20s | any pronouns | If you’re looking for sparsely written, mediocre at best, truly heinous smut- you’ve arrived at the right location, join me friend. 18+ only!
Simon behaves like a dog, so you treat him like one
Crossposted on AO3
18+
CW: smut, sub Simon Riley, pre-negotiated kink, roleplaying, fake cheating, degradation, dry humping, smoking, shotgunning, aftercare.
Masterlist 🦊
He’s trying to be quiet, he really is.
Tiptoeing inside the flat, cursing under his breath when the door closes a bit louder than intended.
He perks his ears. Tries to catch noises coming from the bedroom in case you managed to hear the thud his entrance has caused.
A beat.
Two.
Nothing.
Simon exhales, like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders.
It lasts a heartbeat.
"You're late."
He jumps out of his skin.
He doesn’t know how you do it, how you manage to turn off his sixth sense as if he's never trained to move in the dark to begin with.
His eyes squint when the light suddenly flicks on, a soft glow from the lamp next to the loveseat where you're sitting.
You're in your loungewear, tight little shorts and a sheer tank top that curves around the softness of your tits in a way that would make his mouth water, if it weren't for the contrastingly sharp look in your eyes.
Your hand toys with a cigarette, unlit. You flick it between your fingers, eyes like razors pointed at him, standing stock still at the door of your flat.
"Was out with the lads," he offers, sounding as dispassionate as he always does.
But he knows you know better.
There's a tremble in his fingers, almost imperceptible. A fine line between his brows that betrays the flat look he's showing.
You hum, draping one leg over the other. Your foot dangles. The leather of the chair squeaks.
"Come here, then."
Your voice travels through his spine and tips at the base of his skull like it's electric. His back straightens to attention.
You're angry, he can tell. And if Simon knows a thing or two about enemies, is that you gotta keep them close. Which is why he follows through, boots thudding against the hardwood floors until he's right in front of you, head bowed to lock his dark eyes with yours.
He waits for questions, perhaps even more orders—instead, you're quiet as ever, the only movement that of your hand twiddling with your cigarette.
He sees your foot move from the corner of his eye. Your toes trace a horizontal line along his thighs, right over the denim of his jeans, until your legs are fully parted.
Now that's a sight even the stoic bastard that he is doesn't know how to miss, and his eyes automatically fall down to the apex of your thighs.
It's then that your heel hits behind his knee.
Simon chokes on a gasp, once again caught off guard, and falls into the space between your legs. His knees hit the floor so roughly he has to bite back a grunt.
Your eyes widen if only for a second, jaw locked tight. Alarmed.
Simon’s hand comes to rest on your thigh, squeezing gently. Calmer than you are.
You flicker back to yourself, and whatever brief show of worry he’s seen vanishes into thin air.
Rapidly, your expression hardens again.
A hand shoots forward and you grab him by the jaw.
“Are you lying to me, Simon?” Your voice is low. “Because you reek of someone else.”
He swallows and can’t help it, for the life of him, when his cock jumps in his briefs at the sight of you so bothered, with a fire in your eyes ready to flatten him against the carpet.
You lean forward, nose brushing with his.
Simon knows fear. There are two kinds of it: the one that scares you shitless—flight.
And the one that excites you, that burns so good it turns your insides liquid, molten. Adrenaline rushes like mad through his veins until it pulses at his fingers. At the tip of his tongue.
Fight.
“Reek’s a strong word,” he challenges. “Thought she smelt decent, if not a bit sweet at tha'.”
Simon watches your eyes burn. Takes great pride in it, that he’s torched a fire so bright with just a handful of carefully placed words.
“Fucking dog, you are.” Disgust drips from your tongue, acidic.
He relishes it.
Your lips stroke his mouth for each word you speak, and it doesn’t help the throbbing ache between his legs.
The hand on his jaw relents only to grip at the hair on the back of his head. He grunts when you snatch it back.
His eyes are forced to the ceiling. Your breath hits his neck, nose tracing the line of his throat. Maybe you’re being the dog now, because he can’t tell whether you’re nuzzling him to look for hints of someone else, marking your territory, or just because you like to prolong his torture.
Perhaps all of them.
“Taking pets from whoever’s nice enough only to come back to your owner,” you hiss to his skin. “Tail between your fucking legs.”
He wants to answer something cruel. Tell you the things he’s rehearsed, call you names like the absolute cunt that you are being.
But it all dies in his throat when you place a kiss on his neck, so soft he almost recognizes you.
You travel upwards, open mouth and languid tongue. Wanton kisses and heavy breaths cause his hands to shoot up and grip the armrest of the loveseat—nails scratching the brown leather until he digs chestnut crescents in it.
He finds your eyes, then. Your mouth a breath from his.
“Are you here to stay, Simon,” you whisper, “Or have you found somewhere nicer, mh?”
He doesn’t know if you want him to answer, because as soon as he opens his mouth you’re kissing him.
It’s soft. A peck. A gentle reminder of who you are, truly, and not this bitch who’s still clutching at his hair.
Suddenly, breath is stuck in his throat, and he’s undecided whether it’s because you’re keeping his neck so strained, or because you’re kissing him so good he’s mind goes blank.
However, as soon as he reciprocates, you pull away.
He groans.
Against better judgment, Simon fights your hand in his hair and tries to follow your lips—doesn’t care if his scalp is sore and aching, doesn’t care if something pulls tight at the back of his neck and threatens to snap.
You allow him, and he captures you hungrily, knocking teeth—grunting in your mouth as if he’s furious you even tried to deny him.
He feels you melt against the loveseat, like wax dripping from a candle while he's the flame.
But then you grip his hair again and pull him backwards.
Your pupils are blown out—eyes so dark he can see his own in the reflection and can’t quite pinpoint which ones are burning brighter.
“Answer,” you order.
Low. Threatening.
His cock stings from it.
“Stay,” he pants, lower than a growl. “Stay. Wanna stay. Lemme kiss you again—”
You click your tongue.
“D’you think you deserve it?” You say with disdain. “When you still taste of someone else.”
He wants to touch you. His fingers twitch, ache, to wrap around the flesh of your thighs instead of the thick leather of the armrests.
You notice. He sees it—that flicker in your eyes, the one that tells him he’s been caught red-handed. Truthfully, your gaze only precedes a hint more obvious, one impossible to miss.
You press your shin to his cock. Stroke it. Slow, deliberate, until the teeth of the zipper catch onto the cotton of his brief. It scratches him wonderfully, so much that he almost falls over.
His skin burns hot—shame, perhaps. Arousal. Your scent wafts in his nose and he’s at utter loss, because how can such a bitch smell so fucking good.
“You’re fucking hard, aren’t you?”
It’s an accusation. You don’t sound happy about it, but you don’t sound mad either, and Simon is at an utter disadvantage, so he can't exactly pick and choose when to win.
Neutrality from you feels like he’s on the podium.
His head is tilted back, eyes focused on you through heavy lashes. Cheeks pink. Sweat on his forehead—must be a sight to swear by, he reckons. The Ghost on his knees, getting off on his partner making a fool out of him.
“Wha’ if I am?” He ventures, but his voice stays delightfully rich, like his neck isn’t strained all the way back.
You sneer. Subtle lust in your gaze, veiled by that disgust you’re trying to portray. Yet he knows you, his sweet thing. How pliable you were in his arms, once. Malleable clay, warm under his fingers.
Your eyes have never been a secret to him—reads through every page of you with enviable ease, like he’s learned your language better than you speak it yourself.
With a final yank, your hand leaves his hair. Travels slowly to his cheek. You pinch his face between thumb and forefinger, digging your nails at his jaw.
You move your leg up and down the crotch of his jeans. Tortuously slow, until he can do nothing but choke on a moan because he won’t give you a full one.
Fucking hell no.
Nose to nose. Your breath smells of alcohol, much like his. He’s downed a glass of whisky or two, back at the pub. Sipped on Johnny’s beer while he was in the bathroom, plucked a cherry from Kyle's cocktail when he looked away.
Yours is sweeter, though—gentler. Mulled wine, hints of cinnamon, anise, oranges. Tobacco, too.
You make his head spin.
It grazes his lips when you speak. A command said with disdain and a hint, just a touch, of that lust you carry but refuse to show.
“Then get off like the dog that you are.”
You press your shin to his crotch until he knows you can feel him: hard as a fucking rock, throbbing to get out of those jeans and fuck you on that loveseat until you’re babbling nonsense.
Alas, the one speaking incoherently now, it’s him. Because the feel of your leg up against his cock sends him spiralling, something vibrating in his brain.
He bites his own teeth when you go and lean back, sitting nonchalantly in the chair with only one of your bare legs lifted up. Your other foot caresses the side of his thigh, the only comfort you’re willing to give him.
“Take off your jeans, keep the briefs on.” You instruct him, pointing at the garment with your cigarette.
The way your voice never wavers lets him know that you’re not here to play, especially when you go and repeat yourself.
“And get off like the dog that you are.”
Simon stays resolute in his spot. Glares at you with a fire that could flatten the earth, if he wanted to.
You smother it with a mere twitch of your leg. His cock jumps again, and he knows he lost.
His hands go steady to his belt. It clicks as he unbuckles it.
You pluck the lighter from the coffee table next to your chair. The small flame lights up your face and he finds himself thinking that even when you’re drenched in spite, you look as gorgeous as they come.
The tip of the cigarette comes to life as soon as his zipper is down.
You take a drag.
The paper crinkles. Burns. Close enough for him to feel the heat of it on his face, but not enough to scorch his skin.
A muted threat that instead of scaring him, only prompts him to do what you ask.
Simon bends his head until his lips land on the plush of your thigh. His hands come to cradle your calf ever so gently to keep it still.
And then his hips strike forward.
The friction of his wet briefs against his cock makes him see stars. It tingles just right, stings just enough. He kisses the flesh on your thigh almost reverently, if not a bit too eager, as if what you’re giving him is a blessing and not a punishment.
Your skin is so soft under both his palms and his mouth that he can only imagine how it would feel to have his cock touch it directly.
He gathers he’d cum in an instant, and he’s not sure you’d want that.
No, you don’t.
Because as his pace ratchets up and his eyes flit to yours, he finds you utterly focused. Lithe fingers hold the cigarette just out of reach for your lips, as if you’re not interested in the fix of nicotine anymore.
Your other hand lands softly on his head. Threads through his hair.
“Like that,” you whisper. It sounds hoarse, just as affected. “Good boy, Simon.”
His forehead drops on your leg in defeat. He ruts shamelessly, then, like your encouragement has taken away every ounce of pride he’s ever had.
Because, after all, nothing matters more to him than to please you.
Simon grunts and groans to your skin. Feels his forehead stick to the softness of it, to the peachy fuzz on your thigh that makes it even more delectable to him.
It’s almost painful, in this position. His lower back hurts and his knees are sore, though they weren’t faring too well to begin with—joints eroded by years on the field, clicking even at the slightest of movements.
But fucking hell, the friction of his cock against your leg, meddling with the fat he’s grasping with his hands, and the softness of your thigh against his mouth—
Now that’s heaven. No pain can mask it, no ache can dilute it.
He's in fucking bliss.
And how do you manage to make it even better, he’s got no clue.
When your finger taps his cheek, he lifts his flushed face at the command, skin hot and pink and sweaty. Panting (like a dog) as he ruts against your leg (like a fucking dog in heat), edging himself closer and closer to an orgasm that he knows will be unsatisfying.
Your lips curl around the cigarette, as you would when plucking a cherry from the stem. How he wishes it was his cock instead. How he wishes he could cum down your throat until your eyes are glossy and your nose is stuffy, drool down your chin.
You take a drag so deep your cheeks hollow. Your chest swells, tits straining against your top—sheer, taunting. Nipples perked and pressed against the fabric, darker skin pruny and begging to be worshipped. He knows you won’t allow him, but fuck, he’d do whatever you want if it means he’ll get to taste you on his tongue.
You press closer, until his mouth's to yours. Your thumb comes to tug at his lower lip, holding him firmly by the jaw. Simon is bewitched.
Smoke billows from your mouth into his.
He loses it. Starts humping your leg something fierce, uncaring of his sodden briefs and the chafe they cause on your skin.
A whine. A grunt. Something in between, perhaps, that chokes down his throat and forcibly wrenches his breath away.
He coughs out the smoke he ingested as he cums.
His cock throbs hotly against your leg, semen spurting from the tight weave of his boxers, tainting your skin in droplets. It slowly trickles down your calf into his palms, still clutching the flesh—tight, tight and tighter, if only to keep himself grounded as his head spins.
Unsatisfying orgasm, as he predicted, yet one of the strongest he’s ever had.
Simon trembles, pants. His face collapses in your hand, and he’s delighted when instead of letting him crumble, you hold him safe. Instead of leaving him alone, you kiss him.
So soft, you are. Lips on the corner of his, murmuring sweet nothings.
“Good boy, Simon,” you’re saying.
His ears are ringing. Somehow the aches in his body seem gone, even if it’s only a temporary relief.
“Did so good. You did so good.” You coo, tutting softly when he nuzzles your palm and drinks up the praise.
He doesn’t know when you put out your cigarette, but he finds his face cradled in both of your hands and couldn’t be more grateful when you do. Especially when your nose brushes with his own, especially when you kiss him again—so gently, like he might break.
“You alright, yeah?” You whisper.
He nods, though weakly. His hips twitch when you slowly retreat your leg from his crotch.
“Yes, you are,” you murmur, welcoming him in the V of your legs, in the warmth of an embrace.
His cheek flattens to your chest, in the hollow between your breasts, further softened by the silk of your top. Cashmere skin, velvety soft. He sighs in contentment, fluttering his eyes closed.
Your palm brushes his head, thumb following the curve of his ear in soft, repeated circles.
“Let me take care of you now, yes?” You whisper to his hair when your lips come to kiss his scalp. "Would you like that?"
“Yes.” He drawls.
“Are you okay?” You ask again, and his heart does another somersault, perhaps welcoming back the person that he loves.
“M’okay,” he replies. To prove his point, he lifts his head from your chest and zeroes in on your eyes.
There you are. Tender as ever, sweet as a peach.
Your smile is the softest he’s ever seen. A simple curl, yet wide enough to deepen the lines that spring from your nose to the corners of your lips.
He leans up to kiss it. You reciprocate, until you’re clay in his fingers once again. Big hands hold your face still, and your lithe ones mimic him, splaying on his cheeks.
“How about a bath,” you propose quietly. “You and I. Scrub your back nicely.”
He huffs. Muscles softened much like yours.
A hum is the reply he can give you. It vibrates against your lips as he keeps peppering them with the reverence you deserve.
“Reckon we both need it.” He quips, tapping your calf with a finger. It’s sticky.
You don’t care and neither does he.
But it steals a chuckle from you, and that’s what matters. He follows suit.
“You didn’t really cheat on me did you.” You murmur to his mouth.
It’s said like a statement, but it feels like a question. As if you know he’d never do it, but there’s still an inkling of doubt, betrayed by the pitch your voice takes—slightly higher, slightly hesitant.
You confirm his suspicions when you add “’Cause we don’t need to make it that real, y’know?”
He huffs into your mouth.
The idea seems so far away in his brain and the fact that you even concocted the thought makes him think you might have lost a marble or two.
“Nah, I didn’t.” He says in between kisses, one hand travelling down your arm to reach your hip.
He pinches your side to make you giggle, before he adds, “Jus’ noshed Johnny off ‘s all.”
You splutter. Gently but suddenly, you pull his face away from yours to lock eyes. Your brows are pinched and you’re mouthing like a fish, trying to find words that won't give your shock away.
Simon’s smiling like the heathen that he is.
“Takin’ the piss, love.” He murmurs soothingly—before you go and have the most dramatic of strokes.
But it’s not enough, it seems. You cock your head, worry etched in the fine lines of your forehead. Pretty face wrinkling in concern, the internal fight on whether to trust him blindly or not is so obvious he doesn’t even know why you’re trying to hide it.
“Promise,” he says, more gently this time, with a kiss on the tip of your nose.
You sigh. Deflate. Pliable in his arms again.
A little scoff leaves you, like you’re trying to keep the tough act up but failing miserably at that.
CW: filthy smut, PWP, piss, omorashi/bladder control, soft dom Simon, he gets a bit mean lmao but in a cute way. brief CNC/dubcon-ish. freaks in love!!! they're so in love!!!
CoD Masterlist | Main Masterlist
It is not unusual to wake up to Simon kissing your neck.
His hot breath fanning your shoulder is often the first sensation your body picks up as it awakes. The second one is his hand on your hip, then his leg sneaking in between yours under the bedsheets. From here, you can be either scooped up inside his arms and brought over to keep sleeping atop his chest, or you can be fucked stupid as a reward for surviving the week.
It’s usually the latter. Many a time on a Sunday, when the neighbourhood is still quiet, and the birds have only just started chirping.
This morning, at the crack of dawn, you recognise the ritual.
His mouth starts from the curve of your shoulder, landing parched from his slumber and soft from tenderness. The heat of his breathing follows, puffing gently over the wet spots left by his tongue as he rises. Tastes your heartbeat from your jugular, sniffs the smell of sleep still clinging to your skin. Then, a hardness presses to your back, slowly gliding against your nightgown as it rides up, up, up.
And you smile, because it's always so very nice to wake up to him already thinking about you. The concept of being wanted so completely that it wakes him from his slumber, of being loved so entirely that you're the first thought that hungers him in the morning.
You whisper a breathy good morning as you toss your head back, extending your neck so he has more room to work with. Though he's already doting on the curve of your shoulder again, the wings of your back, the space between your shoulder blades.
Sneaky fingers slide down the straps of your garment. The callouses on his palm are coarse against your skin, and even though this has been almost routine for the past couple of years, he still has the clamminess of his palms to show the nervousness of touching someone so fragile compared to him.
But he knows you don't want to be seen as breakable, because you aren't. It's why he flattens his hand against your lower back and steers you forward, until you're lying on your stomach. You're still processing the first sensations of the morning, blinking your eyes open as your cheek meets the pillow.
"Fuck,” he croaks with awe on his tongue, watching you from above. “Just a second, yeah?"
Licks his lips when you curve your back and offer him your ass almost in second nature.
His knees dip into the mattress beside your legs and squeeze your thighs together, digging in on each of your flanks. He'd prep you, normally, but this time he doesn't. Your only hint is the breeze brushing the hot skin of your lower back as he lifts the satin of your nightgown and lets it pool in the dip of your spine.
Then, the thick head of his cock pushes against you. You snap your eyes open.
"Fuck Simon, wait—"
"Just a second, love."
It burns. It's like a whip snaps against your spine, and you take in a mouthful of air when the first inch of him enters.
"Oh my God, holy shit—fuck—"
Pins and needles that wrap around your belly, digging in like a belt of thorns. Hands fisting the sheets, toes curling on the duvet crumpled at the foot of the bed. The pain is so sudden that it shocks you into utter stiffness, with your legs screaming in protest as they’re scrambling to get away.
You don’t really want to.
Though the position doesn’t allow much movement, you still try to take a peek above your shoulder. Your vision is filled by him. The breadth of his shoulders is dark, but his profile is hemmed with sunlight—a cottoned halo all around him, a gift from the window behind his back. He’s His thumbs are fitting in the tiny divots at the base of your spine, big hands holding you steady by your hips. Though it's his face that makes your mouth water.
Simon's eyes are glassy, focused on the stretch of your pussy as it widens to welcome his girth. Scarlet cheeks and silver scars that run across his jaw, where his stubble doesn't grow. And the brutality of the violence he once bore is softened by the simplicity of a quiet, domestic life—the folds of the pillowcase still embedded in his skin, the puffiness of sleep cottoning his eyes, the ruddy blush of lust and love mantling his face.
He slides down his hands and parts your ass as well, digging his thumbs in the plump of your cheeks. He kisses his teeth when he sees your puckered hole clench—hisses when it translates to further tightness around his cock.
There's a twitch in his cheek. The pull of an invisible hook at the corner of his lips that relaxes once he slides another inch in. He releases the clench of his jaw, mouth hanging open once he's all snug inside you.
Though the bliss he feels couldn't be more different from the searing pain ripping you in half. The whine on the tip of your tongue is swallowed and truncated, turned into a breathless gasp yielded in the soft pillow tucked under your chin.
"S-slower," you whimper.
"Aye," he croaks. "Slow an' easy. Promise."
And he delivers.
In fact, it takes him a moment more than usual to fully sheath himself inside you. Your knuckles click with how furiously you're gripping the bedsheets—a way to find release as the pressure of being filled so entirely strangles you all the way to your windpipe.
You babble something with your lips, trying to form sentences you don't know how to utter. Eyes rolled back, unfocused and wet at the rim.
"Ah fuck yer tight, love—" he grunts. "Need help ta open up, don't ya?"
You nod vigorously against the pillow, because words aren't exactly your forte right now. Nor are thoughts, to be frank, because all you can feel is the burn on the lower half of your body and the contrasting pleasure that stems from it.
"Poor thing," he taunts. "Ruined ya already, mh?"
Somehow, you manage to summon enough strength to blindly swat your hand where his thigh should be. That bit of defiance still left in you that you know he appreciates, though you're aware he's just about to fuck it out of you.
You hit something hard and hairy with your palm and decide that it landed correctly. It must have, because you hear him chortle, deep and ragged.
"Now don't get all fussy on me."
He hums. Collects spit in his mouth and lets it fall in a string until it lands around the base of his cock, where you’re painfully stretched around it. His hand smears it along the skin there, around your hole and down to your clit, lightly tracing the slit of your pussy. And you're burning so hot that his spit feels like being rubbed with freezing water. It's oddly refreshing, and it helps your muscles relax.
Simon must feel it, because his chest purrs with an appraising hum.
"Better?" He asks, as his hand surreptitiously slips around your waist.
Your cheek is smushed to the pillow, linen soaking up tears and drool. "Yeah."
The thick scars on his forearm tickle your side and then your stomach, preceding the blooming pleasure that stems from his fingertips when he skims them over your clit.
"Better?" He murmurs again, though now his breath feels closer, puffing warmly on the skin of your shoulder.
Your body melts on the bedsheets, knots unravelling under the touch of his hand and the heat of his chest. He hovers above you, just a breath away from your back.
Your voice is nothing but a murmur, “Yes.”
"Tha’s right. My girl. Good—" He rumbles, though whatever he was about to add afterwards dies on his tongue when he pulls back, and then slides inside you again.
Your eyes roll back.
"Fuck—fuckin' hell. Good girl. Like tha'—"
The searing belt wrapped around your stomach unwinds, slowly giving in and finally—finally—allowing you to breathe just right once again. You blink the tears collecting in the corners of your eyes, lick your lips and feel how parched they really are.
Your body comes back to you, awakened and aware, not wrapped in thorns and needles anymore. There's the rawness of his touch, long fingers gliding smoothly on your clit. The bristle of his chest, all hair and scars, though still soft above his heart, on his stomach, as it perfectly clicks into place in the curve of your spine.
"Could do this all day. Feel like fuckin’ heaven, you do—" His throat works. "—C'mere."
He watches your fists relax, your jaw unclench. He sees your grimace when cold air brushes your clit as he leaves it unattended. And only then does he unleash his hunger, picking up the pace with his hips. Grabs your jaw and bends you backwards until his mouth hovers above yours and clashes against it.
The strain in your spine is forgotten with the same rapidity with which it came. The headboard bangs mercilessly against the wall, accompanying his grunts and your moans. The creak of the springs, the rustle of sheets as you clutch them again—fingers curled around the pillow. Not out of pain anymore; the opposite, at last.
Though unfortunately, there's another pressure building around his cock, as he pistons inside you. One that you hadn't noticed at all, too focused on accommodating your body to the size of him.
You gasp. "Simon—"
But he kisses you again, harder this time. Sloppy tongue and spit smearing down your chin.
“Oh fuck—Simon, baby—”
“There—” He grunts. “Say my name like tha’ again an’ I’ll cum too fuckin’ soon.”
As much as you’d love to hear his dark voice crumble into moans, there are more pressing matters to attend.
"F-fuck, I need—" Your hands try to reach backwards for his shoulders, but you lose your balance and fall forward, face-first into the pillow.
"Shit—" You hiss, propping yourself on shaky elbows. "I need to pee!"
"Can feel it—" He states. "Yer gettin' tight again."
"Let me—"
"Keep it in." He growls, quickening his pace. Your head bobs uselessly for each merciless hit. "Fuckin' keep it in, don't spill a drop—"
"Don’t know if I can—"
His hand finds the curve of your neck, fingers exercising pressure just there on the sides, putting sweet, dark spots in your vision.
"Don't spill a fuckin' drop until I say so."
There's nothing you can do against his command. Your stomach coils as soon as he barks it in your ear, responding to the order before your brain has absorbed it entirely. Each thrust of his translates into tiny shockwaves that run from your belly to the tips of your toes—and Simon isn't gentle with it either.
In fact, as he rams inside you with a pace able to knock the air out of your lungs, you can merely nod your head. Your chin knocks against his palm.
"Don't like it when yer quiet," he chastises. "Say it."
Perhaps understanding the clog he's causing in your windpipe, Simon unravels the hold around your neck—gently so. Loosens his fingers first, supporting your throat with his palm before sliding upwards, where he ends up cradling your jaw. The release is a blessing and a curse.
The mere air filling your lungs is a pleasure in and of itself, and it causes your muscles to unwind. Luckily, you manage to catch yourself and clench your entire body again, though with the added fury of Simon's hips, it's hard to keep the promise he wants you to make.
But you swear it anyway.
"Yes," you croak. "Yes, yes—okay."
Pleased by your answer, Simon rewards you. Slams his pelvis flush to your ass, sheathing himself fully inside you. Nestled deep in the tightness of your stomach, you feel every inch of him as his hips start moving with a slow roll.
Similarly, your eyes find the back of your head.
"Oh my God—"
The bastard dares to chuckle. "Oh, ye like it, uh?"
You refuse to let him know that you do. Teeth sink into your cheek until iron stings down your throat. And it works, for the most part. There's an annoying tingle in your eyes that wishes to be soothed, though you know that if you dare to blink, he'll see the tears he's causing. The bliss they'd paint down your cheek.
But Simon always has an ace up his sleeve.
The hand that once held your throat now snakes forwards again, nestles in the softness of your stomach. Your eyes widen.
"Bit quiet t'day, are ya?" He smirks. "You in a mood, or what?"
"Stop being a cunt, Simon—"
"Ah—" He interjects. "Manners, love."
And then, the heel of his palm presses down, just above your pussy. Your body seizes in reply, struggling to maintain the promise you made. It gets even worse, then, when he skims his fingers over your clit again, pairing it with the languid roll of his hips.
Hurriedly, you reach down with your hands to stop him, but Simon's quicker. His whole body falls on top of you, leaving you pressed between his bulk and the mattress.
"Shit—"
"Keep it in, aye?" He rumbles in your ear, assertive but oddly not unkind. Encouraging, even. "Know you can do it, pet."
The feeling is overwhelming and beautiful.
You feel like you can't breathe, but you don't really want to. Purposefully, you keep it in—hold your breath for a moment longer than needed, until you're filled everywhere. Of him: inside you, on top of you. His hand sandwiched underneath, his chest like an anvil. Breath ripe of morning, of breakfasts waiting to be had. Tickles down your spine, ripples from his tongue against your pulse point.
Pressure builds and builds, strains your body as it ripens, swells, sweetens. A peach hanging low from a branch, ready to be picked. You know he's ready to bite, because you're ready to be consumed.
And all you can do is heave and gasp. Reach behind you to find his hair and pull, scrape his scalp with your fingers as he works with his own to make you feel good, better, wonderful.
"Fuck, look at you—" He murmurs against the shell of your ear. "Gonna cum on me, pet?"
The tautness of your belly won't hold for much longer, not if he keeps touching you this way.
"Won't—" You gasp. "Won't last long—please."
His kiss should be teasing; instead, it's an apologetic one. Left on your temple, where the sweat makes your hair stick and swirl against your skin.
"Just a second, love."
But you don't have it. You don't have one second. You don't have a moment, a breath, the time for a thought. You can feel yourself grow tight and stiff, fighting against the invisible ticking clock inside your stomach.
"Please, Simon—" You squirm. Your body does, your mind too foggy to concoct the movement itself. "Please. Please, baby."
"One second," he murmurs sweetly, greedily lapping down your neck.
"One—"
Thrust.
"More—"
Thrust.
"Second."
Hazily, you think it's mere stubbornness that forces you to keep your promise. You're not ready to admit that he's trained you to respond to him the way he likes. Taught your body to act a certain way when he's speaking. Taught it to bring you to bliss and then him, and nothing else—not when you're under the sheets.
Indoctrinated every single cell inside you, simply, to obey.
But he's merciful. Perhaps hears the clock inside your body ticking menacingly, threatening to misbehave.
Or maybe he's attuned with you. Understands. Feels how you're begging not only with your lips but with your touch, the way your breath comes, the heat of your own skin.
His fingers tune with the roll of his hips, then. Draw slow circles that glide on smoothly, sticky and wet and steady.
He kisses the curve of your shoulder, then the hinge of your jaw.
"Now," he says.
Frankly, you don't know if you're coming.
The current perception you have of yourself is hazy—your whole being reduced to a single entity, compressed between his body and the bed, touched in every single place that you call your own, and that is undeniably also his.
You only know that the release is wonderful.
It's blinding white and liquor thick. It spreads throughout your whole body in waves of shivers and gooseflesh. It shatters you into fragments, spread evenly underneath his weight. Escaping from your mouth in a groan that is nowhere near human—a guttural thing, feral and beastly. Freeing and beautiful.
You're only vaguely aware of the mess you're making as the hot stream he's pushed out of you splashes down your thighs and onto the bed, where its sound transforms into something muted and dull.
"Oh fuck," you heave. "Oh God, oh God, shit—"
"Ah fuck, just like tha'," he says, contrastingly calm as he keeps fucking you, hastily picking up the pace. "Fuckin' hell yer wet. Keep going."
You do. You keep going, unashamed and loud, riding his cock even in this uncomfortable position. Pushing back with your ass to have more, more, more. Greedy and insatiable. Trying to go over the edge and up on the clouds—fucking scour the sky and all of which is above, knowing he can give it. Grab it and hand it to you.
You come once, then. Groaning into the pillow and pulling at his hair. Twice. Thrice. You don’t know. You don’t think you can keep count. You don’t think at all.
Until there isn't a drop left inside you. No more sheets to clutch, no more linen to soak—not on the pillow, not underneath you. You twitch each time he moves, turning mellow and pliable as he ruts a few more times before pulling out.
Freezing air sinks its talons down your back, where his chest was welded before he moved away. You shiver but don’t complain. Can’t.
Simon comes with a muted groan, clipped to match the rapid strokes of his hand. It trickles down the swell of your ass and pools at your tailbone. Then, his softening cock lands sticky and hot against your skin. Perhaps to feed that primordial beast inside him, he pushes it with his thumb between the globes of your ass. Watches it slide up and down, lubed up with his own cum.
He hisses at the overstimulation but keeps that languid pace. “Fuckin’ hell yer perfect.”
You're too spent to move, only opening your eyes when you feel the mattress groan under Simon's weight as he shifts around. Though your consciousness is coming back to you, and your senses are suddenly flooded by the reality that surrounds you.
The smell of sex, of him and you. Of sweet kisses down your shoulder, of cloying lust and pungent orgasms. The wetness down your thighs, cold sheets sticking to your skin as it burns in the afterglow. The ringing in your ears, loud at first, then softening into a dull and distant sound.
While he's moved slightly, Simon still hovers above you, keeping your legs trapped between his massive thighs. His mouth tickles down the line of your shoulder. Calloused hands gently scratch down your arms.
“You always have to take it up a notch.”
You can feel Simon’s smile by the smoothness of his teeth brushing your skin. “That a complaint?”
You avoid that question.
"I wanted to sleep in," you mumble dumbly with your cheek buried in the pillow. "S'Sunday. I deserved it."
His mouth travels upwards, finding your neck, then your cheek. "Can still do it."
You frown. “You know very well that I can’t.”
He shrugs. “Smell ain’t tha’ bad.”
You only offer a withering sidelong glance.
His kisses crack into a broken chuckle. "Right. Noted."
You close your eyes and laugh with him. "I mean, this was nice and all—"
"Nice," he scoffs. “T'was nice."
"Lovely way to wake up—"
"Alrigh’, pack it in.”
"—But we could've pushed it back a little. Like in the afternoon."
"Should I book an appointment," he deadpans.
"Yeah," you yawn. "Call my PA."
This time, his laughter comes from somewhere deeper. You feel it rumble in his chest first, then brush your cheek, exploding from his kiss.
“Yeah?” He huffs. “You got a free spot?”
“Around four PM.”
"Right. Wetting the bed at four PM, then."
You weakly slap his arm. "I hate you."
"Mhmh," Simon hums, finally finding your lips.
He kisses you sweetly, like those times at the very beginning in which you were too shy to open up entirely—physically, emotionally, all of it. A slow dance that is fleeting, just a brush of lips that pretend they don't know each other very well.
When he pulls back, you absently follow him to have more, though he's too far to be reached. You blink your eyes open, turning your head uncomfortably to look above your shoulder.
Simon looks down at you with hooded eyes and curved lips. Just a sweet, tiny dent there in the corner. He reaches down with his knuckles to brush your forehead.
"How 'bout a shower," he offers. "I'll change the sheets."
You lean against his hand. Squirm to turn around, finally feeling cold air brush your chest when your back hits the damp mattress. Your eyes focus on him exclusively, trying to set aside the pungent smell and the discomfort of the sheets.
It’s Sunday. It’s criminally early. The birds chirp behind the window, left ajar to let the summer breeze in. Even though the sun is only a shy shaft at the horizon, it still fights against the blinds to make Simon glow. The golden halo travelling along his shape, the lovely pink hue of his cheeks, and the blush of love on his face. On his body. All over him, inside him.
"Yeah, okay. In a second, though," you whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek.
laying outside in your little sundress and nothing else. you look so sweetly innocent as you lay your body on the picnic blanket, book open in front of you.
he's sure you'd be looking at him like you want him to lean down and kiss you. like you want him to grip your chin and slip his thumb into your mouth.
but kyle is staring at you from behind. and he can see everything.
your soft legs. thick thighs he loves to have wrapped around his head. your skirt hides everything else, but a moment of wind and you're revealed to him.
god, he feels like such a pervert. watching you through the kitchen window, waiting for the right moment. his hand is already in his shorts, already stroking his cock.
he's desperate for that gust of wind. the one that will lift your skirt, that will let him see everything. ass cheeks that still wear bruises from last night, cunt begging to be used. all he has to do is go over there, make his presence known and fuck you right here in the garden.
but he doesn't. kyle hangs back, his mouth dry as he watches you. he pushes his shorts just enough to free his cock, to easily stroke his cock to you. and you're completely unaware, reading your book.
"fuck," he grunts, throwing his head back. why had you bothered to wear anything at all? but he's glad you did. something about the way the white material (covered in little pink flowers) lays over your legs until it doesn't.
god, he's disgusting. he's a fucking pervert but only for you. all you have to do is turn around and catch him. that would be enough to make him spill on the counter top. he's disgusting. he's fucking gross. he wants you to turn around, to watch him through the window as he finishes.
you slip the bookmark between the pages of your book and turn around. your elbows prop you up and you smile at him like you know what you're doing. you bring your knees up, your skirt falling around your hips.
that's what does it. the final move that has him spilling against the counter. he braces himself, holds the oak counter top, eyes shut. the image of you is burned in there, knees falling open.
Gaz prides himself on being the most hygienic member of the team. He doesn't exactly smell of roses after three weeks in the field, but he's at least bathing every other day. And he's not gonna be using crystals as deodorant, Soap.
So it's a little bit ironic that he follows Ghost into locker rooms as soon as they land on home soil. The big man doesn't comment, just removes his gear methodically until he's down to his jeans and compression shirt.
"'lright, Garrick. C'mere."
Kyle bites back a groan as he buries his face in the humid curve of Simon's armpit. His mouth and eyes water at the sharp scent of him, old sweat and antiperspirant and man, his man, big and hot and solid.
Simon's chuckle is dark. Kyle is just glad they landed late enough that there's no one to witness him nuzzling closer before Simon pushes him away to strip down fully for a shower.
its probably a normal sign for the economy that all of my adulthood fantasies are like "imagine having your own kitchen living room and bathroom to decorate" "what if i could get on a train" "maybe one day i could purchase a sturdy pair of shoes" "i should save and invest in a single bicycle"
omg can i could i perchance please ask about simon’s balls? 🥺 are they super sensitive, or maybe not? does he let us suck them, or does he think it’s too dirty an act? or maybe he goes feral for it and smushes our face into them? we know he canonically has big dick energy, but what about his balls 🗣️
thank you and goodnight ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
love how we all came to the conclusion that he CANONICALLY has big dick energy. yes he does.
arranged marriage or marriage of convenience and they don't want to force you to sleep in the same bed or even room as them so they're very respectfully saying goodnight before going to their quarters to fuck their fist while thinking about how relaxed you finally seemed after dinner that night
Price who pins you down with that heavy meaty weight of his body, thick cock buried deep inside, stretching your cunt open so good just like he used to. Got one of your thighs shoved up against your chest, fingers digging into the soft spill of your flesh, slow grinding of his hips dragging broken whimpers out of your throat that you hate yourself for making.
Years. Fucking years he was gone, vanished like smoke, and the second you finally started piecing yourself back together, he showed up at your door with that same damn cigar between clenched teeth and (cruel) blue eyes that always saw too much.
“Missed this tight cunt,” he grunts, voice rough as honeyed gravel, beard scraping your neck as he bites down, sucking a fresh mark into your skin. “Knew you’d still open up for me.”
You whimper, fingers digging into his shoulders, half pushing him away and half pulling him closer. He feels it, chuckles low, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours as he grinds deeper, the fat head of his cock kissing that spot that makes your vision spark white.
“Shh, easy love,” he murmurs, all honey and smoke, the manipulative bastard. One big hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing into your bottom lip to keep your mouth open for him, dirty fingers pushing down onto your slick tongue. “Don’t fight it. You were never good at pretending you didn’t need this.” and you hear the need me go unsaid, implied.
He pulls out almost all the way, just the tip stretching your slick hole, then slams back in hard enough to punch the air from your lungs. “Look at you. Already creaming on my cock again. Bet no one else could make you this wet, could they?”
His pace picks up, heavy balls slapping against you with every thrust, the wet obscene sound of it filling the room alongside your desperate gasps. He’s watching your face the whole time- hungry, possessive, a little mean.
Trying so hard to ignore the look in his eyes that says he knows exactly how much he wrecked you when he left, and exactly how easily he can do it again.
people always talk about someone getting fucked stupid but what about a top going stupid while fucking someone? their brain shuts off and they just become a horny mutt with the only goal of getting off as hard as they can, breeding their sub. incoherent whimpers and moans of pure lust and desire. just a thought
price isn't a religious man. he rejects the notion that there's a detached yet benevolent hand arranging things beyond human understanding. but sometimes he looks at you and wonders what else he's supposed to call it. providence, maybe, but reward feels more apt. he's spent his entire life doing what was asked of him and more. the blood on his hands mortared into his lifelines. he never wasted much energy lamenting the absence of love and romance. it's not like those things are required for him to sate his needs. and then you appear, and suddenly he's forced to reconsider his beliefs or lack thereof.
someone, somewhere, decided that he finally earned this. earned you. you can resist if you'd like. in fact, he expects it. but if you're a good girl, he'll give you time and a loose leash on which to pace about, indulge the illusion of choice. but from his perspective, the matter was settled the moment he clapped eyes on you. there is no question of whether you're right for each other. the universe already rendered its verdict. you were placed in his path with all the care of a gift set upon a doorstep. now it's simply a matter of you making peace with that fact on your own, or him helping you hands-on.
similarly, ghost doesn't care whether it was luck or blind chance. things happen, doors open, doors close, you play the hand you're dealt. meaning is something people invent after the fact to make themselves feel better about circumstances beyond their control. still, out of everyone he could've crossed paths with, it's you. out of all the places you could've gone, you ended up here, right in front of him. he doesn't believe in destiny. he simply knows how to recognize an opportunity when it presents itself. and for whatever reason, the universe saw fit to place this one, this one lovely opportunity, directly in front of him. convenient, at least for him.
gaz doesn't see the point in forcing things. people either like him or they don't. at least that's what he tells himself. in reality, he knows you just need time to realize you enjoy having him around. he is very good at giving people time, and with people like you, he knows the power of a few honeyed words and patience goes a long way. he studies and learns and remembers the details nobody else does. makes you feel seen. he shows up when he's needed and always manages to make it seem accidental.
you tell yourself he's just a friendly and reliable man. you don't consciously realize how thoroughly he's embedded himself into your life to the point where he's load-bearing. and it doesn't feel like it's because he cornered you or forced your hand, but like you silently extended an open invitation, and you'd never think to rescind it. and well, if for whatever reason his meticulous planning falls through, or you see through him, he knows that given the proper motivations, you'll come around.
soap doesn't understand why you keep making things so complicated. you call it bad timing, incompatibility, or, flat-out, that you're just not interested. that he's reading too much into little things and that he needs to let it and you go. but soap is a bloodhound that will not be dissuaded from its quarry. he's seen and read those subtle tells of yours. the cues you keep sending his way. it's obvious you're playing hard to get. so what if you run away? prey runs. that's nothing new to him. so what if you tell him no? people get cold feet all the time. to him, the cure for fear is to plunge headfirst into the deep end. he'll toss you in and chase after. sooner or later, you will give up the fight. he's just got to wear you down first.
ok so, I approached my local library with a proposal to donate a mural as a way to A: build portfolio/gain practical experience and B: give back to a beloved public institution. The director was very enthusiastic about it and i've been working on it since the beginning of March. Come with me as I endeavor to paint what is in all honesty an excessive amount of birds
I wanted the birds to look like they were actually in the space so first thing after doing the draft was to do a lighting study
after that I covered the walls in letters in lieu of a projector/vr headset bc i have neither of those :) Then i take a picture of the section of wall and superimpose the lineart over top of it so I can pencil in the lines
et voila
and that was a whole week on it's own so next comes the paintin' >:)
my chains are broken i am FREE. although i did have a great deal of fun with this, the barring on the wings itself took me like four days and i am READY to move on
this was a week and a half of continuous work so please excuse me for getting a little emotional in the bg 🙏
BIRD NUMBER 10!!! The Male Mallard Duck, Anas platyrhynchos
the male and female ones are gonna be posted separately bc they're taking a lot longer lol but yea! super happy i was able to capture the iridescent green of the head, i found metallic green and blue paint at a craft store that really made his head POP. it looks better in person i promise
ALSO!! As this is the 10th one, BIG announcement. The end is in sight!!!!! I plan to finish within the next 3 weeks and there will be a small dedication ceremony/ unveiling happening at the library to commemorate its completion on the 16th of May. If you live in the Western New York region and want to check it out for yourself shoot me a dm!
Also thank you everyone for your kind words and support throughout this whole process, it's been a genuine treat thinking there are potentially thousands of you out there cheering me on while I paint this 🥹
we're movin right along with bird numero 11!! The lady Mallard!! Anas platyrhyncos
the 16th is looming in the distance so i'm trying to get thru these as quickly as i can so i can have as much time for the GBH as possible. i still need to do the names next to all of them so i've got about a week and a half to finish everything which is GREAT because i have adhd and nothing gets my ass in gear like a fuckin deadline, let me tell you
power couple that they are, here's bird number 12 and 13,
the Northern Cardinals, Cardinalis cardinalis
and NOW that they are complete, ITS GO TIME, in the next five days (library's closed for mother's day 😭😭) i need to have the GBH fully rendered, the names of the birds vectored, weeded, masked, applied to the wall, and then painted, plus additional cattails throughout. I may be able to get away with just getting the GBH done in time for the unveiling and then just have the names and cattails added later, but i'm gonna really try to get it all done in time. BUT, i have a plan. Part of why i take so long on these is because i really am just figuring it out as I do it lmao. there have been many a time where i am sitting on top of the ladder googling "how to paint birds" but I think if i take the time tomorro to do all that figuring out how to approach it beforehand, this will go a lot faster. I may also recruit some of my artist friends to help with the placing of the names... hrmm we'll see.
Anyways, shout out to the librarian who tracked down exactly the thing i needed so i could figure out where to place the highlights in my birds eyes, ur the real mvp
thank you to everyone who reached out or got excited about this project, it genuinely gave me the fuel i needed to keep going. In total, the 480+ total hrs it took me to cover this wall pales in comparison to how long its expected to spend on there, hopefully imparting a sense of beauty and love for the natural world to the next generation and here's hoping i'm only getting started with these.
janainaart
dededos
blakekathryn
snowghoul
annaxmalina
kianamaiart
titsay
baratheonpilled
areudirty
