I write x readers bc im bored and my life is kinda sad I also draw sometimes 👍 19 (my page is 18+) Art Commissions are open! (Apple Pay and cash app only!)
How long are we going to stay silent about the fact that 90% of Severus Snape × reader fanfics are blatant pedophilia?
No, I do not want to read about how Snape, aged 36–40, fucks a girl who has barely turned 18 in every possible position. No, I do not want to see Snape struggling with himself with all his might, fully aware that it is not normal to have feelings for a student, let alone a child. And then, as if nothing happened, he still goes ahead and acts on it, laying his disgusting hands on an innocent girl.No, I do not want to see how an obviously stupid and naive heroine tries to prove that she is already an adult, that she is already capable of making decisions.I do not want to see how the other ADULT characters turn a blind eye to it, pretending that this is normal. And not only that—they even encourage this "love."
I feel sick just from the realization that such garbage is apparently written by grown adults. What's more, these stories get the most likes and views. PEOPLE LIKE IT. They enjoy watching a girl's future being destroyed by disgusting adult men who couldn't find themselves a proper woman their own age.
Just because the heroine is 18 does not mean she suddenly stops being a child and becomes an adult and independent at the snap of a finger. Yes, now she officially takes responsibility if she commits a criminal offense, and she can freely live on her own. But despite that, she is still a child whose mind can easily be warped, who can be convinced that this kind of "love" is normal.
And this does not apply only to this fandom and ship.
Authors, how long will you keep being afraid of a self-sufficient, adult woman who actually knows what she wants? Who does not depend on a man and does not cling to him like a monkey?
Hello love may I request a severus x reader?? Just looking for something fluffy and cute :)
Through His Stomach
Summary: Severus has feelings for the Herbology assistant, feelings which are revealed following some time harvesting and cooking together.
Read on AO3 or continue down below.
Word Count: ~3k
Grey clouds washed over the afternoon sky at Hogwarts, not a single ray of sunshine able to shine through. A layer of mist lined the forest and the lake horizon, hiding the terrain's transition from any who happened to be wandering around the fields while the weather was moody. Even the grass appeared different, the overcast weather darkening the layered hues of the blades to look deeper.
The uneven grounds made his steps less steady as Severus clomped down a low-decline hill around the greenhouses. At the base of the greenhouse was a garden that had recently been constructed. Beyond the pine wood fence, growing in the ground or raised beds, were many herbs and crops. Not the magical kind, but rather, ordinary vegetables: potatoes, garlic, peas, eggplant, cucumber, carrots, onions, and more.
The garden was new, something that had been proposed and approved swiftly when you, the Herbology assistant, first started here a few years ago. The quickness with which he had become fond of you unsettled him, and as a result, he had locked away such feelings for both his and your sakes. But over time, they bled through cracks, making themselves known in small ways: the manner in which he speaks to you, his tone softening compared to when he speaks to others, when he puts a steadying hand on your back when both of you climb the steps of the Quidditch pitch, and how he slowed his pace for you in the halls rather than expecting you to catch up with his long-legged stride.
Severus spotted you by the carrots, your hair tied up and out of the way, wearing a dark turtleneck with your sleeves rolled to your elbows, a long skirt, and boots. A basket hung on your elbow, ready for collection.
Upon hearing the creak of the fence’s gate, you snapped your head up and smiled when you saw the clad-in-black professor you’d grown fond of.
“Good morning, Severus,” you greeted mildly, brushing dirt off the carrots you had just yanked from the ground.
“Good morning,” he replied loud enough for you to hear across the garden. His shoes crunched against the gravel that paved the space between each section as he weaved his way toward you.
You rose from your kneeling position, smoothing out your skirt. “I don't usually see you out here. Did you need something from me, or are you here to harvest for yourself?”
Severus parted his lips as if to speak, paused, closed them, cleared his throat, and then spoke. “I’m only here for herbs,” he lied. “Lemongrass.”
“Oh, lemongrass? For a potion or a meal?”
“Potion. To relieve sore throats. This is about that time of year when the wind brings in and encourages all sorts of illnesses.”
“Sure,” you chuckled and tipped your chin toward the far end of the garden. “I think the lemongrass is over there in the corner by the lavender.” He didn’t move, glancing at the corner you had gestured to before looking back at you.
“What are you here to gather?”
“Quite a few things, actually. Garlic, tomatoes, potatoes, onion, peas, carrots, celery, rosemary, and pumpkin. I feel like making myself beef stew tonight.”
Severus lifted a doubtful brow. “You put pumpkin in your stew?”
You felt yourself blush. “Oh, n-no, the pumpkin is for dessert. I’ll be baking pumpkin bread.”
“I see,” he said, lingering only for a few moments more before walking away.
You thought that was the end of it, that he’d go and pick his lemongrass and then be on his way. You meandered over to the tomatoes, turning them over in your hand, inspecting them for any blemishes or insects that managed to eat their way through. When you heard the gravel crunching close again, you looked up and saw him approaching you once more, this time with two onions in his hands.
“Thank you, Severus,” you murmured kindly as he deposited the onions into your basket.
Again, he turned away without saying anything, but this time you watched him. Instead of going toward the lemongrass, he made his way over to the garlic.
“Severus,” you laughed. “You don’t have to; I got it.”
With his back turned, ignoring you, he walked along the bed of garlic, looking for stalks with drier, wilting leaves, and pulled two heads of garlic out from the dirt, shaking them out a little.
“Are these big enough?” Severus asked, holding the garlic up in the air.
“I… Yes.”
And thus, you gave up on trying to dissuade him from picking your vegetables. While he went and cut some celery for you and picked some rosemary, you got your hands dirty, rooting around for some potatoes, and picking pea pods off the string lines that the stems had wrapped around. You could already feel yourself salivating at how good this stew would be just from the sight of the fresh veggies in your basket.
Somehow, the basket ended up in Severus’s hands instead of yours by the time the pumpkin was the last thing on your list. It took you perhaps only a minute or two to select your pumpkin and present it to Severus triumphantly.
“You think it's too early for a jack-o-lantern?”
“Yes,” he answered simply. “The outside will rot too quickly. You’re better off letting Buckbeak feast on it.”
“Oh, good thinking.”
The gate shut behind you with a click, and the two of you trekked back up the hill.
“Thank you for helping,” you said, hesitating before continuing. “I suppose if you wanted to taste the fruits of your labor, you could swing by later and try some stew. Or, if you’d rather, I can have a house elf deliver some pumpkin bread.”
His free hand twitched at his side. Not wanting to sound too eager, he murmured. “I am…open to it. Though it will depend on what the Great Hall is serving for dinner.”
‘Ah, that’s fair,’ you thought. The elves could very well be serving something similar if not the same thing.
“Wait!” you exclaimed when you two reached the top of the hill, and you whipped back around to look out at the garden. “You didn’t get your lemongrass!”
“It’s fine,” he dismissed quickly, lightly putting a hand on your back and urging you toward the castle. “We’re already up the hill. I can get it at a later point in the week.”
“Oh, alright,” you shrugged. “If you say so.”
***
Meat juices sizzled and popped in the cast iron pan, the sides of the beef chunks searing so as to bring out the flavor when it would further tenderize in the broth. You had everything set up perfectly for preparation by the time you would start. You first wanted to get the meat cut up and cooked so that it could be added to the broth already prepared. While the meat cooked, you had mixed all the ingredients needed for the pumpkin bread and had it waiting in a bowl to be poured into a bread pan, a perfect brownish orange nearly resembling peanut butter.
A quick set of knocks disrupted your train of thought. You turned the burning flame off on the stove, wiping your hands on the front of your apron. ‘That couldn’t have been Severus,’ you thought, moving toward the door. ‘It’s too soon.’
The lock popped with a sharp clank, and you pulled the door back to reveal Professor Snape on the other side, his expression mild and stony as usual.
“Severus!” You said, surprised. “Evening. You’re…very early. I’ve only just begun with the stew preparations.”
His eyes flicked past you, registering the smell of recently cooked meat. “I expected as much,” he drawled. “The stew, it takes between an hour or so to cook, yes?”
Your fingers played with the front of your apron. “That’s correct, yes.”
“I’ve come to help,” Severus supplied, and then added quietly, “If you’ll allow it.”
The cloth dropped from your fingers. “I—Sure!! Yes, of course.” You stepped aside, allowing him entry. “Come on in.”
He stepped inside, moving toward the kitchenette and taking in the setup. All the vegetables had been put in their own bowls on a separate dining table, along with knives and a cutting board.
“I’m glad you came. Sorry, I don’t have very much counter space.” You shut the door and joined him across the space.
“You’ve already seared the meat,” he remarked and murmured. “Efficient as always.”
Your ears heated. “Er—yes.” You grabbed a spatula and began to pour and scrape the bread batter into the pan. He watched on quietly, hands clasped lightly behind his back, a myriad of increasingly domestic images flooding the forefront of his mind that made his ears burn. You in an apron making food for him is something he would never be able to excise out of his mind.
With the pumpkin bread in the oven now, Severus looked away just as you turned and uttered. “What is it you would like me to do?”
“If you could start on the potatoes and cut them into knut-sized chunks, that would be terrific, and then cut the celery and peel the garlic cloves. I think I can manage everything else.”
Both of you fell into a mechanical rhythm of slicing and dicing, the stew coming together slowly but surely. It was odd telling him what to do. Cooking was so similar to brewing, and here he was, the notoriously prideful Potion Master at your command, refusing to put anything he prepared in the pot of broth unless you had explicitly told him to. The flavors built and compounded as each ingredient was added to the pot, the air a decadent mixture of savoriness and warmth. You had timed it perfectly for the bread and stew to finish at around the same time.
Until then, the two of you filled the time needed for the stew to cook with tea, reading, and complaining about students. He had a nasty accident in his classroom the previous day, one that was entirely unavoidable, that left two students who’d been partners for that day with bad acid-based burns on their arms and hands; not only that, but the station’s surface was permanently marred as the acid had chewed into the wood.
Something similarly frustrating happened in Herbology as well. Somehow, a student managed to escape both your and Professor Sprout’s eyes and fed a piece of dark chocolate to one of the carnivorous plants. It died later that afternoon in the middle of another class. While you were able to deduce that it was a student’s doing, neither of you could determine who it was exactly.
Much to your relief, the stew had turned out fantastic. The beef was so tender you almost didn’t even need to chew it. It warmed your stomach, making you feel as though you were swaddled in the world’s softest, warmest blanket. While Severus had labelled the stew as “sufficient,” the way his eyes had fluttered after the first bite and the hesitant breath he took before giving his opinion told you otherwise. Plus, he had finished faster than you had.
By the time you had finished and taken both your bowls to the sink to wash, the pumpkin bread had cooled enough to be served. “Severus,” you called, grabbing a knife and cutting a slice for yourself, the inside perfectly moist and spongy. “The pumpkin bread’s ready. Do you want a slice?”
No answer.
You look over your shoulder and—
Oh.
Your heart melted in your chest at the sight you were met with.
Severus had fallen asleep.
He sat upright in his chair, the book he was reading only kept open by the hand laid against it, and his head supported by the other hand of the bent arm that rested against the chair. His breaths came slow and steady, no doubt knocked out by the hearty meal that similarly filled your stomach. He looked so…soft like this. The usual harsh dibbit between his brows when he frowned at something at meals was nowhere to be found, only a sense of peace written on his face.
You stood there staring at him for a few minutes, searing the image into your head while your heart twisted itself in knots. You wished to do this more often with him. It didn’t have to be cooking, although you must admit tonight was lovely. You just…wanted to be around him. To have him in your orbit. To bring him this peace that he seems to obtain so rarely on his own. His presence never failed to bring you a sense of calmness, his brilliance and unyielding demeanor always assuring you even during the most stressful times.
Your feet slowly carried you over to him, as if in a trance, and stopped at his side. Gently, you placed a hand on his head, smoothing his hair slightly, noting how much softer it was than it looked. When he didn’t stir or show any signs of waking, you pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of his head before promptly removing yourself from his proximity.
‘Anything more than that, especially while he slept, wouldn’t be proper,’ you told yourself, returning to the kitchenette to put away the dishes that had been cleaned and continue with the pumpkin bread.
But you had missed it.
Had you not left his side so suddenly, you’d have seen it—the way his eyes fluttered open heavily a second after you pulled away. You’d have seen the way he fuzzily recognized what you had just done, and what it meant. He didn’t move, speak, or give any indication that he was now awake with your body turned away. He only watched you clean up, warmth radiating from where you had kissed him all the way down to the rest of his body, that ice-cold sadness that someone like you could never show even an inkling of interest in him melting away.
Your fingers moved deftly with parchment paper meant for food, cutting half the loaf and wrapping it for Severus so that he could take some with him to eat over the weekend. You tugged the twine into a bow, securing the wrapping in place and ready to be taken. When your hand reached for the kitchen scissors to cut the excess length of the twine, you ended up knocking the pair off the counter entirely, clattering loudly on the ground.
“Apologies for falling asleep,” you heard Severus drawl as you picked the scissors up. Your shoulders tensed at the fact that he was awake now.
“It’s okay,” you mumbled nervously. “Nothing to worry about.” In your state of agitation, you didn’t hear his approach—didn’t sense his presence growing closer. You quickly snipped the extra length of the twine, removing the loose pieces, and picked up his half loaf.
“I cut half the loaf for you. Figured you could have multiple slices for yourse—”
Any comprehensible thought in your mind was stolen from you as you turned and felt something warm press against your head. Severus was right in front of you now, the distance practically closed, and the half-loaf in your hand wedged between your chest and his. One of his hands gently cradled your jaw while the other rested delicately on your hip. His dark hair more or less blocked your vision, but it didn’t take a genius to know what he was doing.
His surprisingly warm lips had placed a kiss on your hairline, one that lingered longer than yours. He was slow to pull away. While he wanted the moment to last longer, he was also afraid that when he pulled back, your expression would be one of disgust on the off-chance that he had misread the situation entirely.
When he did pull back, his eyes darted over your expression uncertainly. You hadn’t recoiled or moved away from him in any way, but you did look taken aback, almost startled, your lips parting in a slight ‘oh,’ and your face colored with heat.
The hand on your face slowly retracted, gingerly plucking the loaf from between you, setting it on the counter, his eyes never leaving you as you did so. As soon as the final barrier had been removed, you practically fell into him.
Your arms wrapped around him, lips pressing eagerly to his. An exhale of relief left his nose as he held you firmly, guiding you back a step until your back met the edge of the counter. His kisses stole your breath away, lips chasing after yours like he was starved, and leaving a burning path along your skin as he stamped them along your jaw and down your neck.
“H-how long?” you shuddered as his mouth moved back up your neck with little nips.
“A while now,” Severus murmured between kisses, his thumb rubbing circles along the side of your face. “But I did not want to risk putting you in an uncomfortable position.”
“So did I,” you murmured happily, almost in a slur as he drew you tight to him and pressed a long, passionate kiss to your mouth.
When you pulled yourself away again, the both of you were breathing a little harder, resting your foreheads against one another. He moved your head so that it tucked into the crux of his neck and angled his mouth down to your ear.
“You’ll have to unwrap that half-loaf,” he rasped. “I intend to stay for a little while longer.”
Masterlist :] disclaimer none of these are actual fics, mostly just blurbs or random thoughts. dont comment on grammar or spelling, i dont care :P
Series
healer!reader (141 x reader)
soap x reader (bullet wound, pt 1)
gaz x reader (plus some mild soap, pt 2)
ghost x reader (fever + chronic pain, pt 3)
price x reader (migraine + joint pain, pt 4)
they talk (no pairings, reader reveal, pt 5)
soap dies lol (no pairings, angst, non-canon)
blurb 1 (soap x reader)
gator!reader (platonic 141 x reader)
gator!reader (seperate 141)
purring (reader feels calm anough to purr)
nervous habit (self-grooming from anxiety)
uncivilized (reader freaks out abt soap growling)
malnourished (reader doesnt eat enough, ED behaviour)
malnourished pt 2 (the aftermath)
heat regulation (reader warms up)
shedding (how reader deals with shedding)
wolf!soap (wolf!soap x human!reader)
two wolves (wolf!soap x human!reader, fluff, humor?)
two wolves pt 2 (wolf!soap x human!reader, platonic gaz x reader)
belly rubs (wolf!soap x human!reader, smut)
scruffed on the mats (wolf!soap x human!reader, suggestive)
cycles (wolf!soap x human!reader, reader is AFAB in this one)
musk (wolf!soap x human!reader, smut)
abused wolf!reader (no pairings, wolf hybrid!reader)
muzzle (no pairings, angst, no comfort)
MUTT (platonic gaz x reader, angst)
command (no pairings, angst)
wolf shifter!reader (no pairings, reader is a wolf shifter)
shifter (gaz and reader, angst)
shifter pt 2 (soap learns what happened)
character centric masterlists
johnny Soap MacTavish
Simon Ghost riley
Kyle Gaz Garrick
Captain John Price
Task Force 141
if you feel like any of the posts are incorrectly tagged lmk!
important tags:
pup reader < pup play with puppy reader
pup 141 < pup play with any of the 141 being the puppy, does not mean all of them
Simon's fingers are thick enough to make it burn at the stretch.
He rarely uses only one. Just at first, of course. Middle finger testing around before it finds a place to slot in and curl. He waves it inside, dancing back and forth with his wrist but never going in too deep, straying from bruising your cervix—knows it's not there that you like it.
Knows you inside out, actually.
Every bloody time you and Simon have sex, it turns into one hell of an anatomy lesson. The patience of the man is genuinely unmatched—perks of dating a sniper, you think.
No, not there. Bit to the left. Yeah, can you feel that? Should feel a bit rougher.
Slow. Slower. Nah. No. Lost it.
Fast. Oh God—yeah, like that. Touch my clit too, baby. Yeah—yes, oh my G—please, keep—no, no not—oh. Alright. Lost it.
Fucking hell, that man has put his whole blood and sweat into it. Fingers, tongue, cock, toys, hands, fists—nothing.
You're oddly alright with it. Frustrating as it is, of course. You're not immune; it's obvious that you want to come too. Alas, you've made peace with it.
You never had a good orgasm with someone else. Or a bad one either.
Pretty trustworthy of your fingers, or your vibe when it's your hand guiding it, your orgasms are usually mind-blowing when it's you coaxing them out of yourself.
When it comes to someone else, though, it's like your body immediately shuts off and doesn't know how to climb over that edge.
Simon once insisted on watching you get off as he did too (quite the hot experience), using that newly discovered kink to study what you did—but you didn't come, that night, even though you changed absolutely nothing of your usual masturbation routine.
It's a trust thing. An anxiety thing. A stress thing. So many things crammed into one big, cumbersome, unnamed feeling that sits heavy in your guts.
Simon's hurt, even if he doesn't show it. He trusts you wholly, and it took him a long damn time to reach this level of commitment, so why don't you do the same? It's not as simple as that, though—he knows it. However, it’s not easy on either of you.
Your relationship has faced its share of rough patches throughout all of this, largely due to this impediment of yours. But Simon... well, Simon loves you. He won't give up something so precious because of a few obstacles.
So, no matter how many times you tell him that it's okay if you don't come, he just doesn't let it go. And while you have to admire his stubbornness, it has put even more pressure on you.
Tonight, he's settled between your legs. Got his face in there right as you opened your thighs. You like it when he initiates it, though his expectations of you still tighten your stomach into knots.
It's been fifteen minutes. You’re sure of it, since the clock’s right above the door to your left. You looked at it when he went down, and you’ve been glancing back every five minutes, like usual. Now your eyes find it for the third time, so you can confidently say that Simon's been eating you out for the past fifteen minutes.
Mathematical. Precise.
And you still haven't come. Unsurprisingly.
You're taking too long. He must be getting bored. Once again, vitriolic thoughts rush through your head and make you feel like a dull, frigid monster who can’t even feel good.
Simon seems unbothered by the switch in your eyes, mostly because he’s paying little attention to them.
He sucks on your clit. Leaves kitten licks when he pulls back, unsheathing it with his thumb to have the most sensitive part of it at his mercy. God, it feels weirdly good when he does it—like you've been zapped out of the blue and your toes curl and your fingers fist the sheets.
And he never leaves any part of you empty. He sucks on your clit and fingers your hole. One finger at first, then two. He usually goes in with a third, and whenever you want to explore a bit of pain, he fits in four of them. His fingers are thick enough to make you exclude the possibility of a whole fist—you tried once and never again. It scarred you for life, you think.
He amps it up, usually. Starts soft and slow, and by the time you're precisely twenty minutes in, he's tried it all, and you stop him. Tell him it's enough. That you can't come and it's okay. And then you have sex, and he comes a bit after that. Pent up as he most certainly is, it doesn't take him long to reach his high.
However, it's been eighteen minutes now, and he's still slow and teasing: two fingers and a gentle mouth. He's not being methodical and precise. He's lazy and sloppy, drool trailing down his chin. Slurping noises here and there, your wetness coating his fingers and making his pads all pruny.
And like usual, there's this knot building at the base of your belly. Tightening and churning, melting liquid in pleasure, but still not enough to tip you over.
When the clock signals that it's been twenty minutes, you go for his hand on your thigh—like routine.
"Can't do it, baby," you whisper. Gently, you pat his knuckles like you're consoling him, giving him the reassurance that it's fine and he can stop this and fuck you so he can feel good too.
But instead of pulling back, Simon swats away your hand.
"Like it," he rumbles, mouth to your clit. He sounds... annoyed? Like you're interrupting something.
You cock your head. He's still licking down at you and hasn't even opened his eyes.
"But I can't come," you explain slowly.
His fingers curl upward inside you. Inadvertently, your hips meet his hand, shifting towards it to chase the feeling.
"And?" He asks. "Feels nice anyway don't it?"
You blink.
"I mean, yeah—"
"Then let me."
"But I thought—"
"Stop with tha'," he grumbles.
His eyes open, finally, and land on your face. With a slow lick on your clit that makes you shiver, he unlatches his mouth from your pussy.
"Stop with what?" You ask, feeling slightly lightheaded and breathless. Just because you can't come doesn't mean you can't feel what he does to you.
It's the most frustrating thing about the whole ordeal, honestly: you feel good, so good that you might just have one of those earth-shattering orgasms that change your life. One of those that seize up your legs and trap him between your thighs. One of those that ultimately never co—
"Stop bloody thinkin'," his voice interjects, quite effectively stopping your train of thought. "See it all over yer face. Knock it off."
You scoff. "You can see it?"
"I can, yeah," he drawls. "Now lemme get on with it. I wanna eat you out."
"But I won't come—"
"Said tha' already," he interrupts. Slowly, his eyes return to your cunt, glistening with his spit and your arousal. Simon licks his lips.
He pumps his fingers unhurriedly, watching enraptured at the flesh stretching around them and the wetness collected on his palm. He goes down, licking it from his own hand.
Jesus fucking Christ help you.
The crooked bridge of his nose nudges your clit, and he nuzzles it. You clench your teeth, eyes rolling back behind closed eyelids. When he returns his focus on you, he's wet from nose to chin; there's a heaviness to his eyes, blown dark and murky with hunger.
"I wanna eat—” and he slaps your clit. You gasp, wide-eyed and choking on a breath. “—this fuckin' pussy." Slap.
He’s crude and abrasive.
"Can I do it, or we on the clock?"
And with a healthy smattering of sarcasm, too.
It's embarrassing beyond belief that he's noticed your gaze flitting to the clock every time. Of course he has, always so attuned with you and with his eyes and ears perked. God forbid he turns off his senses for once.
You feel your cheeks grow hot and your chest bloom with sweat.
His hand unfurls from your thigh and snakes upward, landing flat on the valley of your breasts. Gently, he guides you down, letting your back meet the mattress.
"Lie back, yeah?" He rumbles, sounding suddenly softer. "Kill the lights, eyes shut, an’ quit the bloody thinkin’ for once."
He's got this pull on you that has your hands comply before your mind even registers it. They reach behind, testing blindly on the wall above the headboard—easily, your fingers find the switch, and the room goes dark.
“Stay here, focus,” he whispers against your thigh.
“Hear that?” He stops. Curls his pads inside you. “Fuckin' soaked. Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.”
You exhale shakily. Your eyes struggle to focus in the darkness, and the clock is out of sight. So, you do as he says: you close your eyes.
Simon's breath puffs on your pussy: warmth meeting even hotter skin. His stubble scratches the inside of your thigh. You can feel him shift his head, like he's caressing you with his cheek.
The moment your legs soften up on his shoulders, Simon sighs.
"Atta girl," he murmurs, kissing your clit ever so softly.
You jolt in his hold, and he keeps you still by tightening his hand around your thigh.
The press of his lips turns open. Wetter. Languid and soft, and completely selfish—a meal prepped for a feast. His tongue splits you open, tracing the seam of your pussy only to tip at your clit and draw sloppy circles around it. Then he flattens it, leaves it there as he bobs his head to increase the pressure more evenly. Fingers pumping you full, slow and unsteady—a rhythm that has no rhyme or reason.
A rhythm that, despite it all, you try and tune. Hips meeting his hand, lifting slightly off the bedsheets.
He grunts. Sounds pleased—you wonder what his eyes look like, whether they're trying to find you in the darkness, or if they're already accustomed to it. Whether he's looking at your face, or if he's decided to focus on your taste, on your smell, on your touch.
You screw your eyes shut and try to do the same.
You concentrate on the callouses of his palms brushing your ass and sliding up your knee in a soothing fashion. On the roughness of his tongue dragging against your clit as it swells and throbs for him. On the sting of his stubble, the sound of his breathing.
On the smell of sex, so pungent yet sweet.
With a quiet pop, Simon releases your clit. He's panting, close enough to your pussy for you to feel his lips moving when he speaks. Tickling, almost teasing—a mellow contrast compared to the two fingers pumping inside you, or to the way your hips meet his hand.
"Like this?" He asks softly. He sounds like another man entirely, not at all like the one who almost barked at you previously—frustrated and annoyed at your interruption.
You nod your head blindly. God you wish you could check how long it’s taking you to finish. Wish you could see his face, if he's bored or if he's enjoying it. Maybe meet his eyes—
"Words, pet," he whispers, leaving a fat kiss on your clit. He sucks and you arch into him. Pop. "Can't see ya—pitch black ‘ere."
You feel your throat close in. "Y-yeah, like that," you croak.
He hums appreciatively. Noses your clit as his hand follows a new rhythm—the one you set. Not the sloppy, uncoordinated mess from before—Simon instead follows your hips. It's good. Scratches you right, with the softness of his pads alternating with the rougher patches of skin marring his knuckles.
You clutch his forearm, the one wrapped around your thigh, and dig your fingernails in.
Once again, Simon kisses your clit. "Show me," he murmurs.
"Just try—"
A light slap on your thigh. Your legs seize in anticipation.
"Said show me, not tell me," he admonishes. "Go on."
On instinct, you heed him. Your hand slides from his forearm to the top of his hair, clutching short strands in a tight fist. Simon grunts, and it's lost in a chuckle so deep and dark that you feel it vibrate against your pussy, where you guide his mouth.
This time, your hips drive forward to meet his tongue and not his hand, though somehow he doesn't lose that rhythm you showed him before. Not too deep, not too shallow: just there, just past your entrance, on top. A constant and deliberate curl of his fingers, hitting upwards and then retreating—slow, controlled, delicious.
God this feels the closest you’ve ever been to an orgasm. You might even believe it will happen, and if he keeps following that pace, you might just—
Quit the bloody thinkin' for once.
You exhale. Inhale. Deep, feel your chest swell with air.
Stay here, focus.
His palm brushes your leg, his fingers curl inside you. His tongue is perfect, guided by your hand fisting his hair. Slowly he draws deep sighs from your lungs, fills your belly with molten pleasure, liquid lust.
Hear that? Fuckin' soaked.
Squelches echo each time he pushes in. Muted slurps when he sucks on your clit, thick grunts spilling freely from his lips.
Jus' feel it, love. 'S all I want.
And that tightness that builds around his fingers. The soreness of the muscles in your legs, cramping as your heels dig into his back.
The shortness of breath. The darkness around you—tangible, warm like a hug and yet constricting your throat like a vise. Your mouth opens wide to gulp in air, but all that comes out is a groan that shocks your bones, an orgasm so innerly loud that your ears ring.
You don’t feel your hands, what they clutch or how hard, nor the movement of your limbs. All you know is that you're cumming in Simon's mouth, around his thick fingers. And it's wave, after wave, after wave that crashes at the shore of your neck. Blooms rapidly to your cheeks, steals your breath away.
Simon keeps the rhythm you set, head soft under your hold, allowing you to pull it in or push it away. A puppet to your strings, surrendering entirely to your control.
You breathe, finally. In, out. Tingles run up your arms, tickle the sides of your neck. His tongue softens but keeps lavishing your clit—and the tide retreats, still brushing up your navel every time the tip of his tongue touches where you're now overly sensitive.
It's awfully hot and Simon's a walking furnace, so the feeling is tenfold stronger—and yet it's more of a hug than a restraint.
Gently, you leave the grip on his hair and caress his cheek. Fingers dance to the nape of his neck, and you tug him to you. Upwards he follows, hands landing on either side of your face.
You pull him in, but it's dark, so his mouth initially lands on the corner of yours. Still he kisses you there, and then travels to your lips where his tongue delves in.
You taste yourself. You feel the wetness of his fingers when he comes to cradle your cheek. His smile cracking his face. Simple at first, until you feel his teeth smooth against your skin.
A bit of pride, a ton of thankfulness.
"Oh my God," you breathe, airy giggles riddled with disbelief.
"I know," he whispers fondly. "I know."
You smile too, threading your fingers through his hair, and you kiss him again, and again. Kisses that taste of love and breathy chuckles, of happiness and relief and searing hot lust. Sparse grunts and moans that rumble like a hungry stomach, famished still.
Your limbs shake. They feel gooey, falling off the bone. You wrap them around his waist, feeling the heaviness of his cock pressed between your belly and his—sandwiched hot and wet.
"Fuck me," you breathe.
Simon groans. He slides in seamlessly and fucks you thoroughly, biting your shoulder to stave off his orgasm because—
"Never been this wet—fuckin’ hell, pet—"
Each thrust is punctuated by a heavy grunt. Sometimes it breaks, crackles in your ear like a freshly lit fire. A wheeze, a thick breath drawn in. Fingers grasping greedy handfuls of your ass. Teeth biting your lip, traveling downwards to suck marks on your neck. His voice raucous and scratching your brain—
"Perfect girl. Wish I’d seen ya—maybe 'nother time, yeah?"
A promise with no expiration date. No matter how long it takes—maybe, not surely. No pressure, just your pace.
You don't come. But you feel it all. When he spills inside you and plugs you full, and some of his cum trickles down the curve of your ass. When he whispers sweet nothings in your ear as his chest sticks with sweat, flattened against yours. His heart in a frantic search for your own.
You kill the lights. Close your eyes. Stop thinking—for once.
Simon sort of knew what he was getting himself into by adopting Johnny and becoming his handler post–retirement.
The man, now pushing way into his 40s, figured it'd be easier for both of them if they stick together after what they've been through, and for a while it did look like things were working out—until they didn't.
While Simon doesn't want to talk much most days and simply go about tending to his vegetable garden, drinking tea and watching football matches at the stadium, Johnny needs more than that.
As an energetic and chatty Husky hybrid who's lost half his hearing working with explosives for a decade, Johnny constantly needs a job to do—and not the boring stuff like grocery shopping once a week and cleaning the house. (He's not allowed near the vegetable beds anymore).
No, his brain needs the right stimulation. A task.
So, one day, Simon drives to the local hybrid shelter without telling Johnny, and goes through the kennels—until he spots you among the other dog hybrids.
While his first instinct was to get a like–minded companion for Johnny, another large male he can roughhouse with, the thought goes flying out the window as soon as Simon lingers for a moment longer to observe you specifically.
Beautiful, with pristine white fur on a pair of fluffy ears and slightly curled tail, big doe–eyes and an aura of superiority about you.
And Simon wonders how you even managed to end up here—briefly.
You seem timid at first, but you're nothing but.
No, you have the pack under control with all the might of what looks to be a pampered, arrogant little Pomeranian princess. One flick of your white tail and raise of your brow and they scatter away like lovesick fools.
You're perfect.
"Tha' one," Simon grunts, nodding his chin at you as you laze about on a tattered couch in the corner of the enclosure.
The shelter worker smiles, "Excellent choice, sir. She's a purebred beauty with a little temperament on her. Would you like to get to know her first?"
But Simon shakes his head. The choice is made.
"Nah, I'm takin' her home now. Got another dog who can't stay alone at home too long."
"Oh," the younger man nods in understanding, though his eyes betray his curiosity as he regards the large, intimidating man with the skull balaclava. "Right. I'll get the paperwork ready, then."
