on rewind.

Every time, the dream starts and ends the same way. For some reason, you can’t see the patient’s face. You work on them for what feels like hours, and then only once it’s been called does the mental block disappear, you look down-

To see yourself.

Intubated. Bruised and broken.

Dead.

“Bunny.”

“Hmm?” You glance up across the counter, feeling the focus of Simon’s eyes before you see them.

“Everything alright?” Pen babbles ‘moremoremoremore’ while making the sign at the same time.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He mimics Penny’s sign, and then gives her a yes, spooning more yogurt into her mouth.

“You’ve been standing in the same spot for the last ten minutes, staring into your coffee.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry… I’m just a little… scatterbrained this morning.”

“Still having that dream?” It’s been a week and a half since it started, and a few days since you finally confided in Simon and Johnny it was bothering you. “Do you think it might be related to going back to work this week?” You shrug.

“Maybe? I don’t know… I’ve never dreamed of working on… myself.” His jaw flexes, and then he sighs.

“I’ve been thinking…” Penny squawks, demanding the attention of the room, and you pull some blueberries from the counter and put them on her plate. “My therapist is taking new patients. I don’t want to push you before you’re ready, but I’d like you to consider it.” The grimace slides onto your face without preamble. Sure, you’ve considered therapy in the past, but it’s a risk. Mandated reporting, paper trails, everything you don’t need.

“I don’t need therapy right now.”

“You have PTSD.” He says point blank, and you blink. Your mind fractures, little pieces twisting and turning, trying to knit together a larger picture.

“No- I- I’m not… it’s…” You’re a medical professional, don’t you know what PTSD looks like?

“It’s hard to see, in yourself.” Simon senses the confusion and tries to soothe it away, cool balm on a burn.

You suppose he’s not wrong. It’s not unrealistic, you having PTSD, but you’ve never been confronted with it. Never been forced to face the truth.

No one’s ever known you well enough, to see.

It stings. It stings for some reason, and you don’t know why.

“I’m sorry.” He stands, moving around the counter to stand in front of you. “I want to help you, bun, but I should have approached that differently.” You shake your head, relenting into the steady hand at your back, and tip your face into his chest. The confrontation of the truth aches, but there’s comfort in Simon’s touch, understanding, and you relent to it, drifting away inside his tender hold.

“What’s goin’ on?” Johnny’s close, appearing in the kitchen after sleeping in. He was deep in his own dreams when you woke up, sweet like angel in the clouds, buried in the pillows, and you couldn’t stand to wake him.

Simon rumbles something over your head. You can’t make it out, ear covered by his bicep, and you turn your head to peek, reaching for Johnny.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

“Hi.”

“Why don’t ye come lay down wit’ me on the couch?” He coos, stroking a hand over your hair. “’m not quite awake yet.” Simon gives you a squeeze, and you nod.

“Yeah, okay.”

Johnny holds you close. His nose in your neck, fingertips carefully tracing over your skin, heat at your back, he calms you, comforts you, lulls your stiff muscles languid. He’s so good at it, pulling and kneading until you settle, and it dawns on you he’s had practice.

“Would you tell me about you and Simon?”

“What do ye want to know?”

“What was it like… in the beginning. When you got together.” He kneads your hip, thoughtful for a quiet moment, and then takes a deep breath.

“He was difficult. Didnae wan’ to let me in, no matter how hard I tried. Had to corner him in his room on base just to get him to kiss me.” Johnny chuckles low, rubbing your shoulder. “Took him forever, to break down, let me see him, really see him, for the first time. I had glimpses, here and there. Moments in the field, on base, at the bar with the team when we’d decompress but… it took a lot of work. He tried to push me off, hide away.”

“Why?

“It’s his story to tell ye, bunny. An’ he will, in time.” He sighs. “He’s always been like this, strong, steadfast, more serious than me, but he buried a lot of things, deep. Always was very aware of it, jus’ not willing to show it to anyone else. Wanted to be a ghost.”

“But… he’s okay."

“He’s okay. Has some moments where he gets lost, still, but works through ‘em, wit’ me or on his own.” He kisses your neck, soft enough to tickle, and you shiver. “He’s really good at this, bein’ a da, takin’ care of a family. Treats us all like his little unit. I miss him too much when ‘m away. Pen too.”

“I’m sure.” His lips graze your shoulder, humming.

“An’ ye. When I go back, I’ll be thinkin’ of ye all the time.” When he goes back. The idea is chilling, a douse of cold water. It’s felt so far away, the idea of Johnny returning to his job, the thing that brought you to him in the first place.

“But that won’t be for a while, right? I mean, you’re still healing.”

“It won’t be for a while.” He assures, though there’s something in his voice, pinched and pained. You don’t ask, don’t push, choosing to close your eyes instead, nestled in his arms, safe.

“This is the worst.” You’re whining. You know you’re whining, know you sound like a child, but it spills out of you without stopping.

“I know sweetheart.” Simon screws the cap onto a travel mug, giving you a sympathetic smile. They’re both up with you, before the sun, listening to you moan.

You shouldn’t be going to work at this hour. You should be awake, puttering around, working your rhythm back to normal, getting oriented to working at night.

You’ve never hated your manager more. She insisted she was sorry, that she had no choice but to fill the overnight shift. She assumed, she said, the new nurse would want to go to days when you got back, but she’s taken a liking to it.

She’s taken your shift.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad? An’ ye’ll see me tomorrow when I come in for therapy.” That is an upside at least, knowing you’ll be able to see him, see them both, at work.

But the rest of it, simply put, sucks.

“We should probably get going.” Simon kisses Johnny goodbye, and you’re drawn to them, sidling up in their orbit. Johnny wraps an arm around you, mouth to your temple.

“Have a good first day back, bunny. I’ll be thinking of ye.” You turn, grazing your lips on his, and he seals the kiss, drenching it in care, sweetness.

“Bye.”

Simon walks you all the way to the door.

Your resistance at the initial idea slowly fades as the sun peeks over the city. It’s different with Simon at your side, the paranoia and rampant fear infecting the atmosphere wherever you go is farther away.

You trust him. You’re starting to believe they may be able to keep you safe.

He holds your hand for most of the trip.

It’s… nice. Once you make it to the door, he turns and tucks his fingers under your chin, holding your gaze like a magnet. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.” He presses his lips to your forehead, and you lean into it, eyes closed.

“Have a good day, bunny.”

Work is absolute hell.

Dayshift is so different from nights, and you have trouble adjusting. The turnover rate at the hospital is fairly high, so when you badge in and get started, you hardly recognize anyone.

Except, Marshall.

He’s standing outside the pit when you round the corner, devilish grin aimed at one of the nurses you don’t recognize. New probably. Sheep in a lion’s den.

You clear your throat. His head snaps up.

“Well, well, well… looks who back from vacation.”

“Marshall.” You greet, barely looking at him, tapping through your tablet. “I wasn’t on vacation. I was out on medical leave. Big difference.”

“Right.” He takes you in from head to toe. “Rotator cuff, huh?”

“Mhmm.”

“Surgical?”

“No.” The other nurse watches you with interest, before scurrying away when a bell chimes. “Still having inappropriate relationships all over the hospital, I see.” He raises an eyebrow.

“You’re one to talk.” Ice cracks across your forced smile. He smirks. “Heard you’ve got yourself two boyfriends.” You suck your teeth. Nia.

“Considering he’s no longer my patient, it’s hardly inappropriate.” With the best timing, his phone rings, pulling his focus, and you slip away.

Fucking asshole.

Simon opens the front door for you and is careful not slam it closed.

“Penny asleep?”

“Johnny’s trying now. We’ll see if he has any luck. She’s been fightin’ it.” The kitchen smells like garlicky lemon, and you peek over his shoulder to see a large saucepan filled with linguini, capers, and shrimp. Your mouth waters.

“That smells amazing.” He takes your bag from you and hangs in on a hook from the hall tree.

“Scampi. We remembered you said it was one of your favorites, and we thought we’d spoil you a little bit. Celebrate your first day back.” Your cheeks burn hot, and to your horror, tears build up through your nose to your eyes. His brows crinkle together. “Hey, what is it?”

“That’s just… it’s really nice. You don’t have to.” Someone celebrating something with you, for you, is alien. The memories of the beginning of your relationship with Phillip are long gone, twisted and gnarled into black rot. It’s how he charmed you, wooed you, brought you closer and closer until they all but faded and you were left with only the darkness. The vice grip of his hands. His satisfied, sickening smile every time you closed your eyes.

“It’s not a ‘have to’ thing, sweetheart. We want to.” He skates his fingers over yours, pulling them to his mouth. “I know it’s hard to get used to.” You’re a little bewildered by it, the care, the consideration, even the memory of something you mentioned off hand.

“I… thank you.” He kisses your temple.

“Go shower. You smell like a hospital.”

“This was so good. Thank you again.” Your hands are woven together under your chin, rich wine sauce still present on the back of your tongue.

“Aye, thank ye.” Johnny winks at Simon, who rolls his eyes.

“Here, let me-“

“I got it.”

“No, you cooked.” You protest with a pout as they both rise.

“Johnny, sit.”

“Can wash dishes, ye know. I’m not helpless.” A sliver of twilight passes over Simon’s expression, not quite darkness but still full of a looming shadow until he sighs, relenting.

“Alright.” Your lips purse.

“What about me?”

“Ye jus’ sit on the couch and look pretty, bun. Willnae take us more than a few minutes.”

‘Just sitting on the couch’ lasts for all of five minutes before you’re antsy, rolling to your feet and padding into the kitchen.

You stop dead at the corner of the counter.

They’re making out. More than making out, Simon is swallowing Johnny’s whines with big breaths, his hand down the front of his pants. You buzz, thighs pressing together without permission, spine tingling heat awakening in your blood with zeal.

“Ah, shite-“

“Shhh. Be good.” Simon admonishes, but smiles into the kiss, wrist working a rhythm in Johnny’s sweatpants. He pulls away, chin tilted, looking down his nose with an eyebrow raised, almost condescendingly, but still grinning. “Feel good? Just need some relief?” Johnny’s moan is strangled in his throat, and you’re about to turn the corner in the shame, mortified you’re essentially spying on them, when Simon looks at you like he knows you’ve been there the whole time. “Like what you see, sweetheart?” You whimper. It slips out, unbidden, and Johnny turns, forehead pressed to Simon’s cheek. His hips are trying to jerk into the grip that has slowed, and he groans.

“Si.”

“Relax.” Simon stills him, pulling his hand free. “Maybe bunny wants to play too.” You give them a nervous smile, butterflies building in your stomach. You’re scared, there’s no other emotion to describe it. There’s fear, bad memories, anxiety building in the back of your throat, but at the same time, desire pushes you forward. You trust them, and it’s reached a critical point. You want to try.

“I… maybe if we s-started slow… I’m not sure…”

“That’s okay.” Simon coaxes, wrapping an arm around Johnny’s waist, hand splayed possessively on his stomach. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Their bed is an enchanted place.

There’s love in it, beguiling affection that transfers to you, dots down your throat to your chest, your clavicle, ass pressed into the hardened swell of Johnny’s cock.

It’s enough to strike down your fear, pry you open, lecherous want infiltrating your mind, your soul.

Their dynamic is crystal clear. Simon is natural in his mastery of both Johnny and you, the leader, the maestro. His forbearance at slowly peeling you free, layer by layer, puts you at ease, calms you enough you let him take your pants off, leaving you in only your underwear and the t shirt you put on before dinner. He folds you up against Johnny, careful to mind his sore spots, the pieces still healing, lips finding the plush fold at your ribcage.

“Sweet little bunny.” He glides careful fingertips over your panties. “Can I touch you here?” You draw a deep breath.

“Yeah.” Johnny’s lips graze your neck, and he sweep up over your belly towards your nipples, under your shirt.

“An’ can I touch ye here?”

“Mm- mhmm.” You buck into them, sensation building between your legs, lust cascading to where Simon’s fingers slip into your underwear and down the seam of your pussy.

“You’re wet, sweetheart. Is this for us?” You nod, Johnny tickling circles across your breasts, playing back and forth, pinching and stroking gently.

They’re both taking it slow, cautious, and there’s one half of you wanting to rip into them, and vice versa, while the other half is terrified. So far, the reckless abandon side is winning, but when Simon grazes over your clit, the crest of your fear bottoms out in the pit of your stomach. Johnny flexes his hips, the weight of his cock between the curve of your ass, and the combination of it, the touch now overwhelming, stream of thoughts turning panicked and unstoppable like a bolder rolling down hill, steals your breath.

In the wrong way.

“S-stop.” You freeze, immobilized, muscles turned from molten lava to stone, eyes wide, lungs rasping. Simon immediately creates distance, while Johnny jerks backward, palm steady on your shoulder, but separated otherwise.

“Ye’re alright, bunny.”

“Take a breath.” Simon coaches, maintaining eye contact, and you nod shakily, anchoring yourself to Johnny’s tender hold. You manage a breath, not so far gone you’re spiraling, and it’s deep, without a hitch or a studder. “That’s great. You’ve got it.”

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, disappointed. You’ve let yourself down, let them down-

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He murmurs, understanding and slow. “We’re done. There’s no rush.”

“No!” You blurt. He raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, I just… I don’t want it to end I’m just not sure I can… do it.” His head tilts, surprise contained with a slow smile, and Johnny hums.

“Do ye wantae watch, pretty girl?” You nod shyly.

“Is that… is that okay?”

“It’s more than okay.” Simon rasps, stroking your cheek. “Sit up against the headboard.”

The two of them move into position seamlessly, sweat and breath thick in the air, a wet fog blanketed around you. A bottle of lube discarded on the mattress, a pillow under Johnny’s hip to cushion him. He’s settled on his side, arranged carefully to avoid pressure on his injuries, and they both face you.

Simon kisses his neck, sucking urgent marks into his skin before he palms Johnny's ass, hard and then slips between his cheeks. You’re unable to see his hand, but when Johnny’s eyes go wide and he groans hoarsely, your clit throbs.

“There you go.”

“Simon.” He whines, high pitched and needy.

“Bloody tight, Johnny. Been so long since I’ve taken care of you, huh?”

“A- fuck, aye.” He presses backwards into Simon, and pants. The scene makes you drool, the eagerness on Johnny’s face, the slow movements of Simon at his back, his lips against Johnny’s cheek, neck, murmuring gently. You’re nearly shivering, ache screaming between your legs, and instinct takes over as your slip your hand inside your underwear. You’re slick, so wet it dampens your curls, and your fingertips slide over your clit, zaps of electricity echoing through your nerve endings.

Simon looks up at you through heavy lids, mouth obscured by Johnny’s shoulder. “Are you touching yourself sweetheart?” You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, afraid it will come out a garbled mess. “You want to come when I fill our boy up?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Keep going.’ He orders, and then shifts, pressing his cock to Johnny’s entrance. Johnny moans, and your own hips jerk.

Simon pushes slowly, focused on Johnny’s face, cataloging every expression. “Y’alright?” Johnny nods, lip tucked into his teeth. “Christ. You’re strangling me.” He thrusts sharply, sealing his hips to the soft curves in front of him, and Johnny cries out in a high-pitched wail, eyes slamming shut. He fumbles with his cock, squeezing at the root, but Simon pulls him away. “Not yet, sweet boy. Need you to last for us.” You’re trapped in a shockwave that hasn’t quite reached shore yet, tension building with each swipe over your sensitive bud.

“Bunny…” Johnny rasps, and your apprehensions wane.

“Does it feel good?” you whine, and he nods, groaning. Simon builds his thrusts into an unrelenting pace and cups Johnny’s belly, stroking down, pushing against the strain of muscle there, Johnny’s eyes rolling into the back of head. You wonder if Simon can feel it, the pressure, the bulge of his hard cock, shoving deeper and deeper.

“Daddy-“ Johnny shrieks, and Simon’s mouth curls into a satisfied smirk.

“That’s right, good boy. Fuck… perfect little hole f’me. All mine.” He practically growls it, and you writhe, flicking down your pussy and back up, breathing hitching in a frantic pace. Johnny’s delirious, hands scrambling across the sheets, half reaching for you, half reaching for nothing. “Isn’t he perfect, bunny?”

“Ah- yeah.” Your tongue is numb, body burning. Sweat slicks down the middle of your back, and you ride your hand violently.

“Please.” He’s begging, frenzied, fingers twisting, and Simon reaches for his cock, wrapping his fist around his length. It doesn’t take long until Johnny’s back bows, and your toes curl. You hiss. They move together wildly now, a push pull in a frenetic dance, and your eyes slip closed, sinking into the slick sounds of Simon fucking Johnny open, Johnny moaning, whispers passed back and forth. Simon cups his jaw, tilting his face towards you, and they both watch, drifting from your eyes down to where you’re trying to make yourself come, clit swollen and throbbing.

“She’s such a good girl, isn’t she? Touchin’ herself, watching you take my cock.”

“Pretty girl.” Johnny slurs through his gasps, body shaking with the power of Simon’s thrusts. He’s close, judging by the fevered look on his face, little gasps and whines tumbling from his mouth. Simon squeezes him, thick thumb rubbing over his slit.

“Come, bunny. Be good for daddy.” Simon coaches, and you tighten, cosmic explosion streaking behind your closed lids, the same time Simon grits out something under his breath, jaw tight, tugging relentlessly on Johnny’s cock until he’s crying out too, cum splattering up his belly and chest, Simon milking every last drop from his cock as he lazily strokes inside him.

Immediately, you gasp. Shocked at yourself, but not scared. Not nervous just… emboldened.

They both read it on you, and Johnny’s head lolls with a satisfied, lazy smile. Simon pulls free, rubbing Johnny’s hip sweetly, ducking into the bathroom to get a towel. He cleans him up carefully, gently, and Johnny’ reaches for your hand. You don’t turn away.

And when Simon urges you to tuck in between them for sleep, you do. More than willingly.

“He looks good.” Hot tea wafts from the cup in front of your nose. You’re on break, somewhat, watching Johnny work through his last few minutes of physical therapy, his face broken out in satisfied smile. His biceps flex. “Really good.”

“He’s been workin’ out at home, a bit. In the garage.”

“He shouldn’t be pushing it.”

“I know.” Simon squeezes your good shoulder. “He’s okay, bun. He’s strong. A bit too stubborn for his own good sometimes, but strong.”

“Dada.” Penny smacks an open palm against Simon’s chest, and he covers it with his own, bouncing her slightly.

“Look, Pen. Is that your Da in there? Is that him?” The therapist smiles at Johnny and pats him on the back, rubs his shoulder down to his elbow with wandering fingers. She’s pretty, and fit, tight ass, tiny hips. A sliver of self-doubt, self-consciousness pokes at you, and then jealousy nearly turns you green. Simon cocks his head with a laugh. “Easy, bun. She’s just doing her job, you know.”

“What? I know that. I’m fine.” You immediately blurt, and it does nothing for your cause.

“It’s cute. That you’re jealous.”

“I’m not,” you roll your eyes, “whatever.” He chuckles, and then starts to pass Penny to you.

“Can you hold her while I help him get his stuff together?”

“Sure, c’mere girlfriend.” You tuck her up into your chest, playing with her hair as she curls into you. “Sleepy huh? It’s past your nap time. I bet Dada keeps you up for an early bedtime tonight.” She coos. Her fingers tighten in the collar of your shirt.

And then a freight train rams itself in the deepest parts of your heart.

You lean against the wall to keep your balance.

This is not your baby, but she feels like yours. Her weight is familiar now. Her routines. Her signs and sounds.

It’s easy to close your eyes and imagine she’s yours.

It’s been days since you touched yourself in bed as Johnny and Simon had sex, and the scene, the desire, is burrowing itself in your brain.

You want more.

You want more so badly you wind up touching yourself in the shower, fingers stroking your clit until you're muffling a moan in your elbow when you come.

It doesn’t soothe the ache. You’re not sure what will.

So, when you’re done, and find them relaxing in bed, Johnny in boxers, an idea abruptly runs through your head.

Could you?

Your fingers twiddle with the hem of your shirt.

“Hi.”

“Hi?” Simon raises an eyebrow. Johnny stops his sketching to smile.

“I um. I wanted to… see… or ask for something.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing, I just… I was wondering if I could… sit on you.”

“Sit on us?” Simon’s brow furrows, but Johnny’s face lights up.

“Like, ye wannae sit on one of us?” He emphasizes the word sit, and Simon murmurs.

“Ah.”

“I just… I really want to… I want to move on.” The words take you by surprise. “I want to feel like a human again, like how I used to feel. Before I was like this. I think…”

“Taking back control of your body will bring you closer to healing.” Johnny looks at Simon, and there’s desperate sadness in their eyes. Their hands intertwine, gripping onto each other so hard it looks like it hurts.

The moment passes, gone like it was never there in the first place. Johnny turns back to you.

“Ye’ll have to sit on me, pretty girl.”

“But... your hip.”

“I can take it.” You nod. Not that you prefer one to the other, but you’re curious.

“Is there a reason why…”

“I’m too big, bunny. Especially if it’s been a while for you. We’ll need to ease you into it.” Johnny smirks, and you hide an excited shiver.

“Okay.”

You stretch yourself out with your own fingers at first, the process made easier by your orgasm in the shower, all the while both Simon and Johnny encourage you, coo at you, praise you.

You stay present. Focused.

“Take it slow,” Simon coaches when you straddle Johnny’s hips, “don’t rush it. Just take your time.” Hands on his shoulders, Simon reaches for his cock, sliding it through your lips, brushing your clit before angling it at your entrance. You take a deep breath.

“Okay.”

The first inch makes you whine. Johnny��s fingertips draw circles up and down your spine, his lips in your ear. “Good job, pretty girl. Just like that. Nice and easy.” Your eyes slip closed, and you take more, sliding down his cock, the burn of the stretch smarting tears in your eyes. Simon wipes them away.

“Our brave girl. You’re doing so well. Feel okay so far?”  

“Y-yeah.”

“Ye alright? Does it hurt?”

“A little.” You wince, taking another inch, glancing down. Your equilibrium pitches.

“Look at me.” Johnny redirects, head tilted back on a pile of pillows. “Jus’ look at me, bunny. You’re safe. I’ve got ye.” His hands guide your hips, keeping your pace even and slow, careful. Even when the anxiety invades your control, he steadies you. “It’s us, just us. We’re here, bunny. You’re okay.” The ache, the open sore spot spilling sticky, blackened tar, seals up. It's zippered shut, away from you, packed tight for another day. Another moment. The only thing you need to focus on is here, and now. With them. Johnny's jaw clenches. “Christ Si. She’s really tight.”

“I know.” He pushes some of Johnny’s hair from his forehead. “You’re both being so good. I’m proud of you.” The praise, the warmth from the both of him, glows in your heart. You’ve never felt so safe, so cherished, in your life. Again and again, they surprise you, teaching you how things you used to dread or shy away from can be enjoyed, valued.

This is how it should be. Love without fear. Intimacy without fear.

You’re fully split open on Johnny, stuffed full. It’s tender, calm in the low light of the bedroom, almost cozy. His thighs blaze under your ass, and the heat creeps like lava to your fingers and toes, turning you boneless, languid in his arms. Simon leans in to kiss your temple.

“How do you feel?”

“R-really full.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No just… stretched, I think?” You wiggle a little bit, and Johnny finally breaks eye contact, looking up at the ceiling with a groan.

“Try to be still bunny. We just want to get you used to the feeling. This isn’t about sex.” Simon's last comment earns Johnny a warning glance, and he nods, straightening.

“Right. Even though your perfect little pussy is drivin’ me mad-“

“Johnny.” Simon chides. “Bunny, can you lean forward for me?” His hand presses to the middle of the back, guiding you to rest your cheek on Johnny’s shoulder. “Good girl.”

The room lapses into silence that lasts, rhythm of your chest rising and falling syncing with Johnny’s, Simon humming, working a hand up and down your spine.

Up and down. Up and down.

You think you could do it now. Roll your hips and rise on your knees, sink back down to feel the pressure, the bludgeoning tip of Johnny’s long cock nestled at your cervix. You’re not sure, not confident, but somewhere in your dreams, you picture yourself milking him dry, riding his cock until you’re shattering.

“Si.” Johnny’s voice pitches to something you’ve never heard, low and heavily accented. “Will ye read?” Pages of a book flutter. You hadn’t realized your eyes had closed, but as Simon’s voice picks up a page with no pretense, you don’t fight it, allowing yourself to drift between them, cradled on Johnny’s body with a piece of him pulsing inside you.

It’s bliss. It’s love. You’re…. happy.

[kmi-02]

Being so sensitive to squirting that the 141 make fun of your for it and have little competitions to see who can make you squirt the fastest :(

Johnny holds the record of 37 seconds from fingering you so fast you couldn’t tell when his fingers were inside or out of you.

After their little competition your poor pussy was so swollen and sensitive that all it took was a few rough spanks to your pussy from Price to make you squirt again.

“Oh well look at that? Seems we got a new record holder hm?” Price teases you and Johnny.

“That doesn’t count the competition is over!” Johnny exclaims angrily at Price.

Meanwhile Simon and Gaz are fucking rock hard from watching you squirt again so quickly.

[kmi-02]

anal on the beach w/ gaz. a spiritual continuation of that one cbf! dry humping blurb i wrote but can be read separately

kinda dubcon. anal (obviously). manipulation. semi-public sex (no one catches you). gn! reader

he texts you that he’s got an extra ticket to fiji. the message is brief, spontaneous like he tends to be. pack your bags. eta 1420. you planned on rotting home all weekend, already in your pyjamas and hair care, looking every bit a wreck as you feel. it isn’t exactly the opportune time for him to come by; though you know mentioning it won’t do anything to change the fact that he will.

frankly, the whole thing reeks of that kyle-specific class of manoeuvring you’ve come to know in recent. catching you off guard with something you can’t say no to, and using it to push you past what you’re comfortable with. you’re tempted to refuse. it’s too short a notice. pick someone else. but a week long beach trip sounds nice, actually. work has been killing you. your personal life’s a mess. every date you’ve managed to snag in the past month has ghosted you. and to top it all off, you miss your best friend – his odd quirks and all.

so your body’s way of protesting is to slip off the couch, refocusing on the effort it takes to haul your luggage out of storage rather than your several woes. by the time kyle comes by, you’re in a sweatsuit and sneakers, bag stuffed with all the swimsuits you’ve owned since high school; you doubt you’ll have time to wash one between swims.

and it’s nice. you sit next to one another on the plane, syncing your movies by counting down to three. yours is always a few seconds behind, but he waits for your reactions before delving into a spiel about how realistic it is to drive a knife into someone’s throat with just your teeth, à la dev patel. you listen, swinging off every word he says into your own conversations, and it goes that way until the old lady two rows back shushes you. you, specifically, seeing as kyle charmed her into deference when he helped her lift her bags in the overhead compartments. always so considerate.

still, you’re concerned about falling asleep next to him, lest you wake to find a hand kneading your inner thigh.

nothing weird happens, though. you touch down in fiji and check into a lagoon resort (we managed to find you that king room, mr. garrick – the receptionist adds with a smile, eclipsing the weary way you regard sharing one bed. but you’ve had your fair share of cramped family vacations, and are well-versed in the subtle art of pillow walls to keep his side and yours separate.) that first night, he gives you an hour to dress up for dinner reservations while he fetches snacks for the room. make it pretty, yeah? we’re meeting a few distant cousins f’mine. i told them we’re dating to keep the work questions off my back.

nothing weird happens. until—

you take a boat out to Fulaga after citing it as one of the least populous islands. with wisps of white sand, like baker’s flour beneath your feet, and limestone islets across electric blue waters, it’s hard to see why.

no matter to either of you. you lay your towel on flat patch of sand, smothering yourself in sunscreen to play a game of chicken and waves. a vain endeavour, of course. he’s always willing swim out further than you, diving under quivering waters to arch amongst sea turtles and ulavi.

eventually, you grow bored of watching him from the shore, ambling back to your set-up to make use of the oils you bought for an exorbitant price. they lacquer over your skin, the places you can reach, to reflect the light overhead. you recall a quote you read in uni as you slather – something about people broiling themselves as though they were nothing but cuts of meat – and falter for just a moment. it had seemed crude at the time, particularly in the context in which it read, but as you prep yourself for the sun, you can’t help but feel exposed. vulnerable. like predatory eyes are tuned in all around you, peeking from the foliage, the waves, and honed on your slippery flesh.

you tell yourself you’re being silly, and spread yourself back on your towel. the heat licks away at your worries, making good work of laving the salty stress off your neck. you measure time in how long it takes for the sand to flake off your feet, drying as the rest of you does.

when the soft stretch of your stomach starts to burn, you turn yourself over and bury your cheek into the fibres cradling you. sun-drunk, chafed, bruised a little from the choppy waters, you welcome sleep when it inches on your conscious.

“and what are you doing exactly?” kyle huffs, encroaching on your sanctuary. you can’t see him, though you can almost hear the water vaporising off his dark skin. sizzling. the heat sinks into your side once he flops down onto his own towel.

“sunbathing.” you mumble, reluctant to give more than a words response lest it shakes you out of languor.

“the water’s great. you’re missing out.”

“mm. later.”

“and what am i supposed to do?” he all but whines, tugging at the complicated strings that tie your bottoms up on your hips. it doesn’t feel as suggestive as it might be. all you can manage, in the wake of your scoured unease, is annoyance.

“read. dig. sleep.”

he doesn’t take to your advice, shuffling until his knee presses into your arm. “you missed a spot on your back.”

“get it, then.”

“where’s the lube?”

your head snaps up, eyes narrowed both to adjust to the brightness and in admonishment. “oil.”

“same difference.” his grin is wicked, white and impossible to upbraid. rolling your eyes, you settle back down, face turned the other way around to keep an eye on him.

“in my bag.”

he shuffles through your stuff until he comes up with the hot pink bottle, making no stop for confirmation before he squirts the contents over his hands. they feel every bit as big as they look when they press into your back, right below your nape. rough, barnacled with callouses, but softened a bit by the ointment so it doesn’t hurt when his thumbs run circles around your shoulder blades. you sound an appreciative moan.

“say, if you’re short on something to do, y’can always massage me.”

“yeah, yeah. doubt you’ll return the favour.”

“i would... later.”

he laughs. “whatever. isn’t what i want, anyway.”

“and what do you want?” you ask. not because you’re curious – but so long as entertaining him keeps his efforts on your sore muscles, you’ll keep at it.

“oh, y’know.” kyle hums. ambiguous. you don’t know, not really. not until one caress strays lower than it should, conforming to the rounded shape of your ass. your cheeks clench with the sudden touch. he takes it as confirmation that you must want the same thing, too. “these bottoms aren’t leaving much to the imagination, mate.”

“th-they’re old.”

“this pert thing is practically eating them. can’t see fabric anymore.” he squeezes the fat there, shaking it in a vice grip that doesn’t so much as allow you to sit up, to knock his assault off. “want me to look for it?”

“kyle–”

“kyle.” he mocks, snickering. your hesitation does nothing to dissuade him. instead, he rocks up to straddle your legs, hands moving away from your back to settle below the curve of your ass. you don’t know what’s hotter – the damp, sun-bleached sand cushioning you, or the way he spreads either cheek apart, groaning when your swim-suit slips to expose the tight rim under it. “fuck. you been hiding this from me?”

“i- i don’t… please don’t be w-weird about this.”

“dunno what you mean by that.” he says, then promptly proceeds to be weird about it as his knuckle grazes your hole. you’re stiff, printing an indelible mark on beach. “never had it touched before?”

“no. i’m not a freak.”

“ouch, darl.” but he’s already spurting a hefty amount of oil onto you, working it in with a thick thumb. effectively makes good on his stupid name for it; lubes you up, nice and slick, so the only pain that arises at his intrusion is the virgin stretch. “promise it feels good.”

and you hate to admit it, but it does. once you get over the foreign sensation of his finger pistoning where you’ve never been fucked before, it stirs a tumultuous heat in your belly. part of it, you think, isn’t so much the physical sensation as it is the taboo of it all. despite the beach being virtually empty, void of any life but hermit crabs and the two debauched humans at its centre, there’s a delicious thrill that curls with the risk of being caught. not only being conventionally raunchy, but having your ass gaped by your best friend. what a sight you must make, pinned to the ground, having your sense pared off you in slow, painstaking layers.

one finger becomes two, and two soon turns to three.

the sound is so lewd, borderline disgusting when set against the natural ambience. you squelch and suck around him, lube smacking between your nates. and you lament it in slow, drawn-out breaths. embarrassed, wailing, soughing with the briny wind. kyle’s determined to get you ready for something much bigger, it seems, because four digits cram into your hole and scissor apart.

“is that re- really necessary?” you pick your sand- dusted face off the towel to huff into the thick air.

you feel him jostle atop your legs. shrugging, likely, in that deferent way he does when he realises acquiescence will better serve his purpose.

“whatever you want, mate.” there’s the sound of wet fabric scratching against itself, his trunks shucked down to rest mid-thigh. “i was getting impatient, anyway.”

if the excitement in his tone isn’t enough of a forewarning, he soon makes you regret saying anything at all when he notches his cock against you. it’s fat even at the end, the head too hefty to fit between your spread cheeks. it slips as it searches for purchase, rubbing against the excess lube he pours for aid, before pushing in. not in one fell swoop, but with five short, strong thrusts to finally anchor into your asshole.

you squeal, grasping behind you, onto his wrists for stability. you feel capsized, heeled over, thrown off kilter. shells and sparkling horizons dot the backs of your eyelids, liquid pleasure coursing through your veins. nothing about it is romantic, momentous like firsts should be. rather, you liken it to soap scum. spume. salt crusted hair. natural conclusions to things you overlook.

“s’fuckin’ tight, soft. can’t breath when you squee-eeze me like th-that. loosen up… up, mate.”

“k-kyle. fuck. ah! i c-can’t, you’re so… yersobig.”

“tried, didn’t i? b’you wanted to complain. next time i’ll make you t-take it dry… teach you how to count your, your blessings.”

and that turn of phrase – next time – is what sticks as he thrusts into you. not the implication that it’ll be painful, or that he intends to punish you for whatever it is you did wrong – but that this isn’t the last incident of its kind.

you had excused his homecoming – that first time he rushed you with a hug and came in his pants – as incidental, weeks of pent up energy. you try to excuse this – this, taking your ass on a vacation he probably booked precisely for the two of you – even while it unfolds, searching for justification in the distance between here and home.

but you’re not stupid. what becomes increasingly clear, as kyle fixes your waist in place and cants your hips higher, balls slapping your greased thighs, tightening with his looming orgasm, is that this was never meant to be a one time thing.

(won’t be, if he has any say in it.)

you resolve to think about it later. later; the coil in your stomach ripping a blinding release.

[kmi-02]

pornstar!price who does a competition where he’ll fuck one of his fans and the winner is some inexperienced, awkward loser girl :( when he asks what she wants him to do on camera she asks him to nice and gentle with her, to make her cum loads of time and tell her how pretty she is and what a good girl she is the whole time

and she asks with such a polite smile, how can he say no? makes her cum nicely on his tongue and fingers before letting her lower herself onto his cock at her own pace. she doesn’t pose for the camera she just focuses all her attention on him as he presses kisses to her neck and shoulders as per her request

stops and gives her a cuddle halfway through the session when the multiple orgasms make her all dizzy. presses kisses to her forehead and strokes her back like they’re lovers :( makes her head all fuzzy by whispering praise in her ear the whole time