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livvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv · 11 days ago

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GYM CRUSH SIMON

sfw + nsfw. unsafe sex. womb fucking. no condom.

you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.

you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.

there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.

at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.

midnight schedule it was.

it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.

the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.

and then there was him.

tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.

the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.

(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)

he moved through his workout with terrifying

efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.

you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.

“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.

you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”

“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”

you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”

he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"

“i do not know his entire workout routine.”

your friend raised a brow.

you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”

his brow lifted higher.

“…and arms on thursdays.”

silence.

“right.”

“shut up.”

you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.

the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.

and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.

What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.

so, you stayed quiet..

until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.

in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.

“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”

“i use it,” you protested.

“you walk through it.”

okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.

you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.

you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.

the bar didn’t budge.

you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.

okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—

"y’need a spotter?"

you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.

you swallow. "uh."

his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"

"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."

he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.

your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.

"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.

you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!

he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.

"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"

you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"

"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.

you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."

you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.

he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.

a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.

but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.

"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"

he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."

you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?

he hesitates. "depends."

"on?"

"the day."

you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."

"sure it is."

you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.

it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)

you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.

"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."

and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”

he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”

you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.

"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."

you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.

“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”

“drop it.”

“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”

“drop it.”

some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.

it’s unbearable.

like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”

you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.

you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.

the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."

you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”

he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."

you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”

his eye twitches. “just drink it.”

and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.

one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.

you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.

simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.

"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.

you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”

he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.

"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.

you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—

his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.

"fix that grip, sweetheart."

you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.

"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."

your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.

his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."

you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.

you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.

and then— "good girl."

barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.

your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.

you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.

and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.

"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."

simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"

your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."

his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"

"yes."

he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."

you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.

"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."

your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.

"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."

low, warm, approving—

"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."

simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.

"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”

“please.”

the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.

simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.

his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.

his hips roll up.

you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.

he does it again.

your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.

"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."

his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.

his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.

you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.

"fuck-"

he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.

"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."

your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.

"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"

you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.

his patience snaps.

one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.

simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.

he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.

the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.

simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”

he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—

he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.

"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"

"yes- yes, please-"

"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."

he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.

the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.

"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"

you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.

his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”

your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.

simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”

you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”

he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.

your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.

his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”

then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.

you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.

simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”

he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.

his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”

you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.

his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.

“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”

he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.

then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.

his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”

the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.

simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—

he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.

"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."

your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"

"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"

you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"

"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."

you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."

then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.

you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.

"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"

you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.

"s’not fair," you mumble.

"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.

"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."

you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.

"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"

you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.

when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.

then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—

you take him.

the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.

"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."

you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.

breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"

"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."

but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."

his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."

"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"

he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."

then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.

"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.

simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."

the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.

"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"

he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.

it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.

but you’re already gone.

your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.

"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"

you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.

he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.

"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."

"s-simon-"

"what, love? too far gone already?"

his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.

you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"

"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."

he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.

"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.

"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."

he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.

"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"

"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.

"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."

then he fucks you properly.

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livvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv · 12 days ago

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Margaritaville | MASTERLIST

PRICE x READER

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort.

Or: the knocked up on vacation au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Older Man/Younger Woman, Dubious Consent, Husband-Wife Play, Breeding Kink, Stealthing

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Extras

Series moodboard

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livvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv · 19 days ago

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fix it, felix! - sam winchester

summary: sam is your personal handyman and you want to do something nice for him, too.

content: fem!reader, soft dom!sam, smut, established relationship, oral (m!receiving), throatfucking, praise kink, slight bimbo energy

word count: 1.6k

a/n: just a dumb little idea i had... absolutely zero motivation but this pretty gif of sammy made me want to write

You don't call for him until the faucet drips for the eleventh time. Yes, you're counting.

"Sammy... could you come here for a minute?"

You're sprawled out on the couch of your shared apartment, enjoying the last few sips of your iced coffee until you hear the echoes from the sink. The faucet has been acting up for a while, but Sam's been out of town on a hunt and you have no idea where to start.

"Started dripping after you left last week..." you trail off when he enters the room, his footsteps heavy but familiar in the hallway. With a dainty shrug and a point towards the kitchen, you leave the rest up to him.

Like usual, he's in a flannel. The kind you want to unbutton and crawl into just to be closer to him. His hair shifts a little when he nods, sitting perfectly at his shoulders. You like it that way.

He stops in front of the couch, looking down at you sipping your drink. "Yeah, and what about you, little miss? A wrench is too manly for you to hold?"

Hmph.

You blink. A blush creeps up on your cheeks as you sit up.

"You know I don't know how to do all that boy stuff."

"Boy stuff, huh?" he laughs, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. "Alright. I'll take care of it."

He's done in seven minutes. Yes, you're counting.

Sam is always on top of those things. If something's rattling or the air's hissing too loud in the apartment, he always knows just what to do. You don't have a clue about most things, but he doesn't mind. The princess treatment you get from him is unbelievable.

Sometime within those seven minutes, you get up and hoist yourself onto the counter to watch him work, legs swinging where they dangle over the edge.

"You're so good, Sammy," you drawl as he tests the knobs a few times. No leaks. "Thank you."

He wipes off the wrench and sets it aside, turning to you with a smile. Inside, he knows that most of the things he does are just simple fixes — a screwdriver here, a nail and hammer there — but by taking care of the place, he's taking care of you, too. That's the real goal.

"Easy fix, no problem." His hands drop to your thighs and his thumbs begin rubbing small circles on your skin. He really, really loves moments like this. "But you're right. Let me handle the boy stuff."

You don't know why that makes you squeeze your thighs together.

As you take the long, final sip of your coffee, your eyes flit all across his face, landing on the soft smile that he's wearing. Maybe it's the amount of caffeine you've consumed, but you have a really strong urge to bite his bottom lip.

Instead, you hum mindlessly. "Yeah, 'kay. I'm good at something too, you know."

His brows raise, amused. "And what's that?"

"Saying thank you."

Sam huffs, tapping your thighs twice like he's trying to snap you back to reality. "You already did, sweetheart. Is your brain all loopy from that sugar-bomb of a coffee? You really shouldn't drink all those—"

He's cut off when you hop off the countertop and sink to your knees between his legs.

"No, silly." You lean forward, resting your cheek against the faintly present bulge in his jeans. "I meant really saying thank you."

His expression softens when he looks down at you kneeling pretty before him. Now he understands.

"Oh, baby... you don't have to do that," he says, even as he feels himself twitch beneath the denim.

Your face nuzzles his hip and you're already reaching for his belt with shaky fingers. "But I want to," you insist, looking up at him with wide, glossy eyes, too captivating to deny.

"You're so good at everything." Your voice is quiet, practically mumbling into his jeans. "You always do nice things for me, makes me feel special... I just wanna make you feel good, too."

Damn, that makes him ache.

His fingers slip into your hair, only tugging lightly but enough to make your pleading eyes meet his again. He can tell how much you mean it, how badly you want this.

"Go ahead," he finally murmurs, giving you all the permission you need to start fumbling with the buckle.

Your heart leaps and you quickly work to pull his belt from the loops, your manicured nails that he'd paid for clinking against the metal buckle. With your bottom lip caught between your teeth, you unzip his jeans and tug until they're out of your way.

You let out a satisfied hum when you see how much he's already straining against his boxers. You press kisses to the shape of him through the fabric, making his breath hitch.

"Sweet girl. Love it when you do that." His thumb brushes your cheek, making you squirm from the praise.

Your eyes twinkle when you finally reach in and pull him out. "So big, Sammy," you whisper.

Your fingers wrap around the base and you stroke him twice, leaning in to kiss up the side of his length. His inhales sharply when you give a kitten-lick to the tip, his grip in your hair tightening.

His cock is heavy on your tongue as you take him all the way in, your hand working what you can't take. You meant what you said — he's big, and your lashes flutter every time he nudges the back of your throat.

The way you maintain eye contact makes him throb in your mouth. It's the way you kneel in front of him, staring up at him through your lashes, making little sounds and rubbing your own thighs together while you suck his dick like it brings you as much pleasure as it does him.

It honestly does.

Sam lets you find a rhythm, his fingers tangling in your hair but not pushing. "Fuck, baby, like that," he breathes, watching your lips stretch around him each time you bob your head. "Just like that..."

You hum at the praise, the noise muffled as you keep going. The vibration makes him grunt and his hips thrust forward, only once, but you still gag at the sudden change.

He tenses. You can feel it. His self-control is slipping.

You pull off his cock, a string of saliva keeping you connecting until you lick your lips. "You always gotta do everything yourself, don't you?" you pout, head tilted like a puppy.

He exhales, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. You're just... you're too good at this. How'd you even get so—"

"It's okay, Sammy. I can take it."

You stroke him again, then let your hands slide to his thighs. Your eyes tell him to take what he wants and without another word, you open your mouth, tongue out and inviting.

He whimpers.

"You're such a good girl," he says, and then he's pushing back into your mouth. Your lips close around his length again and he curses under his breath. "My perfect girl."

Slowly, his hips move forward, his hand in your hair holding you steady. He starts with slow thrusts into your mouth, watching you closely, not pressing too deep yet. When you moan like you need him to do more, his restraint snaps.

"Alright, baby. I'll give it to you."

He starts moving a little faster, deeper, hitting the back of your throat with every roll of his hips. He doesn't falter when you gag, just gives your hair a little tug to remind you to breathe through your nose.

"That's it. Fuck— letting me fuck your throat like a good girl." His praise comes constantly, and it sends heat between your legs every time. "Look at you..."

Your jaw is relaxed, your throat as open for him as possible as he continues to use your mouth. You're drooling on his cock, spit dribbling from your lips that he doesn't bother to wipe away. It makes him groan, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he regains composure.

This is your favorite place to be. Head empty, mouth full, bruises on the brink of blooming across your knees.

His movements get sloppier and you know he's close, his breaths turning ragged when your nails press into his thighs. "You want it?" he asks, your watery eyes giving him enough of an answer.

"God, you're gorgeous. Gonna come, baby, f— gonna—"

So he jerks forward again, deeper, deeper until a single tear slips down your cheek and drives him over the edge.

His hips stutter when he comes. He spills in warm spurts down your throat, onto your tongue, and you swallow it all. Your eyes close in contentment, moaning when you taste him, flattening your tongue under him as you gently take over again and ease him through it.

"Honey..." His voice breaks when he speaks again. He pulls back and lets you breathe, his own chest heaving.

You sit there on your heels like an angel, your lips shiny until you wipe them with the back of your hand. You help tuck him back into his boxers before you stand up with his help, his arm hooked under yours.

"I didn't hurt you?" he asks, just to be sure.

He cups your face in his hands as you shake your head, your expression dazed but happy. "Never. Better that way."

"Yeah, you liked that, didn't you? Dirty girl."

You nod and he grins, landing a kiss on your forehead that makes your heart soar. You giggle, still catching your breath. You feel accomplished

"Told you I know how to say thanks..."

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livvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv · 23 days ago

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WET DREAMZ

pathetic sammy wet dream boo. surprise! warnings: doggy, praise from sam, size kink, finger stuff, idk fluff at the end. i love him. also tjis is straight up porn. this is a surprise for @sweeterthancandy i love you !!

༺☆༻

after a long day of smoke-thick motels, coffee that tasted like burnt air, and another grave dug somewhere off the highway, sam winchester didn’t know how he found himself here.

“you’re—fuck, being too loud, baby,” he murmured, voice soft against your ear. even with your face muffled in the pillow, the sounds you were making were way too loud for him to brush off as just him taking care of a hangover. if the people outside the motel paid enough attention, they would know exactly what was happening in here. “gotta… gotta keep it down a little.”

“m—m’trying,” you slurred into the pillow again, clamping your teeth into the fabric of the pillow, trying to bite back a soft cry at the sensation of him sitting idle inside you. he was stretching you out, due to his big size of 8 inches, and for a girl who was shorter than 6’4 and wasn’t 200 pounds of pure muscle? that was a lot to take.

sam’s hand came down to gently trace the arch of your back, pushing you further into the mattress for a better angle. “s’gotta be really... really hard for you,” he was blabbering now, still rocking into you. he was trying desperately not to let out any sounds of his own, which was very difficult when you were being so, good for him. “doing so... so good, baby.” he reminded.

slowly, his fingers that were curled around your hips tightened to an almost bruising grip, and he pushed himself—all eight inches inside. the sensation had you seeing stars, a loud gasp leaving your throat, eyes squeezing shut.

one of sam’s big hands quickly came to cover your mouth, desperate to keep you quiet now. his hips leaned back then thrusted forward, burying himself completely inside you as a soft, strained gasp left him. his fingers pressed against your lips, trying to contain the sounds that you tried to let out. “you... you’re gonna wake up the whole—fuck.” sam’s fingers pressed down more firmly, keeping you silent as he continued to move inside your tight heat.

“you gotta be... be so quiet,” he slurred, letting out a low groan at the feeling of you clenching around him. he started to speed up, just barely, still trying to keep you from being completely loud. you gasped as he sped up, biting his finger gently to keep yourself quiet—a sharp whine leaving him at the sensation.

“such a … fuck.. a good girl,” sam whispered, his fingers loosening a bit as your whimpers got higher. his hands moved to grab your ass, holding you to him as he began to thrust harder into you. his voice was becoming more strained. “takin’ it so well, yeah, that’s right, that’s—“

sam woke with a sharp hiss at the sound of your voice, startled out of an uneasy sleep that clung to him like sweat. his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and squinting against the dim motel light, and when he realized where he was—and that you were standing right there—he groaned softly and turned his face away, suddenly very invested in the peeling wallpaper beside the bed.

his fingers moved automatically to his chin, brushing over the tacky warmth that confirmed his embarrassment. a thin trail of drool. perfect.

“ugh, god,” he muttered, swiping it off quickly with the sleeve of his flannel. “i—I wasn’t even that tired.”

you raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “you were snoring.”

“was not,” he mumbled, still avoiding your eyes.

“you drooled, sam.”

“yeah, okay, i might’ve drooled,” he admitted, cheeks already starting to turn a light, bashful pink. “don’t act like it’s a crime.”

“it’s not,” you teased, fighting a grin. “it’s just gross. and weirdly… vulnerable of you.”

“glad to know my most humiliating moment brings you joy.”

he finally risked a glance at you, only to find you staring with that irritating mix of amusement and affection that made him want to both roll his eyes and hide under the covers.

“you were mumbling in your sleep, too,” you added. “sounded like a mix between an insane injury and a porno.”

sam groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “please stop talking.”

“what were you dreaming about?”

“you. shutting up,” he deadpanned.

you’d never know.

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livvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv · 23 days ago

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simon riley claiming that you're doin' it wrong after he finds you fucking yourself on a dildo twice as small as him. you don't even know how long he's been watching but it doesn't matter. he's standing at the foot of your bed and slipping the toy out of you before yanking you closer by the ankles faster than you can blink.

your gasp is interrupted by the way he nearly rips the zipper of his jeans and flings out his cock–slapping it hard against the palm of his other hand while letting a messy glob of spit sink from his lips, right down to where you're clenching around nothing.

don' even need that shit anyways, simon mumbles, spreading the wet with his fat tip before nudging himself inside you.

he fucks you, sharp and annoyed... yet his hand still drags to the back on your neck to tug you for a messy kiss. s'dumb... wastin' a pretty hole like this on some fuckin' silicone.

simon kisses you again. tongue and teeth knocking into yours. and still stuffing you so full that you can feel him reaching all the way to your stomach.

flexing inside you, simon grunts with a frown. biting into the scar on his lip with a peek down to at how wide you stretch at the base of his dick.

ju... jus' wait for me–fuck–next time, yeah? got all the cock you need, pretty... right here.

inspired (partially) by no. 1 on this prompt list! | © 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

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livvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv · 23 days ago

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Lowkey socially inept ghost who has NO CLUE just how horny reader is for him😔

You've pulled out all the stops, complimented his outfits, pointed out how tall he is, how warm he is. Fuck, you even compared hand sizes! But nothing! Ur pretty sure hes just dense, bc its not like hes rejected you yet, just nods along with whatever you say but he doesnt *do* anything!

You learn that ghost has a bad back and send him sex positions designed to reduce back pain, nothing but a thumbs up. Its not even you that ends up telling him, gaz sees you offer chapstick after *just* applying some and he denies it. He cant take it anymore, watching u is becoming actually painful.

"Ghost, mate, she wants to fuck you." He says blunty, dodging the indignant slap aimed at him "preferably sooner than later." Gaz gives you both a firm pat on the shoulder then walks away.

....anyways ghost ends up railing u into the mattress and u learn that u just need to be blunt with him. From then on you either drag him to ur room or say it to his face, only mildly embarrassed abt being so bold but the dick is worth it.

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livvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv · 23 days ago

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Ghost, who had no idea sex was supposed to feel good.

Sure, he always made sure his partners felt good, and it wasnt like he had trouble getting off or anything. But he never cared for it much. Honestly, it was a bit stressful for ghost. Having to lead and guess what his partner wanted and try to tamp down his anxiety about his looks or actions.

Always fun, nice, but never good.

Then he meets you, and you are so different from everything ghost expects. He actually really likes you, sometimes even loves you when his heart settles enough to hear the things he doesnt allow himself to have. Which means ghost doesnt mind at all when some kissing turns into heavy petting into you guiding him to your room.

Hes mentally preparing himself to lead, to be the big strong guy he always is even if its not that fun. Except instead of him pushing you around, you shove ghost to the beg and crawl over his lap. A downright posessive and hungry look in your eyes when you tell him "im gonna make you feel really good, and you're gonna lay there and take it like a good boy, alright?"

And God do you make it good. Suddenly ghost can see why his past partners were so intent on doing this so often. Stars burst behind his eyelids as you work orgasm after orgasm out of him, leaving ghost mindless and happy. He doesnt have to think when ur there, just goes along with you because you make it so so good.

(Later on while ur cuddling he asks if u enjoyed it just as much, and you gently explain the concept of dom and sub to him. Of course the lovestruck fool would care that u also loved it. happy that u do, hes definitely asking for more in the morning lol)

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livvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv · 24 days ago

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shadows. { xaden riorson x fem!reader }

Fandom: Fourth Wing / The Empyrean

Synopsis: You find yourself being turned on by your boyfriend displaying his power, and it's making you curious about just how good his control over shadows truly is ... and what else he can potentially do with them. Particularly, regarding your pleasure.

Tags: smut. inappropriate use of shadow signet. ( guided ) masturbation. multiple orgasms. shadow tentacle sex ( vaginal and anal ). oral sex ( m receiving ). Content Warnings: nsfw.

Wordcount: 6.4k

It always starts the same way.

You swear you're used to it by now, Xaden's shadows trailing after him like loyal beasts, dancing between his fingers when he's focused, curling into the air as if they're alive. It should be routine, familiar. But somehow it never is.

Not when you're watching him like this. Especially when you're watching him like this.

He's sitting near the window, stripped to the waist, the late sunlight tracing the lines of muscle across his back as he works, his dragon relic familiar to you. One hand rests on the table, the other casually lifted as if he's half-listening to the quiet murmur of his shadows. They flow across the room with easy grace, flickering around him in slow, deliberate movements. Controlled. Obedient. Dangerous. And utterly beautiful.

You're supposed to be doing something else, but instead you sit on the edge of his bed, chin propped in your hand, letting your eyes wander across the dark expanse of his shoulders and the slow, swirling movement of those ever-present shadows.

And that's when the thought sneaks in. It's not a new one, but this time, it lingers.

What else can he do with them?

That precision, the control he has over them, and the way they respond to him like they're an extension of his own body. What would that feel like, turned inward? Directed not toward battle, but toward you?

A slow, traitorous flush creeps down your neck.

You shift on the bed, suddenly very aware of how warm your skin feels, how much space there is between the two of you. You chew your bottom lip, watching as one of the shadows curls around his wrist like a lover's hand, languid and slow.

Your thighs press together without thinking.

"Whatever you're thinking," Xaden suddenly says, voice low and edged with amusement - apparently, he's been watching you without you noticing, "you're not being subtle about it."

Your heart skips a beat. You look up too fast, and sure enough, he's turned to you now, elbow on the table, chin resting on his fist. Those dark eyes fix on yours, heat smoldering behind them.

"I wasn't thinking anything," you lie, poorly.

He lifts an eyebrow in an unspoken challenge. "No?"

The shadows twist upward behind him, lazily coiling like smoke in a breeze. You can't help it; your gaze follows the movement, and he notices. Of course he does.

"You've been staring for the past five minutes," he murmurs, rising slowly to his feet. "And you do this thing ..." His head tilts, eyes raking over you. "... where your breathing changes. A little faster. Lips parting. Eyes glazed. That usually means one of two things."

You blink, startled. "Oh?"

"Either you're about to kiss me," he says, stepping closer, shadows following after him like eager whispers, "or you're imagining what I can do to you."

Your skin goes hot. You don't respond, can't, because yes, damn it, that's exactly what you're doing.

He stops in front of you. Close, but not yet touching you.

"What is it about them?" he asks softly. His eyes flick to his own hand, where a shadow is curling between his fingers. "The way they move? Or the fact that I can control them with a thought?"

You breathe in, gaze fixed on the shadow. "Both." This single word is a whisper and a confession in one, and you immediately see something in his expression change.

His shadows still as he leans down, mouth near your ear, voice a raw, delicious scrape of sound. "I've thought about it too, you know."

Your breath hitches.

"You pressed up beneath me, breathless and flushed, my hands holding you down while my shadows ..." He pulls back, just enough to meet your wide eyes. "... explore."

You shudder just once, not in fear but in anticipation, and don't look away. You can't - too enthralled, the images already burning into your mind.

"Tell me," he says, voice low and reverent. "Do you want to feel it?"

There's a pause before you answer, soft but sure, "Yes."

That one word changes everything. Xaden's eyes darken, heat and intent flaring behind them like something alive. But he doesn't move forward. Not even a single step toward you. Instead, he stays exactly where he is, a few feet away, arms relaxed at his sides, shadows slowly curling at his heels like they're waiting for permission.

"This is about you," he says, voice a low, molten thread of sound. "So I'm not going to touch you."

You blink. "What?"

He smiles, slow and dangerous, like he knows exactly what that promise will do to you. "You're going to feel everything," he says, "and I won't lay a single finger on you. Not until you ask me to."

Your breath catches.

Because you can already see it, you see how much he wants to. It's in the way his hands flex at his sides, how the tension has crept into his shoulders. His gaze is locked on you, burning, like he's already imagining what it would feel like to give in, to press his mouth to your neck and pull those desperate little sounds from your throat.

But he doesn't.

He just lifts his hand, fingers twitching in a subtle, deliberate motion, and the shadows come to life. One tendril rises, slow and sinuous, brushing along your ankle like a whisper of wind. You twitch, the sensation feather-light and unfamiliar, and your eyes shoot to his. He watches you closely, carefully, as another shadow curls around your calf, sliding beneath the hem of your pants.

You inhale. Sharp. Audible.

The shadows are cool but not cold. Just ... different, unfamiliar. They move like silk against your skin, with the weight and texture of something half-formed, something alive. One glides higher, slowly trailing the curve of your thigh, and you feel it even through the layers of fabric. It's a delicate, teasing pressure that makes your stomach twist and your breath grow shallow.

Xaden says nothing. But his pupils dilate, and his throat bobs when he swallows. Yet he still doesn't move closer.

Another shadow moves, this one rising behind you, slipping between your back and the shirt that suddenly feels far too heavy, too in the way. It lifts the hem slightly, gliding along the dip of your spine with aching patience. You shiver, spine arching instinctively, chasing the touch.

"Good," he murmurs. "Just feel."

The one at your thigh climbs higher, and gods, your breath stutters as it slides beneath the waistband of your pants. It doesn't touch anything yet; it just rests there, waiting for a command. You meet his gaze again, and something about how he's watching you - dark and reverent, restrained but starving - makes heat bloom low in your belly.

"Do you feel how much they want you?" he asks softly. "They react to me, but they respond to you. They're drawn to your need."

You bite your lip hard enough to sting, legs tense, muscles coiling in anticipation as the shadow behind your back slowly inches higher, brushing your lower ribs, tracing the side of your breast through your shirt.

You let out a quiet, shaky breath. Too overwhelmed by the sensation to do anything else.

"I can stop," he offers, voice rougher now, more ragged.

"No!" you say quickly, almost desperately. "Don't."

His jaw clenches and his hands twitch, but he nods. "I won't."

The shadow beneath your clothes at your waist finally moves again, tracing the curve of your hip bone, before finally slipping lower. Not quite touching where you want, where you need it, but circling closer and closer like it knows exactly how to undo you one brush at a time.

And still, Xaden hasn't taken a step.

But he's breathing harder now, lips parted, chest rising with each slow inhale like it's costing him something to keep his distance. He's watching you unravel, and gods, the way he's watching makes you feel bare even with all your clothes on.

"Does it feel good?" he asks quietly.

You nod. "Yes," you breathe.

The shadows are slow and deliberate, gliding just beneath your clothes, shaping your breath, and making your skin feel electric. Every pass, every faint caress beneath fabric you suddenly resent, tightens the coil in your belly another notch.

But then they stop. Sudden. Inexplicably.

They still and retreat, slipping away from your body like smoke sucked into the air. You blink, heart racing, skin humming with frustration and want.

You're about to question your boyfriend, curse him, and beg him to continue, but then you hear his voice, low and raspy, "Take them off."

His dark eyes are fixed on you, sharp and hungry. He's still standing exactly where he was, chest rising with careful, controlled breaths as if proximity might undo him. As if he cannot guarantee not to touch you, should he come closer.

Your lips part. "You want me to ...?"

"Clothes," he explains, voice even lower and rougher than before. "Take them off. I want to see."

Your breath catches because you know he won't ask twice. So, you slowly rise to your feet on trembling legs. You don't rush the process, though. Partly because your fingers are shaking. Mostly because something is intoxicating about the way his gaze follows your every motion, tracking your hands as you peel your shirt over your head, slow and careful, revealing bare skin inch by inch. His eyes immediately flicker to your breast, to your nipples already tightened from the phantom touch of his shadows. He swears under his breath.

Your pants slide down next, slowly over your hips, until they pool at your feet. You stand there for a moment in just your underwear. The room is silent except for your breathing and the subtle crackle of restrained power in the air.

Then, without a word, you slip the last layer down too, baring yourself to him completely.

His jaw tightens. "Sit back down. Just like you were before."

You do, moving slowly, lowering yourself back onto the edge of the bed. Your thighs part instinctively, showing him how aroused this whole thing has already made you.

Xaden's mouth parts just slightly, as he stares at you.

You're already wet. You know you are. The air brushes your skin and makes you clench around nothing, and the way his eyes drag over every inch of you, now neck to chest, to your slick center and back up again, makes your breath catch.

His voice, when it comes, is low and reverent. "Fuck."

He runs a hand over his mouth, like he needs a second to compose himself. "I knew you'd be beautiful," he murmurs. "But like this? Dripping and flushed and waiting ... all because of me? Because of my shadows touching you?"

You exhale shakily. "Xaden ..."

His shadows stir again. Like they can feel his restraint slipping and want to return to what they've been doing before. Touching you, feeling you unravel beneath them. But he holds up a hand, commanding them still.

"I want to remember this," he says, voice quiet. "Every part of you. Every look you make. I want to see what my shadows do to you."

You shift on the bed, instinctively trying to ease the ache growing between your legs. His eyes follow the motion and darken.

"Touch yourself," he says. It's not a command, just a plea by a man starved. "Just for a moment. Let me see how badly you need it."

You hesitate, the heat of his gaze wrapping around you like a second skin. But then, slowly, you obey.

Your breath stutters as you slide your hand between your thighs, fingers moving cautiously at first. Testing. The memory of his shadows still lingers on your skin. Soft, ghostlike. Wanting. But now it#s your hand, your touch, and his eyes never leave you.

You glance up and your breath catches in your throat.

Xaden's no longer standing in front of you; instead, he's taken a seat in the chair across from the bed, distant enough not to touch, but close enough that nothing escapes his view. He sits wide-legged, hands gripping the arms of the chair like his life depends on it. And between his thighs, his pants are visibly, unmistakably tight.

There's no hiding it. The bulge pressing against the front of his pants is hard and obvious, a physical betrayal of everything he's been trying to hold.

You lick your lips, proud that you can have such an effect on him just by presenting yourself to him. Your arousal becomes his arousal and vice versa.

His gaze stays locked on your hand. On the slow, tentative movements of your fingers as they brush through your slick folds, circling your clit once, twice, which draws out a soft moan you try (and fail) to contain.

He keeps watching like he's starved. Dark eyes fixed, jaw tight, the tendons in his neck straining with restraint. His shadows swirl faintly at his feet again, like they're agitated and restless, sensing just how much their wielder is holding himself back.

"Don't stop," he says roughly. It's the first time he's spoken since sitting, and his voice alone is proof of his building arousal. It's lower now, hoarse. Like it's scraped raw from the inside. "Let me see you fall apart."

You shiver, and his command causes your fingers to move a little faster now, bolder, getting encouraged from his noises. Your other hand lifts to your chest, brushing over one breast, teasing one of your already pebbled nipples. The sensation sends sparks dancing down your spine, and you let your head tip back for a moment, lips parting to let out a low moan.

When you spare a glance at him, you realize that one of his hands has clenched into a fist on the armrest. The other twitches, like he's resisting the urge to reach for himself, no matter how difficult it seems to be. His jaw is locked tight, his eyes dark and feral, but his body remains still. Controlled, but burning up in heat.

"For someone who's not supposed to be touching," you murmur, breathless but in a teasing tone, "you're looking at me like you're seconds away from losing it."

That earns an immediate reaction. His head tilts, and a small smile curves at his lips. "I said this was about you, not me."

And then, finally, the shadows start to move again. They slither forward like they've been waiting for this moment, rising to meet your thighs, brushing past your fingers with the same careful precision as before. One tendril wraps gently around your wrist, slowing your movements, before using its grip to guide them. Another one glides along the inside of your thigh, tracing slick skin, spreading you a little wider. Two wrap around your thighs, holding them open, and giving Xaden a perfect view of everything that is happening.

Xaden exhales like he's been holding his breath for minutes. "Look at you," he says, "you're soaked."

The shadows shift, and a new one curls beneath your breast, lifting it slightly before trailing the tip across your nipple. You gasp, louder this time, hips rocking instinctively into your own hand guided by their touch.

"You should see what I see, love," Xaden murmurs. "Flushed. Desperate. Dripping for me. For my shadows."

The one around your wrist retreats now, your hand free again, and you're moving it quicker now, fingers sliding in deeper, guided by your need and his intense focus. But the shadows don't stop this time; they join you. One flickers gently across your clit while another brushes the spot where your fingers disappear inside yourself, clearly planning to either join you or take over completely.

You moan again, this time unfiltered. Loud and desperate and fueled by a kind of heat you've never felt like this before.

And across from you, Xaden groans, quiet and broken, when you suddenly see it: His hips shift. He presses into the seat of the chair, like he's trying to relieve the pressure, just for a second. Just to survive the sight of you like this. But still, he doesn't touch. Gods, does he want to, though.

You're so close you can taste it now. The shadows are everywhere, coaxing, teasing, knowing. One is stroking your clit in maddening circles, precise and rhythmic, while another moves against your entrance in tandem with your fingers, every motion tailored to bring you to the brink of orgasm. Your hand is soaked, knuckles slick, your breath ragged as your thighs tremble with every breath.

Your head falls back. Your hips rise. You're right there, teetering on the edge ...

Suddenly, your wrists are caught, stopping every motion immediately.

Your eyes fly open with a sharp inhale as cool tendrils of shadow wrap around both wrists, gentle but firm - no matter how hard you try to free yourself, you can't - and lift your arms above your head.

They pin you to nothing but air, stretched and exposed, your back arched and your chest rising in quick, desperate breaths. Your hands twitch in the hold, but there's no pain. Just a quiet, impossible strength that says: stay.

"What ..." you gasp, eyes darting to him. "Xaden!"

His gaze is molten, no longer calm, no longer composed. He leans forward in his chair at least, forearms resting on his thighs, and his voice is barely human when he speaks. It's low and dark and hungry. Different from what you're used to. "You don't need your hands anymore."

Immediately, you reply with a quiet, wrecked sound, caught somewhere between surprise and need. He still hasn't moved from that chair, hasn't touched you, but somehow, this is even more intimate than him being right in front of you. Or above you. Your body is fully open, trembling under the sensation of shadow and want, your skin hypersensitive, your breath breaking.

"I want to see you fall apart," he says, each word thick with restraint. "But I want it to be because of me. Not your fingers. Mine."

In that moment, you realize: his shadows are his fingers. They are an extension of himself. Guided by his will, listening to his command, touching you the way he would.

They start moving with more purpose now, no longer teasing. One slides between your legs, a thicker one than the small tendrils that have touched you before, and presses inside you. Slow but thick enough to stretch, and somehow it feels both soft and strong all at once. You cry out, hips jerking, the sensation unlike anything you've ever felt.

Another one trails up to your stomach, curves over your breasts, and brushes your nipples with aching precision. First one, then the other. Going back and forth, switching between them.

And the one at your clit? It doesn't stop. It keeps circling, stroking you with maddening accuracy. Never too much, never too little. Just enough to keep you spiraling higher and higher.

Xaden watches you writhe under the touch of his power, his jaw clenched so tight you think it might crack.

"You look so fucking perfect like this," he rasps. "Wrists bound. Mouth open. Needing me ... and so fucking wet for me."

You moan at the cadence of his voice, low and dark, cracked with hunger. One of the shadows brushes your throat like a phantom kiss, not choking, just reminding you that he could touch you anywhere and anytime. That he is touching you, even if not directly.

"Do you want to come?" he asks, eyes fixed on your soaked center, on the way his shadows move inside you.

"Yes," you gasp, the word torn from your throat. "Please ... Xaden, please."

"Good," he growls. "Then let go."

And with one final flick of shadow against your clit, one deep thrust of dark silk inside you, right against your spot, you shatter. The moment your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, stealing the breath from your lungs, tearing a loud moan from your throat, everything blurs.

You need a few seconds to come back, and when you do, when the wave recedes, the shadows remain.

Your body is still pulsing, clenching involuntarily around the cool tendril inside you. Your skin is damp with sweat, your chest heaving, your thighs trembling uncontrollably. You're floating, skin prickling, heart fluttering ... and then you feel it.

They haven't stopped.

The shadow tendril buried inside of you doesn't retreat. No, it stays where it is. Still moving, slower now, but steady still, curling in a way that makes your overstimulated nerves jolt in shock. Another brushes your clit in delicate, lazy circles, too gentle to hurt, but too much for your already sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your breath catches in your throat. You try to speak, but the words stutter out as a broken moan.

Xaden hasn't moved from his seat yet, but he's leaning forward now, elbows braced on his knees, his expression dark and unreadable. His pupils are blown wide. His jaw flexes as he watches the way your body arches, the way you fight the pleasure even as it builds again. Faster than the first time.

"You're shaking," he says softly.

You nod, unable to do much else, not trusting yourself to speak just yet. Your wrists are still pinned above your head, held by nothing but shadow and his command. You don't even think about pulling free anymore.

"You just came, and now you're already clenching for more. Tell me, love. Tell me how much you enjoy it."

You whimper, hips jerking as the shadow inside you twists again, gentle but devastating.

"Xaden." His name slips out like a plea, like a warning.

He cocks his head slightly. "Do you want me to stop?"

You should say yes. You should. Your body is too raw and overstimulated. But even as the words rise in your throat, you feel it again. That heat. That slow, growing ache that builds from the aftermath and transforms into a second wave of pleasure. The shock has started to fade, replaced by something darker, something deeper. Pure need. Desperate want. Burning heat.

So instead of giving him the answer you should, you shake your head, and whisper, "No. Don't stop."

His eyes darken even more, if possible, and a low groan escapes him, like your words physically unravel something inside him. "Then take it," he growls. "Let me watch you fall apart again."

The shadow at your clit quickens just slightly, the circles tighter now, more deliberate. The one inside you thrusts a little deeper, filling you completely before dragging out with slow, perfect pressure. You cry out, body jolting with every pulse of sensation.

Your back arches. Your legs twitch.

And Xaden is watching it all, hands clenched on the arms of his chair, muscles taut, a sheen of sweat at his brow from how tightly he's reining himself in.

"You're going to come again. And you'll keep going until I say you're done." It's not a threat, it's a promise. You know he isn't playing around, especially not when it comes to something like this.

Another shadow tendril rises and wraps around your waist - not to restrain, but to cradle. To hold you still. You're barely sitting upright anymore, slumping into its cool embrace like you're weightless, boneless. Which, honestly, after everything, might not be that far off the truth.

Your nipples are hard, your mouth slack, and your whole body trembles. The pressure of another orgasm is rising again, faster this time. Hot and brutal and inevitable.

You can't think. Can't breathe. All you can do is feel.

When it finally hits, it hits you harder than the first. The second climax tears through you without warning, without mercy. It's raw and overwhelming, your body clenching so hard around the shadow inside you that your whole vision whites out at the edges. You cry out, loud and unfiltered, every nerve stretched, every muscle taut.

Your limbs tremble violently in their bindings, thighs twitching with aftershocks. The tendrils of shadow cradle you still, one stroking inside, another lazily circling your clit like it's savoring the moment. There's one still playing with your nipples, and a few more keeping you in place, holding you open and mostly unmoving. Your skin feels too hot, too sensitive, like you could burst from even a single breath of air.

You let your head drop back for a moment, eyes fluttering shut. Your heart is racing, lungs dragging air in ragged gulps, body slick with sweat.

For one second, you think it's over. But then you blink and realize Xaden has finally moved. He's standing now, and while his shadows move across the room, remaining on your hot body, he has finally stepped closer. Not yet touching you, but finally within reach.

His jaw is hard, his breathing uneven. His eyes are darker than you've ever seen before. And when your gaze shifts downward, you see it.

He's pulled down his pants, his cock now in his hand. Thick, flushed, and painfully hard. He's not stroking, just holding it, fingers tightening like he's seconds away from losing all control.

Yes! He'll finally give it to me now, you think for one blissfully naive second.

You're wrecked, spent, soaked. Although your body is done, your mind screams at you, imagining it vividly: Xaden finally sinking into you, claiming you after all that teasing and restraining, giving up the control he so carefully maintained.

But he doesn't move, doesn't come closer, doesn't give any sign that you're wish is about to come true. Instead, he meets your eyes and smirks.

"You think you get this now?" When he speaks, his voice is ruined with lust. His hand flexes around his cock, but he doesn't stroke. Doesn't offer it to you. "You think just because you came twice for me, I'm going to fuck you?"

Your lips part, but you don't have an answer. Your mind is too occupied with watching him, big, flushed, and ready. The ache between your legs hasn't faded - it only seems to grow stronger.

"You don't get that yet. Because this isn't about me." His gaze flicks down to your body, your parted thighs, your glistening skin, your nipples still hard, your wrists still pinned high in the air. "This is about you; this is about what you can take."

He's moved closer, until he's standing right at the edge of the bed and between your spread legs.

The shadow inside you pulses once in a deep, deliberate thrust that has your hips jerking as another gasp rips from your throat.

"You're not done, love," he says. "Not even close."

Suddenly, something new touches you. Smaller. Different.

Your body goes completely still as a thin tendril brushes softly over the curve of your ass. Hesitant. Gentle. It's not yet pressing, just a presence. Like it's testing the waters, asking for permission to go further.

Your breath stutters in your throat, your heart giving a sharp little flutter of surprise as your eyes fly to Xaden.

He's still watching you, every inch of you, every breath. His cock is hard in his hand, his control barely holding. But his gaze softens the moment he sees your expression shift.

"No, don't tense you," he says gently, tone softer than before. He knows this is new territory, and he's giving you a chance to stop him before he goes further.

You swallow hard. "Xaden ..."

"Shhh. You're safe, I promise."

The smaller shadow hasn't moved again. It lingers where it is, waiting for you to breathe more normally.

"I won't hurt you," he promises.

You nod, chest rising with each shaky inhale. You know that. Xaden would never do something that'll hurt you.

He watches you for a moment longer, his gaze like a hand stroking down your body. "This is just another way to make you feel good. If you want it."

You don't need to think about it for long. You just nod and whisper, "Okay. I trust you."

That soft tendril starts to move. It's just a nudge at first, brushing between your cheeks, slicking itself with your arousal before it traces lower. The pressure is featherlight. Circling, teasing, not yet pushing in.

Xaden looks at you, at the small tendril working at your tightest hole. "That's it. Let it in. Let me show you what you can feel."

You gasp as it eventually slips in, not far, just barely enough to make you tense. But you feel the stretch, the sensation. It's neither overwhelming nor wrong. It's just ... more. Different. Not something you're used to.

Paired with the slow thrusts from the other shadow and the rhythmic circles on your clit, it feels insane. Like your body is being touched in ways you never thought to imagine.

You moan, louder this time, raw and half-broken. From the corner of your vision, you see Xaden's hand tighten around his cock, stroking up and down just once. Probably to alleviate the pressure.

"You're taking it so well," he says. "So fucking perfect for me."

The tendril inside your ass moves again, just slightly. A flex. A press. Slowly but surely working you open, so your whole body shakes. By now, it feels like it's not entirely your own anymore, nothing but heat and trembling limbs, every nerve alive and burning.

You're still bound. Still held open by his shadows, which have not relented the slightest. The one inside your cunt keeps up that slow, steady rhythm, deep and dragging, like it knows exactly how to keep you suspended right on the edge. The tendril inside your ass moves in time, not fast, not rough, just full. Measured. Perfect. And the one at your clit continues its circles, patient and relentless, tracing the shape of you, bringing you closer to your next inevitable orgasm.

You moan again, high and shaking, toes curling.

Xaden's voice breaks through the haze. "Fuck. You look so fucking good like this."

His hand is still wrapped around his cock, now flushed dark and heavy, and he's definitely throbbing.

"You don't realize, do you?" he murmurs, looking down at you, at your stretched, wrecked body, held wide open for him by nothing but his magic. "Stuffed in all the right ways. Taking every bit of it like you were made for this."

You moan, body arching, because gods, the words, the way he says them ...

Suddenly, he freezes because you do something he doesn't expect. You tilt your head back, eyelids fluttering. Your mouth falls open. Not in a cry this time, but in invitation. Slow. Willing. Silent.

You look up at him with your lips parted, tongue just barely visible, and there's no mistaking what you're asking for. Not begging. Not demanding. Just offering - in case he needs it.

His breath catches in his throat. A muscle in his jaw ticks. He lets out a noise which sounds suspiciously like a growl, and for a second, he doesn't move.

But then he steps forward.

His cock is right there now, heavy and flushed and aching. So close you can smell the salt and sweat and want rolling off him in waves. He watches your mouth like it's the most dangerous thing in the world.

"Are you sure?" he asks, voice low and guttural. "Because if I fuck your mouth right now, I'm not going to last long. You've already undone me, love. All of this -" He gestures at your body, his shadows still moving in a slow, sensual rhythm. "This is you doing it to me."

You breathe out around the words. "Then let me finish it."

That seems to be all it takes.

His hand lifts as he guides himself to your lips, eyes asking for permission once more, before he finally slides in. The weight of him on your tongue is heady. Real.

The moment you close your lips around him, Xaden shudders like he's being struck by lightning. "Fuck. Yes. Just like that, love."

He doesn't thrust. Not yet. Instead, he lets you set the pace, lets your tongue swirl, lets you hollow your cheeks, and allows your mouth to worship him in the way you want.

But his control? It's shredding by the second. You see it, you feel it.

As his shadows keep moving inside you, pushing you higher once more, he finally touches you, tangling a hand in your hair. His breath catches and his hips twitch, and you know: This is the beginning of the end.

His cock is heavy on your tongue, warm and pulsing, the taste of him already blooming against the back of your throat. He's still not thrusting, letting you drag your mouth over him slowly. Your lips glide down his length as far as they'll go, your tongue curling underneath as you pull them back, then down again, building a rhythm.

Above you, Xaden swears, quiet and savage. "Fuck, you're perfect. So fucking perfect with your mouth full of me."

His hand stays buried in your hair, fingers clenched tight, but he still doesn't force it. Doesn't need to. You're doing it for him - to him. And the look on his face is giving you confirmation you're doing something right, because it's nothing short of wrecked.

But what ruins you all over again, what truly undoes you, is that his shadows have never stopped. They're still moving inside you with terrifying intent.

The thick one inside your cunt is thrusting faster than before now, perfectly timed with the flickering pressure at your clit. The smaller tendril in your ass moves in a slow, careful motion, stretching you just enough to make your body twitch with every movement. Your wrists are still held high, legs shaking. Your entire body feels like one exposed, burning nerve.

You can't moan around his cock, but your throat vibrates with the effort.

Xaden feels it. He chokes out a curse, hips jerking forward just a little, and that's the moment you've been waiting for. His control finally snaps. "Shit - love, I'm gonna ... fuck, I'm-"

You look up at him, eyes wide, mouth full, and take it.

The shadows drive deep inside you, fast and hard now, and your body tips over the edge one last time. Your third orgasm of the night crashes through you like lightning rippling through your spine. Your hips buck, walls clenching around the tendrils inside you, every inch of you convulsing with a release so raw it leaves your vision blurring.

And above you, Xaden roars. His hand tightens in your hair, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he thrusts deep one last time, spilling hot down your throat, groaning so low it seems to vibrate in your bones. His eyes are locked on yours the entire time, wild and worshipful and undone.

You swallow around him, reflexive, greedy, and he nearly collapses.

The shadows don't stop immediately. They ease, slow their movements, stroking you gently through the aftershocks as your whole body trembles, overstimulated and utterly spent. A soft, rippling sensation coils around your thighs, your belly, your chest, like they're trying to soothe you now. Trying to bring you gently down from your high.

When he finally pulls out, you're still breathing hard, lips parted, chest heaving. Xade drops to his knees in front of you. His hand cradles your jaw, his thumb wiping a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. His gaze searches yours, worried and full of something deeper than lust.

"You okay?" he asks in a whisper.

You nod. "I've never -" You break off, breath hitching.

He leans in, presses a single kiss to your damp cheek. Then your temple. Finally, your lips. Soft this time, with no demand behind it. Just him. Just your boyfriend.

"I know," he murmurs. "Me neither."

Time seems to lose all meaning after that.

You're not sure how long you sit there, body limp, shadows fading slowly like dusk melting into night. The bindings at your wrists release at last, and you let your arms fall with a shuddering sigh, your whole body humming, flushed and overstimmulated in the best way.

You barely notice when Xaden moves. It's only when you feel his arms around you that you do. Strong. Gentle. Steady.

He lifts you with seemingly no effort at all, one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back. You don't protest. You just let your head fall to his shoulder, your cheek resting against his bare skin, still damp with sweat and heat. His heart is racing.

He lies you down on his bed, real, solid, grounding, and eases you down like you're fragile. You aren't, of course, but gods, you're glad he treats you like you are right now.

Then he crawls into bed next to you, not reaching for more, not chasing the embers of lust still flickering in the air. He's just lying there, close and real.

You turn to him, your limbs slow and heavy, and he lifts the blanket over both of you. The heat of him seeps into your bones. His arm curls beneath your head, and his hand rests on your waist, holding you there like he's afraid you'll disappear.

And then, finally, he speaks. Quiet, almost uncharacteristically unsure. "I didn't go too far?"

You shake your head, brushing your nose against his chest. "You stopped every time you thought you might. You gave me every choice."

He exhales, which you can feel in your hair. "I've never done that before. With the shadows, I mean."

You pull back just enough to properly look at him in disbelief. "You've never used them during ...?"

His eyes meet yours, soft and unwavering. "Never. Not like this."

Your chest tightens as something inside you settles. "What was this, then?" you ask, not teasing. Just curious.

Xaden hesitates, then brushes his thumb across your cheek, the way he did when you were bound and writhing, only now with tenderness so thick it nearly breaks you.

"This," he says quietly, "was me showing you that you're not just another weapon I want at my side. You're the only thing I've ever wanted to fall for."

Your breath catches. There are no more shadows now. Just you, and him, and the sound of your heartbeat where it echoes against his chest.

And for the first time since setting foot in Basgiath, you feel safe. Loved. His.

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livvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv · 30 days ago

Text

King Simon Riley sharing his Queen with his Knight. CW : threesome, cunnilingus, cum, PiV, biting.

Simon was no fool. He could recognise the gaze of desire in your eyes, you were his wife. Of course he could tell.

Recently, he'd noticed your eyes lingering on not only him when you come to watch his training sessions. But also his guard, Johnny. Your gaze full of hunger, thighs clenching together under your gown.

And Johnny had been staring at you, too. Especially when you would curtsey in front of him, his eyes immediately going to the bust of your gown. His mouth practically salivating.

And when you sometimes got snippy with Johnny for being in the wrong area of the palace? Simon would see Johnny nod, then rush off to a nearby bathroom or closet.

See, Simon wasn't angry at his wife and knight craving to get their hands over one another. He'd felt both you and Johnny quiver underneath him. Though, he hadn't fucked Johnny since his early twenties. But he has no doubts Johnny was still as insatiable as he was back then.

And Simon sometimes got busy, too busy to fuck you the way he knew you craved. He'd only have five or ten minutes to fuck you, when you both knew you needed far longer to be fully satisfied.

Simon told Johnny to stay after a meeting to discuss battle tactics, and had your lady-in-waiting tell you to join them.

Then, Simon confronted you two on your obvious desire for one another, both of you obviously denied it as he expected. Frantically attempting to prove your innocence. Though Simon saw right through it.

Simon silenced you by lifting you up onto the long table, making you gasp as he shoved your gown up, both men realising you were going without panties.

"Simon likes having easy access" You admit sheepishly, Simon smiling wolfishly at you. Pulling your thighs apart, then turning to Johnny, who couldn't take his eyes off your cunt. Simon snapping his fingers at him, grabbing his attention.

"Go on" Simon tells Johnny, "Get on your knees and eat her pussy"

The two of you looked horrified, Johnny opening his mouth hesitantly before Simon grabs the back of his neck and forces him on his knees in front of you, the sound of his leg plates hitting the stone floor echoing in the room.

"Mate...Yer serious?" Johnny asked, eyes flickering between your glistening heat and Simons dark eyes. While it seemed Johnny was being a good friend by making sure Simon was okay with this, he was really just waiting for permission. Because the moment Simon gives a nod, Johnny shoved his face between your legs. Groaning at the scent and taste of you, his hips bucking up against nothing as you grab his hair and pull.

Simon could see the guilt and shame intertwining with the pleasure his Knight was giving you. He knew that would prohibit you from coming, which he wouldn't allow.

Simon stepped closer to the table, leaning in and biting down gently on your collarbone. "'S alrigh' love, want to watch you get fucked by my Knight" Simon whispered against the hollow of your throat, sucking the skin there for a moment. And you nod breathlessly at his words.

Simon smirked and bit you one more time before turning to Johnny and barking orders at him. The knight hurriedly getting up from his knees and unclasping some of his armour, his cock leaking pre cum, your mouth salivating at the sight. But before either you or Johnny could do anything, Simon grasped Johnnys cock and nudged the tip between your swollen folds. Making you whine and buck your hips.

You grabbed Johnnys shoulder tightly as Simon let him thrust into you. He wasn't as thick as Simon, but by the Gods, he was long.

Simon asked you a silent question, if you were ready for Johnny to fuck you, if you were adjusted to his size. And once you nod, Simon looked at Johnny.

"Fuck your Queen the way she deserves. Prove your worth, Knight" Simon growled, his tone when using Johnnys title mocking. Yet you swore you saw Johnnys pupils dilate.

Johnny grabbed your left leg and pushed it up against your chest, his hips immediately setting an unforgiving pace. Which had you moaning loudly, echoing within the room.

"O-Oh fuck- oh by the Gods!" you cry out, Johnny panting like a dog above you.

"Yer so fucking tight Bonnie" Johnny groaned, his hand moving between you to rub at your clit, Making you arch against him.

"Feel good, Birdie?" Simon asked, and you nod dumbly, your chin being roughly grabbed. "Words" your husband growled.

"It's good, it's so so good, Si. Fuck I'm close! Gonna come!" you gasp, thighs tensing and trembling.

"Never heard a pretty Royal like yerself speak so dirty, lass" Johnny grinned, angling his hips until you nearly screamed under him. Your release flooding you, head tilting back as your gummy walls clench down on Johnnys cock so tightly he can barely move. But it was enough, Johnny getting close, Simon could tell.

Simon grabbed Johnny by his grown out mohawk, "Don't you dare come in her, I don't need an illegitimate heir because of you" he threatened. You wanted to protest, to tell your husband to be kinder to his Knight, but from the look on Johnnys face and the small whine he let out, you realise he enjoyed when Simon was mean. An unsurprising revelation, to say the least.

You huff and whimper at the sudden emptiness when Johnny pulled out, but your eyes don't leave his cock as he tugged it furiously, your stomach soon being covered in milky ropes.

Simon chuckled and carefully shoved Johnny to the side, fishing out his own cock despite your tired glazed over eyes and trembling legs, smirking down at you when he grabs your hips and manhandled you to his liking.

"Come on now, love. Let's show Johnny how a King fucks his wife"

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

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livvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv · 30 days ago

Text

King Simon Riley choosing you as his bride. Part I CW : Fingering.

Simon had never been a patient man. He hated when people made him wait. He was just about ready to take his anger out on his guards, when a servant scurried into his office.

"She is ready and waiting in your chambers, Your Majesty"

Simon immediately stood, leaving without a word.

When he entered his chambers, he saw you looking around the large room, taking in your ornate surroundings. Donned in a long white nightgown. Far cleaner than you were when Simon first saw you.

"Do your new chambers meet your expectations?" Simon rumbled, and you spin around, brows furrowed as though you wanted to scoff and insult the King.

"Why was I forced into this? Is this some purity fetish?" You accuse, expression guarded. A royal would never be seen speaking the way you do. Simon loved it. His cock already beginning to chub in his trousers.

"'Course not, love. I had the servants put you in white because I thought it was the safest option to avoid putting you in a colour you dislike" Simon shrugged, noticing the twitch in your brow. You clearly hated that he was being kind to you. That he wasn't giving you a valid reason to lash out at him.

"Well...thats-you are still giving me no choice in marrying you. In being here!" You say, Simon chuckling at your outburst.

"You will cease your complaints soon enough" Simon hummed, reaching out and grasping your hip. His thumb rubbing circles over the fabric of your nightgown, crowding you against the lavish bed behind you. "You haven't ever felt fabric this soft against your skin, have you?"

You shook your head, finally sitting on the edge of the bed, gasping quietly when Simon lifts the nightgown. "Look at tha'" Simon chuckled, two of his thick fingers swiping through your folds. "Fucking soaked, aren't you?"

You bit the inside of your cheek, glaring up at Simon. Gasping as he slipped his index and middle finger inside of you. You tried your hardest to stay quiet, to not let the arrogant bastard know how good it felt for his fingers to pump in and out of your now soaked hole.

But you couldn't help the moan that ripped from your lungs when Simon curled his fingers to rub against your g-spot. Your head tilting back, brows furrowed in pleasure.

"Y'can't help yourself, can you? Don' you see how your life is going to be from now on? Pretty thighs trembling" Simon teased, your cunt clenching around his fingers. "Can feel you clenching, love. Come on my fingers, you can do it"

You whined loudly, hips rolling against Simons hand, you would have been embarrassed at the loud wet squelching that betrayed your want for the man. But it was impossible to feel embarrassed when you were so fucking close to coming.

You cried out as you came, the pleasure sparking every nerve in your body in a way you'd never experienced before. But the moment you recovered from your orgasm, you glared at Simon again.

He merely smirked at you, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his fingers clean. "You'll come around after I give you a few more orgasms like that, won't you?" Simon hummed, watching you sit up on your forearms.

"Like hell I will"

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livvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv · 1 month ago

Text

(anxious reader x roommate Simon Riley)

It’s always been a thing with you: men that are strangers make you nervous. Being around men makes your anxiety ramp up, and you do your best to avoid them if you can. You hated the way your previous roommate would bring random men home without warning, scurrying to the safety of your bedroom when you caught sight of these hookups alone in the kitchen.

Which makes your current living situation so incredibly difficult.

It hadn’t been an easy decision, choosing to move in with Simon Riley. A man. A stranger. But money had been tight, and the amount he wanted for rent had been far cheaper than your current situation. Plus he had said he’s out most of the time due to work, and that you’d have the apartment to yourself for weeks on end.

Which is true. Sometimes it’s just a few weeks. Sometimes it’s for months. It’s blissful and quiet, having the entire apartment to yourself, not a single worry in your mind.

But it’s the weeks that he is home, that he’s physically in the apartment, that make you second guess the choice to put your name on the lease. Just seeing him has your heart dropping to your stomach, blood rushing in your ears until you scramble back to your room, hiding behind a locked door.

Simon has the right to be in the apartment, of course. It was his before it was yours, but if you’re being honest with yourself, if not for the cheap rent, you would’ve moved out months ago. Hell, you probably would’ve never agreed to move in.

Of course, none of that matters right now. Simon’s deployed, shipped off half way across the world, and you’ve got the whole apartment to yourself right now. Horror movie on the tv, curled up on the couch with a blanket and a stuffed animal, a coloring book on your lap - you’re having a wonderful time all by yourself. That is, until the front door opens.

You’re so engrossed in coloring that you don’t hear it. Lost in your own world, until you hear footsteps in the foyer, and a voice, rough but not entirely foreign calls out your name. Your heart stops in your chest as he rounds the corner, eye black still streaked around his hazel eyes, hair grown out since you last saw him.

“Simon,” you choke his name out like it physically pains you.

His lips curl upwards in the ghost of a smile, and then he’s moving further into the apartment. Panic grips you for a moment, convinced he’s coming closer to you, before he’s moving down the hallway, disappearing into his room. You hear him exit a few moments later, before moving to the bathroom, and then the shower turns on, water rushing through the pipes in the walls in a sound that should be soothing, but it isn’t. It only serves as a reminder that there is someone else inside your apartment.

Part of you feels like this shouldn’t be a problem anymore. You’ve lived with Simon for nearly two years now! He’s your roommate! But… he’s almost never around, gone off to some war-torn country, away more than he is home, and he feels more like a stranger than a constant figure in your life. Which makes it hard to feel comfortable around him.

You’re back in your room by the time he exits the bathroom, much to Simon’s dismay.

He’d been hoping to talk to you. Not to outright confront your behavior, but to ask if there was anything he could do to make you feel more at ease around him. Because, while he knows it has nothing to outright do with him, it’s killing him to see the way you tense up around him. Reminds him of his childhood, of things he’d much rather forget, and he wants to nip this problem in the bud as soon as possible.

It’s why he stayed on base, forced himself to sleep in the barracks for a week, despite being home. That time had been needed to decompress, and to try to figure out how to break this nasty habit of yours.

Maybe he should’ve gone to Price, asked the old man for advice. But that requires too many personal questions, admission to things that Simon’s not ready to face yet. Besides, Price’s been divorced at least twice now, and while Simon looks up to the captain, he’s not sure that he trusts him with this kind of problem.

Sure, he could’ve asked Gaz. But the sergeant is a horrible gossip, and rumors of the infamous Ghost having trouble with a bird off base is the last thing Simon needs right now.

And asking Johnny is absolutely out of the question. Not only is he just as bad a gossip as Gaz, he’s also a terrible flirt, and that’s not the kind of approach that Simon needs to take in this.

As soon as he’s gotten dressed, towel slung over his shoulder, nerves braced like he’s approaching a bomb, he makes his way to your room, knocking gently on the door. A pause, and then he calls softly, “Luvie?”

Debating between knocking again or calling it quits, Simon’s just about to let the latter win, when the door creaks open, revealing you. Staring up at him with wide, nervous eyes, hands fidgeting with the sleeves of your hoodie, intentionally oversized and swallowing you whole. Fuck, you’re so cute, and you seem to have no idea.

He’s fucked up before he’s even began, watching the way you stiffen up as he says, “We need to talk.” It makes him want to take the words back, rewind time and steal the sentence from his own brain. Instead, he pushes forward, ready for this to be done and over with.

“You’re… allowed to exist. Here. Don’t have to go running every time I’m home,” he continues, waving a hand in the air.

You stare up at him, blinking slowly, before lifting your hand to your mouth, nervously chewing on your fingernail. The only reaction he gets, the only thing that tells him that you’ve heard him is a soft, almost inaudible, “Oh.”

“I just…” he shrugs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. This type of thing has never been Simon’s forte. Give him a gun and a target, and he’ll get the job done. But talking about his feelings? Trying to be soft when the world has left him with nothing but jagged edges? Yikes.

“If I can do anything to… help, I guess, just let me know,” he continues.

It takes a moment before you respond, smiling shyly at him. Because even if you don’t know Simon all that well, you can tell he’s trying, and the thought puts you a little at ease, even when his general presence makes you clam up.

“Okay,” you reply softly, before quickly adding, “Thanks.”

***

It takes two weeks before any shift in behavior seems to actually take place. You’re still flighty around the brickhouse that you call a roommate, and he’s giving you space to sort yourself out. At his core, Simon is a patient man. He has to be in his line of work. Even if it’s killing him to see you so close and yet so far away at the same time.

He’s in the living room, half paying attention to the movie on the TV as he thinks about… well, as he thinks about you, trying desperately to come up with some kind of plan to help you feel more comfortable around him. Simon’s so lost in thought that he almost doesn’t register you tiptoeing into the living room, blanket wrapped around you like some kind of shield.

As if he could ever not notice you.

When you first moved in, you’d bought this chair, this big circle chair that Simon never thought looked all that comfortable. In his opinion, it looked more like a satellite dish than a chair, not that he’d ever tell you that. But now? Seeing the way you curl up inside, letting out a soft sigh of content, Simon decides that it must be the most comfortable chair in existence.

This is a big move for your relationship with your roommate, and Simon doesn’t comment on it. As far as you can tell, he doesn’t even seem to register your presence in the room. Something that can’t be any farther from the truth.

Unbeknownst to you, Simon’s acutely aware of your presence, always keeping an eye or ear on you. You remind him of a hurt animal, wary and cautious, and if he comments on you joining him, he knows you’ll leave. And that’s the last thing he wants. So he sits almost inhumanly still, careful not to breathe too loud, for the remainder of the movie, paying more attention to you than to the film; watching the way your body relaxes as you get comfortable, the way you snort through your nose at something funny. His eyes snap to the tv when you turn to glance his way, far less subtle with your staring at him.

Part of Simon wonders what you see when you look at him. A man? A soldier? Your roommate? Potentially something more? The last thought has been worming its way into his brain for the last few months now, and he’s given up on shaking it off. But you’re not ready for that kind of admission, and Simon’s more than willing to wait for you.

***

It’s almost painstakingly slow, the progress in your relationship between you and Simon. But it seems to be improving, little by little. You’re willingly spending time in the living room with him, and at least once a week, you have dinner together. And Simon’s ecstatic by the improvement. You still tense up when he first gets home, but it’s the way your shoulders relax when you realize it’s him that feels like a victory.

Honestly, everything feels like a victory, and it’s taking everything that he’s ever learned to stop Simon from scooping you into his arms. For now, he’ll take the shy smiles, the way your eyes light up, the sight of you relaxed on the other end of the couch. But if he could have it his way?

He’d kiss you senseless. Pull you into his lap during movie night, and let you hide your face against his chest when the movie gets too sad. Carry you to bed when you fall asleep in the living room and keep you tucked against him all night long. But he can’t do any of that. Not right now.

The next shift in your relationship with Simon happens a few weeks after the first one. Things have been moving along just fine. He’s been home more than usual, giving you plenty of time to get gradually used to his presence.

“You’ve been home for a while,” you comment, curled up in your chair. There’s a coloring book in your lap, but you haven’t touched it, consumed by the show you’re watching and talking with Simon.

“Yeah, the last deployment was a nightmare,” he replies cautiously. You’ve gotten a little better at reading Simon, and you can see the tension in his shoulders. What you don’t know is that one of the guys on his team had been injured, and it had been Simon who carried him out.

“Oh,” you reply quietly, knowing better than to push. You might not know everything about what Simon does, but you know enough to know that it’s not easy and that some of it haunts him afterwards. Afterall, the walls of the apartment are pretty thin and there have been plenty of nights that you’ve been woken up due to one of Simon’s nightmares. Not that you’d ever say something about it.

“Be out of your hair next week,” he adds nonchalantly, draping an arm over the back of the couch. Your eyes follow the movement, watching the way his muscles flex, following the curves of his tattoo, before his words sink in.

He’ll be gone again next week.

A thought that once brought you peace, only fills you with anxiety. You can’t quite place why dread fills your heart, painful in your chest. Maybe it’s because you’ve come to enjoy Simon’s presence, a calm constant over these last few weeks. It feels weird, knowing that come next week, he won’t be here, won’t be in his spot on the couch for movie night, won’t be snorting at your poor attempt at comedy.

The only thing you can think to respond with is a soft, “Oh.”

Simon stares at you for a moment, giving you time to continue, but there’s nothing else you can think to say. Not when worry and dread have filled your heart and head. You look away from him, chewing nervously on your bottom lip. And Simon - endlessly patient Simon - doesn’t push you either.

“Don’t seem so excited,” he jokes, amusement creeping into his voice.

You huff, looking back over at him with the ghost of a smile on your face. “Don’t be an ass,” you shoot back.

He grins in response, glad you’re not completely lost in whatever anxious spiral your brain is trying to send you down. “Thought you liked it when I was gone,” he replies. Not an accusation, but more of a casual comment, something you both know used to be true but might not be anymore.

“I do like being alone,” you agree, and then hesitant - shy, sweetly, absolutely adorably - you admit softly, “But I like your company.”

Fuck. Simon could die a happy man, right then and there, heart swelling in his chest, and if he wasn’t so in control of himself, he’d be grinning from ear to ear. Instead, he keeps it calm and collected, cool as a cucumber, as he replies, “I like yours too.”

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livvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv · 1 month ago

Text

Part 2- Johnny can’t make you cum. (18+)

Part 1- not a necessary read but if you want a bit of a backstory.

johnny is sleeping when simon absolutely bashes the door open, the ferocity in his movements sending the wood slamming against the wall.

the sergeant jerks, fumbles beneath his pillow for a gun that isn’t there.

you feel kind of sorry for him, especially when he furrows his brows in utter confusion at your frame swallowed behind simon’s.

he grabbed your hand just before you walked in, soothed vibrating insides by a consistent brushing of your knuckles with his thumb. when you realized what he was planning to do, the anxiety grew faster than you could beg him to stop, and you ended up afraid of facing both him and johnny. there was no good way out, you were trapped.

but he helps, he soothes. in a way the handsome scot just was never able to do.

“steamin’ jesus L.t., go on and help yerself why don’t ya,”

simon huffs, unamused. “gladly.”

all it results in is the flailing of johnny flopping back down onto his back, hand scrubbing dejectedly down his face. “bloody hell, what do ye want?”

“i want you to stand up,”

this results in overly boisterous laughter from johnny as he looks back at simon, eyes piercing through the mass of man to look at you.

you can’t really make it out, but it sets unease throughout your bones, quickly followed by regret.

“simon this-it’s fine. please can we just-” you’ve got your grip on his bicep, rippled shreds of pure muscle thrumming beneath your fingertips. he’s so big. so so big. every piece of argument you had queued up dies immediately and is all replaced with saliva, drool ready to fall down your lips.

simon scoffs. “look at tha’, you see tha’ johnny. got ‘er so worked up she can’t even talk.”

his words bring you back, make your entire body go hot. this is embarrassing, really really embarrassing.

“oh, i’m-i’m fine i-simon can we please-”

he spins around, the simple narrowing of his eyes making you go compliant and utterly quiet. “y’r gonna hush y’r mouth and let me ‘andle this. yes sir?”

only your breath is heard, the rapid rising and falling of your chest making your throat tighten, eyes lighting up and fizzing out all at once. he notices, pries your hand off of him and puts it at your side, tucking two knuckles beneath your chin. “hm?”

you swallow, thickly, finding softness in his features, in the way he caresses your cheek. you nod, licking your lips. “yes sir.”

“good. now,” he turns, facing the sergeant, tone changing into this commanding force you know as your lieutenant. it’s the one nobody challenges, the one that means one wrong move and there is punishment ahead. “johnny. get. up.”

he doesn’t, he just waits. his eyes have questions, thousands of them, confusion swirling in a baby blue sea. you think he might be hurt. guilt slams into your chest, makes you lose all air. you cant help but put a hand on your sternum, heel of your palm trying to draw you back.

this is wrong. this is bad this is wrong. fix it fix it fi-

“why should i listen to a thing ye have to say?”

he’s standing toe to toe yet they’re ten feet apart.

“ye come barreling in my room, have my girl on yer arm, telling me i dinnae know how to please a woman.” he sits up, spinning around in his bed so that big, bare feet slam frustrated on the ground. “tell me why not even an hour ago i had the lass crying in my bed,” he runs a hand through an unruly mohawk, and its only then you notice the flush to his cheeks. he’s flustered. “don’t tell me i don’t know how to fuck sir, because every woman that comes through this building has a different say so.”

simon’s back goes tight, taut, and you can see the way his shoulders rise and fall with each calculated breath. he’s not hiding his anger, but he’s not making a show of it either, he’s just listening.

“she’s not every woman.”

you’re still rubbing your chest, hiding away and trying to breathe. there’s too much tension in the air, enough to make your skin uncomfortably hot, and usually johnny’s room is like a tundra.

this is your fault. they’re going to fight and hate each other and you’ll be in the middle of it, all because you couldn’t get over cumming, or rather the lack of.

how childish are you? how stupid?

you hear your name and it feels like a smack to the side of your head. it’s disorienting, and it makes everything ache when it comes from the lips it does. “tell him bonnie, get whatever fantasy is in his head out of it so i can get my arse in bed.”

you can’t read him again. can’t tell if he’s being true or if it’s begging you see in his eyes. don’t embarrass him, don’t make him feel like a fool.

he huffs, scratches his neck, yawns. his mannerisms are too calm, and you realize it wasn’t begging but frustration. he thinks he’s right.

you can feel tears, and the emptiness between your thighs throbs.

simon looks at you, softly, expectantly, and all you can do is flicker between the two faces. two familiar yet strange features. do you tell the truth? fix it?

or let it go? you’ve always been decent at taking care of yourself, why make this bigger than it is?

just fix it. fix it fix it fi-

the words come before you can stop them. “it’s not, i’m not trying to be um, to be mean, but i-” the thing that stops you is the way johnny pauses, for a mere second you see a teenage boy in him. soemthing yearning to pleasure, to please. something new and confused. he just needs guidance, to be taught. to learn and figure it out on his own.

yet you’re calling him out, plastering his name on flyers and forcing peoples heads where the pages are stapled onto a tree.

look at this man. he doesn’t know, he’s stupid. look at him. laugh.

simon analyzes, ushers you forward with a flicker of his fingers. “c’mon,”

you have no confidence, nothing to make you continue, but he’ll force it out of you.

and you want to cum. you really really do.

“i-”

johnny looks up, and you think you see the moment his stomach drops. it makes the tears noticeable on your face, makes you pick at your nails, rub your chest, mess with your hair, anything to keep from hurting him, anything to-

“everytime we’ve um, that we’ve done this, i can’t-i’ve never finished.”

“what?”

“but it’s not, it’s not just with you! i mean every guy i’ve been with i’ve had this problem so it’s probably me so don’t feel um weird or bad or, like, anything.”

you try to smile, to make him feel like less of the problem, but he’s got his mouth open, teeth poking out, tongue dry.

your belly hurts again, and you look at simon, sniffling, trying not to absolutely lose it.

he just shakes his head, wipes away all tears with his thumb. “we don’t make excuses for the foolish baby, isn’t that right mactavish?”

when simon moves out of your eyesight to look at his sergeant, you notice johnny is on his feet, pants on, eyes stone cold and unreadable. like a soldier.

he’s following his orders.

it makes you sick, makes your insides twist, but simon only hums, the sound reaching nerves you didn’t know you had and lighting them on fire. he’s satisfied, happy even. “good boy johnny,”

he nods, eyes looking right at you and yet he’s nowhere to be found in them. it’s like simon flipped a switch in johnny’s head, turned off the lights and lost him somewhere in the dark.

“simon-”

“let’s go, my room ‘s warmer.” he puts a large hand on your hip, forces your body to turn and applies pressure to make you move forward.

like a horse with a bit in its mouth, thick thighs guiding you each and every way you need to go.

simon’s room is down the hall on the right, numbers pried off and leaving behind a lighter and more faded section of the wood. your heart thunders like hooves on asphalt when he reaches around you to grab the door handle.

his neck is directly under your chin, breath hot on your jawline. the mask is still lifted, revealing wet, pink lips. they kiss your skin softly as he opens the door, whispering encouragement like a prayer to make your body cooperate.

“first lesson johnny, you ‘ave to make ‘em want.” his voice is in your ear, making you shiver. “shut the door,”

you hear a click, some shuffling of feet, and simon is in front of you, hand cupping your cheek. lips press underneath your ear, kissing a slow trail down your neck and to your chest, then back up to the other side.

“there are a lot ‘a women that might like to jump in with both feet sergeant, but some of ‘em like you to take your time. you ‘ave to learn to read ‘em.”

you think you feel him smile, and suddenly your hands are on his chest, fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer until his body is as close as your skin can be in this position.

“i um-i like the build up,” the words feel sinful. you’re not supposed to give suggestions, you just shut up and take what you’re given. but simon likes this, in fact, you feel teeth graze across your jaw.

“i know ya do baby, but johnny ‘s used to the ones who open their legs for a bit of fun yeah, but you, you like the way it feels. don’t ya?” you’re looking up at the ceiling, breath caught in your throat. every touch of his hands, of his skin, sends liquid lava through your veins. it’s an odd feeling.

there’s warmth in your belly akin to butterflies, and there’s an aching coming from your cunt. it screams at you, begging to be filled.

he grabs your face, forces it back down from where it was focused on the ceiling. his pupils are blown wide, tongue peeking between his teeth.

you hesitantly grab at his cheeks, slipping fingers beneath the mask to feel his features. he’s sturdy there too, stubble poking at your skin and tickling the creases beneath your knuckles.

“you gotta kiss ‘er, make ‘er feel wanted.” he does so. soft at first, like he’s asking for something. you give it to him by having your knees buckle, his strong arms squeezing the plushness of your thighs and lifting you around him. “there’s a time and a place t’ feel like a toy, but when you’re tryin’ to please ‘er, you gotta let that fantasy go johnny.”

he lays you back softly, says every word against your lips so he’s never apart from you. the tension in your shoulders eases for some reason, even when he tugs off your shirt, undoes your bra.

normally you’re afraid, goosebumps littering your skin, but it’s so warm in here. not the prickly kind, but the kind that makes you sigh, makes your eyes flutter shut with content.

he kisses down to your chest, and you arch your back in a way that’s never happened before when he starts sucking on your tits. he’s experienced, in his own simon riley way. the tongue does a lot of the work, teeth stimulating your nipple when he grazes oh so slightly before moving to the other.

you can feel little mewls coming from your lips, sounds you’ve never considered making before.

there was always too much to think about, too much to dwell on. now your brain is shut down, you move in tandem with him, body following his instructions like it’s the most natural thing in the world. an instinct to let him lead.

his hands begin to wander as he kisses your neck, dipping in your waistline and coming back out to rub your sides.

it’s sensual, you guess is the word.

a feeling you can’t place but recognize so well.

you turn your head so he can kiss your neck, but when blurry eyes flutter open, something happens inside your chest.

johnny looks sad.

he’s posted up in a chair, stiff and lonely. you feel the guilt again, and suddenly there’s no excitement anymore, no pleasure. just pain.

“simon st-” you find yourself cut off by the barbed wire around your vocal cords. the tears come fast. the frustration comes faster.

he obeys, immediately, backs off a little bit to look at your face. you think you see johnny lean forward, like he wants to do something, anything.

“‘ey it’s olright, you’re olright.”

you’re hiccuping, choking on emotions and feelings that haven’t come to the surface in a long time. it’s overwhelming.

your face is wet, eyes bloodshot, and simon is trying. he’s gently kissing your cheeks, pushing baby hairs behind your ears and away from your forehead.

“everything is fine, i promise. johnny,” you choke on a sob, clenching your eyes shut.

you’re afraid to hear his voice, to hear the disappointment and betrayal that’ll come with it. you’re not dating, there’s been no commitment or conversation of such, but you’re nothing if not a loyal woman and this feels wrong.

you feel dirty. bad. even as your cunt turns its back on you, as it clenches from each and every touch of simon’s fingers.

“listen t’ me, breathe yeah? shh, just- ‘ey, look at me for a moment.” he kisses your lips, big palms running down each cheek to rid the remnants of tears. you open your eyes, blink some more away to clear your blurry gaze. he’s looking at you softly, maybe even sadly. you think it might be pity? empathy? he gets it, and that’s enough to have you sniffling, swallowing away the thick lump in your throat.

“‘m sorry,” the apology makes you cry again.

“no, this isn’t you. it’s never been you. we should’ve-listen-i should’ve talked to you some more. johnny should’ve told you it’s olright.” he’s nodding, caressing your sides. “isn’t that right? she’s okay, yeah?”

there’s silence, eerily so. you feel pain trickle in, emotions kickstarting all over again. you look at simon, bottom lip beginning to tremble, when johnny finally speaks, voice stern. “yer fine pretty girl,”

it doesn’t feel fine, none of this feels fine.

the way he says it isn’t soothing you, isn’t making you feel better. no, his eyes still seem distant, and you immediately slam your own shut.

you don’t think you can do this, you’re undeserving, a burden, bad, bad, ba-

“sometimes johnny,” simon’s voice is muffled by something, and you think you feel lips working down your stomach. “sometimes pretty little ladies get in their ‘eads, start questionin’ things.” lips above your waistline, leaving featherlight kisses. you feel your breath hitch, legs squirming all on their own in anxious anticipation. “you gotta turn that off, make it oll go quiet.”

it’s a tongue now, running up your side. thick, calloused fingers dipping in the hem of your pants and tugging them down. he does it slowly, a bit of permission being asked in the way they hesitantly slide down your hips.

you don’t fight it, just nod, lifting up your ass so he can finish tugging the leggings down.

your brain still whirs, images of the man just feet from your naked body passing through in clips, making you inhale sharply through your nose, fighting off more tears.

“hush it now,” you startle, eyes flying open to find simon right above you. one hand is on your cheek, thumb ghosting over your jawline. it draws your attention, makes you look at him and him only. “good.” that other hand wanders. it runs over the cotton of your panties, feels the way they’re a bit wet with slick.

“better, but if they’re not soakin’, well then, you’re just not doin’ it right.” he dips his thumb in the crease of your folds, over the fabric, running it up and finding an oddly perky clit. “mm, gettin’ somewhere.” you watch him smile, watch a scar twitch in satisfaction. his cheekbone seems to flutter too. you focus on that for a moment, focus on the way it ticks.

he’s fascinating, oddly enough. he’s complex and emotional, but there’s a wall, a mask if you will. something in his eyes, crowded by thread. it says this is him tearing it apart for you, says that he’s trying.

a moan breaks out before you can stop it when he pushes aside the crotch of your panties, testing the waters with a finger in your cunt and a thumb on your clit.

it shuts your brain off completely, makes your hands fly to his shoulders. “you ‘ear that? means she’s feelin’ better.” he smiles, all teeth and gums, before moving down your body yet again, taking your underwear with it and tossing them to johnny when they’re off.

they hit him on the neck, making you slap a hand over your lips before they let out a ferocious giggle. simon likes it though, he’s loosening up each limb little by little, making you human again. “smell that, feel ‘em. let it be your souvenir from tonight’s lesson. cause once i bury my face in this pussy, it’s mine.” he bites the inside of your thigh for emphasis, making you yelp, fingertips curling in unruly sheets.

“now, tell me one thing sweet’art, can you do that for me?” he’s placing open mouth kisses against the top of your pelvis, circling your cunt, making you clench with want.

“wh-what?”

“what’s so wrong about the way johnny boy over ‘ere eats y’r pussy, and be honest, we don’t mind, do we?” you look over, try to ignore the lips on the crease where your thigh meets your pussy, but fail with a mewl, even as johnny nods yes.

“i dunno it’s just,” there’s a warmth gliding up your slit now, making you still. “um, he just, he’s really rough, and he-fuck,” simon moves up, circles your clit with a flattened tongue. “he never does that.”

when he perks his head up, his eyebrows are raised beneath the balaclava, your arousal glistening on his chin and the black fabric. you think it might turn you on a bit.

“you mean he’s never touched y’r clit.”

you feel bashful again, meekly shaking your head as warmth floods your cheeks.

“ohhhhhh johnny, fuckin’ rule number one mate. that’s where a lot of it comes from yeah, the way ya feel?” it’s rhetorical, he knows. of course he does.

he looks at johnny though with a down right death stare, adjusting his grip on your thighs so his forearms are over the tops of them, shoulders keeping them pushed forward while his hands massage your tummy. every touch of his fingers keeps you here, present. it’s a bit harder to float away with the feeling of hands on your tits.

“looks like i’ve got some makin’ up to do then. right on, let’s get to it.”

then it begins, like a man starved of his meal. you feel simon open his mouth against your cunt, tongue seeking its way through your entrance before pulling out again. it’s all warm and wet, a tingly feeling shooting up your spine each time he moves up, lips wrapping around that little bud and sucking with the lightest of motions.

that has you singing a bit, hand now tugging the sheets up. “fuck, oh my go- simon,”

you think he chuckles, not because you hear it but because you feel it. it sends fire through your cunt and pooling in your stomach, tightening this odd coil resting in your gut.

he tilts his head, tries to find an angle to go in deeper, you don’t think that’s even possible. the man isn’t breathing, isn’t asking to stop, he’s fully willing to drown in your pussy. and for once you don’t think there’s enough coherent thoughts in your mind to care.

you think his mouth is making noises now, light sounds from how sloppily he’s going down. he’s taking his time, unlike johnny, building up this delicious flame that, once completely ignited, will set your whole body alight.

you arch when he takes your clit again, and there’s an unfamiliar sound coming from your lips when he decides he can add his fingers as well.

“oh simon, right the-” he found your sweet spot within seconds. you wait for him to lose it, even grind your hips down to beg him to continue, but it was unnecessary, because he’s hitting it over and over and over again.

somehow, on instinct, your free hand flies to the back of his head, pushing him down further into your cunt. you need more. more, more, more.

he reads it and begins to move in tandem. his mouth solely focuses on your clit while his fingers work your insides. it’s takes two more strokes of his fingertips and you’re a goner, that coil he’d been winding snapping full-force.

you call out his name, moan it breathlessly. you whimper and writhe, feeling arousal literally leaking onto your thighs.

it’s messy and hot, and simon takes in every last drop.

he works you, slows down his pace to very carefully take you down from your high. it’s only when you start spasming does he stop, fingers pulling out and going in his mouth.

“taste like honey sweet’art, just like i knew y’ would.” he crawls back over your body, places lips wet with cum over your closed eyelids in gentle kisses. “might just ‘ave to bottle y’ up, put it in my tea.” he grins against your jaw, laughs when you giggle. “what do ya think a’ tha’?”

“that’s,” you’re heaving in deep breaths, struggling to crawl out of the syrupy sweetness coating your mind. “that’s yucky simon,”

his chest shakes, belly vibrating against yours, and suddenly you hear a sound like thunder right up against your ear as he collapses onto you, squeezing your hip with ferocity as he fights off laughter. “i wouldn’t-fuck-i wouldn’t call it, in y’r own words, yucky baby. might just be the best sweetener a man could ‘ave. a delicacy.”

“no.”

he’s still laughing, now combining it with kisses on your cheek. “oh yeah, could sell it to the boys. make a fortune. bet they’d like tha’.”

you swat at his chest, but it doesn’t beat the smile you manage when you finally open your eyes to see his own staring back at you in something that could be described as nothing other than awe.

they swirl like a storm, heading straight toward you. ready to rip apart your life and set it anew onto its own path. destruction with willpower. and you accept it. even as a foot taps, even as you remember there’s another man watching, analyzing.

because he’s never looked at you like this before. and now that you’re really paying attention, you think simon always has. just a duller version in the past.

either way, this isn’t something you want to let go of. ever.

simon comes back when you kiss him, slowly, reverently. “right, well,” his tongue searches for answers among your teeth, finding his answer and coming back with a sigh. “let’s finish this lesson up, send mactavish ‘ere on ‘is way. and then we’ll ’ave a bit of fun. hm?”

sounds like pure bliss.

“i accept your offer.”

he kisses you, as loosely as he’s made your limbs. this is what it should be like. you should feel this comfortable, this at home.

maybe you never had before because johnny was just a vacation.

“now, sergeant, when ya fuck a woman. ‘old on, ‘ere baby, lemme-there we go,” he grunts, adjusting himself properly between your thighs. he’d put his hands under your knees and pushed them against your stomach as far as they’d go, splitting your pussy open for him. leaving it warm, leaking, and inviting. “where was i? yeah, when ya fuck a lady, sure y’ might like it tight, and it might be, but if she’s not drippin’, not a fuckin’ fountain for ya dick, y’ might ‘ave an unhappy woman. and well, that just won’t do will it?”

simon shakes his head no for emphasis, and you follow, like an obedient little puppy. a kitten who whines when he runs the tip of his dick up and down, gathering your slick.

“i know ya think this is all about the way ya feel johnny, and it is sometimes, but if you’re feelin’ good when y’r missus isn’t and ya just keep goin’ to get a decent wank, then you can fuck right off. not under my roof, not under my rank. is that understood?”

johnny is silent and simon is beginning to press inside you, sending a stinging stretch that makes your nails dig into his biceps.

“yes sir, johnny?”

a little more and he pulls back out, making you whimper before pushing back in again, further.

“yes sir.”

simon kisses your neck, whispers in your ear. “doin’ good for me. i know it stings a bit but just give it a moment and it’ll feel better.”

you nod, trying to focus on the way his tongue feels in your mouth instead of the intrusion in your pussy.

johnny isn’t small, not by any means, but it’s never really gone that far if you’re being honest, and you’re not sure right now if it’d matter anyway because well, simon is very true to his size.

you agree a bit loudly, trying to convince yourself. “okay okay,”

he tries to go further but it almost feels like you’ve hit a wall. he widens your thighs, makes them burn, and keeps inching in, trying to coerce your body into loosening for him.

it makes you hiss. makes him pause. “it’ll stop, just relax for me.”

“promise?” you whisper this one, focus your eyes on his own when they come up to look at you.

he doesn’t hesitate to show you the intensity in them, doesn’t hesitate to guide you to safety.

“if it doesn’t, you just tell me and we’ll quit. not doin’ nothin’ you don’t wanna do.”

you nod, choke back some tears, and squeeze his biceps to let him know he can just do it.

“want a countdown?”

“no.”

before you know it his hips are flush with yours and you’re muffling a whimper in his neck, feeling his hand massage the back of your thigh. “easy,” he waits, lets you breathe, and then his thumb finds your clit again.

at first it doesn’t do anything, because there’s a stretch, a big ass fucking stretch. but then something hits the ends of your nerves, makes your eyebrows furrow in a different way.

now there’s a pressure but it’s nice, and you wiggle, testing the waters.

“move, please,”

you don’t have to ask twice.

he’s starting off slow, panting a bit, trying to speak but failing to find words.

“ya start off at an even pace, somethin’ she can count on.”

you find your ankles locking around the base of his spine, and now your neck feels less tense, there’s jelly in your bones.

“the main thing you’ve got ta-mmph-fuck,” he hangs his head, stifles a grown in your neck. “oh you’re killin’ me, feel so warm so-ah-tight.”

his reactions cause reactions of your own and you moan alongside him, letting your body guide you.

“every wo-woman ‘as got a sweet spot.” he grabs your hips, quickens his pace to a speed where you can feel every curve and vein that makes up his dick, where it slides deliciously in and out, where it builds up a tightness again, sitting low in your belly.

“you might ‘ave to try a few different angles, but you’ll know by the sounds she makes whenever you’ve found it.”

he adjusts so he’s hitting one side more than the other, it doesn’t do much, feels good but not life-changing.

“hm, not that one,”

your sounds are too breathy, weak.

he moves to the middle, pulls one thigh down and pushes it to the side. that feels better, really good actually. you moan a little louder, arch further into his chest. “almost got it, but not quite. you want ‘er singin’.”

again, he moves, angles his dick once more and slides out. “right,” it’s a skull-splitting movement when he slides back in and holy fuck what the-

“oh my god oh my god,”

“there. right there. that’s it. yeahhhhh,”

you let out a noise that never happens to you, something that would normally have you crawling with embarrassment, but simon just keeps hittting that spot, and hitting it, and hitting it.

“don’t stop fuck, simon please, please,” you’re begging him, tears in your eyes, praying he’ll just keep going.

you’re close, soemthing strong and yet so weightless beginning to take hold.

“shh baby, ‘m not, i got ya. you just let go, let me teach.”

you nod, frantically, let him set the tone. all you know is his tip is hitting a place that sets your nerve endings on fire, that makes your toes curl and fingers tingle, makes something in your brain begin to sparkle and tickle.

“johnny, we’re not sloppy when we’re pleasin’. if y’r tryin’ to get yourself off, sure, but women’s bodies are-fuck-” he lets out a deep whimper you think, folds into you a bit. all you did was clench down, pussy trying to suck him in and keep him forever.

“‘m sorry,” you think tears are pouring, but there’s too many feelings all at once that you can’t tell anything other than if he touches your clit you’re an absolute goner.

“don’t-baby, fuck you gotta-shit-don’t apologize.”

you hear how close he is in the way his voice pitches up. how his hands start caressing again, trying to ground himself.

“johnny, this’ll ’ave to wait i’ve got-fuck-i’ve got other matters of business.”

you don’t know what happens, but an explosion goes off inside your head. you throw it back, feel liquid lava creep throughout your veins.

and simon keeps going. again and again and again. he pushes your knees back, elbows holding him up, and something in him snaps because there’s a pace now so fast and so perfect that it has the feeling you thought was over building up in delicious overstimulation.

it crawls up your neck and wraps tendrils around your brain, squeezing until there’s no air in your lungs because you’re moaning it all out in the form of his name.

your arms were lazily thrown over his neck but now they’re on the bed, weak fingers trying to find solace in the blankets beneath you.

but you’re in space, floating, pleasure in every crevice of your body.

“baby fuck, you’re perfect. just-i’m so close, i’m almost finished fuck i know you can give me another. gonna give me another?” you don’t know if he hears you but you’re screaming yes inside, it only comes out as his name though just like everything else.

“yeah simon’s ‘ere, i’ve gotcha. just let it go, cmon, you can do it.”

he merely grazes your clit and you’re swallowed by a black hole, a place deep and dark that’s dragging you down into something disorienting.

warmth spills into you, tugs you further back into this vastness.

then there’s weight on you, muffled voices speaking and trying to yank on your tether.

you think you beg it to stop, to leave you alone and let you float away. but it doesn’t listen, it just keeps calling you back, tugging and pulling and now there’s light peeking through.

your rocket ship is landing. which is highly unfortunate because there is no way in hell you can step out of it without falling on your face.

you open your eyes, just mere slits, but simon is over you, saying your name, running a hand over your warm face.

“-ee’art? you okay?”

you think you nod, but by the way his voice keeps carrying you don’t know if that’s true.

“‘m fine.”

it’s slurred and weak, but he smiles, kisses your nose softly. “welcome back baby, thought we’d lost ya.”

“no,” you want to say more. to tell him about all the planets you visited on your trip around the universe. but there’s something throbbing inside of you, and you squirm, whimpering.

“yeah yeah, just breathe.” when the feeling inside of you begins to pull out, you hiss, trying to stop him as harshly as you can. it suddenly has reality flowing back through your veins.

“ow ow, fuck what did you do to me?”

he winces for you, hesitantly pulling out the rest of the way and kissing you when you cry out. “a bit sensitive are we?”

“yeah i-i dunno i feel like i blacked out or something,” you laugh but it hurts, so you settle for a smile, trying to coerce your legs into being less tense.

“somethin’ like that. feel good though?” he slides an arm behind your back, lifts you up so you’re closer. it gives you a touch of vertigo, makes you lean your head into his chest.

“don’t know if i’ll have better.”

you feel his laugh before you hear it and he kisses the top of your head. “think i can top it.”

“cocky much?”

“mm, just know what i’m capable of.”

you sigh, snuggling into him as exhaustion creeps in. you feel so empty yet so full. everything aches, there’s guilt in your chest, but he’s so warm. and can’t that be enough?

unfortunately he has to ruin it by being good.

“let’s get you cleaned up now. johnny, get out.” he keeps you calm with a warm palm on your back.

you hear footsteps, and he says nothing. all you know is there’s a small pause between when his feet stop and when the door opens.

you’ve hurt him. wounded his pride and his trust.

but he wounded yours first. badly.

and since when did anyone in this place not give a fuck about good ole revenge?

you hear him walk out, feel saliva pool on your throat along with a feeling very close to nausea. how do you patch this one up? and can you?

“you need ta take a piss love, then we’ll get ya in the bath, some warm clothes, maybe a bite.”

you whine, forget for a moment, and try to scooch further into him. “can’t i just take a nap?”

“i wish but, ya need to pee. just trust me.”

you grumble, groan, but he lifts you off the bed and to his chest so you guess it’s worth something.

simon sits you down on the toilet with the light off, kisses your head and claims he’ll be back when you’re finished. you think it’s all okay, that your sleepy daze will last. wrong, very fucking wrong.

this piss is like a second orgasm and you cling to the sink in horror when your body shudders, legs shaking, pussy absolutely pulsing with each moment that passes by.

it’s weird and uncomfortable yet oddly pleasuring at the same time. it sends anxiety through your chest, makes your brain ask for relief.

“simon,” you don’t know why you call his name, why moisture is pricking at your waterline, but he comes, clothes in hand.

he crouches down so he’s eye level, and suddenly this is all too intimate, too overwhelming. you’re still pissing, still trembling, and simon is rubbing your thigh, hushing your noises.

“‘m sorry this is weird i know it’s weird i-”

he shakes his head, runs his hands down to your calves to massage the tense muscles. “not weird baby, normal.”

you think you’re done, but there’s a sensation sitting in your vagina saying you’re not. and for some reason there’s no connection between the two of you to say you trust her at all. or really that she trusts you.

“i didn’t kn-know this was a thing.”

he’s working out a knot in your left leg, barely even looking up, like this is a casual tuesday.

“mmhm, learned it a while back. funny story really.”

round two comes fast and hard and you clench your eyes shut, waiting for the sting to pass and relief to flood.

“easy there, let it ‘appen.” and it does, faster than before, and finally your body is connecting its circuits back together again, making you feel like a whole instead of fragments of parts.

“done?”

you nod, eyes still closed, body lurched forward and dripping down further with exhaustion. “no, shower first, sleep later.”

you groan, obnoxiously, but he just flushes the toilet, turns on the shower and grabs your hands. “up and at em baby let’s go.”

“bossy.”

“mm, it’s my job.”

that makes you roll your eyes but you laugh nonetheless, liking the way he smiles. liking the way his nose crink-

his nose.

you can see the way his nose connects to his eyes. how it all wrinkles and crests and fuck he’s beautiful.

you stand there in something of amazement, because he took off his mask. for you.

your breath catches, eyes finding each freckle, every scar, and memorizing it, mapping out his skin. he’s perfect.

“in the shower, now.”

you grumble, stepping under the hot water and moaning. “thank you, thank you, thank you,”

he steps in behind you, hands sliding over your hips.

the silence that falls after is the most soothing part of the night. it’s two bodies moving like they’ve known each other for decades, reading cues and seeing signs that should take forever to learn, but they know.

they know when to step and when to turn, when to touch and when to back away. they sway and dance like strands of kelp side by side in ocean waves.

eternity together really.

simon has to drag you out, dries you off, puts the shirt on. he makes you sit on the counter while he takes care of himself. watches in amusement when your head tilts forward as your sleepy eyes close.

eventually you lay your forehead on his shoulder, waiting for him to stop brushing his teeth.

he carries you back, lays you down softly on what you’re recognizing as fresh sheets. ever the gentleman.

it’s cozy, a cocoon of safety.

you think you could fall asleep now, curled into his chest like this, but your eye catches the indent in his armchair, and suddenly it’s wide awake.

“y’r thinkin’, what about?”

you huff out a humorless laugh, tucking the thick comforter further beneath your chin. “how’d you even know?”

“felt the change in y’r breathin’, figured it was somethin’. but, ya know, just a hunch.”

he kisses the back of your head, follows your gaze to the place where it seems a little too stuck on.

“ah,” he knows. “ don’t worry about oll that tonight baby, we’ll ‘andle it tomorrow.”

you shake your head. and whose surprise when you’re crying again? “how do i even approach him simon? i mean i just-fuck-i was a horrible friend.”

“no, you made no commitments, there was no strings.”

“yes but,”

“no. don’t want to ‘ear it.”

you try to spin around to face him but he pins you still, kisses your neck with dry lips. “it’s time for bed. tomorrow.”

he leaves no room for argument.

“fine,”

“good, now sleep.”

you do, for a while. and sure, there’s nothing to worry about tonight. no responsibilities, no worries.

but tomorrow has them, in tenfold really. it has an agenda, and you think it’s going to be a bad one.

I hope this was worth the wait. turns out i had it in me the whole time i was just procrastinating!!

@senopa @kaylakenobi @ghostlyshieldmimic @shushyoudontknowme

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