such a good boyfriend. really, like, no man you've dated has ever come close to kyle. the former military stuff put you off, but lots of people fall for things they shouldn't.
let's go on holiday. yeah? deserve it, how hard you're workin.
you think you haven't been dating that long, but kyle offers to pay for it and even finds a place that his friend owns, so you don't have to do the resort thing. he figures out everything and you're so grateful, you let him fuck you without a condom and are shocked at how much that changes up sex.
the house is beachfront and sun-drenched, wide open doors and coloured tile floors. you joke that city kyle and beach kyle are completely different boyfriends; beach kyle is vibrant and radiant, sandy-soled, a bright gem at sea.
what's interesting is how his intensity ramps up. so chill and relaxed back home, and now it's like his teeth are on edge here. he's waking up with a hand wedged into your cunt, drowsily rubbing you, or spreading you out on the cold tiles to fuck you raw, wild-eyed, or slipping his hands under your dinner dress to finger you over the bathroom vanity until you come, smearing your makeup.
the trip is lush. boozy. slow wake-ups and then falling back asleep until noon when he wants to eat you out, tonguing you until you're hanging off the bed. you eat and swim and sleep and shower and doze and drink and fuck fuck fuck.
supposed to fly out the tuesday. monday night, you're wandering around the different rooms to locate scattered items to pack up. kyle's not helping. when you stride back into the bedroom, he's sprawled out on the bed, hand loose around his cock, dreamy tugs to match his dreamy smile.
a bit annoyed for the first time all trip. can you help me, please?
he gets harder, pulls at his cock in longer vigorous jerks, when you don't understand his explanation. he needed to know. needed to be sure you were the woman for him. a nice little trial run here, yeah? seeing what every day will be like. here.
fucking you with his forearms bent either side of you head, salty sweat dripping down on you, caging you in. no condom. don't need them anymore, yeah?
and lots of people fall for things they shouldn't. he really is a good boyfriend.
cw: nightmares, sex tapes, non consensual sharing of sed sex tapes, masturbation, oral sex, rough sex, punitive sex, telepathy
wind whips everywhere as the helicopter slowly descends upon the city, yellow streetlights below illuminating the small crowd that's gathered just outside the building you're headed towards.
it's a hot one tonight, and the churning air feels cleansing somehow, keeping you cool as you take in the scene below you. you don't recognize this place- the trees along the sidewalks look unfamiliar, the street signs and traffic lights not like the ones you see locally. you squint into the night to see if you can parse out anything that might tell you where you are, but no dice. you're too far up, moving too fast, and it's too dark out to look for clues, so you just hang on for the ride as you slowly descend.
suddenly, gunfire pinging off the metal frame of the chopper. the pilot yells something about small arms- moments before a white streak flashes up through the night sky, headed straight for you.
"rpg!" a man screams nearby, his warning nearly cut off by the sound of impact- a shrill whistle before a boom that shakes the solid floor from under your feet, sending you sprawling over the cold metal as you slide along with the listing of the chopper. it's deafening- the cacophony of gunfire, the roar of the engine, the shriek of alarms, all with your pounding heartbeat playing harmony.
bits and bobs are sent flying through the air- metal canisters, a handgun, little metal bits that you can't identify but look like they'd hurt to be hit with. you deliriously think to yourself that if the crash doesn't kill you, maybe the shrapnel will.
because face it- this is it. you're going to die out here, falling to your death our in god-knows-where for god-knows-what-reason, and it's going to be painful. and it's going to be now.
the thought sends you rocketing upright in your bed, panting and sweating and shaking like a leaf. the soft glow of the moon through your sheer curtains is grounding- you're at home, you're in bed, you're safe. there's no crash, no fires, no mobs waiting on the ground to murder you on sight.
it's so much worse at night, so much more terrifying to see through someone else's eyes when you're unconscious and unaware of what's happening. at least now, awake, you can process the scene with a bit more detachment. you aren't the one in the helicopter, after all. you can still see and hear it all- everything is so loud, red lights illuminating the dark hold of the chopper, panicked face of the pilot looking back as the bird goes down. there are mere moments for a stranger's hands to grab the rope dangling nearby and swing to the safety of a nearby rooftop, crashing on hard concrete as the chopper crashed onto the street below. someone else lands bodily close by, and they're slow to get up. fire illuminates the streets below, around where the helo landed- but maybe that was there before the crash? it's hard to say.
after all, it's not like you're in charge of the movie playing in your brain.
slowly, you pad through your dark apartment, not bothering to turn on lights as the scene continues to unfold in your mind.
a gun in hand, scared office workers terrified of a threat just outside, a uniformed man with an ugly beard barking orders both at the workers and over his radio- but the vision is imperfect, faces of everyone but the soldier slightly blurred, their words slightly muddled, as if the whole scene was slightly underwater. in your experience, that means the memory is older- maybe a six or seven years, based on the clarity of some details.
kyle's home, you think to yourself as you pour yourself a glass, leaning against the counter as you sip, trying to regulate your breathing again. normally, you have some sort of warning that he's coming- his thoughts are so loud that you can usually detect him when he's at the end of the block- but tonight he got in too late for you to be aware of his arrival, too late to make plans with friends or a last-minute hotel reservation. it's jarring to have the circus of violence, gore, and morally reprehensible foreign policy to not only act as your alarm clock, but to continue to play out in your mind long after sleep has been shaken loose from you.
it's funny, in a way. you've been able to read people's thoughts ever since you were a little girl, but with everyone else you've ever met in your entire life, it's been manageable. sure, you've heard some fucked up shit that people dwell on in the privacy of their own minds, but for the most part people's thoughts aren't very interesting and just fade into the background like white noise made up of shopping lists, regrets, memories, wishes, and the songs people get stuck in their heads. but your neighbor, kyle? he's unlike any of the rest of them, the contents of his brain seemingly on a mental bullhorn of sorts, coming in more vivid and loud than anyone else you've ever met- which is why it's so awful that he happens to have the most violent job you've ever seen.
in your heart, you're convinced that if you actually met the man that he'd probably be lovely. according to his (loud, inescapable) memories, people really seem to like him. faces light up when he enters rooms, everyone laughs at his jokes and give him easy smiles, people of all genders flirt shamelessly. according to all of his memories that take places in pubs, back gardens, birthday parties, and brunch with loved ones, kyle (or 'gaz', as he's sometimes called) is a stand-up guy. a good son, brother, friend, and teammate. a charming young man with a nice smile and the right mixture of cocky and clever that wins over most everyone he meets- especially mums and grandfathers. they think he's a 'good guy', someone even-keeled, patient, and safe.
you know different.
late at night, his darker memories drift through your wall, robbing you of sleep, appetite, and concentration. bodies being chewed up by the bullets that kyle himself is firing at them. kyle shooting an empty pistol at a child with a pillowcase over his head, and being surprised at the lack of bullets. throwing live grenades and watching the bodies explode, only to march over and shoot the mangled and screaming survivors right in the temple. buildings collapsing under his feet, aircraft falling out of the sky, a man being shoved over a railing moments before the bomb strapped to his chest explodes. kyle's memories are a circus of death and violence, a spectacle of gore and war crimes.
he's a soldier, from what you've gathered. you've seen flashes of places made familiar from the news, of men in uniform clapping him on the shoulder and following him into battle, of meetings you shouldn't know about, of loading in and out of government planes and trucks. all of that interspersed between bodies being blown apart, slashed open, shot, broken, and crushed- all watched through unblinking eyes.
that's the worst part of it, you think. in all his memories, he never looks away from the carnage, never flinches from it. he just moves on, like a machine, his bullets chewing indiscriminately through bodies as he snakes through homes, villages, laboratories, and office buildings. you've seen the memories of him getting praised for it- and felt the pride of being called 'brutal' by his lieutenant,of his captain clapping him on the shoulder and praising him for the carnage he'd left in his wake.
his pride in it all makes you sick.
nothing has ever made you feel less patriotic than the knowledge that kyle thinks he's doing this to protect you and everyone else in this building. it makes you feel downright sick, frankly, to think that he believes that your mere existence in this country merits the violent deaths of all those people in his memories. if you weren't so terrified of the myriad of inventive ways you've seen him kill people, you'd probably call him a murdering wanker to his bloody face.
but you are. so you don't.
instead you currently content yourself to sip at your water, mentally mapping out where in your bathroom cabinet the sleeping pills are, trying to decide if you want to just sleep until the morning and try to find a hotel in the morning, or potentially just sleep through the whole next day instead. your neighbor's thoughts and memories are usually at their most horrible and vivid right after deployment, and prior experience has taught you to either conk out or stay away from home for the first few days after he returns.
god, you should really call your therapist. you'd only started seeing her out of desperation, when kyle's memories were starting to cause you to lose sleep, appetite, and your own will to live. every moment he's home is exquisite torture, and every moment he's away you're just anxiously awaiting the torture to start back up again- and now it has, in the middle of the night, waking you from an otherwise dreamless sleep.
in your sessions you'd been vague about certain details in order to keep from seeming outright delusional- instead opting instead to mention bad dreams, anxiety, and the way that you avoid being home when intrusive memories pop in. your therapist diagnosed you with ptsd on the spot, and you couldn't help the bitter laugh that burst out of you when she said the words. after all, if you're fucked up from all those memories that aren't even yours, how fucked up is the guy actually living them? sure, you're still broken up about witnessing a little boy with a bag over his head having a gun pointed at him- but what the fuck is wrong with the man who actually held the gun? who pulled the trigger and was surprised there were no bullets?
the gunfire and screaming in your mind fades as you head to the bathroom, as kyle's thoughts have turned to something else. he's staring at the phone in his hand, idly scrolling on messages, catching up on stuff he's missed. 'mum' has texted him 14 times over the three months he's been deployed, 'mummy' has texted him over 100 times. there's messages from his sisters, uni friends, and a bunch of flirty texts from unsaved numbers. he flips through those, actively seeking any nudes, not bothering to read the actual messages before he moves on, slowly chipping away at his number of unread messages until he reaches zero.
with any luck, he'll go out looking for someone to go home with tonight. he's horny and restless and looking for a distraction, that much is obvious, and it's only midnight on a friday. he could easily go to a club or something and find someone. he does that sometimes, and it's a beautiful respite for you, especially since he doesn't tend to think about his hookups too much after he's done with them. your eyes slide shut as you watch through his as he weighs his options, checking himself out in the bathroom mirror, rubbing a hand thoughtfully over his stubble as he tries to decide whether or not it's worth going out or just jerking off and going to sleep.
god, you should move. you really should. the problem is that the rent is cheap, the other neighbors are relatively quiet, and it's just a few minutes walk from the bus stop. kyle's presence is literally the only thing ruining it, and you almost feel bad about how much animosity you have towards a man who doesn't even know you're there. he thinks your apartment is vacant, because for the most part, when he's home, it is. you're either in a pill-induced sleep that's only technically not a coma, or earning the rest of your year's rent in marathon basement poker games that keep you occupied for days on end. you just keep on privately resenting him and loathing his career while he remains blissfully ignorant of the fact that you even exist.
it's not healthy, you know that, but a sick sort of hope does keep you hanging on to your lease- after all, his job is dangerous. you've seen it firsthand through his eyes. there's been plenty of close calls, tough scrapes, and life threatening injuries- surely one day he just won't come back from a mission? maybe one day he'll leave and get killed on an op, never to return and plague you with a replay of his various war crimes.
you dry swallow the sleeping pills as soon as kyle decides to stay in tonight, opting to watch a video his buddy 'soap' sent him- a home made porno of some poor girl choking down a hard, ruddy cock with tears clumping and streaking her mascara. the lighting is harsh, and you wince in sympathy as she squints into the too-bright light, clearly not expecting this amateur director to have his phone out. you already know it's soap based on his voice, the way the scottish brogue plays on his vowels as he brushes her tears from her cheek, telling her how bonnie she looks, what a good lass she is for him, to give a little wink for his mates. you don't know if the girl in the video knows this is being shared around their squad. you don't know if she gave permission. what you do know is that kyle never asked either, content to save it to his phone with his hand in his trousers, hand idly stroking himself as he watches the video.
kyle imagines himself with her, how much rougher he'd be, grabbing her pretty blonde hair by the root and forcing her down until she chokes on him, the way her throat would convulse around her cock, how she'd slap his thighs in a wordless plea for mercy. the way her eyes would go big and sad and almost accusing when he wouldn't let up- and then soften up into something more akin to pride when he praises her and tells her how good and sweet and special she is.
the face in his fantasy shifts to a new girl on her knees, a woman you know to be his ex based on the memories you've seen. her appearance makes him recall that he'd looked her up a few months ago and saw she was married- and he spits in his hand and strokes a little more vigorously at the thought of it, his imaginary self violently fucking her throat. soap's video is forgotten, phone discarded as the poor girl's face gets coated in cum and kyle opts to close his eyes in order to ruin his pretty, doe-eyed ex with imaginary punitive sex.
all you can do is watch as you stand in your bathroom, eyes staring into the drain and hands clenching the sides of the sink, praying to god or satan or whoever the fuck it is responsible for giving you this ability to take it back, take it all away, please make it stop. your bathroom is as silent as a tomb, but it's so, so loud in your head. you can hear everything- the imaginary ghlk ghlk ghlk of a poor girl whose only crime was loving kyle once, the refrain of 'take it, take it' both said in his fantasy and muttered out loud in his apartment, and the sound of wet skin-on-skin as he chases his orgasm with a vindictive snarl on his face. when he finally cums, he groans loud enough for you to hear through your shared wall, and it feels like hearing it in stereo as you also listen to it at full volume in your mind.
John price who has to dress up for a big formal event, right?
Of course the venues too hot, so the jacket comes off almost immediately, slung over his arm and framing that watch he loves. Leaving him in just a thin, white button-down.
Everytime he moves, those muscles flexing over cloth that hugs a bit too tight, you can see faint shadow along his shoulder, back, chest.
"I didn't know you had tattoos, sir." You mumble when he finally approaches after catching you staring for the fifth time that night.
"Got 'em back in basic," price hums, and you swear he reaches past you to grab a glass of champagne just to get you tight and close to his body. Chuckling at your obvious embarrassment with a "they're probably older than you, kid."
He turns back around, and you go right back to staring at the faint tattoos through the shirt, all along his broad shoulders andâ
The heat woke you up before John got the chance; the room gone thick with it, fan dead since two in the morning. You awoke in a body that wasn't entirely yours anymore â one leg slung over his thigh, your cheek glued to his shoulder with a film of dried sweat, the sheets kicked to the foot of the bed, twisted into a rope over your ankles.
You could smell the night still on the both of you. Him mostly. Salty, sticky skin, the back-of-the-throat musk of a man who'd just come home off a four month run somewhere he wonât name, fallen on top of you before he'd even got his boots all the way off, worked you over thrice, then slept like the dead in the heat he created without so much as wiping either of you up with a washcloth â his cum and your slick gone tacky between the press of your thighs, pulling at the flesh when you shifted.
Everything ached the way it only ached after him: low in your belly, raw where he'd been, a bruise coming up on the back of a knee from where he'd folded you in half, thick fingers pressed into the meat of it sometime past midnight.
You wanted to get up to finally rinse.
To feel like a person again.
But his calloused hand came down flat on your hip the moment you moved, before your knee had even cleared his leg.
"Where?" is all he managed, voice wrecked and low and gravelly with sleep, the word barely fully formed on his tongue.
"I'm disgusting," you complained, a whisper.
"Mm." His thumb moved across the jut of your hipbone, finding crust of himself there. His eyes hadn't opened yet. The corner of his mouth had, though, dragging up at one side. "Yeah⊠y'are."
"I'm glad you're happy with yourself," you huffed sleepily.
His hand kept going, palm dragging down over your hip and around the back of your bent thigh, and then up again into the real mess of you, fingers finding where you were still half-open and swollen from last night, slipping through the sticky wet, the pad of his middle finger circling your sensitive entrance. It was too much and not enough at once â the drag of him over flesh that hadn't settled, a wince folding straight into something hotter, your hips pushing into his hand.
He made a sound; pleased, throaty, his brows pulling in for a second.
"Look at that," he murmured against your temple. "Bet you don' even wan' it cleaned up, do you?"
"Shut up," you half-heartedly murmured.
"Mm-mm," he protested.
Then he rolled, the whole heavy heat of him coming over you in one move, knee shoving your thighs apart before you'd even agreed to anything, and the air between your bodies went humid and ripe, his chest sticking to yours, the dense hair on it dragging over your tender nipples. And your body answered him â thighs falling open the rest of the way, some primal part of you glad of his weight, glad to be pinned under it, glad he was solid and here and breathing on you. He braced up on a forearm and looked down at you, cyan eyes cracked open and bloodshot, lashes still gummed together. He looked like hell. But so did you, you were sure, and he was staring down like you were the best thing he'd ever seen.
He spat into his own hand without breaking from your eyes, crude, and reached down between you to slick his cock with it. You spread more open for him, your hands coming up to his back where sweat was gathered at the base of his spine.
He sank all the way in on the first stroke, stretching your sore walls, an obscene wet crackle of air pushing out to make room for him, Your whole body remembered him in one shoved open rush. He dropped his forehead to the side of your neck and let out a long breath through his nose.
"Four months," he rasped, almost to himself, the syllables coming apart as they fell. "Four months this was the only thing in my fuckin' head." Then, against your mouth, the gravel coming back into it, his throbbing cock bumping your cervix, your nails scrabbling over his sweaty skin for purchase: "That's it, dove. You can take it. You can take it, look at you, you've had worse than this off me."
You could hear his grin.
"Since last night?" you managed to get out. "Orâ generally?"
A huff against your lips, almost a laugh, his hips not stopping. "Both."
He fucked you like he hadn't slept it off at all, like four months of going without you had only stored it up, his cock dragging thick and deep through the wreckage he'd already made of you. Every push of it pressed the sweat-slick of his furry belly against your clit so you got it both ways at once, inside and out, until your spine wanted to leave your body.
He talked the whole time â clipped, half-swallowed, filth pouring out of him like silver.
"Feel that," he asked. "That's last night still in you, that is. Didn't go anywhere." His teeth caught your jaw, dragged, overgrown beard scratching at your skin. "Gonna add some more to it." A deep grind of his hips that pushed the breath out of you. "Was lying there, every night, in the dark thinking about this. You under me, made a mess of, soaked through and still begging for more. Had to think about something else quick or I'd've embarrassed myself." His mouth is in your ear, hot and foul. "Four months of that. And now here you are. Wetter than the inside of my own head."
"Johnâ you're soâ," you couldn't get anything else out before he'd angled up and a moan tore out of you instead.
"Gross? Annoying?" he offered, hips snapping now, the bed knocking the wall, his hand slipping between you and the mattress to cant your cunt to his liking. "Yeah. And yet you're clenched down on me like you've never been happier. Funny, that."
It built faster than it had any right to. You'd stopped being able to do anything but hold on â one hand fisted in the wet sheet, the other clamped to the flexing muscle of his ass, your heels skidding down his back for purchase that wasn't there, every thrust knocking another broken little sound loose from a throat you no longer had any say over. And when you came you spasmed around him with your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders and your mouth open on a noise you'd have been embarrassed by if your brain hadn't been simmered down and reduced to nothing. He cursed and pushed his face into your throat and licked the salt off it, tongue flat against the tendon, groaning into your flesh as you fluttered and squeezed and dragged him over the edge with you.
He spilled deep with a groan you're not sure you've ever heard from him before, and then stayed there. Heavy. Crushing. His heart going hard against your chest, his breath sawing at your collarbone. Neither of you moved â both of you a single disgusting glued-together animal. Roadkill, maybe.
Underneath the slowing wreck of your own pulse, the feeling you'd been fending off since he walked through the front door finally claimed you â he was home. Your throat went tight, and you turned your face into his damp hair so he wouldn't catch the sound that squeezed out of it.
He exhaled a warm gust against your throat, then he dragged his lips to the corner of yours and kissed you â sloppy, tasting of sleep and salt and the both of you mixed past telling each other apart.
Johnny grabbed your arm right as he threw the grenade. Dragging you around the corner so the blast wouldn't hit you. But still covering you with his whole body anyway.
After the explosion you glanced up, confused to see the eager grin on his face. Out of breath and excited as he took your hand in his. Sliding the grenade pin onto your finger.
"Marry me..."
You giggled. Tilting your hand so the oversized ring clinked against the gold already adorning your finger.
"We're already married, baby."
He cursed softly. Cupping your cheeks to kiss you gently.
pardon my absence, I spent the last few days holed up at my bf's because his family can actually afford air conditioning. I had to come home today because I work tomorrow and I started melting the moment I opened the door to my room. well wishes to everyone dealing with this heatwave <3
           You yawned and stretched, leaning back against the couch cushions. Despite his claims that his kitchen skills were only mediocre, Nikolai made a wonderful meal. Chicken kiev, grilled asparagus, and focaccia, all done to perfection. It had been a while since youâd eaten until you were full, and your body was still adjusting to having proper nutrition after being deprived for so long. You were damn near in a food coma, meanwhile Nikolai was only mildly sluggish. You could audibly hear his back pop as he straightened in his recliner before rising from his seat and taking your dishes into the kitchen.
           âDo you want anything to drink, milaya?â he called, rifling through the cupboards for a glass. You peered down at the table. You still had a fairly full glass of water, thanks to Nikolai constantly refilling it.
           âNo, I still have water,â you replied, picking the glass up and swirling the ice in it for emphasis. Nikolai laughed.
           âNo, no. I am asking if you want alcohol, глŃĐżŃĐč,â he said. Alcohol wasnât a luxury youâd had the chance to try, it wasnât like you had the money or time to spend on it. But something about even just the thought made your throat go dry.
           âUm, Iâll pass. Thanks,â you faltered, tone wavering ever so slightly.
           âAre you sure? I have some of those fruit flavored drinks you young people like,â he insisted. He settled back into his seat, a glass in one hand and a rather large bottle of clear liquid in the other. Slowly, he poured a small sip into the glass and slid it in your direction. It wasnât much, less than half a shot poured over ice. Yet it was slightly intimidating, nonetheless. You tentatively reached a hand out before pulling it back.
           âI think Iâll pass. Thank you,â you replied. Nikolai shrugged before tossing his head back and taking a swig straight from the bottle. The sight knocked the wind from you, the way he chugged it like it was water. Maybe it was, with how easily it went down for the man. After a second, he set the bottle down with a hearty laugh. He smiled at you, then furrowed his brow like he was thinking. After a second, he perked up.
           âAh, before I start forgetting. I got you something,â he strained as he reached around the chair before pulling out a gift bag with a single sheet of tissue paper across the top. âForgive me. I am not the most gift-givey person.â
           It was a fairly big bag. You picked it up. It wasnât that heavy either. You could feel Nikolai watching you as you assessed the package. Finally, you removed the tissue paper and pulled out the item. It was a brand-new laptop. One of the newer ones on the market, you recognized it from the late nights youâd spent hunched over your old hunk of junk allowing yourself a small respite to dream of having something better. You swear you felt your heart stop for a second as your body went rigid.
           âIs all set up for you! I even put some of those silly computer games women like on there,â he beamed, clearly patting himself on the back for such a well-thought gift. You, meanwhile, were still trying to grapple with the reality of holding a $2,000 piece of hardware and it actually being yours. With a featherlight touch, you opened it. Immediately, you were greeted with a desktop with every game neatly alphabetized down the side. Frog Detective 1-3, Hello Kitty Island Adventure, Minecraft, Paleo Pines, Potion Craft, Slime Rancher, Sticky Business, Turnip Boy CommitsâŠTax Evasion? Bit of an oddball choice for the last one but you werenât gonna complain. You opened your mouth to speak when Nikolai cut you off.
           âDonât you ask how much you owe me.â
           ââŠI thought you wanted me to clean and stuff?â
           Nikolai huffed like it was the most obvious thing.
           âYou are not here to be maid, you are allowed entertainment. Work is not all there is to life. Not anymore, ĐŽĐŸŃĐŸĐłĐ°Ń.â
           The sun had gone down 5, maybe 8 hours ago? You had no clue, youâd had your face in the screen since you laid in bed. Your host was generous enough to give such a wonderful gift and you were going to put it to good use. You were feverishly shaking the mouse back and forth, trying to make a light potion on Potion Craft when a rumbling sounded out in the darkness. You peeled your eyes away from the screen, trying to hone in on the sound. Distant thunder, maybe some wild animal? It wasnât that important. What was important was getting the damn recipe right without breaking the bottle for the fiftieth time. You grasped the mouse, ready to resume, but there it was again, a low tone that you almost couldnât parse. It had to be something inside. Maybe the furnace was having a bit of trouble starting. Something compelled you to check it out. You swung your legs over the side of the bed, careful not to tangle yourself this time, and started down the hall, You had to use the wall as guidance, not wanting to risk turning on the light. Eventually, your eyes adjusted to the darkness, and as you reached the living room, you saw it.
           Nikolai, passed out in his recliner, empty bottle discarded on the floor and a half-full one dangerously close to the edge of the table. The rumbling was his snoring, muffled mostly by his slouched posture. Despite the drinking clutter, he looked oddly peaceful. But you just couldnât leave him like that. Gently, you gathered the bottles, throwing the empty one out and setting the other on the counter. Then, you grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and gingerly draped it over his front. Despite how silently you thought you were moving, Nikolai stirred. His eyelids fluttered and his head lolled to the side, the faintest smile on his features.
           âХпаŃĐžĐ±ĐŸ, ĐŒĐŸŃ Đ»ŃĐ±ĐŸĐČŃ. ĐąŃ ŃĐ°ĐșĐŸĐč ĐŒĐžĐ»ŃĐč,â he slurred, accent thick and words marred by the tangling of sleep and alcohol. You had not a single clue what was said, but you smiled back. You gave a polite nod before returning to your room.
Price whoâs been married to you for twenty years and been cheating for twenty five of them, swaggering home from the pub like heâs Britainâs last surviving sex symbol. Bragging to the lads that heâs still got it every time he picks up another young college kid with big doe eyes and fat tits who could have any pick of guy and choose him. Refusing to divorce you when the others bring it up because where else is he going to find a loyal wife who cooks, cleans, and somehow never notices the lipstick on his collar?
Vs
You, whoâs known the entire time. You, whoâs done more than know. You, whoâs been bribing, blackmailing, and occasionally outright paying women to sleep with him since the first girl. Not to boost his ego. God, no. Youâre simply keeping the old bastard happy and unsuspecting until retirement.
Then the house, the pension, and the good silver are yours.
TMI but while I truly, really, wholeheartedly hope you have a wank to my smutty fics, what I hope for even more is that people who struggle with low libido because of meds manage to get horny from them
Iâm off duloxetine now, but I distinctly remember the fics that managed to get me going when I hadnât felt anything even remotely close in ages.
God bless smut writers for making me feel some sort of control over my body again
The concept of price being so damn proud to be dating you, a pretty young thing he's got wrapped around his finger.
He talks about you constantly, his sweet angel that soon enough he'll have safe in his home. Price has always been one to fall too hard too fast, but even gaz can agree that something feels special about this time.
So, the team agrees to meet you.
Only for all of them to nearly choke or die when you come walking up to their table, practically hanging off price's arm.
Because each if them has slept with you.
Gaz has seen you spread out on his bedsheets, legs wrapped around his waist while you begged for just one more round. Soap has seen you in the back of his car, his knees aching from so long spent with his tongue between thighs. Ghost knows what you sound like choking on dick in the alleyway behind the local bar.
And now you sit next to their captain, and he's made it clear he wants to marry you.
When price steps away to get you a drink, you look them dead in the eyes and say "he fucks better than you and he's mature."
Yikes...
Still. It'll be hard keeping a neutral face at the wedding when they've all seen your expression mid-orgasm.
Drunk!ghost who slurs on and on about being married when gaz drops him off to you. He makes a big deal of not touching you when you try to guide him upstairs, tells you "m' lovie 's gorgeous. Never need anything else so fock offâ"
And of course he refuses to let you sleep in the same bed as him, he's married, got it? So you sleep on the couch after watching a movie, awfully endeared by your husband.
Only to wake up to him standing over you at 3am with the saddest puppy dog eyes asking "why're you out here, love? Did I do something wrong? :(" and bodily hauling you to bed so he can smother you in slightly more sober cuddles.
Now imagine a soulmate au where your soulmates name is written on you, right?
You've known the name "john price" long before you knew how to write your own, child fingers tracing the letters on your arm, reverent.
You tried finding him, of course you did, but as it happens john price is far too common of a name. You give up on your dreams eventually. life demands you to actually live it instead of waiting for the signal to go.
As it happens, on one of your nights out you stumble upon him.
John price. You had noticed him in the bar earlier, drawn to him in a way you couldn't explain, and now it's him approaching you. He nods at your exposed arm, body between you and the rest of the crowd, almost possessive. "You are my soulmate, yes?"
Your name rolls off his tongue like honey, has your soul thumping at the thought of the one.
John price is big, strong, and dangerously handsome. He smells like whiskey and smoke and expensive cologne that tells you the gold around his neck is real. He keeps glancing at your mark with a smile, awestruck the same as you.
"Can i see my name? I want...I want to feel it." You tug at his leather jacket impatiently.
"Ah, bad idea. I was...hurt. left a scar right next to it, looks quite gruesome." He frowns, redirecting your hand to his lips for a kiss. You understand, soulmarks are personal, add in insecurity about scars and...you decide not to push.
Still, when his hand slides low on your back, eyes lidded in desire, you follow him home.
God are you thankful john is your soulmate, you're not sure how you could enjoy another man after the night he gave you. Entire body sore and pleased, face-down on his bed.
That's the exact image nikolai sends price, your soulmark clear in the frame. Followed by the message "warmed it up for you, john ;)"
Ghost would never willingly see a therapist for his own mental health, but he would go to marriage counselling in order to subject a third party to him and his wife "arguing as foreplay" kink
sitting on the couch beside her in the marriage counsellor's office and genuinely getting a hard on because his wife keeps bitching about how he's never home because of work, doesn't respect her boundaries, probably has untreated ptsd, won't let her sell any of the junk in their garage because he's a hoarder, and keeps trying to knock her up even though she's still trying to build her career. and he's just like wow. i really did marry the love of my life, no one else gets me like this.
CWs: smut! medications & side effects, low libido, subtly touches themes of depression. porn is being watched during sex. this is like two smut fics into one lmao
CoD Masterlist | Main Masterlist
"Do you want to watch porn together?"
Never a dull moment with you, he thinks. Always full of surprises. The way you sprinkle excitement and spice in his slow, boring life is the only thing that keeps him afloat.
And Simon can confidently say that this is the least bored heâs ever been with you.
He's learned to school his expression into place; however, not even years of duty can mask the curious quirk of his brow. He shifts on the sofa, propping one ankle over the opposite knee. One arm rests on the backrest of the couch, fingers thrumming against the leather.
Your eyes fall onto his other hand, sitting atop his thigh.Â
He nods with his chin. "Run tha' by me again?"
You stand barefoot on the carpet. Loose shorts and an old tank top that has stretched out from one too many washes. The nibble of your lip tells him that you're ready to eat your words as soon as he questions them. The same goes for the way you're tormenting the cuticle on your thumb.
But he's interested. Fucking hell, this is the most intrigued he's been in ages.
"Porn?" He inquires the moment you open your mouth to most likely take everything back.
You close your lips with a pop and look at the ceiling, trying to force the heat collected on your cheeks to dissipateâflow southward perhaps, where it's not a bother but a welcome feeling instead.
But then you clear your throat. Straighten your spine. "Yes, porn."
Simon echoes you, enunciating the word. "Porn."
"Porn."
He nods, the corners of his lips curving in a smirk.
"With me?"
You tongue your cheek, eyes sharp. "Did I stutter?"
He pinches the air in front of his face. "A little."
But he must have taken it a step too far, because you're suddenly rolling your eyes and huffing.Â
"Right. I shouldn't have askedâ" You mutter, turning on your heels.
Simon's got quick hands. One of them reaches forward and grabs your wrist, pulling you in. You stumble between his legs, big thighs now parted for you to stand comfortably before him.Â
His eyes soften, then, only because he can tell you've taken pains to summon the courage to ask him such a curious thing.
Simon rests the back of his head against the couch to look up at you. Instead of finding your eyes, however, he sees your profileâstubbornly, you're forcing yourself to look at everything but him.
"M'sorry, alrigh'?" He rumbles. The tip of his finger finds your jaw, and he gently steers you to face him. "Took me off guard is all."
The line between your brows deepens, sudden worry branching through your features. Though when his finger on your jawline turns into a palm cradling your cheek, you sigh, leaning into his hand.
And as your body softens, your tongue loosens, too.
"I justâ" You bite your lip, nibbling at the flecks of dry skin. Once again, your eyes dart around, as if the firmness you need is stuck somewhere in the furniture of the house.
He grounds you again, this time with a light tap of his fingers.Â
You rub your forehead in frustration. "Ever since they upped the dosage of my meds, Iâweâ"
You don't need to finish the sentence for him to understand where you're getting at.Â
Yes, you haven't fucked in months. Heâd wager itâs been at least two, maybe three, and the last thoroughly satisfying fuck heâs had with you goes back to a couple of days prior to that fated doctorâs appointment. Itâs not the longest break, and heâs aware. Fucking hell, before he met you, he couldâve gone years without getting his dick wet. He has gone through years of solitude, in fact.
Though itâs you that he misses. Fucking you senseless. Eating you out. Itâs the taste of your skin, not the taste of skin itself. Itâs the scent that nestles in the creases of your neck, not the smell of sex.
Most people would say that, in such cases, they donât remember the last time they had sex. Simon, however, does. He remembers it quite vividly, actually. Nothing can erase from his mind the picture you paint when youâre feeling goodâwhen heâs making you feel good.
He misses it. Misses you. Heâs human, after all.
But he likes you with that smile. Likes you proper happy. Likes you healthy, hungry, and then sated. Likes you laughing at jokes, at life. Likes the fight thatâs suddenly surged within you. The need for control in a life that left you without it.Â
He misses it, true, but he likes you alive.
And nothing will ever change his stance on that.
His other hand brushes your thigh with the back of his knuckles.
âGo on,â he murmurs.
âWell, IâI canât stop thisââ You gesture vaguely at your stomach, as if itâs there where it all festers. ââSense of guilt. I feel guilty, alright? IâI know youâll say I shouldnâtââ
âAye, you shouldnât.â
ââBut,â you interject, pointing a finger at him. âI still do.â
âLove,â he insists, but not unkindly. âWonât fuck you outta guilt, yeah? You gotta want it.â
âI do!â You whine, lightly stomping your foot against the carpet in frustration. âI swear I do! I justâ"
You rip your cheek out of his touch. His hand falls to your other thigh, then, no matter how reluctantly, just to give you space.
âIâI donât think I remember how to feel like I do anymore,â your voice cracks. âI hate it. I hate how I canât control it anymore.â
Simon falls still. Stays silent, waiting for you to get to the point of your reasoning. No sense in stopping you when, clearly, youâve been trying so hard to tell him what feelings have been festering inside you.
You take in a steadying breath, smoothing your hands down your shirt.Â
âAnd I thought, you know, maybe porn can help me. Maybe it can make me horny.â
He nods, urging you to go on. His hands on you, slow and grounding, draw mindless shapes.
âBut itâs weird to⊠get ready for it.â You cinch your shoulders. âI donât want to watch some porn in the bathroom waiting to get wet only to find you after, becauseâbecause it literally takes a walk from the loo to the bedroom that itâs justâŠÂ gone.â
Simon thinks about it.Â
It would be odd, he doesnât deny that. Doesnât know what you like to watch when heâs deployed. Then, it feels wrong to look at another person while heâs fucking you. Doesnât care much about other people and those fake moans, or selfish ones and their plastic performances.Â
Youâve got a few videos you both took when drunk or when trying to spice it up a little. Perhaps those?Â
He knows heâs got one of you that he canât get tired of.Â
Youâre lying on your front as he pounds into you, pretty ass wiggling against his crotch whenever he stops. The phone is propped up on the pillow, its back leaning against the headboard. The shot shows your face first, then the curve of your spine. Your ass pressed to the V of his stomach, bouncing round and soft.
He put the phone there, even as you insisted itâd be better if both of you were in the frame. But he was stubborn, asked to have something to look at when heâs away, and he joked about how heâs not a fan of his ugly mug.
âCanât have a wank anâ look at this mug now, can I.â
Your face, mainly. Thatâs what he likes to watch. Brows pulled tight, eyes hooded, mouth agape. White paints the knuckle of his hand as it fists your hair, forcing your head back. Then, thereâs you. The uncomfortable and jagged curve of your neck, your tendons bulging at the sides, the veins that branch out from your collarbones and find root at your jawline.
Fuck, the sounds you make. Those strained breaths that stroke your vocal cords like youâre an instrumentâmoans clipped and sharp, rhythmic with the pistoning of his hips.Â
Oh, the groan of your first orgasm. The whites of your eyes eating up your pupils. The curve of your mouth, a pained smile that trembles, unsure whether to cry out or laugh blissfully.Â
Itâs your voice that brings him back. His eyes focus on you once again, redefining the lines of your shape.
He must have stayed quiet for a bit too long, because the worried look on your face starts withering into something even worse, something like rejection.
âWe could watch anything,â you provide nervously, rubbing your palms against your thighs. âYour favourites, maybe? Do you have any? I donât know, you can take the lead on thatâon everything, actually. IâI need toââ
With a frustrated sigh, you run a hand down the back of your neck. âI need to feel like you want to fuck me. IâI want to feel like I want to have sex again. I want to be in control of it.â
Your chest heaves. âPlease tell me Iâm making sense.â
Fucking hell. It would be odd, true, but fuck odd.
Your brows pinch. âItâs okay if you donât waâ"
âI got an idea.â
âThis isnât what I had in mind,â you blabber breathlessly.
Simonâs fingers are buried inside you. The video is muted because you asked.Â
âMet you halfway, didnât I?â
His phone sits propped against the headboard, the lower margin hidden beneath the hills and curls of the pillowcase. The light is dim in the bedroom, similarly to how it looks on his phone. Heâs got you with your stomach pressed against the mattress, just like in that video. The only thing keeping your head from slipping against the bed is his fist, holding firmly onto your locks.
âBut Iââ You choke when his knuckles brush your clit. ââI donât like to look at myself.â
Simon cracks his neck, tilting it side to side.Â
âSâporn, innit?âÂ
You groan. âGod, Simonââ
âYou asked for my favourite,â he rumbles. âThere yâgo.â
Thereâs a slow, accommodating fashion in the movements of his hand. Languid strokes given with two fingers, sometimes slipping out to smear your wetness down your slit, brushing featherlight on your clit.Â
âBut this wonât make me horny,â you whine, though thereâs a telltale weakness in your statement that doesnât manage to mask the lie.
Greedy eyes eat what his mouth still canât. The sweat collecting on your temples, the slope of your nose and the curve of your mouthâlips pouting, teeth sinking into the flesh to silence yourself. Shy thing. Youâve never been one, but he reckons thereâs nothing wrong with a change of pace, every once in a while.
He parts your folds with his fingers and gulps harshly when the thick sound of your wetness reaches his ears. Proved yourself wrong, there.
âWonât it?â
Heâs kneeling on top of you, knees digging into the mattress on either side of your thighs. The video is not what he focuses on, though. Heâs got better things to admire. The angles of your shoulder blades, the indents of your muscles as they tense, and the sweet dip of your spine. Where it hollows and where it endsâtwo tiny dimples crowning the plump of your ass.Â
Fuck youâre a painting, arenât you?
âLook at yourself,â he drawls, forcing your eyes to the screen with a tug of your hair. âLook at how good you were feelinâ, mh?â
The little whine that escapes you matches the clench of your pussy around his fingers. Gladly, he realises that youâre not cutting off the blood flow of his hand, but instead youâre opening up to him, feeling much softer than when he first entered you.
For a brief second, his eyes flicker to the screen.
Thereâs the pretty curl of your lips as you look up at him, subjecting your neck to bend in an uncomfortable arch, though his face is out of frame. You go a little cross-eyed, right there, as your smirk turns into a beautiful smileâall teeth and wrinkled nose.Â
The video keeps rolling, and after a heartbeat, you offer your tongue. From the top of the screen, a rope of spit falls and lands directly on it, and he watches as you drink it down.Â
The soft bob of your throat, the delighted grin it follows, the mouthed âthank youâ.
Simonâs cock sits above your ass. It hangs heavy with blood and gleaming at the tip, aching to be touched. His balls feel painfully tight, and if he ventures and grinds down between your cheeks, he might finish before this thing even starts.
His fingers switch, moving from inside you to lightly tap at your clit. Deliberately slow, circling around your clit to unsheathe it and leave the most sensitive part to his mercy whenever he glides down.
You suck in a breath.
Gentle touches wake up your body, skin rushing with waves of shivers that tiptoe up your spine.Â
âCanâcan you do that?â
Simonâs pads slide forward, from your clit to the curls on your pelvis, slipping easily with the wetness collected on his pads. Back and forth, until the tautness in your thighs melts away into the sheets underneath.
âDo what, sweeâheart?âÂ
Shyly, you look up. Your neck cranes backwards in a mimicry of that same painful curve heâs witnessed time and time again.
Your lashes flutter up to him. âCan you spit in my mouth like that?â
And it goes straight to his cock.
Donât need to tell him twice.
The hand in your hair slowly releases its grip, and by the way your moan comes, breathless and aching, he can tell the sting it left must have added to your pleasure. His fingers grasp your jaw, digging into your cheeks.Â
Shifting forward, Simon aligns his mouth with yours from above.
âOpen up.â
You blink, doe-eyed and bashful. Lick your lips and nibble at the flakes of dry skin, pondering for a moment, before you heed his order and part your mouth for him, letting your tongue loll down your chin.
Simonâs eyes roll back.Â
His throat is parched, and he wonders how the fuck he will spit in your mouth when you managed to dry out his tongue with just a look.
Nevertheless, he summons the strength and purses his lips, letting a rope of spit fall slowly onto your tongue.
He watches your nostrils flare in anticipation. Your brows as they flutter when it lands. How you seem to savour it when you swallow. How you find his face again in your stupor, with your eyes smothered under the dark veil of lust.
His cock grows tighter when you smile.
âThank you,â you mouth, licking your lips as if you might taste more of him again.
Simonâs left breathless as you repeat your own words, and he has to summon all his strength not to spear you with his cock right then and there. He genuinely wants to pace himself, but you look so fucking appetising that he just craves to have a taste. He should give you time to adjust, space to settleâhe shouldnât devour you with his mouth.
He should, should, should. Should be better. Should be softer. Should beâ
I need to feel like you want to fuck me.
Simonâs heart comes to an abrupt stop.
He should, should, shouldâ
âgive you more.Â
Show you how he wants to fuck you, like you asked, instead of going at a slow, far-fetched pace. He was never one to sit down and have a feast patiently. Simonâs hungry, heâs always been. To merely nibble on supper would feel artificial, plainly wrong.
And above everything, Simon wants you.Â
He leans down and smashes his lips to yours.Â
The sound of clacking teeth almost swallows your gasp, but the surprise is short-livedâpromptly replaced with the same kind of hunger, only delivered more tentatively.
His kiss is hungry and unrestrained. His teeth sink into your lip before launching again, smearing spit down your chin. You taste like you. Of mint and sugar. Herbs from the tea you shared, sweet because of the biscuits you dipped in yours, even as he grimaced at the sight.Â
Itâs the taste of you. The feel of your skin.
The growing warmth of your cheeks as his stubble irritates them, the slick of your tongue as it dances with his.
Your palm lands harshly at the nape of his neck, grasping blindly until it clutches around a handful of hair. Your fingers wander and grab, nails scratching his scalp and sending shivers down his spine. Now that your hand isnât supporting your weight anymore, youâre using him as leverageâpulling down his head and further smashing his mouth against yours.
Simonâs hand around your throat tightens just slightly.
âRemember thaâ?â He purrs, lips to lips. Then, he steers your face to look ahead, where the video keeps rolling.
And youâre so diligent, following his lead. âYes.âÂ
âMh,â he rumbles. âFelt good, didnât it?â
The swell of your ass grinds against his cock. Simon kisses his teeth, jaw tight in the effort to keep himself sane.
âYes.â
His offhand reaches down to the base of his cock. Slaps the head against the curve of your ass once, twice.
âWanna cum on my cock like that?â He murmurs, reaching down to lick the shell of your ear. You shiver. âWanna feel like thaâ again?â
You wiggle underneath him, letting out the smallest whine. Shy thing, you. Thatâs one of the things that has changed. Heâs always loved the bite of your teeth, the cut of your tongue. Loved the leash you put on him, how it revealed his need for control for what it truly wasâmere, unfettered fear. Shackles he thought were keeping him safe, when they were only locking him up in a cage of his own making.
He recognises that same trait within you, now. Recognises, also, how youâre trying to be rid of it.Â
Itâs why heâs more than delighted to understand that you're fighting against those chainsâforever his clever, clever girl.
He narrowly misses your hand reaching forward to press the buttons on the side of his phone.
Your voice fills the room.
âOh fuck,â you groan.
Simonâs hand has your hair in a brutal grip, pulling you back until all the phone can record are the angles of your jaw and the sharpness of your collarbones. His chest peeks from above, glistening with sweat and ruddy in blotches.
Your ragged moans are punched out of your lips by the rhythmic snap of his hips. Thrust after thrust framed by the slap of skin and his voiceâsome raucous, crackling thing that rips from his chest, claws and all.
âLike thaâ, pet,â he snarls. âFuckinâ take it.â
And you nod, sweet thing. You nod dumbly as you smile up at him. Your tits hang and bounce as the raw force of his hold lifts your chest from the bed. One last pull, tight and strong, turns those moans into one sharp yell.Â
His grin is unseen but clearly plastered in his tone. âYâliked that, uh?â
Another tug, another helpless moan.Â
âAh fuck, yer close,â he chuckles. The wet squelches of your pussy ratchet up in volume as he thrusts in, over and over, picking up the pace. âListen to thaâ. Yer gonna cum, love?â
The lower half of his face pops into frame from above, only to land a kiss on the crown of your head.
âCan feel ya gettingâ tight.â His lips brush your skin. âGo on, sweet girl.â
Before leaving the grip in your hair.Â
âCum on my fuckinâ cockâ"
Your face hits the pillow with a groan that drowns in linen. The phone falls, now recording the ceiling. No one bothers to pick it up again.
âFuck me,â you heave. âFuck me like that again, baby.â
Simon has to close his eyes and inhale to get himself back in line.
âFuckinâ hell.â He kisses his teeth. âCâmere.â
He pulls your head back once again. Kisses you until his lips feel numb. Right beneath him, you keep chanting your plea like he isnât about to give in already.
âFuck me, baby,â you mumble to his mouth, on and on without rest. âPlease fuck me. IâI want to feel you inside me, please. Please.â
I want to feel like I want to have sex again.
âI want it,â you whimper. âI want you.â
Blood pulses from the base of his cock all the way to the tip. He can feel the shockwaves seizing his limbs when he presses it to your cunt, sliding it up and down your slick until heâs drenched in it.
He kisses your temple. Moves upwards to the back of your head, safely cradling your jaw in his palm.
âMissed it, havenât ya,â he purrs by your ear. His cock enters an inch. âFeel thaâ?â
Heâs never been this hard in his lifeânever been this turned on either.Â
You must realise it too. Words fail you, but your voice doesnât. It crackles through your lips with a moan that shatters on his palm.
âMissed you too, pet.â
Heâs barely been inside you, and if he doesnât truly, really, focus, heâll ram his cock and come so fucking deep youâll drip for days.
Suddenly, the thought feels more tempting than wrong.Â
âYer gonna take it, yeah?â He grunts, moving forward with his hips. âGonna take it like a good fuckinâ girl.â
A pleasing sob. âPlease.â
With a groan, Simon gives in.
Not a sound leaves your lips. He can feel them open up against his hand, choking on air, and that is all you yield as he pushes in. The rest tightens into one euphoric knot at the base of his throat, cutting off each intake of air.Â
In a swift motion, Simon buries his cock to the hilt, hips flush to your ass. His head collapses against you, mouth to your shoulder, and peppers kisses all over its curve. When he pulls back, the first stroke after months sends his brain into a frenzy. His teeth sink into your neck, growling like the famished beast that he isâ
One you tame with your hand in his hair, tightening the grip to settle him.
âOh my fuckingâ" Words tumble out of your mouth in a strained whimper. âFuck it feels so good. Move. Move, please moveââ
Simonâs mouth opens against your neck. His tongue licks a path from your thundering heart to the shell of your ear, where he tries to focus.Â
Itâs the smell of you. The floral of your shampoo and the sourness of sweat. The butter of your face cream and the ginger of perfume.
âI got you, pet,â he croaks, as his heart suddenly ties itself in a knot. âI got you.â
Youâre incomparable. Fit like a glove, you do. Adjusting to him in the blink of an eye, already heaving like he stole the air from your lungsâthough heâs just started, and considering the desperation of your hands, he reckons youâre far from done, too.
Heâs deliberately slow, savouring each second that passesâbut sometimes he slips, and thrusts in a little harder. Apologises with his lips down your neck, turning your hiss into the softest sigh. Thumbs your waist with the hand fisting the sheets, also the only thing preventing him from collapsing on top of you.Â
You find his fingers and twine them with yours.Â
The only sound he hears is the one coming from the video, the screen now flush to the pillow. It fell at some point. He never bothered to check when.
His groans, the slap of skin, your pleas as you comeâ
âFuck,â you pant, hissing through your teeth. âNghâkeep going. God, pleaâkeep goingââ
âYeah?â His voice purrs. âFuckinâ feel thatâChrist yer dripping.â
Your breath picks up, ricochets in the bedroom as another orgasm stalks closer.
âMâgonna come againââ
âGo on then,â he rumbles. âDo it, love. Cum all over me.â
Abruptly, your fingers reach for his phone and lock it. The echo of your moans is cut short, and so are his grunts. For a second, his tinnitus manages to shroud the lack of sounds. Â
But then, thereâs the quiet stagger of your breathing that breaches past, poking a hole through the cotton stuffing his ears. The creaking of the bedframe follows. How his movements make the springs moan under his weight.Â
The wet of your nose nuzzles his cheek. âI missed you.âÂ
Your fingers relent the grip in his hair, hand falling down to cup his cheek instead.Â
âI missed you.â
Itâs said so wistfully that Simon, for a moment, feels entirely out of his depth.
He kisses the shell of your ear before guiding your gaze to point his way. Glossy eyes find him, thinly veiled with gratitude. He almost melts then and there. You got him wrapped around your finger, bow and all.
âI love you,â you say, placing your lips on his. âI love you so much.â
Simonâs chest grows tight.
He can feel those words take hold of his heart. Squeeze it bloody, only to travel southward and tighten around the base of his cock, too. In a stutter, his hips falter, and he has to come to a standstill if he doesnât want this to end so abruptly.
âChrist,â he mutters, âYer killing me, pet.â
The smoothness of your teeth brushes his lips as you smile. âMh. And we donât want that.â
He buries his nose in the crook of your neck and inhales the flowers, the butter and the herbs. The ginger, the sweat and the biscuits.
âAye, we donât,â he sighs.
Your tongue licks a stripe across his mouth. âBut I love you.â
Simon groans. âYer a cheeky fuckinâââ
He pulls back and slams in again, as if to chastise you, but it isnât received as punishment at all. In fact, it spurs you onâyou moan into his mouth and put him under your spell. A chant, continuous, of endless I love yous that peel off the layers that make him.
Simon finally gives in. Heâs missed you, too.
He collapses on top of you, punching a gasp from your mouth as your whole body is enveloped by his. His arm snakes under your belly, and you favour him by lifting your hips. The angle has him hit somewhere deeper, and you shatter beneath him. Your throat cracks a groan, soaked by the pillow, and finally, you let go when his fingers find your clit.
âMissed you,â he croaks in your ear.Â
His pace picks up.Â
âMissed this voice âere.â His mouth latches onto your neck. âMissed yer fuckinâ taste. Missed this fuckinâ cunt.â
Doesnât care about the strain in his spine and the burn of his calves, not when your moans start growing louder and wetter.
âFuckinâââ He stutters. âLove ya. Wanna fuck you every dayââ
Your slick rolls out of you thick as liquor for each thrust, coating his fingers. Two, at first. Then three, gliding smoothly from side to side over the tight knot of your clit.Â
âWhen yer knackered, when yer cooking, when yer in the fucking shop anâ bend over to pick up some shiteââ
âOh fuck, Simonâkeep goingââ
ââFuck, yer made fâme. Naked or not. I always want you. I do.â
âIâmâoh fuckâIâm gonna comeââ
And he can fucking feel it.Â
âThatâs it, pet. Give it to me.â
Your body seizes at first, taut as a bowstring. And then, you bloom.Â
Wave after wave, rippling against him with your whole being. Even as cramped as you are, crowded under the weight of him, you fuck him through your ecstasy. Push your ass backwards to ride him for all his worth.Â
And Simon is entirely helpless, so entranced by the pulsing of your cunt around his cock that he barely realises how heâs coming, too. Itâs all it took, really. To feel you clutch at his hair with your fingers, to have you fight for controlâsteal it from the tight grip of his hands.Â
His teeth sink into the soft flesh of your neck, groaning when his release wrecks him from within. Feels your pulse ratchet up under his tongue, your stutters as they bubble up your throat as you wordlessly beg for him to want you, to love you.
As he silently gives it all to you. All you ask, and more.
Eventually, you fall still. The tightness of your muscles melts. All the effort of your movement turns into mere, occasional twitching as adrenaline leaves your bloodstream.
Youâre soft again. Turning your head on the pillow to find him, resting with his cheek right by your side.Â
âI missed you,â you say wetly. âIâm sorry.â
Simon brushes his nose against yours.Â
He knows how that type of guilt feelsâthe misplaced one, the one with no reason to be there at all. It festers within your stomach and doesnât care about the damage it yields, because itâs not how it operates.Â
Itâs unfounded. Still, he knows words wonât be able to quell the heartache.
But Simon sees what you still canât. It takes balls to survive a life you donât want anymore. He knows a thing or two about that. Swam in his own ocean of shit.Â
Still, he watched you take control back in your hands. You asked for help and crafted a new life that fits you better and patched the wounds left by the one you once led. You witnessed yourself burst at the seams and decided that it was time to pick up the needle.
That requires an incomparable amount of courage.
Simon knows it well. Still bears the scars to prove it.
âDonât gotta be,â he whispers. âProud of ya.â
Your eyes widen. Open the faucet, too. The glittering rim left by your orgasm turns into a river. Tears cascade from the corners of your eyes and branch above the bridge of your nose, down your temple, into your hair.
âFor what?â You chuckle dismissively. âHaving sex?â
But Simon kisses your nose instead. Offers a lovely smile he hasnât granted in a while.Â
âYeah,â he concedes, because you need time. âThaâ too.â
Your giggle is refreshing and genuine, though a bit strangled. He realises only then that youâve been crushed underneath his weight all this time, so he props himself on his elbows. You sigh, wiggling to turn around in the cramped space between his chest and the bedsheets, until your eyes are aligned with his.
Your lashes are clumped, sticking to one another with dewdrops of happiness. They flutter when you look up at his face.
âThank you,â you say. âFor being here. For being proud of me.â
Always.Â
Simon leans down and breathes a kiss on your forehead.
âThere ainât a day that goes by that Iâm not.â
i want food truck simon slinging some hot, shit food that tastes crazy good when you're hammered. smokes cigarettes and wears his big ass boots. sweating and grunting; terrible customer service.
fucks the cute health inspector when she rolls up with a disgusted face and bad attitude. makes fun of her cute clothes after he's rolled down the service window, got her propped up against a wedge of a wall, his nasty mouth up against her neck and his hard prick fat in her fancy cunt.
he fails the inspection, but gets her number. fucks her stupid and cooks in her kitchen instead. still smokes.
alpha!ghost takes a visit to the gloryhole and has issues with his self worth. hehe.
simon âghostâ riley knew the signs too well. the burn under his skin, the way his jaw ached from clenching, the low thrum of aggression that made his fingers twitch toward a knife that wasnât there.
rut.
fucking hell.
heâd ridden them out alone in shitty safehouses before, fist lubed with spit and spite, but this one was slamming into him fast. vicious. base was no place for it, so he slipped out under cover of night in silence, hood up, mask on, moving through the city until he found the place soap had once joked about - a brothel catering to alphas with nowhere else to go. a sterile, dark environment where cash was traded and names werenât. where faces werenât even seen.
perfect for a man like him.
he didnât need a face or name or eye contact. didnât deserve it. couldn't imagine his hands covered with invisible blood stains skating across someone's skin. he just needed a willing cunt to let him work out the next few days of frustration.Â
the door of the stall clicks shut behind him with a soft thunk, the only other opening to the small room a padded hole around waist height. he can hear muffled grunts from the stalls either side, smell the thick scent of slick and rut mingling like smoke and air around him. simonâs hands shook as he freed his cock, already painfully hard and leaking pre cum in fat white drops from his tip. the thick scent of omega - sweet, willing, ready - drifted through the gloryhole, wrapping around his rut-addled brain like a vice. he presses forward,your soft, slick heat greeting him immediately. you moan, soft, low, audible even through the wall and push back, cunt already dripping, taking the blunt head of his cock with practiced ease. simonâs breath catches, and he snaps his hips forward in one sharp motions, burying himself to the hilt in your fluttering warmth.
tight. wet. fucking perfect.
you let out another low moan as he fills you, stretches your pussy in a way that you havenât felt for a long time, clenching down around his girth like you were made for this - which⊠you were.Â
âfuck,â simon hisses under his breath, vision darkening around the edges as he lets his instincts take over the drivers seat of his brain. his hips slam against the partition, the wet slap of skin echoing in the small space, every drag of his cock through the soft, welcoming heat of your cunt feeding the fire burning in his veins. his knot was already swelling, catching at the fluttering entrance of your cunt with every thrust.
you push back harder, half greed, half performance - but entirely wanting to take him deeper, to feel the head of his cock nudge against your cervix, to feel his knot bully its way inside you.Â
simonâs mind blanks. all that exists is the tight clutch of omega cunt, the scent driving him mad, the instinct screaming to breed, to claim, to fill. his palms land flat against the wall, nails scraping at plaster like he can dig his way through to you, low broken groans tearing from his throat as he ruts into you like an animal. his knot pops inside your entrance, swells obscenely, the stretch so much you let out a broken cry; locking you both together through the wall. he lets out a wrecked groan, thick pulses of cum filling you, hips jerking with every spurt as he throbs. your cunt flutters around him, milking him for every drop like a good little hole.
simon stayed locked there, panting, forehead pressed to the cool wall. the rut haze dulled for a moment, shame creeping in at the edges. just a gloryhole. just a strangerâs cunt. It was all he deserved. no gentle hands, no whispered names, no soft omega to curl around after.
his knot slowly deflates and he pulls out with a wet pop, cum dripping from the used hole, from your used hole.
the sight of your puffy folds leaking with his release, combined with his hormones swirling has him instantly hard again.
"i can't believe this name was OPEN" @captainswhore - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
