necrobunni

[necrobunni]

aftercare with simon riley, but it's you taking care of him, holding his heavy body while he shakes, twitching and rasping broken gasps and small moans each time your pussy clenches around him, pulsing steadily to milk every spurt of cum that creams you full, dripping down your legs, as he slowly slips into detached haze, ears buzzing somewhere distant.

you managed to roll him down onto the cottony sheets gently, the still spasming, drenched cock slips out of your cunt easily, and simon immediately clings to you, thick fingers encircling your wrist, tugging, and you have to croon couple of times that you'll be back quickly, until he let's you go.

simon is sitting weakly against the headboard of the bed when you walk back, bare feet paddles against the cold floor, as you come into the glassy view of his eyes with a warm, wet towel in your hands, the fluffy cloth brushing against his tense thighs, muscles rippling and then loosening slowly, and he exhales slowly, pale, wispy eyelashes swooping low.

wiping down any lingering, viscous fluids, you keep your touch steady and gentle, patting tenderly against his softened cock, mindful of the overstimulation simon feels, hissing lightly at the pleasant, wet warmth, gazing at you more clearly, eyes honeyed with unspoken gratitude, as you fold the towel once, changing the sides to move up his chest.

raking over the delicate, muted lines of fading scars, dotting moles that adorn his pale, slightly pink from exertion skin, stomach heaving under your palm, as you stroke over simon's body mindlessly, until he catches your hand with his, interlacing your fingers together even through the lingering trembles, making you place the towel aside.

now, clean and settled, you let simon tug you even closer, glad that the aftercare now turned into a cuddling session, with you tucked beneath his heavy, cloaking hand, caressing at the swoop of your waist, nuzzling your head with quiet breaths and small, barely perceptible kisses, a show of his gratitude towards you and everything you do.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[necrobunni]

"Do I look fat in this dress?"

Johny - Flash bang of panic. He can see your fupa and his mouth is watering, but he suddenly can't remember if you have been complaining about bloating recently. Ultimately says, "Dinne ken, sit on my face so I can take a closer look."

Kyle - Actually takes the question seriously. Has you turn and pose and changes the lighting. Snaps a couple of photos so you'll see what he sees. Invites you to bend over and hike up the skirt. "Just want to get some good angles, love."

Simon - Not here for games. "Yes. Tits an' bum an' belly spillin' out like you're tryin' to get fucked." And then you're trying to fight him off because he's decided that's a great idea, actually. Keep the dress on, he wants to see how it bunches as you bounce.

John - Cool under pressure, looks you up and down with bedroom eyes while he calculates the best options for a response. "Look like my wife, love, like I'm the luckiest man alive." Then gets cheeky and asks, "If I say yes, will you take it off?"

[necrobunni]

donald trump will die on july 20th 2025 at 1pm pacific standard time

[necrobunni]

Lucifer Morningstar x Fem Southern Reader

The bass of the music at Lux throbbed like a pulse, heavy and hot, vibrating through floorboards slick with spilled whiskey and perfume. Lights were dimmed just enough to invite sin, but not so much that you couldn’t see who was watching. And Lucifer Morningstar was always watching.

Tonight was no different.

Perched behind the bar with a glass of something old and expensive, Lucifer’s eyes skimmed the crowd like a predator at ease—until he froze.

There.

Walking in like honey poured over a blade.

You didn’t walk, you glided, each step deliberate, balanced atop sharp black stilettos that made your legs look impossibly long under the slinky dress hugging your body like it paid rent. It was black, of course—smooth as sin and just as dangerous. The hem rode up one thigh, high enough to tease, low enough to taunt.

Your nails were long, stiletto-shaped, glossy as obsidian. You curled them gently around a cocktail glass Maze had just handed you—her gaze flat and unimpressed, but still trailing you with interest, maybe a little warning.

"You're gonna break him," Maze muttered, dryly. "He doesn't even know it yet."

You just smiled at her, a soft, slow thing. "Well now, baby, that ain’t my fault if he decides to fall at my feet."

That accent—warm, Southern, like bourbon on a winter night. Sweet. Slow. Delicious. But there was something in the way you said it. Something in the way your eyes—lined in razor-sharp black—lifted toward the balcony.

Lucifer had been caught mid-sip.

You locked eyes with him, and in that single moment, it wasn’t just eye contact—it was a command. Subtle. Smoky. The sly curve of your red-slicked lips told him you already knew he was watching. That he’d always be watching.

And you let him.

Lucifer was descending the stairs before he even realized he was moving.

---

You were leaning against the bar, playing casual, smiling at Maze like you weren’t radiating low-grade dominance with every graceful motion. Your tone was soft, but your posture didn’t ask for attention—it expected it.

When he reached you, you turned, giving him your full attention like a gift.

"Evenin', sugar," you said smoothly, voice dipped in velvet. "You must be the Devil himself."

Lucifer blinked. Once. Twice.

He recovered—barely.

"That I am. Lucifer Morningstar." He offered a hand with a flourish, smiling in that disarming, polished way. "And you are… divine."

You took his hand lightly, cool fingertips resting in his palm just long enough to leave a burn. You didn’t bow or flutter lashes. You just looked. Straight at him. Deep into him. Like you saw every sin and had already forgiven—or judged—each one.

And Lucifer?

He nearly forgot to breathe.

"I'm whatever you want me to be, baby," you purred, still smiling. "But you can call me yours. If you're lucky."

Maze groaned audibly behind the bar. “God, you’re disgusting.”

Lucifer didn’t even hear her.

“Tell me something, darling,” he said, a little breathless, already leaning in. “Do you always walk into clubs and take over the room like this?”

You tilted your head, lashes lowering with mock innocence. “I don’t take over nothin’. Folks just offer themselves.”

“And what is it you want?” he asked.

Your gaze slid down his body, slowly, then back up. You leaned forward until your lips brushed the shell of his ear.

“I want you,” you whispered. “On your knees.”

Lucifer’s soul shuddered.

---

Later, after a round of drinks turned into hours of conversation, a dance turned into a drawn-out, deliberate tease, and more than a few patrons stopped what they were doing to stare—Maze cornered Lucifer in the back hallway.

“She’s gonna eat you alive,” Maze said flatly. “And you’re gonna like it.”

Lucifer looked positively dazed. “I hope so.”

Maze rolled her eyes so hard they practically rattled.

[necrobunni]

ROGER PLZ BABES

[necrobunni]

love a man who gets the biggest boner as you’re sitting on his lap, rambling about your day or your interests or anything at all … and his smile is cocky as you stop mid sentence, eyes a little wide because how is he hard right now? and he thrusts his hips up a little to make it known — this is what you do to me

[necrobunni]

Are you open to new mutuals?

omg always babes i need mutuals anyway since my first years on tumblr were just me lurking

[necrobunni]

this blog is a safe space for black women ❤️

[necrobunni]

What about harpy eagle!reader and macaw!gaz....

When price mentioned a new avian joining the team, gaz knew there were hundreds of possibilities to expect. He just hasn't prepared for you being a fucking harpy eagle.

Youre large and imposing, easily as big as ghost with massive wings and plumage. You smile wide when you glance over everyone before landing on gaz, a look in your eyes makes him shiver.

It becomes clear youre obsessed with him, following gaz around whenever you get the chance. He doesnt mind, even if the bird in his brain screams at having a predator species so close. Its honestly part of the fun. Youre big, every movement commanding attention, the air pressure of rooms shifting to fit your presence.

So when you hunt gaz down and press him into the wall of some empty hallways after a pretty physical sparring session, can you really blame him for the flustered squeak? Your taloned hand can hold his chest against the tile easily, head dipping down to give him a teasing hiss. "You're feathers are ruffled, sargeant. You got someone to fix it?"

When he shakes his head, you only grin further. You end up taking him to your nest, bigger than his, clearly accommodating your wingspan. You dont waste times, tossing him chest first into ur nest and crawling over him to settle on the back of his thighs. Oh god, hes not gonna walk out of this room with any dignity left. There's something about having the weight of a large bird looming over him that has gazs face heating even as he tucks it into and elbow.

The way you manhandle him where you need him, pressing sharp talons against his joints followed by a soothing pet has his mind foggy before you even touch him. When you finally get ur hands in his feathers? Hes a mess, unable to stifle his appreciative groan even if he wanted.

You laugh condescendingly at him, raking hands over his back in appreciation of the red feathers. He starts trying to buck into the mattress halfway through, boxers already sticky with cum, so you have to press a forearm to his nape "settle down, birdie. Im not done." His body goes limp, instinctual, but now hes moaning openly at everything you do.

By the end of its hes panting and whining beneath you, wings trembling whenever you even breath on the delicate feathers. Hes blissed out, and while you really would love to jump his bones after essentially listening to audio porn for two hours, you hold back.

Instead you tuck him into ur nest and tell him to sleep. You'll have plenty of fun with him when he wakes up :)

[necrobunni]

Okay so u and gaz are besties, right? Ur also an insanely horny and sexual individual, and tend to call gaz to regale him with ur various escapades.

So you call gaz one night, and start talking before he even answers because its routine at this point. "Kyle! You will not believe who I just saw at the beach! Yknow that photo of your captain, the really hot dilf with the arms? I swear to god I saw him." You recounted, pacing around ur room with a drink in hand, full on gossip mode.

"He looked so fucking hot, man. You have gotta get me his number, ill be on my knees for a week straight dude cmon-" you goad, expecting him to have cut in with a teasing remark abt getting u fixed by now. When he hasn't, you finally pause "uh kyle?"

"You're on speaker, lass." You recognize that voice, mortification dawning. Johnny. Gazs friend you met once. Another voice speaks, gruff and low and perfec- "dilf?"

You hang up. Face burning and praying to God you never have to look any of them in the eyes ever again.

[necrobunni]

Captain Price on a mission with an autistic sergeant who repeats his orders. ''Watch my six, sarge,'' and they quietly go ''watch my six, sarge... watch my six... sarge'' while watching his six.

they're very good at what they do, that's why they're on his team in the first place, Price is very well aware of this and he's cool with it but when it first happened in front of the other 141, they were appalled. did this new sergeant just mock the captain?

[necrobunni]

Poly!Task Force 141 x Barracks Bunny!Reader

The first night is quiet, warm, and weirdly domestic.

You’ve barely been there three hours and the place already smells like cedar, mugwort, and a hint of your lavender-chamomile oil mix. You put salt in the corners before your bags were even unpacked, drew little protection sigils in charcoal on the bottom of the soap dish, saged the living room like it was second nature. There's a diffuser humming with lavender and chamomile, and the record player’s already spinning something dark and dreamy. It's homey in a way that shouldn't make sense, not on base, not here. You move with the calm of someone who knows how to take up space without asking—and the house adjusts to you like it’s been waiting.

And Price—he’s just standing there. Watching. Arms crossed, back against the kitchen doorway. That same half-smirk he wears during debriefs, when the mission’s going sideways and he knows exactly how to fix it. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t ask. Just studies you like a blueprint he already committed to memory.

He knew you'd do this. You were the one he picked.

It wasn’t even a hard choice.

Kate had smacked the file down on the table, still warm from the printer. “This one’s new. Little witchy. Soft, smart. Total sweetheart. Like if Morticia Addams was Gen Z with nipple piercings.”

Price raised a brow, flipping it open.

“Combat support, certified in psych ops, trauma-informed, high praise from every commanding officer, no notes.”

Price had stared at your photo for a long minute. Braids, piercings, that tiny tilt of your smile like you knew something the camera didn’t.

He thought about his team—lethal, loyal, touch-starved.

He didn’t even blink. Just tapped the photo once and said, “That one.”

He didn’t say why. But he knew.

The team had been running cold. Burned out and stretched thin. They didn’t need another soldier.

They needed something else. Something warm. Gentle hands. Velvet rope. Sass and safety in equal measure.

They needed a hearth.

So now here you are. In the oversized TF141 base quarters, you’re in soft black shorts and an old band tee knotted at your waist, legs bare and golden under the overhead lights. Your pick-and-drop braids fall down your back, shifting with every step like they’ve got their own opinions. You’ve got a quiet little smile, but there’s confidence behind it—like you already clocked every exit and decided to stay anyway. Your piercings glint when you talk. And you’ve been talking, sweet and easy, filling up the rooms with sound.

Soap is the first to break.

Of course he is.

You’re bent over near the coffee table, putting down your little lavender-chamomile mix in the oil diffuser, with a calm little hum on your lips, and he’s watching like it’s the only thing on Earth that matters. He’s been good. Price made sure of that—laid down the rules in that tone no one argues with. “Let ‘em settle in. No jumping ‘em like dogs in heat.”

But Soap has never had patience. His thigh’s been bouncing all night. His mouth presses into a tight line every time you pass him in those damn shorts.

Finally, he leans one arm on the kitchen counter, trying to play it cool like he isn't hard under those cargo pants even though you can feel the tension roll off him.

"Y’know…” he starts, voice rough like gravel, “we’ve been real well-behaved. Considering how good you look in that lil top, Bunny.”

You don't even look up.

"You think that earns you a reward?"

The way he chokes?

Please.

Gaz is second. Less obvious than Soap, but sneakier.

He brings you tea before you ask for it, knows how you like it by day three. Touches your shoulder gently when he passes behind you. Sits so close on the couch you could tuck into his side without even moving.

When you talk music, he listens like you’re reading scriptures. He offers you his headphones. Notices the way your lip liner fades into gloss. Asks about your tattoos with soft curiosity, not hungry lust—but his eyes always drop to your mouth before he looks back up.

He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t try to lead.

Just…makes space. Opens doors. Let’s you step through.

He’s smoother, quieter, but he’s just as caught

Ghost is last.

Not because he doesn’t want you.

Because he does.

At first, he barely speaks. He watches you in the kitchen, watching the way you move while you sing under your breath, stirring a pot of soup like you’ve done it a hundred times. Siouxsie plays low on your phone. Your hips sway in rhythm with the music, your voice soft.

He leans in the doorway. Silent. A shadow with sharp edges and tired eyes.

Eventually, he kisses you. Soft. Quick. A little clumsy. Hesitant like he’s scared it’ll break something inside him. You blink, stunned, and he mutters, "Just…shut up. Don’t make it a thing." Then walks off like his heart wasn’t pounding loud enough to hear across the room.

But what really breaks him?

It's the couch.

You’re curled up in long flared leggings, scrolling through your playlist while Soap’s head rests lazily in your lap. Your fingers rake through his hair without even thinking. Ghost is nearby. Tense. Silent. Watching. Like he’s fighting something tooth and nail.

You meet his eyes.

Then pat your thigh.

No words. Just an offer.

He stares. Long enough you think maybe he’ll just walk away again.

But he moves and obeys.

Kneels. Slow. Controlled. He lays his head in your lap, mask still on and you start to rub his scalp through the fabric. Your nails drag just right and he exhales like you just freed him from gravity. Like all the tension in his body decided to leave at once.

Price watches from the doorway, and—for the first time in a long time—he smiles.

Because this?

This was his idea.

He knew what his boys needed.

Not just someone to warm their beds.

They needed softness. Sweetness. A bit of witchcraft and a whole lot of care.

They needed a Bunny.

[necrobunni]

I'm still on vacation and won't be posting again till Tuesday at the earliest but!

I need you all to see the vision.

Kyle "Pretty Boy" Garrick and his hot older girlfriend. And she's a milf, cutest little set of twin boys and she's been divorced for 2 years.

He actually meets you by chance because your two boys (age 6) happened to see him coming home and he was still dressed in his fatigues. The two had been in the front yard of the row homes playing army, toy guns fashioned from sticks and grenades from pinecones when they saw him.

"Mom! Look a real life army man!" One of the boys cheered.

It had taken Kyle of guard because he had been deployed for 3 months and when he left the row home next to him was still up to be rented. One of the boys had sprinted across the lawn, ignoring your calls for him to come back and the thin threats of going back in.

"Are you a real army man? Like for realsy?" He like most small children didn't care for personal space and clung to his hands and side.

"Munchkin you can't just run off like that!" You scold him and snatch him right on up and hug him close. His brother clings to your leg and peeps around you.

Kyle takes note that you don't use your kid's name, just a nickname and he thinks you're smart for that. "Nah, he's fine." The first thing he notices is how pretty your eyes are and how they are framed by pretty thick lashes. His eyes trail down and he's hot in the face from the way your Ivy Park set hugs every inch of your body. He feels like a pervert for staring but seeing as how you have two kids, he knows that your thickness is very much natural. He clears his throat, eyes jumping back towards your face, "adorable kids, names Kyle, I live right here." He points to his house.

"Mommy said to aunty that we live here because Daddy doesn't know how a fucking court order works!" Munchkin shouts at the top of his lungs. He's clapping his hands excitedly as if he didn't tell all of his mom's business to a stranger.

You look mortified and you scold him again. Kyle takes the time to look down at the other little boy holding onto your leg and he looks ready to cry. "Please ignore my little Munchkin. It's nice to meet you Kyle, I'll try to keep the boys off your side of the lawn." The smile you give him is sweet, and it makes his stomach flip. Munchkin says bye as you walk back to your side, your other son following after asking if they could have juice.

Kyle can't help but stare at your ass and he's racking his brain on how he can insert himself into your life and get between your legs. The little outbursts him know that a man isn't in the picture (by court order no less) and the kids were entranced by his army uniform.

The twist and sway of your hips call to him. The only issue is the kids. Well they aren't an issue, but he knows if he wants even a chance of getting you he is gonna have to prove that he's good with kids and that he's worth keeping around.

Fuck would this count as a mommy fetish? He hopes not.

Idk what else to write or add. But I need you all to see the vision!

[necrobunni]

[necrobunni]

I love how "Sinners" didn't villify the sinners in the movie. Sammie's father told him that playing music for "drunkards and philanderers who abandon their family responbilities to sweat all over each other" was a sin. And he was right about the kind of people going to the juke joint: Delta Slim is an alcoholic, and Pearline a cheater. It would have been easy to villify them, but the movie tells us that despite their flaws, they are humans worthy of love, respect and freedom.

Delta Slim drinks because he's traumatized by the horrors Black people of his time face. And he's kind and compassionate, encouraging and reassuring Sammie, and sacrificing himself to save everyone else.

Pearline literally saved Sammie's life and sacrificed herself to protect him, a boy she had only known for a day. It shows her kindness because she could have easily stayed back when Remmick tried to bite Sammy and not endangered her life more than necessary.

The movie shows us that preachers blindly condemning those sinners are wrong: Sammie is only alive because drunkards, philanderers and gangsters (Smoke) gave their lives to protect him. They are people, with flaws and qualities.

I love how nuanced the movie is: Sammie's father is not wrong about the kind of people Sammie wants to associate with and their potential bad influence, but he's wrong about them being evil and not deserving of respect.

[necrobunni]

The other night husband and I were watching a documentary about the yeti where they were doing DNA analysis of samples of supposed yeti fur, and every one of them came back as bears.

Anyway, the next night we watched a thing about some pig man who is supposed to live in Vermont. People said it had claws and a pig nose but walked upright like a man. Now, I happen to know that sideshows used to shave bears and present them as pig men. So every piece of evidence they gave of this monster sounds to me like a bear with mange.

So now the running joke in our house is that everything is bears. Aliens? Bears. Loch Ness monster? Bear. Every cryptozoological mystery is just a very crafty bear.

Bears. They’re everywhere. Be wary. Anyone or anything could be a bear.

[necrobunni]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.

“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”

it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.

“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”

and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.

“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”

he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.

“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”

he exhales. slow. almost a growl.

“jesus. stop talkin’.”

“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”

his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.

“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”

he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.

and you?

you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.

“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“

he doesn’t let you finish that thought.

“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”

“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“

his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.

“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”

that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.

“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”

he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”

by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.

and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.

your thighs tense. he notices.

“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”

he pauses. boot in hand.

“…what?”

he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.

your lashes flutter.

“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”

he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.

your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”

he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.

“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.

“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“

“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.

the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.

not fully, but enough.

you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”

he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—

“only when i breathe.”

your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”

he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.

he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”

the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.

“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“

before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.

“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”

you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.

your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”

his eyes snap shut.

“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”

even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.

“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“

his palm tightens over your lips again.

“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”

then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”