I had a thought about John Price? (could work w anyone really) and f!reader that I needed to get out of my brain
Also shoutout to my fellow pillow humpers
Warnings: mutual masturbation, pillow humping, a non-writer writing (pls let me know if I should tag anything else)
Something something. Having John stay over for the first time, you two are early in a relationship. Maybe his mission ended early and you lived close to base or he just wanted to go see you asap or whatever. He doesn’t feel like showering and knows how particular you are/how you feel about him not showering after missions and laying in your bed so like a gentleman he opts to sleep on the couch bc he’s just so tired. He grabs a random pillow but that’s your humping pillow!
“Oops, not that one” you say feeling your face warm up and oh god is your forehead vein starting to show? Is the fan on? He looks at you confused.
“This one’s fine love. I don’t need anything fancy. Keep your nice pillows with you on your bed” he says tired from his flight. He has a small smile, tired eyes sparkling as they look at you.
“No no it’s just that I don’t want you using that pillow in particular, please” oh god this can’t be happening. You fidget with the ring on your thumb spinning it nervously. How are you gonna tell him that this is your designated humping pillow? How do you explain that the only way you get off is from humping that small rectangular pillow he’s currently pressing his cheek against?
He looks a bit more aware now. Maybe you're particular about your things and he crossed a line just moving it without asking, or it’s from a dear friend who you don’t get to see too often, or a deceased relative who you only have this pillow to remember them by. Whatever the reason he lifts his head and moves the pillow from under him. But before he can apologize and move to switch pillows you blurt out
“It’s just that’s the pillow I use when I- when I need to get off and I just didn’t get to put it away before you got here, I’m so sorry” you say it fast and stumble over each word. Cringing as you hear the sentence fall out of your mouth. Your eyes look at anything but him. Missing the mischievous look that he gets.
“It’s what?” His accent a tiny bit thicker than a few seconds ago. You look at him and he’s awake now. Sitting up and holding the pillow over his crotch. He feigns innocence and continues on. “I don’t understand love, can you say that again”
You frown a little bit. He heard you, he’s doing this to watch you squirm and since you don’t know how to free yourself from under his heavy gaze. You accept your fate. Like a bug stuck in a sticky trap.
“I- um” you really don’t think your heart has ever pumped this hard from pure embarrassment. You gulp, so loud that you both hear it and push through because you know there’s no way he’s gonna let you drop this conversation. So you word vomit, seeing no other option than to over share. Which he absolutely loves. It’s his favorite thing that you do.
“I can’t make myself- I can’t- get off with my fingers. I’ve tried my fingers and it just doesn’t work. I’ve only ever been able to use a pillow and just stuck with it” You don’t know what else to say so you say nothing, feeling the air get thicker in your small apartment. You look at him on the couch, legs spread wider and his big hands clutching onto the pillow so its shape is all warped. He looked at you like he was listening to the most interesting story in the world. With a blink, his face turns serious and his eyes darken.
“Show me.” His voice is husky and his gravely voice fills the quiet apartment.
You look at him with your eyebrows raised in surprise. You didn’t expect that, hoping he would drop it when he heard your shaky voice reveal something you’ve never said out loud, hoping he'd grant you some relief. Suddenly your tank top and sleep shorts feel too revealing and his gaze felt too heavy. You felt exposed and felt your core warming as his gaze stayed on you. Maybe he was joking? So you let out a forced huff of a laugh, hoping he wouldn’t push. But his face doesn’t move. You gulp and look down, shifting your weight from one leg to another.
“Show me, love” he repeats again adding the term of endearment to soften you up a bit, and honestly, it does. His hand holds out the small pillow towards you and you grab it. Both of you make your way to your bedroom in silence, he's so close you can feel his body heat. Both of you breathing heavily for different reasons.
His tall, broad figure looms over you as you slowly move towards your made bed. Trying to think about how to approach this. You lay flat against your bed on your stomach and peek up at him as your head hits your regular pillow. Usually you're under your comforter, but you assume that’s not what he’d want and push it to the other side of the bed. You start to get embarrassed as to what it might look like from his angle when you start, but try to ignore it as you place your head against your pillow. You close your eyes and slowly start making small circles with your cunt against the small pillow, one leg angled and the other straight. You look up at him and let out a little huff. His dark eyes look down on you as he palms himself through his sweats, fighting the urge to touch you. You unconsciously move a bit faster at the sight of him, he's looking at you as if you're the only thing that exists. You let out a whimper, not getting enough friction. You hate when that happens, and why now?
“That’s alright poor thing, keep going.” He has to bite his lip to restrain himself when you look up at him with desperate eyes. He pushes his sweats and boxers down and gently pushes them away with his foot as if any sudden movement would disturb this moment. He watches your body contort as you try to find your rhythm again, thighs clenching hard around the small pillow, hips moving up and down, side to side.
He slowly grabs his cock, thumb spreading his precum over the head of his cock. He lets out a small hiss and your eyes open to look at him. Pleading eyes find his and he nods his head in encouragement. Your thighs squeeze the pillow even harder but it’s not enough so you prop yourself up on your forearms with both knees bent out on each side of the pillow and start grinding the pillow at different speeds, trying to find one that works.
“Fuck, poor baby. Can’t get it right can you?” You let out a small whimper and shake your head as your brows furrow in frustration. His eyes trace your body, stopping to look at your hard nipples under your thin tank top as you press yourself further up, arching your body. Palms pressing against your bed as you ride the pillow. If the room wasn’t so quiet he would’ve missed the small “oh” that leaves your lips as you finally find your rhythm. He spits into his hand and starts to stroke himself faster. You open your eyes to look at him before closing them, moaning louder at the sight of his big hand twisting on his thick cock. You both look at each other as you get closer to your releases. His hand and your grinding speed up as you both reach your highs.
“Look at me. Don’t close your eyes. Look at me when you finish” He lets out tightly, voice gruff as he tries to hold back from cumming at the sight of you. Your eyebrows furrow and your mouth gapes open as you reach your release. Letting out a moan as your body twitches, fighting to keep your eyes on him. He palms his cock faster as he looks you in the eyes, he takes a step forward till his legs touch the edge of your bed and lets out a groan as he cums onto your limp body. Most of it landing on your tank top and lower back. You let out a lazy smile into your pillow as he leans down and pushes a kiss onto your head. You hear him walk to your bathroom. Faucet turning on and off, his heavy footsteps getting closer.
“Why don’t we take this off and wipe you up?” His voice makes you want to melt. You lift your body as he carefully peels the tank top off of you. Then wipes your lower back with a small damp towel. Placing both of them in your hamper he leans down to kiss you.
“Know I’m still sweaty so I can go ba-“ you interrupt him by wrapping your arms around his head to pull him down into bed with you. Pressing your naked body, save for your wet underwear, against his fully naked body.
“It’s alright, we’re both sweaty and I want you to hold me please” you say as you gaze into his warm eyes, hands stroking his hairy chest.
“That’s fine love let me just get my pillow” he lets out a playful groan as he reaches behind you to grab the small pillow that now has a big wet patch in the middle. Your face gets hot as he brings it in front of you both, glancing at you before he brings the pillow to his face. Your face heats up as you turn your head into his neck not wanting to watch him as he presses it against his face.
⭐️I had to make him sniff the pillow. Duh!
⭐️if anyone has an interpretation of this please!!! share it with me. I didn't know who would best fit this. Also I wish I could make this dark but I'm not good at it so I would also love to listen to those thoughts!
⭐️This is just a thought that would not leave me until it was written down.
tags: established relationship, BIG dicked!soap, afab!gn!reader, virgin!soap, sub!reader
cw: loss of virginity, squirting, size difference, teasing, pet names, praise, wet&messy, missionary, mating press, cunnilingus, fingering, pussyjob, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, creampie
note: this is the fic from the pwp royale i posted recently! loss of virginity won so here's the result!!! MDNI.
; with a too-big-cock, he hasn't managed to lose his virginity yet. until he shares a sweet little moment with you, the love of his life ♡
5.7k words
Soap had been thinking about this for ages. He had been in positions like this before, without a doubt, with previous partners.
But there was something deep inside him that was breathless over the fact that it was you situated so cute in his lap, dressed all cozy in some clothes you had left over at his place from a previous night you had spent with him. You two had been dating for some time now but he had done his best to avoid being in this predicament because he was worried it would end the same as it had with everyone else.
Even though Soap was 28, charming and had a lot of luck scoring dates, he was still a virgin. It was the most embarrassing little fact about him. It wasn’t for lack of trying, of course. In fact, all his teammates in 141 were positive he’d gotten laid more times than he could count. But bringing a pretty thing home from a bar always ended the same for him – with them scurrying out of his door with their clothes bundled in their arms the second he pulled his dick out.
So to say Soap was nervous right about now was in understatement.
You were so warm against him, smelled so lovely that it made his heart flutter in his chest. Everything about you was so intoxicating that he was terrified this was going to end the same way it always had with other partners – with you becoming intimidated and fleeing with your tail tucked between your legs.
He was so enamored by you that he didn’t think he would be able to cope if you walked out on him like everyone else.
You pulled him out of his head when you cupped his stubbly cheeks, pulling him in for a deep kiss. His hands flexed against your hips, tugging you even closer on his lap. He was growing harder and harder underneath you and he silently prayed that you didn’t feel it.
Your hands trailed down to his chest, pressing your palms flat against the firmness there as you deepened the kiss. You sighed sweetly into his mouth, dipping your tongue in to taste him as he eagerly kissed you back. His hands weren’t idle either, going from squeezing your hips to kneading your thighs, bared from your shorts.
Suddenly, he pulled back, eyeing the string of spit that connected your lips before smiling at the way you were panting from a kiss.
“Can we do…more, Johnny?” you ask softly, rolling your thumb over the scar on his chin.
“Are you sure you want to?” he fires back, meeting your gaze under his lashes.
“Why wouldn’t I?” you smile, adjusting yourself in his lap and he has to fight to hold back the groan from how good the pressure feels even though he’s still confined to his jeans, “I love you. You love me. Of course I want you.”
The way you say it so simply and sweetly makes him smile. He suddenly takes hold of your chin and tugs you close so your forehead rests against his, “I’m not goin’ to lie, sweetheart. I…” he nervously cleared his throat, “I’m a big guy.”
You blink owlishly at him for a moment, “You mean like…”
Your hand slips further down his chest and he quickly intercepts it, taking your hand in his with a nod of his head. Your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth and he can see the way your pupils dilate.
“Okay…” you whisper, “You can just…work me open, yeah?”
His lashes flutter at those words, a groan getting caught in his chest. His hands find purchase on your waist, easily hoisting you up and tossing you onto the other end of the couch before crawling over you. He immediately begins kissing your neck and you eagerly let your head fall back so he can have more access. His chest is pressed against yours, pinning you down with his weight alone as his hands continue to caress your thighs which are splayed open around his hips.
His cock is painfully hard in his jeans, throbbing with need when he realizes you've started trembling under such simple touches. You lay there so sweetly underneath him, arms splayed on either side of your head letting him touch you and see you however he wants. Pliant.
“So sweet…” he coos, muffled with his lips pressed against your pulse point.
You sigh contentedly, heart hammering in your chest when his hands finally move north and start pushing your shirt up. Slowly, over your belly button, over your ribs, catching on the swell of your breasts before you lift your head and let him strip the material off. He tosses it somewhere in the living room but neither of you care where it lands.
“Shite…” he groans when he leans back on his heels, eyes landing on your bare breasts, “You’re somethin’ special.”
Before you have the chance to offer anything in reply, he's got his lips wrapped around one of your nipples. One hand supports his weight beside your body on the couch and the other carefully slips under the fabric of your panties. You eagerly spread your legs even more, anticipating his touch where you need him most but he doesn’t make any further movements.
His hand falls completely still, fingertips resting just above your clit, just the slightest twitch down and he would be touching the little bud.
His tongue eagerly swipes over the pebbled bud of your nipple that’s trapped in his hot mouth. You let out low sighs of pleasure, mindlessly arching your hips up in hopes to get him to move that damned hand lower — but he refuses, intent on teasing you with its presence so close to where you needed him.
He's got you wound taut, tense and aching for him. He dips down and you think he's going to give you what you want, but instead he uses two fingers to peel your folds apart. You feel like the air gets punched out of your lungs, thighs threatening to twitch closed but are blocked by his hulking form in between them. You can hear the sound of your folds parting, wet and sticky and it makes his cock fucking throb.
“You’re so wet, you hear that?” he teases, popping off your nipple with a crooked grin.
“Shut up,” you intend for it to come out biting but it comes out weak and soft, which only makes his grin broaden.
Your hole clenches pathetically around nothing, drooling and leaking into your panties. You feel like you could cum if so much as a breeze brushed over your clit. You've never been pushed so close to the edge from someone teasing you like this.
One of your hands finds purchase in his mohawk, tugging the short strands so he is forced to meet you in a heady kiss. You whimper into his mouth and his free hand cups and gropes your tits in his large hand, massaging the soft flesh as he eagerly kisses you back. As you kiss, you attempt to rut your hips up in hopes of getting him to slip between your folds and make you feel good, but it doesn’t work and he chuckles. It’s cute you think you can distract him like that.
The kiss is messy and sloppy, strings of spit connecting your lips when you finally part to take a breath. You look up at him with a dazed, heady look to your eyes that has him pecking your lips once again before descending back to your breasts. You cry out in surprise when you feel the nip of his teeth against the bud. As he tortures you with his mouth, he takes the chance to tug your shorts down your legs. You eagerly lift your hips to help him rid your body of the offending clothing, tossing them to get lost somewhere alongside your shirt.
Once you’re bare, you let your legs butterfly open, giving him a full view of your completely bare body.
You’re practically panting when his hand slinks down your body once again, parting your folds with that sticky sound that has heat flushing to your cheeks, much louder now that there’s no clothing blocking it. Soap’s eyes drop to your pussy, index and middle finger holding your labia apart so he can see how your clit throbs and your hole clenches pathetically around nothing, drooling down to the couch.
“So pretty,” he coos, wishing he could roll his thumb over that pretty little clit just to watch your body twitch from the pleasure but he’s on a miss.
He surges forward again to kiss you, soaking in your happy sigh at the little affection, but it doesn't last long before he's mouthing his way down your body — nipping and suckling at your skin as he makes his way further and further down.
His large, callused hands grip under your knees and pin you embarrassingly wide open with your knees to the couch. He kisses up your inner thigh and over your pelvis, stopping to press his lips against your hip bones before his tongue dips down and swipes over one of your labia.
Your taste lingers on his taste buds and he practically moans at the feeling. You gasp, hands flying to his mohawk when he gives the other side the same treatment, cleaning up your mess with his tongue.
You desperately attempt to rut your hips up, whining with your need to feel his touch properly where you need him but he backs off and waits for you to sink back into the cushions in defeat before pressing a kiss above your clit. His pretty, blue eyes watch every pout and furrow of your brows that crosses your face from his teasing.
He can tell you’re getting frustrated and needy – just the way he wants you. The fact you’re so pliant and at the mercy of whatever he’s willing to give you is intoxicating. You’re so sweet for him.
It feels like hours that he torments you, kissing around your thighs and lapping over your folds but never giving you what you actually need. He continues to clean up any mess without actually touching where you desire him most, simply savoring your juices on his tongue.
Your clit aches, twitching with need as it begs for just the slightest touch from him — something to put you out of your misery.
“Johnny…” you pathetically whimper, fisting his t-shirt, tugging him closer in hopes of getting him to give you what you want.
His long lashes flutter as he looks at you, “What is it, sweet one? Something you want?”
“Need,” you correct hastily with a tearful glare. He thinks it’s supposed to be intimidating but he only seems to find the display cute.
He laughs softly, a charming smile crossing his face as he looks completely endeared by you, “Need, huh? Are you always this needy?”
“Only for you, Johnny!” you whimper, moving your grip on his shirt to his hair again, hoping it’ll give you more leverage but he doesn’t budge.
He laughs softly, “That’s right, little one. Just for me.”
You feel so on edge, like he’s worked you up to an orgasm without ever actually touching you properly. He thumbs your folds apart, leaving the needy little bud open and exposed to his greedy gaze. You wish so badly he would just breathe against you so you could experience something more than this mind-numbing teasing your boyfriend has subjected you to. It’s pathetic, you realize, wishing for so much as a breath against your bud. But there’s just something about Johnny that always has you hanging on everything he does. You’re enamored, in love.
That thought has you whimpering, sinking back into the cushions of the couch.
“So sweet,” he coos dismissively, smile only widening as you tearfully glare at him.
His gaze darkens at the sound of a sob tearing through your chest and he bites his lower lip when his cock fucking throbs. He didn’t really think he’d be the type to enjoy seeing his partner cry and he’s not even sure he would be into it if it was anyone but you, but here he was.
Soap thinks you look so precious like this, defeated and waiting for his next move.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands suddenly, chastely kissing your navel when you finally meet his gaze, unfocused and tearful, “There you go, good. Don’t look away now, okay?”
You nod your head, finding yourself getting lost in his unwavering eye contact. His pretty blue eyes and long, soft eyelashes that you could simply marvel at for hours. He was so handsome and all yours and that alone made you even wetter. Your boyfriend was on top of you, giving his all in making you feel good.
As you're lost in thought and his eyes, his fingers finally dip down to where you need him most, pressing the pads of his digits against your clit. The little bud is so hard and sensitive that the small amount of stimulation has you toppling over the edge immediately.
Your eyes remain open and locked with Soaps as you cum with a weak cry of his name. His fingers gently circle your clit, sticky, wet circles over the bud to ease you through the high.
When you finally slump against the couch, thighs twitching against his sides through the aftershocks, he pulls back. Your eyes flutter closed, panting from the exertion of your orgasm. You’re practically boneless as Soap suddenly moves you trembling legs over his shoulders.
His gaze falls to your swollen, pulsing cunt. Your folds are covered in a slick film and he can still see the way your clit and hole throbs, drooling your cum messily with every clench. Your eyes flutter open, cheeks heating when you see how intently he’s staring at your pussy.
“Don’t stare…” you whine bashfully, voice dragging his gaze back to your face.
“Can’t help it,” he gives you a crooked grin, “You’re so pretty here.”
You whine at his response, kicking your foot against his back in retaliation.
Suddenly it's like all rational thought flies out of his head and he's pinning your knees to your chest.
You gasp at the change in position, “Johnny!”
He chuckles at the way you sound shy, as if he didn't just have you cumming underneath him a minute ago.
The feeling of his breath against your sensitive folds is enough to make your thighs twitch in his grasp. He makes a show, when he finds you looking down at him through your lashes with your chest rising and falling from how hard you're breathing, of letting his tongue fall from his mouth.
Slowly, he descends, sliding his tongue between your slick folds. You practically wail, your back bowing against the couch when his tongue swirls around your clit, suckling it into his mouth. Your head slams against the couch cushion as your eyes roll back in your head, your hands gripping at his mohawk as you wail his name.
“Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!” you squeal, legs kicking and flailing at the feeling of him eagerly slurping at your clit.
He backs off for a moment, releasing your bud with a lewd pop. You're panting and trembling, your knees still pressed against your chest, open and vulnerable for him. Your precious cunt is now coating in a slick film of your own cum and his spit.
“Keep yourself open for me,” he commends with a sharp look that makes you immediately do as you’re told. Your trembling fingers grip under your knees, hugging them to your chest.
He spreads your folds apart with his thumb before his mouth finds its place there again, eagerly slurping up your cunt with a moan. He desperately eats you, swirling his tongue over your clit and dipping it into your clenching cunt to taste your juices. He's messy and sloppy, drool and your cum dripping down his chin and neck.
You cry and tremble beneath the onslaught of his tongue, he introduces two fingers, swiping them against your drippy entrance. You barely even seem to notice, too distracted humping your clit against the flat of his tongue when he lays it flat out for you.
“Oh, Johnny!” you cry out, toes curling in your fuzzy socks the closer you get to your second orgasm, “Don't stop! Please, don't stop, Johnny!”
He moans against you, the sound and feeling of it sending you over the edge. When he feels your clit throb on his tongue, he finally slips those two fingers inside you. The feeling of suddenly being stretched and filled sends you flying even higher. Soap has to use his body to hold you down as you kick and squirm from the overstimulating pleasure of having his thick fingers crooking inside you, grinding against that gooey little spot.
“Johnny-!” you cut yourself off with a deep, long moan as you messily squirt all over the front of his shirt.
Johnny continues to grind the tips of his fingers into that tender little spot inside you until you simply can’t take it anymore and shove him off with a weak cry. Soap pops the cum covered fingers immediately into his mouth as he watches you twitch and tremble against the couch, tearfully staring up at him.
“Too much, sweetheart?” he asks, once he’s cleaned his fingers off.
You nod, taking a deep breath, “I-I’ve never…” you trail off and he quirks a brow.
“Never squirted?” he finishes and you nod, “Well, I’m honored then. I guess we’re even.”
“What do you mean?” you ask, finally uncurling yourself from your position with a weak grunt, opening your arms to pull him close to you, finding yourself needing his touch.
His cheeks heat up, realizing it’s time to finally tell you his little secret, “Well…it’s my first time.”
“Making someone squirt?” you offer him a soft smile but it quickly fades when he shakes his head.
“No, I mean…” he clears his throat, “I mean havin’ sex.”
Your eyes go wide, “Really? But you’re like…really good with your tongue.”
He chuckles softly, forehead falling against your chest, shaking his head, “No I’ve got a lot of experience in foreplay. It’s after that I’ve never gotten to.”
You sit up at that, shock apparent on your face, “You’re a virgin, Johnny?”
“Aye,” he solemnly nods, trying to hide the embarrassment that bubbles under the surface.
“But how?” you question, “You’ve dated a lot. You’re good looking and kind.”
He grins at your praise, “I told you, little one,” he sighs, figuring now would be a good time to properly warn you about what you’re getting into, “I’m a big guy. Most people get scared off.”
Your brows come together in confusion, “Really?”
He nods slowly, carefully watching your face for any signs of apprehension. But you only continue to look confused.
“Will you show me?” you finally ask.
“You want to see…?” he finds himself stumbling over your question, heart hammering in his chest when you eagerly nod your head.
Wordlessly he sits up on his knees, fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans. You can see the outline of his cock pressing against the material and he does look big but you want to see him completely.
He unzips his jeans and reaches inside, hissing at the feeling of his hand wrapped around his neglected length. He finally pulls his cock free, twitching at the feeling of the cool air against him. He’s been leaking precum profusely, incredibly turned on from making you cum twice.
“Johnny…” you whisper breathlessly, eyes wide as you stare at his length wrapped in his fist, “Holy shit.”
“I told you,” he smiles crookedly but deep down he’s nervous.
This is the moment that will make or break you. Either he finally gets to be with you, the person he wants to share his love with the most, or you give him that terrified look and go scampering away.
You reach out and knock his hand away, replacing his grip with your own. His breathing stutters when you give him a few, slow strokes. Your hand is so much smaller than his, unable to touch your fingers around the girth of him. The sight has him biting back a moan because fuck you’re so much smaller than him.
“You’re going to have to really prepare me, Johnny,” you playfully glare at him from under your lashes.
His brows shoot up in surprise, “You mean you…”
“I love you, Johnny,” you smile softly at him, “I want this with you. Just…take your time, okay?”
“Of course,” he swallows thickly, quickly batting your hand away and urging you to lay back once again.
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss, “Let's go to the bedroom.”
“Yeah, yeah we-we can do that,” he stumbles over his words foolishly, making his ears burn red in a way he hopes you don’t actually notice.
After some stumbling and giggling, the two of you quickly find your way to his bedroom. After shutting the door, you crawl onto the bed, relaxing into the pillow, looking like his own little piece of heaven all naked on his sheets just for him.
He strips himself where he stands at the foot of the bed, tossing his shirt into the hamper in the corner before letting his jeans and boxers pool at his feet.
He’s on top of you before you know it, bringing you in for a kiss. As you eagerly spread your legs to accommodate his big frame, he reaches between your bodies and grips his cock again. Your entire body tenses up when you feel him pressing the tip against your folds.
“Johnny, no,” you whine, pressing against his chest, “Y-You’ll tear me open if you try to–”
“Not tryin’ to get it in, pretty baby,” he coos, “Jus’ trust me, yeah?”
You watch as he swipes the head through your folds, sliding the length between them, rutting his hips. You gasp as he grinds over your clit, making your whole body twitch from the stimulation. You’re still sensitive from the previous orgasms he had milked out of you.
Before long, he pauses.
“Look at that,” he grins, “That’s how deep I’ll be.”
You feel your cunt clench pathetically at the sight of his length resting over your pelvis. You know that when you take him all the way, he’s going to be prodding painfully at your cervix. But you know you’re going to love every second of it.
Not only is he long, his girth is amazing. You know it’s going to stretch you wide, you can practically feel the phantom burning feeling you know will accompany it. His cock is uncut, messily drooling all over your skin. The prettiest fucking cock you’ve ever seen and it makes your mouth water.
“Think you can take it?” he teases, playfully tapping the heavy length against your clit.
You whine and nod, “W-Want you to make me take it, Johnny.”
“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” he chuckles softly, “Aye, we’ll make it fit, little one.”
Soap’s hand finds its way between your thighs again, two fingers prodding at your entrance as his other hand cups one of your breasts. You lay back in his pillows, staring up at him like he hung the moon and the stars as he stretches you open on those two digits.
You’re pillowy soft and wet inside, pretty cunt making sticky clicking sounds as he fucks you with them. Your cum coats his skin and a creamy mess begins to form at the last knuckle when he works that tender little spot up top.
Before long, he’s introducing a third finger. He slowly presses it in alongside the other two, stretching you open carefully and methodically until all three digits are pressed inside the tight clutch of your cunt.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he encourages, “Open up for me so I can give you my cock.”
You whine at that, “Want your cock, Johnny.”
He groans, pressing a kiss against your knee, “I know you do, sweet thing. Jus’ let me stretch you open for it, yeah?”
You nod and toss your head back, working your hips down against his fingers. He carefully fucks you with them, spreading them inside so you get used to the feeling of being stretched and filled for when the real thing is finally pressing inside.
Fuck, the thought makes his cock ache.
His thumb sneaks up and presses against your clit. The extra stimulation makes you clench around them like a vice and you moan so sweetly for him. He can’t wait to feel that around his heavy cock.
“Johnny, please!” you cry, “I want you already.”
“Fuck, alright, sweetheart,” he grunts, pulling his fingers from inside you with a wet sound.
He wraps those slick fingers around his length, smearing the mess across the soft skin. It’s embarrassingly desperate, the way he grips your hips and yanks you closer to him. You gasp at the forceful handling but quickly relax into the sheets when he leans down and kisses you again.
As you’re occupied with his lips and tongue, he grips the base of his length and carefully begins to prod at your entrance. You whimper into his mouth when he starts to press inside.
Just the tip of him is a lot to take and you can't help but wince when that fat head finally pops inside. Soap feels the way you jump and quickly pulls out, biting back a groan when he sees wet, sticky strings of your cum and his pre connecting his cock to your cunt.
He uses the head to circle your clit, making you sigh in pleasure before he’s pressing back inside. This time he, when the head pops inside, begins rolling your clit under his thumb to soothe the ache.
“Just relax,” he coos, slowly circling the bud as he sinks more and more of his length inside.
The stretch stings and he fills you up more than you’ve ever experienced before. He feels so heavy and hard inside you and his finger on your clit makes you reflexively clench and spasm around him. He moans at the feeling, pretty blue eyes rolling back as he feels half his cock being hugged.
Before long, he’s balls deep, deeper inside a cunt than he’s ever been in his life. Its euphoric for him. A painful ache settles in your stomach from how he’s prodding against your cervix. He stills, watching your furrowed brows as you get used to being stuffed full of his cock for the first time.
It dawns on him suddenly that he’s lost his virginity. To you. He’s got his fat cock buried in the one person he adores more than anything on this Earth.
He’s overcome with affection, surging forward to press his lips against yours. You whine when the angle change makes him press even deeper inside you but you kiss him back anyway.
He pulls back slowly, “Just relax,” he assures you again, “That was a lot, huh? You took me so well, pretty.”
After a few moments under his careful caresses and kisses, you relax into the bed. Blinking blearily up at him, you flex your hips and stir his cock inside. You whimper at the feeling and he slowly pulls back so only half his length is left inside.
“Pretty,” he mutters, “P-Pretty and fuckin’ wet.”
“Johnny…” you sigh sweetly, clutching at his sheets as he begins to fuck you in earnest.
Your tits bounce in time to his thrusts and he can’t take his eyes off them. He’s still a little shell-shocked from having you speared on his heavy, aching cock. He can’t believe he’s got the sweetest thing creaming around him, crying his name.
“Johnny!” you cry sharply, hands flying to cup your own tits.
Your eyes are wide, almost like you’re shocked, “What is it, pretty?” he asks, panting.
He watches in wonder as you toss your head back, squealing and trembling. You’re cumming, he realizes. Squeezing and clenching around his cock like a vice.
“Shite,” he moans, hands trembling as he grips your hips, helping you rut against him as you cum, “‘S it, ride it out for me. Cummin’ nice and hard, hm? Barely even did anything and you’re creamin’ all over me.”
You whimper, eyes rolling at his filthy words. You slowly sink back into the bed with a heavy sigh, heart racing as you stare up at him. Soap loves seeing you like this, covered in sweat and twitchy from how hard you came from nothing but his cock stuffed inside you.
“More, please, Johnny,” you whine, locking your ankles around his back, locking him against you, “I want more. Please make me cum again.”
He scoffs in disbelief, pressing his hands on either side of your head on the bed, “You just came and you want more?”
“Yes, please?” you ask softly, batting your lashes at him.
“Yeah, baby,” he whispers, slowly grinding his hips against you, making sure his pelvis grinds against your clit, “I’ll give you whatever you want. This cock’s all yours now, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you whimper, “All mine, Johnny. ‘S all mine. You’re all mine. L-Love you so much.”
“Fuck!” he growls, fisting his sheets as he works his hips faster and faster against you, “Love you too. Love you, love you, love you.”
He can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed at his babbling. All he can do is work his hips against yours, listening to your pretty moans and the slick sounds of your pretty pussy being fucked.
Your back arches and you reach between your bodies to circle your clit with trembling fingers. His jaw drops at the sight. He never thought he would have the chance to see a sweet little thing like you working themself to orgasm on his cock like this before.
“Sweet baby,” he whines, sounding broken and completely broken, burying his face in your neck, “You’re so wet. You’re makin’ such a mess around me. Pretty cunt’s so wet.”
You sob at that, eyes rolling as you toss your head back. You can feel another orgasm brewing, heating your skin and making you tremble underneath your boyfriend's massive body.
“Johnny, please!” you wail, feet kicking against his back.
“What? What do you need?” he pants, drooling against your skin from where his face is still buried.
“Please!” you cry again, pressing against his shoulders to push him back.
He looks dazed, completely fucked out and stupid from having his cock fucked for the first time. You grab his hand and shove it between your thighs. He quickly picks up what you need and starts rubbing your clit.
“This what you needed?” he pants, “Needed me to play with this pretty clit so you can cum nice and hard again?”
You squeal, jaw falling open as you back bows off the bed. He moans at the feeling of you soaking him, gushing and squirting against his bare chest and all over his hand. His mouth practically waters at the thought of getting to taste you as you cum again.
“Already?” he gasps, “So fuckin’ sensitive, cummin’ so easily for me. Fuck, so good for me. I’m gonna cum, baby.”
You nod your head, still shaking from your orgasm, “F-Fill me up, Johnny. Please. Want you to cum inside!”
“Fuck, are you sure?” he gasps, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.
You nod your head, “Yes, need it, Johnny.”
He fists the sheets on either side of your head as his entire body begins to tremble. His hips lose their rhythm and with a few more, weak rabbiting thrusts, he’s cumming. He cries your name, rutting his hips against yours. The movement causes him to grind against your sensitive clit, making you whimper and twitch beneath him. He grinds painfully against your cervix from how deep he is but it’s worth it to see the pretty way he cums inside you. It's a hot, thick load that fills you up and oozes out the sides of his cock and drips down to the bed.
Afterwards, there’s a stillness that falls over the two of you. The only sound you can hear is the faint hum of the TV in the living room and the heavy panting between the two of you.
Soap can’t think of anything to say, all he can think is to lean down and press his lips against yours. He wraps his arms around your body, holding you close to him as you cling onto him, still trembling.
“Love you so much,” he whispers, muffled against your lips because he’s not willing to pull away.
“Johnny,” you whimper, “I love you.”
He smiles crookedly, pecking your nose and forehead over and over again before you’re giggling and pushing him away.
With his cock softened, he slowly and carefully pulls out of you, both of you wincing from how sensitive you are. Your thighs are still open and he watches as his cum oozes from your thoroughly abused cunt. His hand slides up your thigh, nearing your folds but you quickly slam your thighs shut, trapping his hand between them.
He looks up to find you glaring at him, “Don’t even think about it.”
He grins crookedly, shrugging his shoulders, “What’s the matter, baby? Don’t fancy a go again?”
“After that?” you cry, throwing your head back to laugh, “I’ve never cum so much in my life, Johnny!”
“Ah, you really know how to boost a man’s ego,” he chuckles, flopping onto the bed beside you.
He pulls you close, tucking you against his side, “Hard to believe that was your first time.”
“Aye,” he hums, kissing your temple, stroking your back slowly, “I’m glad it was you.”
“I am too, Johnny,” you snuggle close to him, kissing his bare chest.
There’s a quiet that falls over the two of you. Your breathing slowly begins to even out and he quickly realizes that you’ve fallen asleep. He hugs you closer, protective instincts urging him to keep you safe while you’re well-fucked and vulnerable like this in his arms.
His heart skips a beat when his gaze lands on his night table, remembering the ring he’s got hidden away within. He wonders when he’s going to grow the nerve to finally ask you to wear it.
DO NOT REDISTRBUTE, TRANSLATE, OR MODIFY. DO NOT RECOMMEND ON TIKTOK.
SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER
TASK FORCE 141 x FEM!READER
Traitors Among Us (Part 1) and Innocents Among You (Part 2)
Summary: As you're discharged from the infirmary, under watchful eye, you head to Laswell to talk on the rest of your now ruined military career. Of course, you're forced to confront your team as it happens, the last people on earth you'd like to see.
If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?
---
Running your fingers along the raised, pink scar across you cheek, the feeling of it...it really looked terrible. A part of you thought it would disappear, hoped it would, but it didn't. It just became severely more noticeable. Looking at this, you knew you'd always have to think of it. You'd sport this reminder for the rest of your life.
Looking away from it, you find your own tired eyes in the mirror, you haven't been sleeping well. Or at all. You can't remember the last time you got 4 hours, let alone 8. Dark circles still surrounded them but at least the bruising and the swelling had gone down.
You couldn't recognize yourself. Not really.
This woman looked so exhausted, so frail and so goddamn angry. It was accurate, it was how you felt. All of it. So, you supposed that the mirror's reflection was the truth, this was you indeed.
"If you need another day or two, no one will ask questions."
You glance over towards your psychologist, your fucking therapist, a nice little 'gift' sent over by the bureau to check in on your mental state after your ordeal. Glaring at him through the reflection of your mirror, he sighs, putting down his pen that slaps against his notepad, "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."
"I'm going to Laswell." Ignoring his statement, you speak. "I'm ready. I'll pack up. Get back to base. Vera had me discharged from the infirmary. I can start ov--"
"Vera?"
"My nurse. You met her," you continued, annoyance spiking at the interruption. Your wrist brace squeaking quietly under the pressure of your fist tightening beneath the table.
"Right..."
"Do you listen to a word I say outside of...my 'trauma'?" You wonder, bluntly.
Your psychologist blinks, surprised, before clearing his throat, appalled. "If you feel I can be more attentive to your state of well-being throughout our process, than by all means--"
"Oh, so 'no'?" you lean back into your seat, a strained laugh leaving you. His lips press together and you continue before he can find the words. "Because whenever I mention leaving this fucking team, you either adjust our schedule for another two weeks or suggest hypnotic therapy, as if I need anyone else digging around to fuck up my mental state."
"I never meant to imply--"
"Oh, you implied it," you interrupted, gritting your teeth. "I know what I want. And I want off Task Force 141."
He taps at the leather of his notebook. "Scars heal, just remember that, Ms. (L/n). The reminders of your experience shouldn't have to haunt you."
"It's not the scars, I've had my share way before this," you admitted, rising to your feet. You exhale deeply that tells to the effort of it, the steel gear hinges along your leg braces shift with your change of position. Still getting use to them. "It's the person."
"Has she changed, you think?" the psychologist begins to write, getting somewhere.
"She doesn't exist anymore."
Finally, placing the mirror down and onto the side table, you pushed off of the table, rolling your IV pole along with you. Passing the chair your psychologist sits on, he closes his notebook with a frustrated huff, looking over his shoulder. "Session over for you already, Ms. (L/n)?" he sighs. "We've still got the hour."
"I'm done," you take the knob in your hand. Turning.
In more ways than one.
"You understand that, informing your captain on your leave is required of you. Have you spoken to any of them, in the last few weeks?" he spoke up, quickly. "I'm sure giving them a space to open up, share from their view--"
"Why should I care--"
"--will give you better understanding, better clarity of the situation they were in--
Appalled. "What the fuck?" Jamming the door closed with a loud, shuttering thud, you whip around. "IT'S NOT ABOUT THEM!" you could just rip your hair out. "Who--who says that to someone?!"
Your psychologist sits there, eyes wide in confusion. "What--"
"Christ, can you hear me? Can you--can you see me? I've got metal plates in my spine, braces holding my knees in place and nerve damage that'll never heal! Who gives a fuck about them!" your skin feels red hot, your face twisted in rage. "I gave my life! My life to this! And then I'm tortured, I'm threatened, drugged and beaten by my own team, my f--my family for eight fucking years..."
You continue with a heavy chest. "And I'm supposed to invite them for dinner to talk and listen them bitch and moan about why they thought it was necessary to beat me to death for two weeks?! Fuck you!" you spat. "I don't owe them anything!"
"That's not what I was trying to say, Ms. (L/N). I apologize, I overstepped. Come sit down--"
"Of course you meant it," you interrupted, mock humor. "Don't be a pussy, own up to it. Revel in your truth. Be tter yet--" you snatch a journal from the cabinet. Tossing it his way. "Make a note of it."
Turning the knob, you leave the room with a slam of the metal door.
---
You were officially famous. On the base, you were now a legend.
A story that would be mentioned and told at lunch for months. Probably years.
First, you were a rat. Next, you were innocent. This was the most gossip any of those in service had ever seen in their years of service.
An interesting reminder to those in service that you weren't safe off duty either.
You learned a few days ago that there was an update put into the interrogational unit, something about how to properly go about dissecting evidence and being on the lookout for enemy spies in the militia.
You guessed you had been told about it in an effort to be appeased by the thought that the head of control paid attention to anything beyond their own noses for once. But, you had little to no faith in a system that's nearly killed you on and off the field by now, so it didn't matter.
You doubted the new rules would be followed though, there was a plethora of things they'd done to you in that cell that were both illegal and unsanctioned. Most of all, that were expected towards an enemy, a prisoner of war at best, and not a fellow marine.
You arrive at the housing quarters, swiping your key card, pulling the handle and entering the wing. Immediately, you're greeted by a dozen eyes, conversations stopping short and clothes ruffling to silence, suddenly whispers fill the space and eyes turn away.
"Oh, god, it's her..." says one man in the far corner.
"Shut the fuck up, man!" came a harsh whisper back.
"I didn't know it was that bad..."
All those eyes on you, makes you pause in your step, looking around at all of your fellow soldiers, the men and women you've served with for years. Many you recognized, ate with, fought beside that turned their backs to you now. Out of respect? Out of distaste, morale, nerves, pity, it all didn't matter. It all felt the same.
The wheels attached to your IV pole suddenly sounded much too loud on the polished flooring, as you walked down the hall as fast as you were able to.
Breathing out deeply, you get to an elevator, pushing on the button, once, twice, three times, just open goddamn it.
With a ding, the metal doors open, and suddenly you're aware that people could be in the elevator, they could be in this elevator, he could be in this elevator. Your eyes flicker down to the floor, your grip on the pole of your iv tightens, your shoulders stiffen, waiting for a blow that will never come.
You stand there as the doors open up, the small space empty, the metal walls reflect only her and a streak of lighting from the ceiling.
Looking up slowly, finally taking a breath, before sliding the iv up and onto the elevator, following it as you press your floor number along the way.
The ride up is fast, a little rumble as it stops, and then the doors open. Faster than you were prepared for.
Peeking out down the hallway, luckily no one to bump into, which you were thankful for. But, it didn't make this hall any less haunting. You'd been cornered in this same hall, you could recall being hauled out of the room after the solid handle of a knife hits your temple.
You don't go down fast enough, whipping around as you stumble to take the wrist of your attacker, mostly for balance, it's Price. In shock, you're unprepared as Johnny's arm encircle your neck, locking you into position as you both stumble backwards onto the floor. He blocks your airways, hushing you harshly as you struggle, feet kicking out and your vision blurring as your team surrounds you. Your family.
That was quite the headache to wakeup with afterwards.
You hadn't quite remembered until now. Being back served as a hell of a kickstart to your memory.
Just a few more reasons to get the fuck off of 141.
Getting off the elevators, the metal doors sliding closed behind you, you make your way down the hall. The polished flooring creates a subtle squeak through the wheels of your iv pole, your hand absently running over the fading stitches along your side.
Passing the shadows of your tortured memory, the doorway of the office was closed, locked.
You pass Kyle's room.
Johnny's.
Finally, you rush up to the next room on the left, grabbing the handle, before beginning to twist, but then you're yanking your hand back as if the metal had burned you. Your back ramming into the back wall, catching yourself, this wasn't your room.
It was Simon's.
You'd spent hours, days, in that room. More than your own.
Why wouldn't you? You were about to get married to the man. You had more in this room than you had in yours.
Sharp breaths leave you, shivering in your effort to keep yourself together, your head goes back into the wall, swallowing down the ache in your chest.
You wait, muscles tensed and your body pressing back into the wall, hoping it'd absorb you if that door opens. Listening for every sound, any pin drop, even an exhale from beyond that doorway. Luckily, Simon seemed to be out for the day.
Hurriedly, nearly running, you steady yourself against the wall as you rush down to the corner of the hallway, finally finding your room.
Turning the handle, it's not locked, it's broken. It opens with ease.
Entering the room slowly, pushing the doorway aside, the crackle of glass beneath your boots as you step forwards, clothes and picture frames laying scattered.
The mattress flipped and ripped open, springs and cotton cut from it. Your wall of metals and certificates, from acts of bravery and mementos of valor, discarded, later you'd find them in the trash, one with a bullet lodged into the gold.
Sniffling as you leaned down, picking a specific frame off the ground, the only one that hadn't been broken. Laying along the ruined rug, with no care for the glass digging through your jeans, you stare at the still shot of your family.
The only family you had outside of Task Force 141, your father and his sister, military brats themselves, until their retirement. Your mother had passed, or just up and left, days after your 5th birthday, you weren't completely sure, the story kept changing every year. But, these two were the only family you've ever known, ever had, until you joined the military, following in their footsteps.
They'd been so proud when you arrived back after your first assignment, in truth you were heavily traumatized, but seeing them, you just had to smile. Having a family that understood the harsh toll on the line of a trooper, now a lieutenant, it was always easier to bring your troubles to them. But, they were also military nuts so "suck it up" was also a quick go to answer from your aunt, while your father was the smoother talker.
They had met Simon, loved him, his rank, his love for you, his seriousness. They trusted him completely with your heart.
So, when he called them, after the evidence leaked...
They believed him.
"What're you talking about?" You took the handle of the chair in your grip, easing you down into it as your legs do weak at what you were hearing. "I didn't...I didn't do it, Dad."
"Do you know how humiliating and disappointing--how it felt to hear him say that to me, hm?" he says, static crackles on the reciever. "My daughter...my own flesh and blood...working with terrorists--"
"I'm not working with anyone! Are you-" you huff out a breath of disbelief. "Are you even listening to me? I've never betrayed the code. How can you think that way of me?"
For a moment, he's silent. "Alright, then," he began. "Than, what'd you do? huh?"
"What--what..."
"Oh, come on, (Y/n)!" your father yells. "What did you do?! What could they possibly have had on you that made you the most likely target? You had to have had done something, been somewhere, were with somebody you weren't supposed to be with! They didn't just get that information from anywhere."
"What the fuck--" Your expression twists with frustration and misery, running your hand through your hair, pulling at it. "I've sacrificed every part of myself for this job, for this team, what do I have to gain from throwing that all away? They send me everywhere, places you've never heard of, places you'll never hear about and people you'll never have to meet, because of me! Why would you just believe Simon? Why couldn't you just wait to talk to me?!"
Hearing your father scoff at your words was painful. "What reason do I have not to believe him? He knows you, maybe even better than any of us. Besides, he was going to be my son in law--"
"I'm your daughter! Fuck Simon, what about me? You'd believe him instead?"
He sighs. "Listen, you're upsetting Cass. We didn't expect your call. I gotta make this brief..."
"You're upset?" pulling at your hair, sucking in sharply. "I'm the one who's permanently fucking altered here. What do either of you have to be upset about?!"
"Watch your fucking mouth!" he seethes. The anger in his voice isn't new, but the way he spits it at you is. "You did this to yourself, I didn't. Maybe that's what your nightmares were about, am I right? Your guilt?"
Wiping the streaks of tears that had fallen down your face, lips quivering and chest aching with sobs you frustratedly shoved down. "Why don't you believe me?"
"I don't deserve the disgrace that will come with you as my kin, I've lived my part of this war. No daughter of mine should even be in this fucking position," your father spat, disgusted into the receiver. Suddenly, he was the cruel, bitter old man your mother had always known him to be, you wished she had stayed to at least remind you of that. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt as much. "You should be ashamed of yourself, but at least you got yourself out it. The least you could do for us."
"Well--what does that mean?" you spoke, quietly.
"Don't call again..."
"Dad, no--" you break this time, a sob escaping you.
"Me and your Aunt Cass..."
"Daddy please, don't do this--"
"..We've decided to cut ties. We're not taking any heat from this, you're on your own," he finishes, clearing his throat, waiting a moment, listening to the pleads and cries of his only daughter, his once pride. "You take care of yourself. Goodbye, kid."
"Why can't you just believe me? Why?!" you cried.
"Don't come to the house."
"No, no,--" the line goes dead. And staring down at your phone, his caller id going blank and the call disconnecting.
Your phone all of a sudden feels heavy, the device and your hand falling down to your thigh, before the phone slips out of your grip and onto the floor. You sit there silently, until your tears drop up and even after.
Staring at the photo now was haunting in its own way, it was just another painful reminder.
Using the bed frame to stand to your feet, your grip on the frame is painful as you squeeze it, the glass cracks audibly.
"Bonnie..."
Whipping around at the sound of John MacTavish's voice, you back up a few steps at the sight of him, your back hitting the edge of your desk.
He reaches out as you stumble, before his fingers curl back into his palm as you find your balance, his hands receding back to his sides. He doesn't enter the room, just lingering just beyond the doorway, his eyes flickering around the room, guiltily.
"I didn't know--we didn't know you were out," he speaks quietly, as opposed prideful personality that translated into his voice usually.
You say nothing.
In the dark, your eyes are wide and your shoulders are tensed up, he can see the glint of your leg braces, the iv pole at the side, the scar beneath your eye. You looked terrified to see him.
"We were coming back to clean up today, just got back from...from a mission..." he stutters on his words, shifting his feet.
"It's been a week."
His lips press together hearing your voice. "I know..." Johnny glances around at the room he'd let those officers destroy, it hadn't been them, but they might as well had done it. "I know...we just...didn't know it was so bad."
"Really?" your voice is mockingly sweet, drawing out the word. "You didn't know? Well look..." you hold up your family photo, the light in the hallway catching on the glass. "You missed one."
Your hand dropping, the heavy frame comes down just as fast, ramming into the ground, the glass practically exploding on impact.
Johnny flinches, the photo of your family...He looks back to you, surprised. "Bonnie..."
Snatching the next closest thing from your desk, a ceramic cup. "Oh, wow, can't believe you guys missed this one," you chuck it into the wall. It breaks on impact, the remains scatter along the flipped mattress and onto the floor. "That used to be my favorite mug by the way."
The Scotsman worriedly steps forwards, 'Lass, I'm sorry--"
"FUCK YOU!" you spat, coming into the light. You're sure you look deranged, and you didn't care. You could've wrapped your hands around his throat, killed him right on the floor and you wouldn't have blinked. "It doesn't mean anything! 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', over and over and over again! As if you shouldn't be! Your apologies mean fuck all."
"I know...I know," he breathes. "But, I've gotta say it anyway, bonnie. I should've believed you, there was no reason not to. I know that now. I just--"
"Believe me!" you cut him off with a yell. "Trust me! Fucking 'HELP ME'!" you screamed with the same fever as your days in the interrogation room, that terrible cell, the cold, the burn and pain. "I cried it all to you, to all of you, and nobody came. Nobody came for me," you breathe in sharply. "It doesn't matter what you should've done. You didn't do it!"
Johnny's eyes are red, he opens his mouth, closes it and then swallows down whatever chokes him up as he looks at you. "I should've came for you. I wish I did. I wanted to, Bonnie..." he steps forwards, and you recede back away from him, your eyes narrowed with violence. "I'll never forgive myself for not listening to you. For not coming to help you. For laying a hand on you. I'm so sorry, (Y/n). I'm sorry..."
I'll never forgive myself... "That makes two of us," you assured.
Johnny's eyes widen, before they close, his guilt ever consuming. He can't help but understand, to respect your decision, to know things can never be ok again. "(Y/n)...."
Grabbing hold of the nearest thing, a pencil cup, you hurl it at Johnny. He doesn't put his hands up, flinching as it hits him, the metal clinking against his kevlar, eyes closing then opening, he stands still. "I don't forgive. I don't accept your apology. I don't fucking care about it!" with each sentence you throw something else his way, a broken frame, the trash bin, a pillow, the CD player.
His hand has to come up for the knife you unsheathe, a memento from one of your missions, it's rusted, ancient probably. But, you hadn't given it up to a museum or to pawn, you had nearly died on this mission, saving Johnny ironically. You had to keep it.
Seeing the weapon, his defensive position is instinctive but his hands drop just as fast, he understands, you need this. You deserve this. "If you need to..." he speaks. Your eyes flicker up to him, away from the knife. "If you need to, I get it..."
And you need to. You really fucking do.
Your grip on the knife is dangerously hard, it hurts.
Looking at Johnny, he'd been your brother in more than a few ways on and off the field, he had been your comfort, your friend, your family. You had bled with him, held onto him as he carried you from the battlefield, joked, laughed, screamed and cried. You've loved him for years.
He'd had a rough few nights you could see that. He was quieter, reserved. Almost as terrified to see you, as you had been of him.
And you could kill him right now and never bat an eye.
And so, throwing that knife was so fucking easy.
Johnny's eyes close as you do just that, fists clenching and teeth biting down on his tongue to prepare for the pain.
The ancient weapon whiz's through the air, the sound is sharp and he knows it will cut through him like butter.
The thud rings in the room, and Johnny's eyes blow open wide, holding his breath as he collapses to his knees, before turning to you.
You dig into the pile of clothes that had been cast aside, a pair of sneakers and a new shirt. You don't look at him a single time as you take it all, stuffing them in a bag, and leaving the room, passing him completely, a limp in your step.
Johnny releases a pained breath, tears finally leaving him as he looks up, the knife lodged into the frame of the doorway, just barely missing him. The sleeve of his uniform ripped open.
He sits there in the quiet, destroyed room. A testimony to the relationship he's destroyed between you.
Author’s note: I was listening to Lust by Kendrick Lamar and this idea popped into my head. Please take note of the warnings on this one before reading! Also, I pictured Post Outbreak!Joel when writing this but you could really picture what ever version of Joel you wanted!
Summary: Joel asks to put “just the tip” inside you.
Word count: 2k
Warnings: dub con, coercion, age gap (Reader is in her 20’s, Joel is described as older), “just the tip” that turns into more, loss of virginity, oral sex (M and F receiving), unprotected sex, pull out method, pet names (angel, sweetheart, pretty girl), praise kink, Reader is able-bodied, angst, no use of y/n
You’re on your knees, looking up at Joel with wide eyes. You inhale through your nose, taking a deep breath before closing your mouth around his cock, making sure to keep your eyes on him. He grins, reaching forward and caressing your face. You’ve proven to be an expert at this kind of thing– messing around using only your hands and mouth. There’s a specific reason for that.
You’re a virgin. And your darling boyfriend has been ever so patient with you. For the most part. You think there have been specific instances where he wants to ask you for more than a blowjob or a handjob but he always bites his tongue, never broaching the topic with you.
You don’t have a specific reason as to why you haven’t done it. You’re not particularly religious. You don’t care about the “waiting for marriage” type of thing. Maybe it’s a subconscious rebellion against the notion of people rushing to lose their virginities as soon as possible. Maybe you’re secretly afraid of sex. The reason doesn’t matter. You’ve never had sex and you don’t plan on that changing any time soon. Not for anyone. Not even for Joel.
Joel strokes your cheek with his thumb, murmuring, “Such a fuckin’ angel for me.”
You hum in response, trailing your tongue down the seam on the underside of his cock. He groans, throwing his head back in pleasure as you continue, wrapping your hand around the base. A mixture of his pre-cum and your saliva runs down his shaft and coats your head, the blowjob getting sloppier by the second. He lets out a string of curse words and moans, placing his hand on the back of your head.
Until, to your surprise, he stops.
He pulls his cock out of your mouth and you look at it staring you in the face, glistening and twitching.
“Did I do something wrong?” you ask in a small voice.
“No, no,” he quickly reassures you. “You didn’t do anything wrong, angel. I was just thinking…”
“Thinking what?” you ask, getting up from the floor and sitting beside him on the bed.
“I was thinking…” he starts. He leans in close, his warm breath tickling the shell of your ear. A shiver runs down your spine and the wetness in your underwear grows ever prevalent. “Maybe I could just put the head in.”
“What do you mean?” You think you understand what he’s getting at. But you need more clarification before you let your blood run cold.
“If I could put the head of my cock inside you.”
He places a hand on your inner thigh, fingers fiddling with the hem of your shorts. The coldness that was creeping up on you quickly settles in, permeating your entire being.
“But then I wouldn’t be…”
“A virgin? You’d still be a virgin, sweetheart.”
That doesn’t entirely make sense to you. But Joel would never lie to you… Right?
“I don’t know, Joel…”
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. It was just a suggestion,” he says gently. He starts to pull his hand away from your thigh and against your better judgment, you grab his hand and put it back.
“You promise I’d still be a virgin?”
“I promise.”
“Okay,” you breathe.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you nod, standing from the bed and shedding your clothes. Goosebumps prick your skin and another shiver runs down your spine. He looks at the wetness that’s formed in a pool in your underwear and says, “Someone’s excited.”
He’s right. You can do this, you tell yourself.
Your cheeks heat up as the adrenaline courses through your body. He’s just putting the tip in. It’s just a preview of what’s to come someday.
He moves off the bed so you can get situated, propping your head up with a pillow. You spread your legs and Joel takes the opportunity to lower his head in between your thighs, wrapping his arms around them as he buries his face in your cunt.
“What are you doing?” you ask.
He pulls back and says, “Gotta get you prepared, angel.”
“...Is it… Is it gonna hurt?”
He hesitates for a moment, thinking about his response before saying, “Not if you let me eat you first, pretty girl.”
You nod and let him get back to work, tongue swirling around your entrance. Whenever his mouth is on your cunt, his nose rubs against your clit. You reach your hands in between your legs, grabbing his hair just as he latches his mouth on your clit. Your back arches off the bed and a tingling feeling settles in your limbs, replacing the chill that was once there. You cum with a loud moan and every part of your body from your ears to your toes feels a sense of euphoria. He hums as he tastes your spend, taking the time to gently lick the remnants before pulling away and resting on his knees.
“You always taste so good, sweetheart. So sweet.”
Your cheeks heat up at his praise but you’re startled with a jolt as his hand meets your cunt. You look down as he’s gathering your wetness with his hand, taking it and spreading it on his whole cock.
Whatever. Must be a force of habit. You’re well aware he’s not a virgin like you are. He’s older and more experienced. It’s just a force of habit you remind yourself.
He leans down and aligns the head of his cock with your entrance, lightly rubbing it against you and asking, “You ready for me, angel?”
“I am.”
You are. You can do this.
He pushes himself inside you, only allowing the head of his cock to enter. And it feels… good. Maybe a little tight but Joel was right to make you cum at least once before doing this. He lets out a strained sigh and looks down at your face, reading your expression. His eyes are filled with concern, brow furrowed with worry.
“How does it feel?”
“It feels good.”
“Doesn’t it?” he smirks. “We can do this for as long as you want or…” He trails off, looking away briefly before meeting your eyes again.
“Or what?”
“Nothing, sweetheart. Let’s just enjoy this.” He nods, almost as if he’s reminding himself and not just you.
He leans down and buries his head in the crook of your neck, pressing gentle kisses against your skin. You lie there and revel in the feeling, letting out small sighs as you feel him twitch so barely inside you.
But then you feel… movement. And not in the way of small twitches here and there. Almost like he’s sinking himself deeper inside you.
“Joel,” you say sternly.
“Hm?” he asks, voice drunk with lust.
“You said just the tip.”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry.” He pulls back again, hovering over you as he adjusts himself. He closes his eyes as he draws his cock back, cursing under his breath. “You just feel so good.”
“...Really?”
“So fuckin’ good, angel. It’s like you were made for me.”
“...Well how can you tell? You only put the head in.”
“I just know it… Unless…”
“Just say it, Joel,” internally wincing in anticipation of his response.
“Unless you let me feel all of you.”
And there it is.
“I…”
“We don’t have to.”
“I know…”
“It won’t just feel amazing, sweetheart. For both of us. Can’t you feel how bad I want you?”
His cock twitches again. You’re left feeling conflicted. His eyes are wide, pleading with you. A small part of you wants to feel all of him. But the rational side of you tells you that now is not the time or place to decide if you want to lose your virginity or not, not when he’s already semi-inside you. You should just follow through with what you initially agreed on… Right?
“Okay,” you nod. “Do it.”
Against your better judgment.
“Really?”
“Yes,” you say with a shaky breath.
Wrong choice.
He places his hands by either side of your head, watching your face as he slowly thrusts himself inside you. Your breath hitches in your throat as you take every inch of him, feeling your walls adjust to his size. He buries himself down to the hilt, stopping and letting you get accustomed to the newfound girth. It’s uncomfortable at first but he takes it slow, not moving until you give him the okay.
“How are you feeling?”
“Good,” you say, your voice breathy and high-pitched.
“Can I move?”
“Mhm.”
And then… pleasure. Pleasure builds up in your core as he slowly thrusts in and out of you. His eyes are fixated on you, watching for any signs of discomfort or pain. But you’re in a state of bliss, your hands gripping the sheets for purchase.
“You feel… amazing, Joel,” you breathe.
“Yeah?”
“Yes… Please go faster.”
He doesn’t protest. Instead, he draws his hips back and thrusts into you at a faster pace. Sweat forms on his forehead and messy curls stick to his skin. His brow furrows and his jaw goes slack, fixated on the pursuit of your pleasure.
“Such a good girl for me,” he praises, slamming into you harder. “Letting me fuck you like this.”
You’re past the point of sentences, responding in the form of moans. You feel your own pleasure peaking, the tension in your core threatening to spill over.
“Joel, I think I’m gonna cum,” you whine.
It’s a feeling you’ve never felt before. Sure, you’ve come around his fingers in the past but this is different.
“Oh, fuck. Gonna cum on my cock, angel? Come on, let me feel it.”
And then… a release, harder than you’ve ever felt before. Stars dance in your vision and tears spring in the corners of your eyes. You’re thrown into a state of bliss, feeling like you’re floating. The noises around you turn into a monotone ringing sound as you ride out your high, unable to process what Joel’s saying. But just as your orgasm begins to ebb and flow, Joel pulls out, coming all over your stomach.
“Fuck,” he curses.
You’re brought back down to earth as he collapses beside you on the bed. The only sound in the room is your pants, both of you feeling the aftershocks of your highs. It falls silent between you two. You’re not sure what he’s thinking but you’re processing what just happened. The tears in your eyes don’t subside. They stay put as you stare at the ceiling, grappling with the reality that… You’re no longer a virgin.
Joel rolls over and whispers in your ear, “Thank you.”
“For what?” You have to fight for your voice to not come out shaky.
“For feeling comfortable enough with me to do that.”
“...Yeah?” you ask, seeking any form of comfort.
“Mhm. I love you, sweetheart.”
The drowsiness in his voice is evident and soon enough, he drifts off to sleep, an arm slung around your waist. But as for you, you can’t fall asleep, not just because of the mess all over your skin, but because of the sense of loss you feel. A pit forms in your stomach and you can’t stop repeating the phrase, I’m not a virgin anymore over and over again. Tears roll down your cheeks as you do your best to stifle any sobs. Joel can’t wake up and see you like this.
Joel… Your once doting and loving boyfriend feels so different now. He’s changed all in the span of one evening. Unless… God, it feels like you peeled back the curtain and saw a glimpse of what’s underneath, the monster that lies within. What have you gotten yourself into? What sort of man have you given yourself to? Questions you don’t know the answers to just yet.
So you grieve the loss silently, asking yourself, What have I done?
And like a dog who's learned a new trick Simon rings your bell the next day. Wasn't happy with how he left it, and wasn't that faucet leaking? He's got plenty of spare wood in his shed, don't you worry. What's that about the boiler making a weird noise? He'll take a look at it, might have something for the draft in the hallway too. Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench.
tags: construction worker simon/neighbour reader
part 1 | part 2
Summer is the worst time of year for construction work outside. Up early before the birds are awake to try and beat the heat, arriving on site at six or earlier with bleary eyes and creaky joints from the day before. It means coming home at four or five with lots of day left to get through yet without the will or energy to do anything beside shower, eat, watch some telly, and sleep.
The pay is good and it beats sitting in a cramped office all day, but when Simon gets home with aching knees and the thrum of a headache at the back of his skull it's hard to remember why on Earth he chose the career he's in. He's drenched in sweat, large dark patches adorning his pits and back.
It's one of those days where very little can make him stray from his commute straight to home to collapse into his big falling-apart chair, but today it's not really up to him. A large moving truck blocks his driveway. The faded company logo against dirty white overtakes the entire view of his windshield, though Simon can see the back doors are still swung open. No one to attend to it, though.
Simon noticed the FOR SALE! sign had gone, of course. Remembers feeling vaguely pleased, even, that the home next to his wouldn't be empty anymore, because he of all people knows exactly how quickly places can fall apart without anyone tending to it. But right now all he feels is tired, and hot, and really fucking annoyed. Just when he's clicked his belt loose to get out of the car and see if the dolt belonging to the truck is anywhere to be found, voices carry from the open front door.
“...last. I'm afraid it's a little heavy, though, so maybe we should get the boxes out first?”
And out steps the sweetest little thing he's ever seen. Hair tied up, tight little top, and shorts that give him ample view of your legs.
Maybe summer's not so bad after all.
You're talking to a bloke wearing a uniform that matches the moving truck and who looks flushed in the face from exertion. As soon as you clock Simon's car, though, you stop mid-sentence in surprise, and then quickly walk to him, brows furrowed apologetically.
“Oh, I'm so sorry—you're trying to get past us, aren't you?” Simon gives you a nod, and you turn back to the mover. “Would you mind moving the truck up a little? I don't want it to be in the way.”
There's precious little parking space ahead, so Simon rolls down his window and calls out to you, “Jus’ backing up a few yards s’fine.” He gestures to his driveway so you know that's where he's headed, and you flash him a smile and a thumbs-up in understanding.
The truck is moved, Simon parks his car, and you pull another heavy-looking box from the cube. You never reach your new doorstep with it; Simon steps in and lifts it from your hands. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweetly with surprise. “Oh—are you sure? It's heavy...!”
One corner of Simon's mouth tugs up. Tired as he is it weighs next to nothing, and he can't resist holding it with one arm, holding out the other.
“Can take ‘nother if you need.”
You laugh and assure him this is quite enough, then jog back to the truck while Simon pushes past the half-open door to his new neighbour's home.
It's a mess, of course. Piles of boxes, scattered furniture, rolled-up carpets. Simon puts the box down in the living room, then saunters back outside to lift another from your hands. He does the same with the couch; the mover is struggling and Simon doesn't trust him not to let it fall and crash. And you're such a little thing. Just doesn't feel right, watching you rush around and struggle without stepping in.
With Simon's help it's quick work. The mover thanks Simon before driving off, but he's not really listening. There's much more important things to pay attention to.
You're pretty. Cheeks flushed from exertion, breathing hard, flyaway hairs from your ponytail sticking up in odd directions. Simon has to suppress the urge to smooth them away.
"Thanks so much for the help,” you tell him earnestly. “I'm sorry we were in the way—we thought we'd have a little more time before people started coming home from work.”
“S’alright,” Simon says. It's nearing evening, now, the sky above you glowing in pale pink and oranges hues. The little smatter of trees across from you rustles with a gust of summer wind.
You introduce yourself and insist on giving Simon your number “in case there's ever anything you need.” Simon's more concerned about a young woman living all on her own but takes your number all the same, watching your pretty little fingers tap it in on his phone.
“I mostly work from home, but I'm very quiet and boring,” you tell him with a smile. “You don't have to worry about noise.”
For some reason that isn't the selling point it should be. When Simon stands inside his hallway, house empty and dark and quiet, he wishes he still lived in a shitty apartment with thin walls on the bad side of Manchester. Maybe then he'd hear your footsteps, or better yet, your voice. Instead the only thing waiting for him at home is silence. Heavy and thick, where he's ripped away from sweet sunshine and plunged underwater.
-
Simon is halfway to falling asleep on the couch when the bell rings. He groans, drags a hand over his face, and glances up at the TV. The football match is still going. The camera pans over a cheering crowd, their cries distant and quiet.
He mutes the thing entirely and heaves himself up to open the door. Swear to God, if this is the fucking salesman again...
“Hi there.”
You give Simon a little finger wave, your other hand cradling a round oven dish. When you shift on your feet the protective foil on top rustles noisily.
You look a little more put together than you did yesterday—rested, showered, fed. Just as pretty.
Although, speaking of fed...
“Alright?” Simon asks, eyes on the oven pan. He's only catching a faint whiff of something, but whatever it is smells really fucking good. His stomach reminds him that the only thing in his fridge are a couple cans of beer.
You nod and lift the dish with a shy little grin. “Yeah. Um. I wanted to say thanks again, for yesterday. And I wanted to test out my oven, so...”
You hold the dish out for him to take. Simon's fingers brush yours, large meaty paws easily twice the size of your own. When he peels back the foil you add, “Shepherd's pie. I thought about cookies, but I wasn't sure if you'd like those.”
The scent hits him, then, rich and hearty and buttery smooth. The dish is still a little warm.
Fuck. When was the last time he ate something homemade?
“No, I'll eat anything,” he says, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. He hasn't showered yet. Must look a nightmare. Does he stink? “Thanks.”
Your whole face lights up, and Simon's neck feels hot. He averts his eyes to avoid your gaze and pretends to inspect the pie instead. Jesus, what is he, twelve? “I'm glad. I'll leave you to it, then.”
D’you want to come in for a drink?
It's on the tip of his tongue, but he can't get the words out quite right and gives you a brusque nod, watching you walk back to your own home before closing his door all the way.
He eats at his kitchen table and finishes the whole thing in one go. Chases bits of flakey crust with his finger, licks up every leftover crumb. The meat is tender and juicy and for a while after the only things he smells is golden-brown potatoes seasoned with rosemary.
He mourns it when it's gone, of course. Has half a mind to go over right now and ask if your cooking is for hire—Simon can't remember the last time he felt satisfied. When he ate not just for the sake of fuel or convenience but because someone wanted him to have something nice, something special. Is it special? Is he special? Are you going around the neighbourhood handing out cookies and pies to just anyone?
Simon's sigh is loud in the silence and sticks to the kitchen walls.
The pre-made frozen meals are fine, of course. Empty plastic containers fill up the rubbish bin. They're easy and cheap and most days Simon's glad just to have something warm in his stomach.
And yet.
The next day Simon stands at your door at six in the evening sharp, holding the clean dish in his hands. You invite him in for a cup of tea, because unlike him you have good manners, and you sheepishly apologise for the stacks of boxes everywhere.
“S’alright,” Simon says, carefully manoeuvring around a large pile of books. “I don't mind.”
And he doesn't, though he does feel like a bull in a china shop. Large and much too coarse for the little tea cup you hand him while the kettle whistles on the stove.
“I'm afraid I don't have much to go with it,” you say with a flutter of your hands. “Do you like ginger snaps? I think I've got a pack somewhere.”
You don't wait for his answer and pry open one of the cupboards. First come the ginger snaps, then the box of Earl Grey, which you hold up to him with a triumphant smile. “Unpacked the important stuff first.”
Simon frowns and jerks his chin to the cupboard. “S’it stuck?”
“Oh—yeah. They all are.” You give the wood a little knock. “It'll take me some time to get to fixing everything. The house went for a good price, but only ‘cause it needs some love.” You give him a rueful smile and get up, wiping your hands on your thighs. “I'm not all that handy, so I'll have to take it bit by bit.”
Simon rises before you finish your sentence. "Let me see.”
“Oh, no, it's okay. It's not a big deal, really—”
Simon crouches down, slowly, to spare his knees, and tests the hinges. The wood is rotten in certain places, the hinges old and rusted. Rather than fixing it up it should be replaced entirely. You really better had gotten this place for good money, because this will take more than a bit of elbow grease to repair. He prods at the hinges, tuts, and looks up at you.
“Ready to fall apart, this one. You said they're all like this?”
You nod, worry creasing your brow. “I—yes. Well, the kitchen is. The bathroom seems alright. Is it worse than I thought?”
“Might be. You have anyone look at this?”
You shake your head. “I'm starting to feel silly about it now, but I was going to look up how to do it myself.”
Simon straightens. “I'll go get my kit.”
-
It's not as bad as he feared. Two cabinets need tearing down completely, but the others are worth saving. Simon warns you the repair job will fuck the wood, but you tell him it's no problem; you'll paint over it anyway.
You feed him tea and ginger snaps while he works, asking him several times if he wouldn't like a break, hasn't he done a lot already? You feel terrible about having him work on his day off. Didn't he say he worked construction? He must be so tired, poor man. You insist he stay for dinner. “You've been so helpful—it's the least I could do.”
Simon takes a breather to watch you cook. Chicken, pasta, summer salad. The sun sinks lower and hits you straight on from the kitchen window, painting the edges of you a dazed red-gold. An angel's halo.
“You big on reading, then?”
You turn down the heat and put a lid over the pan to join him at the table. Simon's eyeing the many books strewn about on top of boxes that say “pans” and “kitchen supplies”. Le Morte D’Arthur. Histories of the Kings of Britain. Beowulf. There's even one that prompts a vague, long-forgotten memory from his school days— The Canterbury Tales.
“I am. Always have been.” You nod to the books. “I teach at university—medieval literature. But I'm working on my own research on the side.”
Simon lets out a low whistle. His pretty bird is a clever one. Smarter than him, that's for sure. He might be big and strong but he's got bricks for brains.
That's what his dad always used to say, anyway—that he's stupid. Those always were his kinder moments.
“That explains all the books y’got.”
“There sure are a lot of them, aren't there? I swear moving really makes you realise just how much stuff you own...” You shake your head. “I'll have to get a bigger bookcase.”
“Think it's impressive.”
Your eyes crinkle with a smile. “Not as impressive as knowing how to fix my cabinets! I don't know how I would've managed by myself.” You hop up from your seat to check the food, then ask over your shoulder, “Is that something you do a lot for work, too? Carpentry and the like?”
Simon shakes his head. “We do the heavy lifting. Clearing a place out, laying the foundation. Johnny—my coworker, he's mostly on machinery. Kyle does transport and plumbing. I do the heavier handiwork.”
You hum and start plating the food while asking him more questions. Is the pay good? Is his boss fair? Are his coworkers nice?
Price's fairly strict is what he is, Simon answers, and you laugh again. He likes that. Likes that he gets you to do that.
He wolfs down a plate of his pasta and devours the chicken. It's fragrant, roasted with lemon and thyme, bursts between his teeth. He tells you more about Johnny, that he's a cocky bastard who likes playing with electricity way too much, but that he's also a loyal friend. That he's a hard worker—that all of them are.
When his plate is empty and he's eyeing what's left in the pans you push them closer without saying anything, and prompt him to tell you about that time a plumbing line exploded and Kyle got soaked from tip to toe in disgusting gunk. He smelt like sewage water for weeks.
Simon doesn't even realise how much he's talked until his throat starts feeling rougher than usual. You make it easy somehow. If he'd thought you would look down on him because of your own job he needn't have worried. You're not at all like what he imagines when he thinks of professors, none of the stuffy superiority complex he's used to weathering when people find out all he does all day is chafe his fingers on hard cement.
Maybe you're just good at faking it, but he doubts it. The sparkle in your eyes when you listen to him so intently has to be real.
You send him home with a warm thanks and dessert, and Simon feels something in his chest lurch when you peer up at him through your lashes in the doorway, smiling and sweet. Can't remember the last time he went out for dates. Can't remember having the time or energy for it.
And like a dog who's learned a new trick Simon rings your bell the next day. Wasn't happy with how he left it, and wasn't that faucet leaking? He's got plenty of spare wood in his shed, don't you worry. What's that about the boiler making a weird noise? He'll take a look at it, might have something for the draft in the hallway too.
Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench.
There are days when it's hard, of course. Simon is only human, and spending days and days on sizzling hard concrete would wring anyone dry. The project is coming along nicely, but at the height of summer there's plenty of times when even the promise of your smile isn't enough to keep him from falling asleep on his couch—often on an empty stomach.
But during the weekends he rings your bell dutifully. Six o’clock becomes something sacred in his mind, sweet relief after praying on his knees for hours smoothing out cement. It gets to the point where he turns down Friday drinks with the guys more than once because he's got something to go home for now, his pretty little bird that's never once mentioned a boyfriend of any kind.
“You really should let me pay you.”
Simon gives you a look before pushing his large shoulders further into the cabinet under the bathroom sink. “Should be the one payin’ you. I know I'm doubling your grocery bill.”
He eats more at your place than his own these days. It gives him incentive to rush through a shower, dress like something resembling a human, then wait at your doorstep to be let in. Wagging tail and everything.
Your cheeks darken and you duck your head. “No, um... It makes me happy. To see you eat my cooking, I mean,” you confess a little shyly. “I feel like I'm the one getting everything out of this. I hope I'm not keeping you from—from spending time at home, or with your family.”
“S’just me, love.” Simon pauses, pretends to inspect the pipes. “Less you don't want me coming ‘round anymore.”
“No, no,” you say hastily. “No, I like—I like the company. Really.” Your voice softens. “And I'm not just saying that because I appreciate the help.”
Simon exhales, shifts a little to accommodate the strain in his boxers, and holds his hand out for the screwdriver.
Simon 'GHOST' Riley x Fem!Reader
Task Force 141 x Fem!Reader (Platonic)
Summary: You're a rat, a traitor. At least that's what Task Force 141 believes due to the evidence and claims scattered against you. It doesn't matter what you say, everyone's against you, ready to end you for it...until the truth comes out.
Warning(s): Torture, Heavy Angst, etc.
If you liked this would you Buy my a Coffee?
---
Drip.
Drip..
Drip...
Your shoulders seize up involuntarily as freezing droplets continue to hit your skin, eyes squeezed shut to try to ignore the sound that had been going on for who knows how long.
Another drop of water hits your spine from the faucet placed above you, it's cold as it runs down your bare skin. It feels like ice. Hitting the same spot over and over and over...
Drip...
Not even able to take a deep breath, you release a strained cry, it can hardly leave you, not that you hadn't cried enough already. You could feel the dried blood, tears and snot still on your face and a testament to your torment. You haven't been able to get the metallic taste of your blood of of your mouth since you got in here.
You breathe slowly, trying to relieve the pain in your chest. Body positioned downwards, chest pressed down to your knees, a leather buckle holds you down and over a metal stool. Wrists torn open by old shackles and stretched upwards to connect to the steel pipe in the middle of the room.
The stress position had been Johnny's idea, putting you in it to begin with. The bastard...
Kyle had been in and out to collaborate with Price on the interrogation, he didn't have the heart to do you any harm like his Captain. But, that didn't stop him from stomaching your screams as he turned the handle up, piercing cold crashing down atop you, it beats down on your back, by the time it's done your shaking, and your skin a bruising purple hue. It goes on like that for hours, even as you beg. He reads you the files again.
Price would then take the baton from the corner of the room, the side of your face already swollen from the last strike, you were seeing red out of your left eye and soon you wouldn't be able to see out of it if the swelling continued.
"Please..." you shivered, miserably.
"Over in a jiff, love, but i need somethin' from you, you know that." Was his reply, he tapped the baton against the metal below you, the reverb makes you jump each time, leaving you to stare at it as you watched his boots walk around you.
"Cap'n, It's not...It's not--me..." you tried, breathless. "I'd never.."
The steel baton came down on your shoulder, first. There was an immediate response from your constricted muscles, limbs that had all tensed up at once despite their numbness. Pulling at the shackles that kept you in place, the hit shocks you, nearly silencing you completely, it hurts, then it burns. Mouth open in a silent scream, you squeeze your eyes shut in an effort to block out the pain that crawled through your shoulder. "It's not me!"
You've been suffering from hypothermia for a few days since then. Your shoulder crushed right out of place or just plain broken, you weren't sure. It's not like you could feel much of your arms in this position.
It hurt. Not just the painful strain that this position was currently putting on your muscles, but everything else...
Of course, you've handled torture alike this before. Captured and tortured by enemies, ransomed for pay and fought tooth and nail to live, then found your way from that hell...only for the men who you'd kill for, to do the same thing to you with no remorse.
In the quiet of the empty room, you sobbed in agony. Squeezing your fists, but you couldn't even feel them, as far as you knew your fingers could only twitch in response to your demand.
You weren't sure what you were doing here.
Well, you knew. There was a mole, all evidence pointing to you, whatever it was had completely stunted their mission earlier in the week, left them hiding in a safe house for days until they were picked up by evac. Apparently, you'd leaked mission details to some hostiles over seas, you weren't sure which ones, they were hoping you could tell them. You had absolutely nothing, lost.
Of course, they didn't believe you. Although you expected to have at least a sliver of trust, someone to speak up against these claims and believe you...
It must've been too much to ask.
It came out of nowhere, at first you had been in bed with Simon, your fucking Fiancé, then that meeting with Price, then just...they'd cornered you in that room. Knocked you out without even an explanation, woke you up strapped down, confused, stripped of your uniform and feral as you demanded answers. Nobody listened to you.
That first night you thought you were gonna die. The second night you thought you had. The third night you were just convinced this was your hell.
You were soaked to the bone, and unable to stop shivering. The only sound you could hear was your own chattering teeth in this never-ending void of darkness.
It was so fucking dark in here, your eyes darting around to every corner, hoping for even a measly crack of light that your eyes could adjust to. Every sound, scratch, scrape or click made you jump, you couldn't see shit in here, so just about everything made you hyper aware. You couldn't help your anxiety as the sound of the faucet, the constant drops against your spine, the jingle of your shackles and the whimpers that echoed against the walls as you struggled to comfortably breathe. Maybe it was the thought of a mouse crawling up the stool and along your skin, or someone in here just staring at you in the corner, or the door finally opening for Price to start slicing into you demanding answers you didn't have.
You were on the cusp of losing your mind. If you hadn't already.
But it's been a few hours since then...
Maybe even a few days...
It could even have been a week.
You weren't too sure.
Simon had been the last one in here. He'd pulled the strap loose around your neck, hauling you up to an upright position by your jaw, eliciting a whimper from your lips. Able to breathe a bit easier, your lungs finally decompressing and you gulp down air greedily, "Simon..." this had been the first time you'd seen him since. He wears his balaclava, he is Ghost, not your Simon Riley.
As your bloodshot, swollen eyes raise to look into his cold ones, so unfeeling. You hadn't even realized you were so hopeful for his trust in you until then, looking at you like you were absolutely nothing to him, the same look he always had before pulling the trigger. "Simon, please, stop this..." your words slurred by your shivering, exhausted. "You know me...please."
Your tears slide over the leather of his gloved hands, while he holds tight to your face and cuts your pleads short with a painful squeeze. "Shut up," he says. His eyes are blank, but his voice is low and seething. "Shut the fuck up!" Simon harshly grits out to you, jostling you harshly. You squeeze your eyes shut, weeping miserably, throat closing up to your agony.
He had to know that you would've never done this to him. He should've known that. Given you the benefit of the doubt at least. You'd have never done this to him...
"I'm sorr-" you try, he squeezes harder to silence you swiftly, and snatches a tiny bowl off the tray he'd brought in. Raising your jaw a bit higher, he pours down a chunky broth into your mouth, letting it all just fall down to your throat. It's disgusting. He doesn't ease up for even a second as you toss and turn your head to breathe.
"Don't say a fucking word," he seethes, his hand enveloping your neck and keeping your head raised upward. "As if I should believe you..."
He then takes the next cup to do the same, your eyes bloodshot wide and you jerk away from him as you choke, unable to stomach anything, but he doesn't let you. This time you inhale accidentally, blocking your airway, eyes watering as you writhe for oxygen, your shackles clang violently as you attempt to retaliate, the first fight you've put up in days. His grip doesn't let up, even as you struggle and start to vomit up whatever he decided to shove down your throat.
When he finally lets go, you curve over and heave up whatever's left in your mouth, hyperventilating as you empty your guts on the floor. Hacking up whatever you can, it hurts, your throat burning from the sobs that leave you in between coughs. "If you love me, if you--ever had--" there was a rule in training, to let enemies that it was working, that their torture had taken its toll. You were always a rule breaker... this was no different apparently. "You would fucking believe me!" your voice cracks with the effort it takes to scream at him, to curse him to hell.
"My trust? That's what you want," Hollow eyes stare back at you, his attention flickering around to the uncomfortable shift of your shoulders in those cuffs. Your swollen left eye that had been hit so hard, the white of it had filled with blood. The black and blue littering your sides and your spine, the loss of color in your skin from the stress position and the cold that had you uncontrollably shivering. "You've had it before. You must've sold that to them too."
Your head drops to the stool again, releasing a heavy breath. "It wasn't worth much, if it was so easy to lose..."
Usually it's not very easy to set Simon off, you've known him always to be quite mellow, besides the barely concealed rage he had settled in his chest since you've known him. But, today, you were an exception.
Fisting a hand in your hair, Simon yanks at it, pulling you upwards for your to face him. His other hand coming up to wrap around your throat before your tortured scream can even manifest. In that moment, it feels as if he'd snapped your spine in half, having not used the muscles to stretch that area in over a week. Your shackled wrists shifting in the cruel position.
His eyes are wild and rageful, the balaclava that covers him twists just the same, his grip very telling to his violence as he squeezes down any chance at air or even a sentence. "Easy to lose..." he repeats, spitting in your face as he strangles you. "Easy t'lose your life! If you don't tell me the fucking truth," he pulls out the knife you'd seen him slit so many throats with before, you hear the familiar sound of it first then its cold steel pressing into the side of your ribs. "I'm gonna carve out your heart, and I'll take it real slow, let you feel every little thing I do to you in here," he shakes you harshly as a startled cry escapes you, your tears are burning hot against your cheeks. "You don't get to cry. Or whine. Or beg!"
"Stop--" you try to squirm away from him, to get as far away as possible, from this place, from this moment.
"Just tell me the truth," Simon's face twisted in agony, for just a second, his thumb drags along your jaw, meaningfully. "You'd be doing us both a favor..."
As his vast hand finally loosed around your neck just enough to hold you up, awaiting the bitter truth. Simon's knife catches on the protrusion of your ribs, nicking the skin, drawing blood on purpose. You stare up at the ceiling, the flickering old lights, the dripping faucet that's tormented your already fragile state for weeks now. "The truth..." you spoke, hoarsely. "You've all shown me...it doesn't matter to you. If it ever... Believe what you want--" you close your eyes, you're exhausted. Sleep had evaded you for days. "You and your truth and this team, you can all go to hell."
And finally he lets you go, letting your fall forwards, unable to find the relief of a cold floor but back to the strenuous position you'd been placed in. "AH!" nearly popping your shoulders out of place, or maybe they had, you bite down on your tongue, shaking in silence.
If you could see Simon's face, you could've relished in the uncertainty flickering in his eyes, the sudden doubt that led his knife back in its holder and his nails to bite into the flesh of his palms. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing leaves him, instead he stands there.
You can't say a thing to him now, everything that's happened was just a little reminder that whatever you said, whatever you did, it didn't matter. Their minds had already been made. You really would die here.
Simon stands there a little longer, he doesn't say anything, you're not sure if he stays there to watch your suffering a little longer or to wait to say another heart-wrenching thing. Maybe he's just there to wait for you to die. But, he just watches as you wretch and cry in a ball atop that stool.
He leaves not long after, he didn't bother to strap you down this time. He left the old light on, but it must've been older than you thought.
The single bulb fizzled out completely hours ago. Not unless one of them decided to cut the silence and turn on the light to start another 'questioning', so suddenly being able to see more than darkness wasn't anything to be excited about.
They'd leave you in the dark until then, to await the next moment any of them would grace you with their presence.
To be honest, you'd imagined you'd be stronger than this. But, there was nothing to hold onto, so what did strength matter?
It was too late anyway.
They'd broken you days ago.
---
The truth had come out, two days later.
"Oh god..."
"Oh my fucking God," Simon rushed down the corridor, Price tailing right behind him. "Oh my God!" his normal monotone voice now a mess of fear and panic, breathing harsher, on the cusp of hyperventilating with every stride as he ran faster than he ever had in his life.
Finally getting to the interrogation wing of the department, he bangs his fist on the plexiglass of those silently monitoring the rooms, "Open the fucking door!" he's buzzed in before he can pull on the handle another time.
Rushing down the hall to the now green lit room, lights flickering to life with every step closer down the hall of empty rooms. He nearly rips the door off its hinges as he bursts inside, the lights of the your tiny prison don't come to life as they should. Light spilling into the cell, to hit your limp figure first.
He doesn't deserve to say your name. "(Y/n)," Simon rushes over, to his knees instantly. A puddle of vomit, water and spoiled broth soaks through his uniform.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry," he sobs out his mistakes, unhooking your chains and cutting through your buckles as fast as he could. "Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" he catches his fiancé as you collapse, turning over and off the stool, your legs having lost all sense of feeling. You fall into his arms, catching you carefully. "Price!" he cries out, desperately.
"They're on the way!" Your captain assures, he sees the medical team rushing down the hallway, a stretcher, a box of medical supplies. Christ.
You're freezing to the touch, your skin a hue of blue, not to mention the bruises, the cuts and the swollen areas throughout your face and spine. You suddenly inhale, sharply, coughing terribly. You're sick, breathing shakily, "Simon...?" you breathe, confused. You can't see. Your eyes swollen shut from your torture at their hands.
"It's me, it's me," Simon assured, although he knew it probably brought you no comfort. He snatches the blanket offered up by Price, your captain a mess of himself, holding himself together at the doorway, nails biting into the steel.
As Simon wraps you in the first glimpse of warmth you've had in days, you ease up a bit, fingers twitching upwards to pull the threads closer around yourself. "It wasn't..." you shiver, Simon listens intently as he rises with you in his arms, running off to meet the medical team halfway. "It wasn't me..." you gasp out. "It wasn't..."
Simon can't say a thing as he hears your tormented voice stutter in fear of him, lips pressed tight together, heart sinking and as the nurses take your body, he collapses to his knees.
price getting mad at a mouthy reader that bites a little too hard...
daddy kink, degradation, use of she/her and girl
John drags his thumb along your canine, pouting his bottom lip as he tuts in disingenuous pity. "My poor girl. Jus' needs somethin' to bite on, doesn't she?"
He looks between your eyes, wide and watery, as the taste of cigarette ash and something undeniably John runs across your tongue, pressing it to the floor of your mouth.
"But that thing isn't fuckin' Daddy."
The slap is sharp, recoiling against your cheek with a blinding snap of your head.
"Makin' me smack this pretty lil' mouth instead of usin' it like it's meant for. Why d'you make Daddy do these things, huh?"
He holds out his hand, his palm a splotchy red from the impact that matches the angry tinge around the few bite marks littered across his fingers.
"Y'were bein' so good, warming my fingers, 'n y'had to go and ruin it."
The grooves left by your teeth flex with the curl of his hand, whitening around the indents. "Look at that," he chides, bringing them up to your mouth. "Kiss them."
You rush to bring your lips against his skin, wetly kissing and lapping at the marks. John watches you lavish his fingers, an almost unreadable expression on his face, save the furrow of his brow. When he deems they're are suitably wet, they're tugged from your mouth, ignoring the whimpers that follow his retracting hand.
"Let's try this again."
You're everything but pushed off the couch as he drags you between his thighs, free hand fumbling with the waistline of his pants.
simon cucks some poor guy for flirting with u
simon and aftercare
simon edging himself
pussy drunk simon with loose lips
devoted service!dom simon and the way he grinds into u
simon smoking while u ride him
pent up simon condescending!simon
worshipping simons balls
fucking u while on the phone — PLM!universe
angst hybrid au
thigh riding
trying anal for the first time
gun play
mean!simon cum play punishment (dubcon warning)
simon jerking off
simon receiving aftercare
concerned simon with a size kink
giving simon head while he drives
creampie with pussydrunk!simon
simon training your throat
pornstar!ghost
JOHN MACTAVISH !
soaps leaky cock videos
KYLE GARRICK !
fingering you to sleep
KONIG !
using ur clit as a fidget toy
soft!könig characterization
könig overstimming himself
using könig's cock as a fidget toy
pussyjob bc he doesn't wanna prep u
eating u out bc u had a bad day
KEEGAN RUSS !
mean!keegan brat taming
keegan fucking up into u to relieve stress
loud!keegan
SERIES / MULTI !
situationship with simon vs golden retriever könig
soap asking simon to help fuck u properly
unnamed hybrid au: one | two | three (complete) ft. simon, soap, + gaz
shadow entity!ghost: one | two | three (in progress)
OR: Home Videos. You (fem!reader) and Ghost have been married for years when your prodigal friend Johnny finds out that you make and post porn together. Feelings happen. 13k
About this: m/m, f/m, oral f and m receiving, anal sex, PIV, kink, pornography, sir kink, slight objectification, objectionable writing, soft!simon, very soft fic altogether, cum sharing.
-
((A video begins.
A bed in a tidy room. Identifying features have been hidden: pictures placed face down on the nightstands, blinds drawn tight until the room is cast in a cool glow. A woman sits amongst the nondescript bedspread and sheets, her legs tucked up against her chest and arms wrapped around her thighs, naked except for the mask that does little to truly obscure her face.
Once she knows the video has begun, it is like she blooms, arms and legs falling away to reveal the soft petals of her nakedness: the plains of her body, the angles and curves. She’s near perfect, Soap thinks, already fisting his hard cock.
She looks almost exactly like you.
Then a man walks around from the other side of the camera, and Soap’s heart leaves his body.))
-
“Johnny!” you say brightly, throwing open the front door. In streams the cold air and bright sunshine reflecting off the snow, and in steps Johnny with snowflakes in his hair and on the shoulders of his coat, gifts wrapped in bright shades of gold and silver tucked beneath one of his arms.
He stomps his feet, boots shedding packed snow on the doormat, and leans in to deposit the gifts a safe distance away so that he can open his arms and gather you up in them. Your fingers tangle in his jacket, holding him close. He is warm even after coming in from the snow, his scent like Christmas itself: woodsy pine and crackling fires. You feel Simon’s presence appear in the living room doorway and begin to pull away, trying not to hog his friend, even if you desperately want to.
“Lookit you, bonnie as ever,” Johnny says against your ear. He lets you go, bending down to unlace his boots and call a greeting to Simon: “I see you brooding over there, LT. Happy Christmas to yeh.”
“No titles at Christmas, Johnny.”
“Yessir.”
“You didn’t need to bring gifts,” you scold him.
“Of course I did—it’s fucking Christmas,” says Johnny with a grin as he straightens. He passes you the gifts, a small package and a larger one, each wrapped by a practiced hand that you sense must not have been Johnny’s own. You wonder if there isn’t a girl in his life now—except you and Simon had extended the invitation to one, if so. Why he wouldn’t have brought her, you couldn’t understand.
Maybe his mum wrapped the gifts.
Simon and Johnny clasp hands which turns into a hug. Watching them together makes the dust settle in some riotous part of your heart. The two of them—their friendship—just makes perfect sense in its improbability.
Simon mutters something under his breath and Johnny nods, burying his face deeper into Simon’s broad shoulder. You have the perfect vantage point of Johnny’s face: his eyes squeezed shut, long lashes resting on his cheeks.
A timer in the kitchen goes off—the roast you’ve been cooking since the early morning hours. Excusing yourself, you disappear into the kitchen, pausing just beyond the doorway to press your chilly hands to your flushed cheeks.
Wine. You needed wine.
-
“So,” you begin once the three of you have sat down for dinner. “Fill us in, Johnny. What have you been up to?”
The unsaid words linger between you all, What have you been up to during the three years you left? Johnny gives a wane smile, and you think that maybe the time spent apart didn’t serve him nearly as well as he’d hoped it would—however he’d hoped it would. Simon sits at the head of the table, his ankle tangled against your own beneath the oak. It’s a comforting reminder of his presence, considering he lets you and Johnny do most of the talking for now.
“Whole lot o’ nothing,” Johnny says, sipping at the wine in his glass between sentences. “Traveled abroad fer a while. Spent some time in America, some time in South Korea.”
“Sounds like a nice place to meet people,” you say, aiming for subtlety the way a sledgehammer might. “I notice you didn’t take us up on our invitation and bring a lass with you.”
“No lass to bring, hen,” he says smoothly.
Simon’s ankle stirs against your own, some silent attempt at communication. When you glance over toward him, his eyes are on his plate, face stoic, revealing nothing.
“Any lads?” you guess.
Simon’s fork squeaks against his plate. Johnny stops eating. For a moment they both stare at you in shocked silence. Then a grin spreads over Johnny’s handsome face, blooming straight into laughter. He shakes his head, like you have said something very silly.
“No, no lads,” he says.
Simon’s ankle shifts again.
You reach for your glass of wine, face hot—
-
—and you don’t stop drinking.
Afternoon turns into evening, and by the time night falls, the three of you have drunk your way through three bottles of wine and successfully caught each other up on your lives to date. Simon and Johnny have slipped out onto the porch twice to smoke, bringing back in the scent of tobacco and snow, one you don’t mind at all. The fire in the fireplace burns low, crackling and spitting as the log splits. The room is strewn with torn gift wrapping. Simon has already unboxed the knife Johnny had made for him, testing its weight in his palm, testing the sharpness of the blade against the pad of his thumb. (Add that to the list of things which shouldn’t arouse you about Simon but do.)
It reminds you of the idyllic Christmases that you had reached for all your life and only ever skimmed with your fingers. You should have known that the missing piece was Johnny all along.
Wine drunk, you have kicked your feet up on Johnny’s lap at one end of the couch and curled your upper half on Simon’s lap at the other end. It is easy to fall asleep to the warm lull of their voices, swapping stories from their time in the military together.
But all at once, the subject matter changes, and it drags you from the threshold of sleep into some misty gray area in between a dream and wakefulness. Eyes still closed, you listen.
“I found you both, you know.” Johnny’s voice is barely more than a whisper, difficult to hear over the crackling fire.
“Don’t know what you mean, Johnny. We’re right here.”
“I found your videos.”
Your hands tighten into fists where you are clutching Simon’s shirt, eyes cracking open as you put the pieces together in your mind. But he’s smoother than you are, always able to keep a cool head. He sounds a little bored, a little confused as he asks: “What videos?”
“Never known you to play dumb LT. You know the ones I mean. The porn.”
A lengthy silence as Simon weighs his options and likely decides that there’s no use in lying. “You did, did you?”
“Aye.”
A pause.
“So that’s why you finally came back. Three fucking years she begs you to at least come for Christmas—who knew all it would take was a little pornography to put a fire under your arse.”
“That’s not—didn’t even find it until a few days ago, after I’d already said yes—“ Johnny says, voice rising in his defense.
“Careful. We don’t want to wake her up, do we?” Simon’s hand pets against your hair, softer than a kiss from the wind. Though he must know you’re awake, you’re grateful that he lets you pretend, lets you hide away while he handles this. “If she knew that you’d seen those videos, she’d be embarrassed. That would make me upset. You understand?”
“Aye,” he says, lowering his voice a little. He rests his hand against your ankle in his lap and then decides it’s not appropriate, shifts his hand back to his own thigh. You miss his touch. You’ve always missed Johnny’s touch more than you should miss the touch of your husband’s best friend. “But if you didn’t want people to see them, I don’t understand what you were thinkin’ posting them online.”
“Three guesses. No, go on. Never known you to be shy. Guess.”
Johnny wets his lips. “You didn’t think you’d be recognized.”
“There’s one.”
“You…you like it.”
“There’s two. Give us a third.”
“She likes it.”
You groan a little in embarrassment, turning your face away from where Johnny can see its profile, burying it in Simon’s lap. He’s hard, a fact you only realize when his jean-clad cock rubs against your cheek. You go still, eyes widening as this knowledge goes straight to the warmth that’s been stoked between your legs more often than the fireplace has tonight.
Simon’s hand finds the nape of your neck and rests there, keeping you still and quiet. It reminds you of your last video, when he had taken you from behind and put his hand on the nape of your neck to urge your face into the bed, his hips snapping against your ass. Where had the camera been, then? You couldn’t remember. That was Simon’s one rule, besides the masks and never saying each other’s names: don’t look into the camera.
“So what do you plan to do with this knowledge, Johnny?” Simon asks. You hold your breath, still feigning sleep. “Who do you plan to tell? You know I don’t have anyone left who would give a fuck, but I’m sure you could find someone for her—someone who could shame her and make her feel bad for trying to feel good. Is that what you want?”
“Fuck no. I’d not tell a soul,” says Johnny fiercely. His hand comes to rest on your ankle again. This time he leaves it, thumb brushing the bone. “I swear it.”
“Then why bring it up at all?”
“I…I don’t know,” Johnny admits, head ducking. “I just had to. Spending time with yeh both, knowing what I knew—it felt dishonest.”
Simon hums. “You know what I’d like to know?”
“What’s that?”
“What our single friend was doing looking at couples porn.”
-
The night ends quickly after that. Simon carries you to bed—the bed where you film so much of the porn that Johnny has apparently seen—and helps you begin undressing while Johnny gets his boots on in the other room.
“I’m so embarrassed,” you breathe, quiet so that Johnny could not overhear if he happened to be standing right outside the door. Your head is spinning, and only partly from all the wine. Your face burns. Your heart is beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. Johnny has seen the videos, the ones you and Simon cheekily dub ‘home movies’! God, how you will ever face him again is beyond you.
“Give me the word and I’ll throw him out,” says Simon. “We’ll never see him again.”
That makes a sick feeling rise up in the back of your throat. You look up at Simon and take in the somber, angry-adjacent expression on his face, and you know that he is serious. Simon never says a word that he doesn’t mean. But you can hear what he didn’t say, the words unspoken: it would kill him to do it. All their years spent watching each other’s backs, it would be hard to stab Johnny’s and leave him in the cold. Especially after the bliss of just getting him back.
You don’t want that. Not for Simon, not for Johnny. Not even for you.
“I like Johnny,” you affirm. “I just don’t know how I’ll face him.”
“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. He’s the pervert looking in through our window.”
“We’re the perverts fucking with the blinds wide open,” you remind him.
“I’ll see him out. Finish getting undressed,” he says, disappearing through the doorway. You hear the warm timber of his voice matched by Johnny’s and the sound of the front door opening. Two sets of boots crunch through snow, and now the voices are so far away that you can’t even make out their tone, much less their words.
Stripping the last of your clothes off, you roll onto your belly and bury your face in your pillow. Tonight had been going so well. It was hard to believe how far off course things had become. What was Johnny doing looking for couples porn anyhow?
You roll back over, staring into the darkness of the ceiling. The answer was simple: because it would get him off. It didn’t matter if it was tentacles to titjobs. He’d more than likely been looking up porn while he jerked off.
Had he realized right away that it was you and Simon and turned the video off in disgust? Or had it taken a moment for it to sink in? Had he cared at all?
Or had he jerked off instead? You realize you are rubbing your thighs together belatedly and force yourself into stillness.
The front door opens, Simon stomping inside and taking off his boots. When he joins you in bed, his cheeks are still cold, mouth minty from hastily brushing his teeth of tobacco and wine. You lean in and kiss him, looking for comfort. He kisses back, sweeping his tongue through your mouth, sucking on your lower lip.
“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you whisper when you both part, not necessarily out of truthfulness, but because you feel like you shouldn’t be in the mood.
“Wasn’t expecting anything.”
You lay your head on his chest, listening to the steady sound of his heart. Your embarrassment is a little lessened now, abated by the calm that Simon exudes from his pores. It’s hard to believe that anything in the world could go wrong that Simon couldn’t handle with a twist of his hand or a few choice words. After a while, you glance up to find him still awake, staring into the darkness of the room. He meets your eyes and gives you one of his rare, wane smiles.
“What are you thinking about?” you ask him.
After a moment of silence, he says: “Our next video.”
-
((AMATEUR COUPLE: WAKING UP MY WIFE WITH MORNING SEX. Soap knows that he shouldn’t click on the link. The first time was an honest mistake, but anything afterwards is intentional—and unforgivable. If Ghost were to find out…Soap doesn’t even want to think about it.
Except why would it be wrong for Soap to do it but right for a bunch of strangers?
He doesn’t need to look down to know his cock is hard. Against his better judgement—or any judgement at all, really—he clicks the link. The video starts with Ghost in the frame, completely naked. He’s seen LT naked often enough (it’s unavoidable in such close quarters as they have shared) but he’s never looked, not like this.
Time has barely changed him. He is still fitter than any man has the right to be, thick with muscles that are for functionality and not just for show—though the show is still impressive.
While he’d always known that Ghost would be a sight to behold, seeing it in this context cements a fact in his brain, one that had sent him running years prior: he’s attracted to his closest friend. All the bad flirting disguised as taking the piss back when they were in the 141—it wasn’t just taking the piss. Not for Soap, at least.
In the video, Ghost exits the frame and crosses to the other side of the bed. He’s not wearing a mask this time but the upper half of his face remains solidly out of frame until it is offscreen again. You are positioned closest to the camera, laying on your side facing the audience. Your face isn’t visible, but your breasts are once Ghost draws the blankets down, down, and then down far enough to reveal your closed thighs.
Fuck, Soap wants to see your cunt. He grips his cock tightly and squeezes, watching raptly as Ghost loops an arm over you and begins to softly tease your nipples. Soap slips a hand up his shirt and thumbs at a nipple of his own, wishing it was the other man’s touch. His cock leaks where it lies thickly against his belly as he watches his former lieutenant tease you, trace figures over your naked body, and at last slip a hand between your thighs, working one of your legs over back of his own. Now Soap can see just a trace of your slit, so soft. It makes his jaws ache, makes him want Ghost to hold your thighs apart so that he can lick and suck you into a frenzy.
He can tell the exact moment you wake. Your body stiffens, mouth falling open as Ghost sinks two of his fingers inside you. One of your hands reaches down to grip at your husband’s forearm as you scramble into wakefulness.
“Good morning,” Ghost says.))
-
The doorbell sounds, telling Simon that Johnny has arrived, but he lets his Sergeant wait out in the cold while the kettle finishes filling. A not-small part of him is still holding a grudge against Johnny for making you so embarrassed. It had taken time for you to come into your own. Courage. The videos had been your idea, whispered in the heat of the moment beneath the cover of darkness—but with time you’d been bold enough to talk about them over dinner. To read the comments with him and laugh. To watch the videos and end up in bed all over again.
Now he could see the hesitation in your eyes whenever he pulled out his phone.
Johnny’s expression is its typical one, open, friendly, when Simon opens the door. When he sees Simon, those blue eyes grow wide before he can curb the reaction. Johnny swallows, throat bobbing.
“Hey LT. Lookit you. Laswell really has yeh behind a desk now doesn’t she?” Johnny’s hand reached out like he’s going to touch the tie that still dangles from around Simon’s neck, but he thinks better of it.
Just another hunch of Simon’s proven right.
“What part of no field work confused you?” Simon asks, stepping aside to let Johnny in.
“No confusion. Just didn’t expect yeh to look so…” He trails off, eyes flittering over Simon from his combed hair to his dress shirt stretched tight across his chest to the dress slacks that cling to his thighs. “…fancy.”
“I don’t wear the tie for Laswell’s benefit. But you already knew that.”
Johnny flushes, as good an admission as any. Wisely, he says nothing, following Simon into the kitchen and taking an offered seat at the kitchen island. His eyes flicker around the room, similar to how they had on Christmas. Then, Simon had mistaken it for Johnny taking in the way things had changed—the wallpaper is new, as is the backsplash behind the oven and stove, there are new pictures on the refrigerator—but now Simon suspects that Johnny is remembering. Piecing together backdrops he has seen in their videos.
“The missus home?” Johnny asks, drumming his fingers on the granite.
“No. Work.”
Simon pours tea for two, even though Johnny hates tea, and slides it across the countertop to him. To his benefit, Johnny accepts it without complaint, warming his hands around the mug.
“I told her.”
Johnny doesn’t need to ask what or who—they’ve both been thinking about it since the moment he walked in. Simon watches as his face twists with naked regret. It tells Simon that Johnny really didn’t know that you were only feigning sleep on Christmas.
“Is she angry with me?”
“Embarrassed.”
Johnny looks outraged on your behalf. “She has no reason t’ be!”
Simon shrugs as if to say, This is what your curiosity bought her, Johnny. This is the price she’s paying. Johnny’s shoulders sag under the weight of his own guilt, elbows bracing themselves on the countertop so that he can put his face in his hands.
“Maybe,” says Simon, “it would make more of a difference if she heard it from you.”
Johnny looks up, brow furrowed. “Heard what from me? That I’ve seen her—like that?”
Simon’s eyes roll to the ceiling. “No. That she doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of.”
Johnny turns the idea over in his head. He’s clever, but too blinded by his own desire to see the manipulation for what it is. What does it matter if it’s Simon’s idea or his own? Johnny is dying to talk to you.
“You’d give me her number?”
Simon shrugs.
“Alright,” says Johnny at length, drawing the word out. “I can do that. If you think it will help.”
Simon says nothing, sipping at his tea in case any smugness in his expression leaks through.
-
((The video begins in a kitchen, one Johnny has been in many times. You are there, back mostly to the camera, pressed against the granite island countertop. Simon is on the other side of you, consuming all your attention. Steaming Jesus, he’s huge compared to you, huge compared to everyone. He’s dressed in his work attire: dress clothes, dark tie in place. The effect is jarring in contrast with the mask.
Simon reaches up and works his tie loose and off over his head. You tilt your head down a little and on it goes, easy as anything. When Simon turns you to face the camera, the tie dangles between your bare breasts. One hand on the nape of your neck, Simon bends you forward towards the granite and Soap can tell the exact moment his cock slips inside you based on the way your mouth falls open, your eyes squeezing shut behind your own mask.
Soap isn’t sure who he’s jealous of more—you or Simon.))
-
Simon told me that he told you what I found. I just wanted to message you myself and say how sorry I am if I embarrassed you.
You sigh reading over the text message. Flexing your fingers, you give a quick glance toward where Simon lays dozing with his head against the back of the couch, feet up on the coffee table (the knife he got for Christmas rests on his chest; he’d been toying with it absently for the last half hour) and answer: There’s no reason to apologize. It’s not your fault I’m embarrassed.
It is though, isn’t it? You don’t care that other people see. You just care that I did.
You pause and bite at your nails, thinking over his words and how to respond. He’s mostly right. There had been an aspect of embarrassment at first when you and Simon began posting the videos (and that embarrassment had gotten you off to a certain extent, though it didn’t usually). But eventually that heated shame had melted away into eagerness for the camera. You’d read the comments on the videos, countless human beings talking about the various ways they masturbate to your sex with Simon, talking about the things they wish they could do to you, with you, with Simon.
So why was it so much more embarrassing knowing that Johnny had seen? Because he knew you. Because he’d seen the parts of you that you had purposefully covered up for the camera. No one was meant to see both sides—no one was meant to have all of you. Except for Simon.
But if somebody was going to do it, a small part of you is glad it was Johnny.
You’re Simon’s friend, you message back, curious. Didn’t it feel strange to see us like that?
Honestly? He doesn’t wait for you to respond. Not as strange as I might have thought.
-
((AMATEUR COUPLE: WIFE PRACTICES HER BLOWJOB SKILLS, the video is aptly titled. You are on your knees, hands tied neatly at the base of your spine. Simon sits at the edge of the bed, camera positioned perpendicular to you both, with a downward angle. Your mask is in place, but he imagines that Simon’s isn’t, not by how cleanly Simon’s voice can be heard when he says, quiet and calm: “Choke yourself on it.”
You do, leaning forward and letting his hard, flushed cock disappear past your lips deeper, deeper, until you reach the limits of what you can take without preparation or practice. His hand comes down to rest softly against the back of your head as you make yourself gag and choke around the thickest part of his cock. There’s no need to hold you down; Simon doesn’t even bother.
Soap’s jaw aches, desperate for a chance to be on his knees for Ghost like that. He could take more than you—he knows he could. Not that it had to be a competition, not when you both could share a cock that size and barely notice the other was there. He strips his own cock thinking about it, eyes falling shut as he lets the background noise of the video—Simon’s gentle praises, your whines and chokes, the wet gurgles of a throat being fucked—carry him over the edge.))
-
New Year’s Eve.
The house is full of bodies and laughter. You feel near-delirious with your own joy, never made happier than by the happiness of the people around you. Alejandro and Rodolfo had flown in and were staying in the guest house through the New Year, arriving only yesterday with enough luggage for four between the two of them; Kyle and his girlfriend; John and his wife; Kate and her partner; even Farrah and her brother had made a pit stop to spend the evening with you on their way back to Urzikstan from the Americas.
The party had been BYOB, and everyone had taken to the sentiment and more. Farrah is mixing drinks in the kitchen, strong concoctions that even John struggles to keep down. Gaz and Alejandro keep insisting on shots (which you politely decline just as often as you agree. Simon drinks nothing, his tumultuous past putting him off of hard alcohol for good).
People are well and truly drunk by the time Johnny arrives. The whoops and hollers that fill the house have you thinking that midnight has come early. A swarm of bodies surround him, and he is forced to make the rounds hugging each person and being taken to task by them for being gone for so goddamn long.
He arrives at you before Simon, and his face softens, smile going a little unsure around the edges as he opens his arms for you, the first time he’s seen you in person since Christmas. You could rebuff him, but you also can’t. It’s Johnny. Nearly tripping to toss yourself into his arms, he lifts you a few inches off the floor, nose buried in your hair.
“Bonnie as always,” he whispers into your ear after putting you back down. His hand tugs teasingly on the short hem of your dress, like he is trying to lengthen it, knuckles brushing your thighs. You swat his hand away, face flushing with warmth. It wasn’t that short.
“Johnny,” Simon calls. The two men embrace, hug lasting longer than any other. In the distance, you see Gaz elbow Price, jerking his head toward the two men.
You put a hand on Simon’s shoulder, anxious suddenly. Simon draws back, clapping Johnny on the shoulder. He orders: “Get yourself a drink.”
“Yessir.”
“None of that.”
“Games? I was told there would be games,” Gaz says, situating himself between you and Simon. He’s dressed smartly in a dress-shirt with the collar undone. Someone has put a party hat on him, cone-shaped, to celebrate the New Year. You had managed to wrestle Simon into one for thirty seconds before the first of the company arrived; the memory makes you smile.
“I have Cards Against Humanity,” you offer.
“Oh, I love that game,” Kyle’s girlfriend says to your delight.
“No—no—we aren’t in middle school here,” Johnny says. “And if we are, then I want to play truth or dare so my chances of getting kissed tonight rises exponentially.”
“Come over here and they will,” Gaz offers.
“Don’t make promises you’re not ready to keep, Garrick,” Johnny warns, grinning.
“Sounds like something a coward would say, all due respect—”
Then Johnny has a fistful of Kyle’s shirt, hauling him in for a bold though chaste kiss on the mouth. You are suddenly hyper aware of Simon beside you, standing tall and very still while everyone laughs and cheers at the men’s antics. You can’t deny it’s a pleasing sight, but a part of you feels irritated with the whole display.
“Jesus Christ,” John sighs, tipping his hat back on his head. “Soap’s right—if you’ve got a normal deck of cards, love, I know plenty of games for adults to play.”
“Not sure I want to play those kinds of games with you, John,” Kate says somberly to the laughs of everyone around her.
“We’ve got cards,” Simon mutters.
Farrah calls to you from the kitchen, asking you to try her latest conglomeration of alcohol. Eager to be anywhere but there, you escape to the kitchen. You lift yourself up onto one of the stools at the island, taking the red plastic cup from her hand and sniffing it. Just the smell burns the hairs of your nose.
“Jesus, Farrah, this could kill me,” you laugh.
“Pathetic,” she says with a grin to lighten her words. “I think I saw some apple juice in the refrigerator, would you like that instead?”
“Alright.”
“A warm glass of milk, perhaps?”
“You’ve made your point,” you say, eyes narrowing in good humor. Taking a deep breath to steel your nerves (and stomach), you take a generous swig of the cup. Fuck, it burns going down and it burns in your belly, like swallowing a lit flame. You cough a little, trying not to gag, and hold up your thumb to her. “It’s great—so good—“
Simon comes to sit beside you at the island. He takes the cup, smells it, and raises both brows.
“Can I tempt you, Lieutenant?” Farrah asks.
“No.”
“Then I won’t try. Where’s John, he’s never afraid of a challenge.”
Unseen to her beneath the island, fingertips brush your stocking-covered thighs. Your knees clamp together on instinct as you fight not to look over at Simon. What is he doing?
He strikes up a conversation with Farrah about her time spent in the Americas. When his hand doesn’t move, your thighs relax a little. He was just being intimate; often he liked to have a hand on your back or his foot resting against your own beneath the table. It wasn’t his fault you were on edge. Your head spins a little, thanks to the shots and Farrah’s drink. Planting one elbow on the countertop, you try to focus on her stories when Simon’s hand moves again, slipping further between your legs. The hem of your dress has ridden up so high in your seated position that it doesn’t take much for his fingertips to graze against the heated seam between your legs.
You clamp your knees shut again. He pinches your thigh softly, just enough to get the message through to you. Staring at Farrah, hearing nothing, you spread your shaking knees again and let him cup you between your legs. Fuck. You tilt your hips, making as if to adjust your position on the chair. It only serves to bring you in closer contact with Simon’s hand. A groan is born and dies in the back of your throat.
He keeps you there, holding your cunt, having a fluent conversation with Farrah while your brain melts out your ears. At length, he stands. Leaning down, he says in your ear: “Outside, two minutes. Go out the back.”
Then he disappears amongst the sea of people
-
Three minutes later you are shivering out in the snow. Your coat only helps so much with your legs bare save for your stockings. You hadn’t even had time to lace up your boots. Shifting from one foot to the other in the spotlight of the floodlights to keep warm, you cast glances left and right wondering from which direction Simon will come, wondering what he wants that couldn’t have taken place in doors.
At last he appears, looking far warmer than you in his olive green jacket and jeans, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. You smile at the sight of him. He doesn’t smile back.
“Put your hands against the wall.”
“Simon?”
He sighs, running a hand over the curve of your waist, testing its fit in his palm. “Now I’ll have to edit that part out. Let’s try again. Put your hands on the wall.”
You see then the phone placed just-so in the breast pocket of his coat. The glossy camera lens stares back at you, no flashing red light, nothing nearly so 1999. But you knew it was filming. What was it seeing now? The house in the background, the cool blue siding and brick. You, face surprised, lips chapped from the cold weather lately, your sexy little golden dress nearly obscured beneath your coat.
“The time to back out is now,” Simon prods you.
But there’s no way you’re backing out, not after the kitchen. Not after the hazy arousal you’ve been walking around in all night just at the thought of seeing Johnny again. Turning around, you reach out with shaking hands and place them against the freezing cold siding. You can see your breath like a smoky plume with each of your frantic exhales as Simon’s hands grip your ass, slipping beneath the hem of your dress and finding your stockings to tug them down around your knees.
“Got to keep quiet for me,” he says. “Can you do that?”
“Yessir,” you whisper, wishing you were close enough to the house to rest your heated cheek against it.
Simon gives a heavy exhale at your words and you grin, unseen.
Your panties join your stockings stuck around your knees. It doesn’t give you much space to spread your legs, but Simon is so lengthy that he doesn’t need the extra room. He doesn’t press against your back, ever-conscious of the camera and its angles, but you hear the sound of his belt being undone and like a Pavlovian response, it has you drooling between the legs. His cock is burning warm when it brushes against your ass, and you find yourself arching your back, seeking to put that heat inside you.
He hums, hands spreading you wide as he can for the benefit of the camera, even if the lighting isn’t the best to see your entrance.
“Pretty fucking girl,” he mutters. He reaches down to grip the base of his cock and guides the head inside you. It is a tight fit without any preparation, but he keeps the penetration shallow, rocking you back and forth on just the head, sometimes letting his cock slip free to brush against your aching clit. Your teeth clamp together, desperate to keep your sounds in—usually during home videos, Simon encouraged you to be noisy (“for the audience”). Now you found yourself struggling not to give in to the old habit.
All of the sudden, his hand is in your hair, turning your head, guiding it to change directions until you are looking at your footsteps in the snow leading back the way you came—
Until you are looking squarely at Johnny, standing nearly frozen in the snow at the edge of the house. He’s wearing his coat and boots, hands jammed deep into his coat pockets. The darkness makes it hard to make out the subtlety of his features, but you can tell that his mouth is dropped open in an expression of near comical disbelief.
You barely manage to keep from choking out Simon’s name, your entire body going stiff—your cunt rippling around his cock. He laughs, a low rumbling chuckle that has you squeezing your eyes shut. A whine slips free from your throat and the wind must carry it straight to Johnny, because you hear his quiet, Steamin’ Jesus.
“He’s been waiting for this all night, I bet,” Simon mutters, his hips snapping against yours. Your hands scramble to find purchase against the siding, slip down a little to grip the bricks which offer you more resistance. “Watching you flit back and forth in this dress, knowing what you look like underneath it. He wishes it was him fucking you right now.”
“No,” you gasp, scandalized.
Simon just laughs again. The sound doesn’t embarrass you, just ratchets your own dizzying arousal higher. You can’t take your eyes off of Johnny, who has stumbled two or three steps closer in the snow and now has his hand against the house very similarly to you. His other hand is in a fist at his side. Closer like this, there’s no mistaking the heated expression in his eyes. Nor the bulge in his pants.
“Oh God,” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut again and turning away.
“Look at him—look at him. He wants to touch himself,” Simon says, borderline conversational as his dick makes the most heinous squelching noises inside your body. “But I don’t think he’s got the balls.”
One of your hands comes off the bricks and reaches down between your thighs—but Simon grabs it at the last moment and pins it back in its place, sending you nearly to tears.
“Cum on my cock or don’t cum at all,” he says, feeling cruel.
The both of you know that that likely means you won’t cum at all, not like this, and the knowledge threatens to undo you. He’s going to get you three-fourths of the way there and then leave you like this, edge you in front of all of your closest friends and not satisfy you until the very last one has left. Tears well in your eyes, beading up at the corners.
Behind you, his thrusts grow sloppy. You dare another glance towards Johnny and see his turned back, both his hands in his mohawk gripping at his hair like he is fighting with himself. Your eyes fall shut; you’re fighting a battle of your own, you can’t be concerned about his. Simon groans lowly, filling you with his seed. He pulls out in a wet rush of fluids, reaching down to stave off his dripping seed and save your leggings from destruction.
Gently, he fucks his cum back into you with his fingers. He wipes it across your swollen folds and in the soaked crotch of your panties before pulling them back up to rest safely on your hips. Bending down, he wipes his hands clean in the snow and then on his jacket before helping you pull your stockings up into place. The tears in your eyes have overflowed by now, dripping down your cheeks and off your chin. When you glance over, Johnny is gone.
“Okay?” Simon murmurs, fiddling with his phone. He stops the video.
“Yeah,” you sigh shakily. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
-
Moments to midnight and you are searching for Simon. His figure should be easy to spot, but his head isn’t visible above the sea of people, nor is his baritone voice audible amongst the cacophony of others.
Someone else is notably missing as well. An itch in the back of your brain swells, one you have to follow to scratch.
Countdowns begin. You peek out the window nearest to you but see no sign of either man outside in the snow smoking. Watching couples pair off, you pad on bare feet (having kicked off your heels ages ago) toward the master bedroom, slipping into the dim hallway that forks off to the bedroom, the guest bath, and the office. That hallway is where you find them, standing in the dark toe to toe. Simon has Johnny up against the wall, clutching fistfuls of Johnny’s shirt, nearly tearing it. In the dim lighting, you can barely make out their features.
For a moment, you think they are about to come to blows. You are ready to step between them, to take either of them by the ear like an old school matriarch and remind them that they are friends and they love each other and this is no way to act amongst family—but then the others cry out for midnight and they kiss.
Oh God, do they kiss. Johnny’s shirt strains in Simon’s hands as he lifts the other man the last few inches needed to slot their mouths together comfortably. There is no chaste peck, no soft exploration of tongues, it is a frenzied open-mouthed devouring of each other, jaws flexing as if to open up and swallow the other whole.
Claps and cheers ring out in the living room, jolting Simon and Johnny apart. Before you can even string together a sentence, Johnny has brushed by you, one hand pressing at his mouth. He grabs his coat and leaves out the front door without so much as a goodbye to anyone.
-
The party is over. The sun is rising. Alejandro and Rodolfo have retired out to the guest house leaving you and Simon behind to clean up the mess in more ways than one. Eyes tired but brain buzzing, you come into the living room with a half-filled trash bag in your arms to find Simon sitting on the sofa by the fireplace, his head in his hands.
You drop the trash bag and go to him, climbing into his lap. He sighs and lets his head rest against your breasts, breaths slow and deep, not betraying any of the turmoil that might be going on in his mind.
“He’ll be back,” you promise, stroking your fingers through his cropped hair. “He’ll come back, baby.”
You don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t.
“Have you two done that before?” you ask.
Simon shifts. He turns until his ear presses against your sternum, like he is listening to your heart for the answer. He says: “No. Once—almost, I think. But you know what he’s like. So fucking persistent. And bright. Like he’s got the bloody sun inside him.”
“You never told me.”
“Wasn’t anything to tell.” He looks up at you with dark eyes, decidedly grim despite his words: “We doing this?”
“Seems so,” you say, scratching his scalp lightly with your nails just to watch how his eyes get heavy. Simon so often denies himself simple pleasures, but he deserves them. The simple ones and the complicated ones.
“He belongs to me,” Simon says at length, slow, like he is working it out for himself. “Just like you do.”
“No baby,” you remind him, leaning down to press a kiss to his mouth. “He belongs to us.”
-
((It becomes a degenerate ritual.
Soap gets home from work and showers. As soon as the steam hits the bathroom mirror, he’s hard, but he doesn’t touch himself; refuses to. He showers and cleans himself perfunctorily, cock aching. It is just as familiar with this ritual as he is, just as hungry for it. It knows what is coming.
After he is clean and dry, he’ll go naked into his room and bring out his laptop. He always sits at his desk—hates having the laptop on his lap, wants it somewhere stable and safe so he can have both hands free to touch himself—and then he brings up your porn page with Simon. There are more than fifty videos he can choose from. Some he has only seen once, especially those early videos when you both were still getting a feel for the process and working out your nerves. There are others that are old favorites, ones that he knows every word to, one where he could mimic your every sigh and whine if he wanted to.
And sometimes, like on nights such as this, there’s a new video. His heart jumps to his throat.
AMATEUR COUPLE: ARGUMENT TURNS INTO SEX (NO AUDIO). Fuck, just the title has mind whirling. It was just for show, surely—he couldn’t imagine you both filming one of your actual arguments for the sake of good pornography—but he was intrigued nonetheless. Some of his favorite videos featured Ghost getting a little rougher with you, and you giving back as good as you got.
He clicks the link. The video begins in the bedroom, recognizable to him now as your own. The camera is in the corner facing the bed at an angle giving a wide vantage point, like a voyeur standing at attention. Like Soap himself has snuck in and is watching. Just the thought has him gripping the base of his cock, a soft groan passing his lips.
You’re sitting on the bed, mask in place. Your arms are crossed, mouth downturned into a frown as Simon enters the screen. The first minute or so truly looks like an argument, the occasional jerky hand gesture from you coupled with Simon’s clipped responses. Soap tries to read your lips, but he’s never been very good at it; he can’t make out a single word of what the two of you might be saying. Then the aura changes, the tense energy from the argument turning into something slicker, something sexual as Simon comes around the bed and puts his hand on the center of your naked chest, pressing you back, back until you are laying down.
You fight against him, batting his hand out of the way. He pins you down easily, so much larger and stronger than you. Soap grips his cock at the thought of being in your place, being pinned to the bed with Ghost’s massive figure over him. Ghost wouldn’t need to be gentle with him either, not the way he was with you. Soap wouldn’t mind. Soap would like it, the same way he liked it in the hallway at your house when Simon gripped him by the shirt and nearly jerked him right out of his boots.
Your head comes off the bed, mouth chasing Ghost’s—but he draws away. Soap can almost hear the laugh he clearly gives, the rumbling chuckle that would be tangible in his chest. You grit your teeth together, jaw tight. Now when Simon bends down to kiss you, you turn your head away, a childish game of cat and mouse. He grips your chin and turns it back toward him, heavy on the eye contact. When you two finally kiss, it is rough, two hungry people searching for dirty secrets behind each other's teeth.
Ghost kisses his way down your body, sucking bruises wherever he can. By the time he’s in between your legs, you are writhing, hands gripping his hair and trying to guide his mouth to the place that needs it most. He tugs your thighs over his shoulders, pins you to the bed with one massive forearm, and eats you out like a starving man. The angle for the camera isn’t the best here, but Soap can’t take his eyes off of you anyway: your body tight as a bowstring, breasts pressed together from the position of your arms, tendons of your neck straining as your head tilts backwards.
Soap begins to work his cock over faster, watching your pleasure. When Ghost stops, he leaves you on the edge if your tortured expression is anything to go by, but you let him maneuver you into the position he wants—hands and knees, an old favorite for LT it seems—but this time is special, because this time you are forced to face the camera dead on.
It’s like you’re looking Soap in the eye. The brief flash of guilt this gives him only serves to ratchet his desire higher, his cock dripping precum over his knuckles as he fists it. Ghost slips his cock inside you and sets a brutal pace that you are eager to meet, your hands twisting in the bedspread as you press yourself further back against his cock.
Ghost leans down and mutters something in your ear. More than ever, Soap misses the audio. Whatever he says has your eyes flashing to meet the camera lens, and you do so with near girlish shyness, like you are seeing it for the first time, like you have only just noticed it’s been there all these months. Your eyes can’t catch on it at first, flittering away every chance you get. Ghost’s thrusts slow to deep grinds. He wraps a hand around your throat and says more, lips moving against the nape of your neck. Fuck, what Johnny wouldn’t give to be able to read lips.
This time you look back at the camera and keep your eyes there. Ghost resumes his thrusts, each one making your breasts bounce softly, but your eyes never leave the lens, always quick to return even when they briefly fall shut.
Your pleasure waxes when you slip a hand between your thighs, and you begin murmuring something repeatedly, just a discrete little movement of your lips. But at Ghost’s prodding, you begin to cry it out louder and louder until Soap is damn near sure that you are screaming, your lips forming the same syllables over and over again if only Soap were able to make them out. Your eyes roll back as you cum, arms growing weak until you dip and rest your upper body against the bed giving the camera an excellent view of Simon fucking into you from behind, the arch of your body, the curve of your waist to the width of your hips.
Soap cums when Ghost does, Ghost’s head lolling to the side as his thrusts grow sloppy and forceful, making a mess of you no doubt.
It isn’t until later when he’s in bed that he recognizes the word you were chanting for what it is.
How it took him so long to recognize his own name he’ll never know.))
-
He comes back.
Simon has just returned from taking Alejandro and Rodolfo to the airport. Ever since New Year’s Eve, there has been a quietness about him which breaks prior records. Neither of you say it, but if Johnny leaves this time, it will take more out of him than it had before. It will take something out of you, too. You spend the days trying to keep busy, checking your phone too often for texts that don’t come.
You’ve just taken the kettle off the stove when the doorbell rings, and both of you know. Your eyes meet across the kitchen. Simon nods his head toward the door, and you rush to answer it, feeling your heart in your throat. Johnny stands there on the step looking sheepish and cold, his boots and the bottom quarter of his jeans wet, like he has walked here from a great distance.
“May I come in?” he asks.
Simon appears behind you. Johnny gives him a wavering smile. Without a word, you hold the door open, stepping aside to let him in.
“Didn’t think you’d be back,” Simon says coolly.
“Didn’t think I’d be back either,” Johnny admits. He wets his lips. “I…I need to come clean. It’s eatin’ me up inside. Can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t fucking think without it being about the two of you. I don’t know what to do with myself except put myself at your feet and ask fer your forgiveness.”
“Johnny, that’s not—”
“No,” says Simon, stilling the words on your tongue. “I think that’s a good place to start. Get on your knees, Johnny.”
Johnny blinks once, face the picture of innocent ignorance—but then he is dropping to his knees hard enough for you to hear them crack against the hardwood underneath. He obeys without thinking, because that is something that has always been easy for him to do: obey Simon. Think later.
Simon’s hand reaches out, slow enough to give Johnny a chance to flinch away, but he doesn’t. Instead Simon threads his fingers through Johnny’s mohawk, the sides which are growing out just a little too long. Johnny’s eyes fall shut at the touch, and the whole thing goes straight to your belly, arousal making your head light.
“You liked watching so much,” Simon says, voice low and quiet. “I think it’s time we put you to good use.”
-
“We have rules. Don’t look at the camera, don’t say each other’s names, and do as I say. Can you handle that?” Simon asks.
“Yessir.”
Simon snorts softly at Johnny’s eagerness. “Glad to see you still know to follow directions. But let’s see how well. Strip. Everything off. You won’t need it.”
Johnny’s hands find the neckline of his shirt and tug it off over his head, revealing a body that is all smooth muscle and tan skin. The dark hair on his chest thickens just below his navel, trailing down into his jeans which he unbuttons without ceremony, feet working to step out of his shoes at the same time. He keeps his balance well, already slipping into a focused, strangely familiar headspace. You make yourself as small as possible on the bed, arms looped around your legs, eyes watching him hungrily. It’s been so long that you’ve wanted to see Johnny like this; now that it’s on the verge of becoming true, you feel shy and unsure.
Johnny keeps his eyes on yours while he pushes his pants down his thighs and steps out of them. He smiles at you, soft and understanding, and only then do you let your eyes flicker down to take in his cock: he is hard, uncut, thick as Simon even if he can’t have him beaten in length. His dexterous fingers wrap around the shaft, stroking himself, the flushed head disappearing and reappearing in his fist.
“What do you think?” Simon asks you, voice a low rumble at your side. His eyes are watching you, concerned with you first and foremost. “Is he pretty enough?”
Johnny makes an offended sound.
“I’d say so,” you answer, aiming for unaffected and landing somewhere amongst breathless. Already you can feel the tension between your legs, a deep seated ache as your pussy drools onto the sheets below you.
“You want to suck his cock,” says Simon. It’s not a question, but your head bobs anyway. “Go on, then. Crawl to him.”
Shifting onto your hands and knees, you crawl to him, focusing on the mechanics of it instead of trying to feign sexiness. At the edge of the bed, you slip off and down to the floor amongst the pile of his clothes, laying your hands on his thighs and looking up at him from beneath his cock.
He lets out a shaky breath. “You’re gonna suck my dick?”
You nod.
Johnny looks to Simon with a helpless expression as if to ask, What do I do? When you glance back over your shoulder, you see that Simon is giving him nothing to work with, face a blank slate except for his raised brows. Phone in hand, aimed at the two of you. The sight of it seems to steel Johnny’s nerves. He’s never been one to be shy.
“Go at yer own pace, lass,” he says.
Leaning in, you trace your lips against the side of his shaft, feeling the velvety softness against your mouth. He smells like he showered before he came over, though you wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t. Johnny always smells good—even on those days before he went away when he and Simon would go running together, pushing each other to their limits, returning sweaty and exhausted. Now after all this time you get to see if he tastes as good as he smells. You part your lips and leave open mouthed kisses along his length, looking up at him through your lashes when you feel his fingers sink into your hair. His mouth is parted as he watches you raptly, pupils blown wide.
Confidence mounting, you take the head past your lips and suckle, treating him just as soft and sweetly as you know Simon won’t. Above you, he groans, hips jerking until you take another inch or two past your lips. You let him, rising up on your knees to adjust the angle, sinking your way down until his head brushes the softness at the back of your throat. Taking a calming inhale, you swallow and press forward, letting him sink into your throat until your gag reflex can take no more and forces him out.
Johnny moans like he’s dying, his hands shaking as he fights not to thrust into your throat. Words stream from his mouth, filthy Scottish-tinted praises that have you wriggling in your place, desperate for a hand between your thighs.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Simon asks.
“Never seen no one like her,” Johnny gasps, one hand letting go of your hair so that he can wipe the drool from the side of your mouth. He gives a weak laugh. “And I—fuuck, fuck—I’ve looked.”
“She’ll suck you off until you tell her to stop. Doesn’t matter how long you leave her at it,” Simon says. Fabric rustles behind you, and you ache to be able to turn and see what he is doing. But you are more determined to prove your goodness to Johnny. “Sometimes when I work from home she keeps my cock warm at my desk.”
“Dunno how you get a goddamn thing done with her mouth around yeh.”
“Discipline.”
“I left mine in my other pants—fuck, I’m gonna cum. Are you one of those dirty girls that swallows?” he asks.
You nod. Simon is there suddenly, a warm presence at your shoulder as he passes Johnny the camera. Nearly wrecked, Johnny’s hands shake as he aims it down at you, looking at you through the lens. His balls draw up, cock lengthening that last little bit as he spills into your mouth.
“Don’t swallow,” Simon says at the last moment. You whine but obey. Simon pulls you up and nearly makes you dizzy with the way he kisses you, licks into your open mouth lapping Johnny’s seed from your tongue.
“Jesus, Mary, ‘n Joseph,” Johnny breathes, belatedly remembering to turn the camera onto you both. This will likely be the messiest video you’ve ever made transition wise, but you have a feeling that it will be your favorite.
When the kiss ends, you swallow and pull off to open your mouth, showing Johnny—and the audience—what they want: that you’ve swallowed your portion like a good girl.
“Fuck, I shouldn’t have cum,” Johnny laughs weakly. “We’ve barely started. I don’t want this to be over.”
“You’ll cum again,” Simon says. “But it’s time to give someone else a turn. Sitrep?”
Johnny is all grins. “All good here, sir.”
It makes you shiver to hear Johnny call him that. You’ve heard it countless times before, but never like this. The context turns the word into something foreign, something sexy. Not to mention, you know exactly what it does to Simon. Not for the first time, you wonder if his wires didn’t get a little crossed during his time enlisted, if he didn’t learn that particular kink from hearing Johnny chirp it at him every day.
“Good boy,” says Simon softly, reaching out to ruffle Johnny’s mohawk. Johnny bats his hand away, but it’s impossible to miss the way he flushes from the cheeks down his chest at those words. Simon sets the phone on the tripod in the corner, making minor adjustments, and then turns his eyes to you. “C’mere.”
He sets you up against the headboard, your back against his chest. He parts your thighs, reaching down to use his thumbs to spread your sex open for Johnny’s hungry gaze, for the camera’s lens. You hide your masked-face behind your hands, hips rising toward his touch, desperate for the stimulation.
“Pent up?” Simon asks, voice rough.
A sound slips past your lips, low and needy..
“This what you want?” His calloused fingers ghost over your swollen clit.
“Yes,” you mumble, voice muffled by your hands.
“Be a good girl and you’ll get it. You know how to be a good girl?”
“How?”
“Stay relaxed. Keep your thighs open. And don’t lie to me. Can you do that?”
You nod. Yes. Easy things. You fight to relax your body, loosening your muscles. Your hands fall to rest against Simon’s thighs, eyes cracking open to watch Johnny who has seated himself at the end of the bed out of the way of the camera’s view. When he sees you looking, he smiles, reassuring and warm. His cock, which had been soft moments ago, already looks noticeably more interested in the events taking place.
Simon drags his fingers over your clit. You tense all over, sucking in a breath before you remember his first rule and relax, going loose and soft again. He waits, patient. The next time he strokes you, you stay malleable, and he hums deep in his chest, pleased with the progress. His hand cups your whole sex, palm huge compared to you.
“When was the first time you ever wanted to fuck our boy over here?” Simon asks.
You know that he can’t use Johnny’s name, not on film, but neither you nor Johnny had expected this term of endearment. Johnny seems to melt, his eyes going heavy-lidded at the thought of being ‘your boy’. You can’t help but feel the incredible rightness of his words. They resonate deep in your chest like the ringing of a bell, tangible down to your fingertips and toes. Johnny is yours, and he is Simon’s.
“How long?” Simon asks again, more firmly.
“Since—since you brought him home.”
Simon slips two fingers past your entrance as a reward for your honesty. Their thickness has you gasping, fingers scrambling for purchase against his thighs. He hums something in your ear—probably a reminder about trying to relax—and you do try, but it is hard when you ache as badly as you do. You find yourself digging your heels into the bedspread, lifting your hips to try and work his fingers deeper inside of you. He feeds them to your cunt all the way to the last knuckle.
“How’s she feel, sir?” Johnny asks.
“Like the only heaven the likes of us will ever know.”
“I believe it,” Johnny sighs. “Give us a taste.”
Simon extends his fingers and Johnny takes them onto his tongue, licking and sucking the digits clean. You’re close enough to Simon to feel his inhale, to feel the way his cock jumps where it’s pressed against your lower back. He plays at being unaffected, but Simon isn’t immune to the powers of finger-sucking. He isn’t immune to Johnny.
Then he says: “Put that mouth to work, Johnny.”
Johnny drops to his belly between your thighs, breath fanning across your folds. Simon has to pin your legs apart, humming when your nails dig into the skin of his forearms. They are teaming up on you, against you, and you feel so small pinned between them.
“Dreamed of this,” Johnny sighs into your pussy. He nuzzles against you, nose brushing your slit before licking a thick stripe up your folds. He laps at the honey leaking from your entrance, broad strokes of his tongue as Simon’s fingers keep you spread open for his hungry mouth.
Sometimes Johnny’s tongue laps over Simon’s fingers, and when it does, you feel his cock twitch against your back. It only serves to remind you how empty you feel. Your hands grip Johnny’s hair, guiding his soft mouth to your clit where he sucks and laps contentedly, and you beg for his fingers.
He moans against you, voice vibrating through your pussy. His hips have started a slow grind against the bedspread, desperate for friction as his blue eyes find Simon’s dark ones, silently asking for permission.
Simon nods. Johnny slips his middle-most two fingers into you, hooking them softly, searching for that spongy, textured place just inside you. It’s everything you needed, the pleasure in your belly rising to a near painful crest. Your hand scrambles to find one of Simon’s, lacing your fingers together as you burst against Johnny’s tongue, squeezing his fingers, barely remembering to keep from calling his name.
Johnny lays his head against your inner thigh, panting. His eyes are foggy, pussy-drunk as he struggles to focus on you both, his fingers still tucked softly inside you.
“Break,” Simon whispers, kissing your neck. He shifts out from behind you, the only one of you still fully dressed. Going to the tripod in the corner, he pauses the camera and then leaves the room.
“Great abrupt bastard, isn’t he?” Johnny asks, slipping his fingers out from inside you. He goes to lick them clean, but you stop him, bringing his hand to your own mouth and cleaning your slick from his fingers, tongue searching for your taste all the way to the webbing between his knuckles. His laugh is breathy. “You like that? Like the taste of pussy?”
You nod, slipping your mask off briefly.
“Need a pretty girl to play with then, not the likes of me.”
Your hand latches around his wrist as he goes to pull away, lips turning down into a frown. “That’s not what we want. We don’t play with people. People aren’t toys to us. And we’ve never had sex with anyone else like this. You should know that from the videos.”
“Aye,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to offend yeh, lass. I was only teasing.”
“Johnny…”
“Yes?”
“Why’d you go away?” you ask. You know it might ruin the moment, but the curiosity is too much, an old wound with the scab picked clean off until it aches all over again. “Things seemed so good when Simon and I first got together. You were coming around all the time. Then you just…left.”
Johnny can’t meet your eyes as he thinks back, as he remembers those days in the year after Simon first met you. When he speaks, his voice is steady. “I told yeh earlier. Couldn’t stop thinking about the two of you. Didn’t feel right to feel that way ‘bout my best mate and his best girl. And when he told me that he was gonna propose to yeh—I had two choices. Stay and watch, or run away. Maybe Simon’s right. Maybe I am a coward.”
“He told me that the two of you almost kissed once. Back during your SAS days.”
A ghost of a smile appears on Johnny’s mouth. “Outside the Barranquilla, Columbia safehouse. I remember. I thought he would break my teeth if I tried, but Jesus, how I wanted to.”
“I think your odds were 50/50,” you say, scooting back until you are seated in Simon’s old spot, reclining against the headboard. “It started back then for you, didn’t it?”
“Aye. I was a goner.”
“You love him.”
Johnny gives you a secretive smile. He presses his finger to his lips. Shh.
Simon enters the room with three water bottles and pauses, eyes flickering between you both. “The fuck were you two talking about?”
“Nothing,” you say. “Is that water? I’m so thirsty, thank you baby.”
“Her subtlety could use some work, LT,” Johnny says, watching as Simon goes and turns the camera back on. You hastily put your mask back in place.
“Not her forte,” Simon admits dryly. He cracks open one of the bottles of water after tossing the last one to Johnny and drinks half of it in just a few gulps, despite having done very little so far in the scheme of things. You figured that was about to change, watching him shrug out of his shirt.
Simon didn’t undress the way Johnny did. There wasn’t any fanfare or confidence; it was simple and efficient. You knew that Simon’s relationship with his body was a complex one. It had served him well, and he did his best to keep it healthy, but contemplating the aesthetics of it was too offensive to his palate. The scars were intense: thick punctures along his sides, the depressed, pale pucker of bullet wounds, the hard clean lines of a knife here and there. You had never minded, and judging by the way Johnny’s throat clicks when he swallows, Johnny didn’t mind either.
“I want to fuck you,” he says.
“Yes,” you agree. Fingers had been excellent, but nothing could compare to Simon’s cock.
He shakes his head. “Not you. Him.”
You turn your gaze on Johnny whose eyes are avidly watching Simon unfasten his jeans. He pushes them down over his thick thighs and reveals he’s not wearing any underwear beneath, his cock half-hard and rosy. He wraps his fist around it, jerking himself to full stiffness with a perfunctory touch, not at all interested in the show he is putting on for you both.
“Can you take him, Johnny?” you tease.
“I’ll die trying, thanks very much.”
“I hope not,” is all Simon says, going to the bench at the end of the bed and retrieving the lube. He asks: “Condom?”
“Not necessary,” Johnny says, breaths coming faster now. You put your hand on his ankle, remembering the way he had touched you there on Christmas, stroking the bone softly. He glances to you and grins, and you see that what you mistook for nerves is actually excitement. He puts his hand over your own, squeezing. “Are you going to feel left out, lass?”
“Terribly.”
“If you last the whole time,” says Simon, holding the lube up to the light to see how empty it is. “I’ll let you fuck her when I’m finished with you.”
“Jesus,” Johnny laughs weakly. “Can’t argue with that. Throw me that and I’ll get myself ready.”
“I can do it,” says Simon, seating himself on the edge of the bed. Johnny shifts into a better position, feet flat on the bed, knees toward the ceiling. For a long time, Simon just looks at him: his silly hair, the odd scar here and there, his half hard cock. Deftly, he opens the cap on the lube and slicks two fingers while you come to kneel on the other side of Johnny, eager for a show.
“Camera, love,” Simon reminds you, fingers searching between Johnny’s legs. Judging by the way Johnny’s jaw goes tight, he’s found what he’s looking for. You shift, glancing over your shoulder to make sure you are out of the camera’s point of view. Reaching down, you trail your fingertips gently over Johnny’s cock. Simon says: “Been a while?”
“You could say that,” Johnny says, mouth falling open in a silent moan as Simon works him open. You’ve been on the receiving end of Simon’s ministrations; you know his patience can be near painful. Johnny learns it the hard way when Simon pauses twice to lube his fingers, until even the soft thrusts he gives into Johnny’s ass fill the room with the sound of sex.
You play with his cock absently, enjoying being the tormentor instead of the tormented for once. Johnny’s silent breaths turn to heavy pants and then needy groans, foreskin pulling back to reveal the sensitive head as he grows in your palm thanks to Simon’s fingers playing inside him. His heels slip against the bedspread as he searches for the angles that suit him best, and he chokes when he finds them.
“Please, I’m ready,” Johnny says, fingers wrapping around Simon’s wrist. Simon lets him pull his fingers free and reaches for the lube again, this time to slick his cock.
“Any preference for how I take you?” he asks mildly, like one might ask, How do you take your tea? One sugar please and thank you.
“None, so long as your cock’s inside me,” Johnny grits out.
“This’ll do,” says Simon, bullying his way between Johnny’s spread thighs. It takes a few pillows beneath his hips before he’s at the right height for Simon’s cock to notch against his entrance, and then you watch with rapt attention as Johnny’s body seems to blossom to welcome in Simon’s cock, a surplus of lubricant easing the way.
Johnny flinches.
“Easy,” says Simon, stilling. “Relax.”
You curl up at Johnny’s side, slipping beneath one of his arms and cuddling against him. Your nervous fingers find one of his nipples and toy with it softly, kissing at his shoulder while you murmur words of encouragement to him.
Johnny laughs weakly. “Don’t need all that, lass, but thank yeh.”
“Wish I had someone cheering me on the first time I took Simon’s cock,” you admit.
Simon frowns. “I was cheering you on.”
“Less talking please, more fucking,” Johnny says, lips upturned. His body relaxes and Simon sinks the rest of the way inside him, all the way to the fucking hilt, deeper than you can ever take him in your cunt. It thrills you and makes you envious all at once. You pinch Johnny’s nipple, forcing a quiet gasp out of his throat.
Simon looks good—strong. Unaffected. But you know him better. His brow is lower than ever, eyes closed as he centers himself. His breaths come so evenly that you know he must be counting them—four seconds in, four seconds out. His fingertips have sunk into the meat of Johnny’s thighs, gripping him tightly, as if to keep him from squirming away, or to keep him from squirming at all.
“Gonna cum?” you ask smugly.
“No,” Simon says at the same time Johnny says: “Nae.”
“Then I don’t think you’re doing it right.”
“You solid?” Simon asks him.
“Affirm,” Johnny breathes. “Go slow.”
Famous last words—Simon withdraws with painstaking care, until just his head lingers inside Johnny’s body. He sinks back in at the most leisurely pace you’ve ever seen, thrusts smooth and deep as his thighs brush against Johnny’s ass. It takes no time at all for Johnny to regret those words, one of his hands laced with yours and the other twisting in the bedsheets as he begs Simon to move faster.
And Simon can only take so much teasing himself, really. He’s human too.
His hips snap into the open cradle of Johnny’s thighs. Johnny cries out, cock jerking where it lays hard and leaking against his belly. You lean up onto one elbow so that you can watch his pretty face contort: brow furrowing, mouth falling open.
“Not going to cum, right?” you ask him slyly.
He shakes his head.
You glance down at his cock doubtfully. Simon, overhearing your words, takes that as a personal challenge, drilling into Johnny with a single-mindedness that is admirable to see and terrible to be on the receiving end of all in one.
Suddenly tears overflow from Johnny’s eyes, dripping down toward his temples. You sit up in alarm as he lifts his hands but he just palms at his eyes, laughing. Simon slows, stops. He reaches down to pry Johnny’s hands away and then kisses him, something soft and sweet. Johnny’s hands shake as he reaches up to thread his fingers through Simon’s hair, tugging him closer.
Your heart feels liable to burst. You remember Johnny’s finger pressed to his lips, that universal sign. Shh.
“He’s alright,” Simon says, not unkindly. “Aren’t you?”
Johnny croaks an affirmative.
After that, it is less fucking and more making love; there’s nothing else to call in. Simon pins Johnny’s wrists to the bed just to feel like he’s still in control, but his thrusts are syrupy slow, not fully withdrawing, seeking to remain as close to Johnny as he can for as long as possible. You stroke one of Johnny’s palms and Simon lets it free so that you can hold it, your fingers lacing together in a way that is foreign yes, but comfortable.
“You’ve been a good boy for me, Johnny,” Simon says.
“Don’t say that,” Johnny groans, turning his head away, flushed pink.
“It’s true. Know how to be an even better boy?”
Johnny is intrigued; he wants to be the best boy. Looking at Simon through his lashes, he asks: “How’s that?”
“Cum on my cock.”
“Don’t do it Johnny,” you whine. “It’s a trap.”
Simon laughs. He kneels back onto his haunches, dragging Johnny’s body along with him, and reaches for the other man’s cock, working it over in his fist. Johnny nearly howls, kept on the edge so long that to see the bottom of the cliffside is to know the promise of pain. He doesn’t know whether to grind his hips deeper against Simon’s cock or to chase the heat of his hand.
“Close,” he groans.
“Go on. Pretty abs like this—make a mess on ‘em.”
Johnny does, pearlescent seed dripping from between Simon’s fingers as he milks Johnny for every last drop. Only then does he begin thrusting again, fast and hard, searching for his own end. Not a handful of thrusts later and he goes sloppy, breath punched from his lungs as he spills inside Johnny.
“You promised me a cock to ride,” you say.
“Couldn’t be helped, lass,” Johnny says with a dopey, lovesick smile. You hum.
“We’ll just have to get you hard again, won’t we?” you ask, wrapping your fingers around his softening cock.
-
That night, the bed is full. Johnny and you are entwined, legs and arms wrapped around each other creating an endless feedback of heat that Simon was careful not to be swept away in, too focused on his mission to allow for any mistakes. He makes no sound as he slips out of bed. He stops by the tripod in the corner and takes his phone out into the living room, turning the sound down so low that he has to hold the speaker close to his ear to hear it, lest he wake Johnny.
He listens to you and Johnny talk while he was gone, when you believed the camera to be off. He plays it again, watching just the video. By the time he’s returned in the video and you’ve begun having sex again, Simon’s chest feels full of pressure, like something is inside him trying to crawl its way out. Love. What does Simon Riley know about love?
That's the signal that you have learned, and the only one Simon gives you, your phone rings as soon as you send your positive answer.
“Hi, Simon.” You say with a singing voice when you pick up the call, pressing your phone against your ear.
“Hi, darling.” His deep voice grumbles through the phone, making you bite your lips as the sound travels down your body.
The indubitable sound of his buckle being toyed with sounds loud and clear in the background.
“Aw, Simon… are you missing me, sweet boy?” You say with a pout in your voice, using your shoulder to hold your phone while you twist off the cap of the nail polish bottle.
“Every bloody second, sweetheart.”
Your heart warms with his shameless declaration, making you smile even though he can't see your face.
“My pretty boy, I miss you too…” The line stays quiet for a minute, only his breathing audible; until you break the silence. “Does your pretty cock hurt, darling?”
“Yeah, fuck, yes it does.” He groans, a squeaky sound of the spring of the mattress sounding under his voice. He must be thrashing around on the bed, desperate. And you thought you had trained him better.
“You should do something about it then, Simon.” You say, raising your foot to rest on the edge of the chair kicking your slipper off. “Don’t you think?”
“Can I?” His breathless voice betrays him, letting you see as clear as day how desperate he is.
Good boy.
“Of course you can, love.” You answer, chuckling to yourself.
The response is immediate. Loud in the silence of the call, you hear how he gets his belt undone, throwing the buckle back carelessly so his aching member can find solace in the harsh wrap-up of his hand.
His first moan comes to life right after the first tug, desperate, to the point it makes you wonder for how long he has fought with himself to not call you only to get conquered by the lustful needs of his body.
The buckle of the belt jangles in the background like a metronome with each flick of his wrist, the telltale sound of the rhythm he is setting.
“Talk to me, pet. Please.” His voice is whiny on your ear, desperation oozing out of each syllable, almost enough to make you feel bad about how unbothered you are by it.
It's not that having your poor boyfriend calling you in desperation to hear your voice so he can actually cum doesn't turn you on, c’mon, you are not made of stone. But it also feeds your voracious ego, filling you with cockiness that you know he will quickly wipe out of you the moment he's back.
But he is away now, and in this situation, you have the upper hand; threatening to close it around his neck knowing he would enjoy it more than yourself. And it would be such a waste of an opportunity if you didn't choke him a little bit.
“Have you been thinking about me, love? Hm? Is that why you are so worked up?” You ask, picking the brush soaked in nail polish and applying it over your thumbnail. His whiny moan of your name is all you get as an answer, choppy breaths surrounding it helping it travel right to your core. “Been thinking about me touching you, hm? Wrapping my lips around your poor weeping cock, Simon?”
“Fuckin’ hell, luv…” He groans back, you hear the springs of the mattress again when he moves.
“Are you lying down, Simon?” You ask when you are on your third nail. A weak, high-pitched whine is all you get as an answer, a yes, you assume. “Stop then.”
queaky queaky queaky
“Simon.”
queaky queaky queaky
“Simon, stop touching yourself.”
…
“What?” He's breathing so hard it is almost difficult to understand him.
“Did I stutter? Stop touching yourself. Hands up, pretty boy.” You almost don't recognise your voice, an authoritative tone improper of a civilian talking to a lieutenant.
But he obliges, immediately, if he wasn't breathing so loud you could have heard the soft thud of his length falling red and angry over his abdomen.
“For god's sake, sweetheart, please.” He groans, but you can no longer hear the mattress squeaking or his buckle being shaken. Obedient little soldier he is.
“Who called me?” You ask, acting incredulous that he would now not let you do your part. He mumbles a tiny “me” making you smile once again. “Then do as I say, love.”
He huffs without a further complaint, waiting for your next words so he can finally move.
“Put me on speaker, and the phone on your chest so your hands are free.” You say, moving to paint your other hand. He does as instructed, hearing the rustling of his shirt as he lays his phone. “Now wrap your hand around your dick, both of them, tight. And move, slowly!”
You punctuate the last word with emphasis, hanging on the line to hear his movements but all you hear are his pretty sighs and puffs. You groan, making him stop in his movements once again. “Not your hands, Simon. Your hips. Move your hips.”
“What? Like-”
“Yeah, Simon. I want you to fuck your fists and imagine it is me the one your fucking.” You say, chuckling when you hear him moan. His voice sounds suddenly loudly and you assume his phone must have slipped up toward his face when he planted his feet on the mattress, thrusting his hips up.
“There you go, good boy, Simon.” You say, melodic voice making Simon shudder as he throws his head back, moaning shamelessly as his hips move faster and faster to meet the tight embrace of his fists.
Every time that an especially loud whine falls from his lips you coo at him, the mental image of him with his eyebrows furrowed, teeth digging into his bottom lip to try and catastrophically fail to keep his voice down making your mouth water.
He calls your name again, begging for your attention as he mumbles incoherent words and you pity him only when you are done with your nails, waiting for them to dry as you turn your attention to him.
“C’mon, darling.” You half-whisper to him. “Give it to me, love… Think that it is not your hands, think that it is my pretty cunt around your dick right now. I know you can.”
A cry of your name.
“Think is my sweet cunt sucking you in, hm? Doing that thing that you love me to do.”
A low groan.
“Think that you are fucking me stupid, Simon. Moaning your name and milking you empty, love.”
A minute-long silence right before a chain of curses starts to spill from his lips, the squeaky sounds of the bed growing irregular as he cums over his own chest in thick spurs making him dizzy.
You blow on your nails, happy with the results and waiting for your dear boyfriend to come down from his high as you sweet talk him. “You did so good, Simon… My darling… My sweet boy… My baby…”
“Watch it, you little minx”
You shiver at the sudden switch, remembering the temporal aspect of your position. Downing on you every single word you just pronounce and every condescending tone you use.
Luckily for you, his deployment is meant to go on for a couple of weeks longer; enough for him to grow desperate enough and not pay you back with the same coin you just used.
No need to worry about the consequences of your actions any time soon.
“And by the way, sweetheart.” He says once his breathing is back to normal, the sound of his buckle jangling again. “The OP was cut short and I'm getting home sooner.”
warnings : soft smut, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart), use of 'good girl', praise, gentle simon, oral (f receiving), first time oral, no sex
"this all f' me?" he asked with the raise of his eyebrows, taking in the view of your glistening pussy as he held your legs open with little effort. you glanced down at the man staring at the most intimate part of your body, feeling slightly self-conscious and exposed beneath his eyes. he looked up to you for a response, as you slowly nodded your head, mind clouded by your nervousness and desperate need for his touch.
"oh baby," he murmured, gently pushing his thumb into your wetness and watching for your reaction. you whined in response, subtly bucking your hips up for more, only craving him deeper by the second. "we can't have that, sweetheart," he muttered, lightly toying with your clit, "i'll make it feel better, yeah?"
you nodded fervently in reply, desperate for that dull ache to be soothed by him. "good girl," he said, wasting no time before placing a feather-light kiss to your aching clit. he softly licked at your sensitive bundle of nerves, eliciting quiet mewls and whines from your throat as you writhed in pleasure beneath his hold.
"so sweet," he mused, gently thumbing over your wet entrance, making you jolt with sensitivity, and whine with the unfulfilling touch. "you’ve got yourself so worked up," he said, collecting your slick with his fingers and circling it around your clit. you exhaled a moan of relief, as your ache finally got the attention it needed, feeling it instantly alleviate as his fingers gently worked upon you.
with two fingers, he collected your arousal, using it to slide into your entrance for the first time, making your breath hitch in your throat. you watched his movements closely, saw how gently he manoeuvred his fingers against your walls, until he hit that spot inside of you. reflexively, your head fell back with a whine coming from your throat at the pure pleasure he caused.
you brought your hands up to cover your face, feeling so vulnerable under the blissful sensation, as his fingers slowly worked in and out of your soaked-through pussy. he brought his mouth to you, lapping at your wetness, adding greatly to the pleasure that hit you in waves. "sweetheart," he mumbled, lips still around your clit, "don't be embarrassed." he pulled your hands from your face to see your tear-filled eyes looking down at him. "takin' it so well for me."
he curled his fingers upwards to press into that sweet spot within you, making your eyes roll closed, eliciting a loud whine from your mouth. "that's a good girl," he murmured, tongue swirling around your sensitive bundle of nerves as his fingers softly pumped in and out of you. you unknowingly clenched around his fingers at his remark, hearing him huff out a chuckle as a new wave of arousal turned your mind inside out.
"you like that baby?" he asked, looking up to your teary eyes, "you like being called a good girl?" you whimpered and nodded in reply, grasping onto the sheets beneath you solely due to the sound of his gravely voice.
"s..simon," you whined, bucking your hips up to meet his tongue and fingers as you felt the pleasure tightening in your lower belly, "it feels weird."
"that's okay, baby," he reassured, "let it happen." he ploughed his fingers back and forth, simultaneously circling his tongue over your clit with his nose pressed into your soft skin above and lapping at your arousal as if starving with hunger.
your back arched with the overwhelming sensation coursing through your body, making your hips writhe with desperation for relief. he held you down to the bed beneath you, pressing a flat palm to your lower stomach to stop your movement; his warmth pushed you closer to the edge of release: his tongue, his mouth, his fingers, his hand. every feather-light touch enlightened that spark within you that needed alleviation.
"sim.. simon, i'm.. it feels really strange," you mumbled, eyes closing tightly as short gasps came from your mouth.
"that's it. come on, sweetheart," he urged, increasing the pace of his fingers, swirling his tongue around your sensitive clit inside his mouth. your hands searched for something to hold onto, as pleasure hit you in waves of fire. his hand on your lower abdomen found yours, lacing his fingers with yours as you squeezed tightly and the building sensation tipped over the edge, outflowing like a thrashing wave of euphoria. your mewls and whines filled the room as you bucked your hips in overstimulation, the ache finally subsiding at the hands of him.
"there you go, baby," he uttered, "good girl." you breathed heavily as your chest heaved, coming down from your first high.
You flee to a small lake town for the summer, and a local takes an interest.
warren, noun
- a network of interconnecting rabbit burrows.
- an enclosed piece of land set aside for breeding game, especially rabbits.
ghost who just loves playing with your precious cunt with his hand stuffed down your pretty panties. seeing how his knuckles stretch the cotton as it fights to fit his large hand, watching the fabric gradually soak with the mess he’s making you make. coaxing orgasm after fucking orgasm from your trembling body as he coos sweet praises in your ear and listens to your babbling of pleads along with his name, before leaning back to watch as you claw and scratch at his wrist and tumble over the edge of euphoria for the nth time.
he works your poor cunny ‘til your thighs are clamping around his arm on their own volition, and his fingers are pruned and his knuckles are locking up, but even then he still wants to continue! :(
and afterwards he cleans you up so, so gently. peeling your sticky panties from your shaky legs, tossing them in the hamper in case they’re salvageable (they aren’t). kissing your temple and forehead and the tip of your nose as your teeth buzz in aftershocks, totally not brushing your swollen nerves lightly with the warm rag on purpose just to hear you whimper and jolt one last time before you knock out.
he coddles and holds you tight as you nap soundly on his chest, now kissing the crown of your skull as he murmurs quiet remarks about how well you did for him, just how proud he is of his princess <3
A/N: um…hi! I write piss kink now? 👹 I don’t know what came over me today but I was sitting at my desk and just thinking about that mean old man, when all of a sudden, I thought hmm…what would it be like if Joel pissed on me? Then I proceeded to think about the prospect of him peeing on me while I was in a WORK meeting and well, you guess where this is going ;) oh! Fun fact, I wrote most of this in the shower! (How fitting) don’t read if this sorta content disturbs you, and if there’s any puritans out there that wanna call me a sick fuck and tell me I’m going to hell, baby, I’m already there! Feminism went completely out the window on this one!
~word count: 2.7k~
Summary: Joel Miller fucks you the same way he does every night…until he decides to switch things up for the first time.
Pairing | dark!joel x f!reader
Warnings: dark!joel, rough/mean Joel, overstimulation, heavy on the degrading kink, breeding kink, biting, dom/sub dynamic, oral f receiving, spit kink, pussy slapping, slight dubcon, piss kink, implied free use, Joel calls the reader his bitch and cocksleeve, unprotected piv, pussy pronouns, no specific age for the reader, reader has no physical descriptions, +18 minors dni!
Hot wisps of breath fan the shell of your ear. There’s a sheen of sweat coating your skin when his tongue darts out to taste a droplet of your perspiration on his tongue. His strong hips and thighs cage you posessively as he drives his cock further into your already ruined and messy cunt. His thrusts are relentless, and with each heavy punch of his cock into your cervix, you’re gasping for air; begging, pleading for him to let you breathe, but he always refuses.
He takes you like this the same way every night. Never soft and sweet, always rough and demanding. He’s like a rabid dog that broke away from its chain and headed straight for you. Ripping, clawing, and gnawing on your soft flesh. He takes and takes when, and however he chooses.
His large hands, calloused and scarred, act as a brand upon your skin. He molds you to his liking, pressing your face further into the seedy mattress till you can taste the dust ridden fibers on your tongue. His hands are capable of inflicting so much pain, and you can only imagine how many people he has killed with them.
He grunts against your ear, teeth biting down on the soft lobe till you’re yelping for him to stop and he removes his heavy hand from your soft cheek momentarily, only to grasp your hair between his fingers and roughly yank your head up from the mattress. Hot tears blur your vision. You’re in a confused daze, his words sounding muffled as you gulp down lungfuls of air.
“Ain’t much use to me if my favorite cocksleeve stops breathin’, sweetheart.” He gruffly teases, an edge of playfulness in his tone. “Keep on breathin’ in that sweet, sweet air. It’s the only shred of kindness you’re gonna get from me tonight.”
He forces your back to meet his chest, arching your spine to meet the heavy thrusts of his cock splitting you open. He drops your hair, your scalp feeling raw and tender from how hard he was yanking on it. His strong arms encase around your middle, fat fingers tormenting your nipples. He squeezes and pinches them before he shoves you right back down into the mattress.
“Turn your head to the side so that you can fuckin’ breathe.” Is all he says while he reaches for the old headboard for leverage. The shitty mattress shakes and squeaks beneath the weight of his heavy thrusts when he picks up his grueling rhythm, again.
You listen to his advice, if you would even call it that, and turn your cheek to the side so that your airway isn’t restricted. Your trembling hands reach for the tattered sheets, and your fists clench the fabric for any sense of support.
“Atta girl.” He rasps, blunt fingernails dig fiercely into the soft flesh of your hips, taking and marking you with red crescents indented in your skin.
“J-Joel.” You try to find your words, but they are muffled and fragmented. Your mind is too focused and centered on the pleasure rippling through your body to even try and protest.
“Shuddup and take it like you always do, baby. Know you can. Don’t gotta act stubborn about it.” He hisses between his clenched teeth, bending his chest forwards against your arched back. He sinks his teeth into the spot where your shoulder blades meet.
In some twisted and erotic way, he is mating you. His primal nature to breed you, and claim you as his; only his, takes over as he bites down on your flesh hard enough to draw blood to the surface of your delicate skin. And you have no choice but to let him, because despite how used and abused Joel Miller makes you feel, you keep coming back for more because no one fucks you like he does.
And when you don’t respond to his crudeness and condescending tone, he feels pleased by your submissiveness and need to please him.
“Was startin’ to think that my perfect little fuck toy wasn’t gonna show up for her fucking tonight. Thought maybe she had finally woken up and realized her worth, but then I find ya outside my door like a stray puppy jus’ waitin’ to be fucked.” He grunts deeply, slowing the movement of his hips before drawing them back slowly. “Cus’ no matter how many times you try to deny it, you love bein’ my cock sleeve. My fuck toy. You fuckin’ live for that shit baby, and you know what? I think it’s about time that I reward you.” He lets out a throaty breath before driving his hips forward, knocking the air from your lungs in tandem with his hips sharply jutting into the soft swell your ass.
His sweat slick skin slaps against yours, the obscene sounds of sex, and your ruined pussy squelching around the thick intrusion of his cock, send your eyes rolling back into your skull when you struggle to lift your cheek from the mattress to look over at him.
“W—what kind of reward?” You choke out, lips falling open in an o shape when his fat cock head nudges against that inner soft and spongy spot deep within the walls of your inviting warmth.
He chuffs a laugh, lifting his head up from where his teeth were just embedded into your skin. “Ah, there she is. Eager as ever, huh? Be fuckin’ patient, baby. Before I change my mind and decide you don’t deserve a reward at all.” He snaps, slamming his hips forward once more before he draws them back again. He slips out of your sopping pussy completely, leaving you on the edge of your approaching orgasm.
His cock is glistening in the low light, a creamy ring of your combined arousal coats the thick, veiny girth of his cock. He scoots back just enough so that he can watch the way your pussy pulses and drools a trail of enticing slick down between your trembling thighs.
He uses his thumbs to pry your inner lips apart before he spits a glob of saliva between your gaped, pulsing hole, and down to your untouched clit, swollen and puffy with need.
“Such a messy little pussy. You should see the way she’s winkin’ at me right now. So needy and desperate for my cock to fill her up with my seed, ain’t that right?” He sounds drunk, words slurred together, darkened eyes glazed over in lust. He licks his lips, inhaling the heady scent of your arousal like a hound dog locked on a trail. “Smell so fuckin’ sweet, too.” He groans before surging forward, burying his face between your parted thighs.
He’s never eaten you out before. Always claiming that you were undeserving of his skilled mouth and tongue. But tonight he’s finally given into tasting you, and once he’s had a lick, he can’t stop. He keeps you pried apart at his leisure, dragging his broad nose right through your trail of slick from the source. His lips suckle on your clit before dragging downwards to tease your folds, sucking on them, too. He’s eating you as if your pussy, and her sweet, sweet, nectar is his life source.
Your body jolts forward when his wiry beard scrapes at the apex of your thighs. He growls against you before reaching around for your hips and anchoring you in place once more so he can continue feasting.
He obscenely slurps and groans against your cunt before drawing his face back for a lungful of air. His chin and beard are glistening, coated in your arousal when he licks you from his lips. You think that maybe he’s finally having a change of heart when he flips you onto your back with ease, your breasts bounce from the movement when your back hits the mattress with a soft thud.
He never strays from fucking you from behind, on your knees with your face smashed into his mattress. That’s how he always takes you. His way only. And yet, here you are staring up at him with your big doe eyes bright and innocent. Your lips parted when he grabs the back of your knees and presses them towards your chest.
“Make yourself useful and hold those for me, will ya?” He barks out an order.
You scramble to grab the underside of your knees, sweaty fingers nearly slipping before you are able to have a solid grip around them.
“Good girl.” He nods before wedging himself between the small opening of your thighs. He catches that almost hopeful glint in your eyes and shoots it down immediately with an intimidating glare.
He brings one hand to the back of your scalp, roughly yanking your head upwards so you’re making direct eye contact with him. His dominant hand is loosely wrapped around the shaft of his cock, and he slaps the fat mushroom head against your puffy clit to gain your attention. “You focus right here.” He snips, brows furrowed together in a harsh line across his forehead. “Don’t you go and gettin’ this twisted, ya hear me? I know how you women work. Y’all think that jus’ cause a man does somethin’ different for once, that he’s softenin’ up to ya. He ain’t. You’re still my bitch, my little cocksleeve, and you’d best be wise to remember that, baby.”
“Y-Yes, Joel. I’m still your—”
He cuts you off with a low snarl when he begins to feed you his cock from this angle inch by inch, glancing down between your bodies so he can see your pussy pulling him in further. “That you are, my girl. Still feelin’ jus’ as eager for your little reward?” He questions with a cock of his brow, smirk tugging across his devious face.
“Please.” You beg him softly, not understanding what it was you were begging him for in the first place.
“Such an eager little cocksleeve to be pumped full of my seed, baby. Never thought I’d see the day.” He chuckles, pressing his hips forward till he’s completely bottomed out inside of you, and the coarse thatch of hair above his pubic bone presses into your clit.
Wait…what?
You look at him dumbfounded, shaking your head and hoping that you just misunderstood what he was saying. “What?”
“What?” He mocks your surprised tone condescendingly.
“Joel.” You try to reason with him, “we—we can’t! I—I don’t want to carry your fucking kid!”
“Aw.” He pouts, drawing his hips back before slamming them forward again. “You don’t wanna be filled to the fuckin’ brim with my seed? You don’t think your pussy wants that, baby? I think she does.” He teases.
“No, Joel. Please. Anything but that. You can come on my tits, my face, just please—not inside!” Your mind is already reeling at the possibility of having to carry Joel Miller’s fucking offspring in a world such as this one. You felt like one of those breeding mares shipped off to some stud farm to be passed around between stallions till one of their foals would inevitably stick—
He laughs cruelly at your fear and the way it dots your vision. He can imagine exactly what’s going through your mind at that very moment. “You should see your fuckin’ face right now.” He snickers. “Relax, sweetheart. I got a vasectomy years before the outbreak.”
“Jesus fuck, Joel! Why didn’t you just start off with that?!” You yell in his face, wishing you could punch that stupid grin right from the perfect pout of his kissable lips. You feel the tension visibly leave your shoulders when he satiates your fears of pregnancy, even if he does it in such a cruel manner.
“Cus’ I like toyin’ with ya. It’s entertainment for me, baby. You’re so easy to play with. I can do it with my eyes closed.” He muses before rolling his hips forward.
“You’re such a dick for that.” You attempt to chastise him, but your attempt is fruitless.
“Now, don’t go thinkin’ you’re entirely off the hook now, sweetheart. I do believe you said earlier that I could do anythin’ else I wanted to ya, right? Your words, baby. Not mine.”
Damn, his mind is sharper than a fucking arrow.
“Yeah…I did say that you could cum on my tits, or my face—”
“Mmm…nope. That ain’t gonna cut it for me unfortunately. I think I wanna do somethin’ else.” He trailed off, meeting your slightly nervous gaze with a small tilt of his head. How could his words and body language always be so fucking…mean?
“Okay, well, what else do you want to do?”
He shrugs his shoulders in disinterest before he grabs your hands that are still secured around the backs of your knees and removes them quickly so that your thighs fall open. He wants you spread at his mercy when he begins to ram into you, over, and over again. “You’re just gonna have to wait and find out.” He grunts deeply, bending down at an angle so he can nip at the juncture of your neck.
Your head lolls to the side so he has easier access and the pleasure starts to coarse through your body till he moves his mouth down the clavicle of your chest. First he starts off with chaste kisses to the swells of your breasts, and then he toys with the pert nipple between his lips. You let out a soft mewl that quickly turns into a high pitched yelp when his teeth sink into the sensitive pebbled flesh, hard.
“OW!” You cry out at the assault of his mouth. He does it again before switching to your other nipple, delivering the same mistreatment before he soothes the broken skin with his tongue.
You jokingly call him an animal thinking that he would disagree and scold you for it, but instead…he leans into that side of himself. He fucking loves it.
“Yeah, baby. I am a fuckin’ animal. You got that damn right.”
He fucks you like one too, till your creaming around his cock, leaking out around his thick girth that continuously punches into your pussy. He slips out suddenly with a wet squelch, leaving you feeling a little dazed and positively fucked out.
“Still want your reward, baby?”
You nod dumbly, cock drunk and eyes glazed with stars still twinkling behind them.
“Alright, my little cocksleeve. Close those pretty eyes for me, and no peekin!’”
Your eyes snap shut on command, chest rising and falling as you catch your breath.
The old mattress squeaks when his weight rises from it. You think about risking a peek to see what exactly it is that he’s doing, but you decide against it.
He stands above you on the mattress at his full height, looming over your spread legs while your ruined pussy is still drooling along the soiled sheets. He looks down at you with his cock wedged between his fist.
You can hear the wet sound of his fist jerking himself off before you feel the hot ropes of his seed coating your face, lips, neck, chest and lower. He shoots a load across your tummy, and right down to your pretty spread pussy.
Well, I suppose that’s a nice…reward? You think to yourself.
“Ain’t done yet, sweetheart.” He scolds you lightly from above when he sees your thighs beginning to close up like a nighttime flower closing its petals till the sweet kiss of sunrise.
He really has more than that? Damn, I underestimated this sick son of a bitch.
He relaxes his shoulders, letting out a decompressing sigh before he slowly releases his bladder with a sick smirk plastered on his face.
First, you detect the familiar stench of urine, and then the steaming liquid lands on your face, trickling down your lips. You let out a sound of protest and lift your hands above your head to shield yourself from his piss. It trails down the valley of your breasts, down your stomach and between your thighs, mixing into the trail of slick between them.
He’s marking you like a fucking dog marks his bitch, and you’ve never felt more degraded and humiliated in your entire life till you find youself under Joel Miller’s golden fucking shower. The stench of urine and cum stings your eyes and the sensitive hairs in your nose.
He bends down, cock now softened between his thighs and places one hand along the side of your face, brushing away a stray dribble of cum and piss from your lips with his calloused thumb.
“Now, no other man is ever gonna want to fuck my bitch when she’s reekin’ of my piss and cum.”
~~~
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Which cod men do you think would be the most interested in period sex? I can see John Mactavish being a freak about it already,but anyone other than him
fun fact: i already wrote a period sex thing for soap!
but other than him? it's ghost, obviously
note: this got darker than i initially planned on. blame the brain worms. cw for blood, dubcon, cnc typical dirty talk, bodily fluids, ghost being a complete freak without prenegotiation (lmk if i need more tags)
it all starts when your period arrives early, in the middle of ghost fingering you open during your biweekly hookup. he pulls his fingers back and they're covered in blood, but not regular blood. not the stuff he deals with every day. the texture's different, more slick than sticky. he doesn't really say anything, just stares at his fingers for a moment until you open your screwed shut eyes and sit up so you can figure out why the fuck he stopped blowing your mind all of a sudden. as soon as you see the blood and realize what's happened, you're mortified.
"oh, shit. that's- i'm early. i'm so sorry, we can stop if you w-" you start, before he cuts you off.
"no. s'fine. let me just-" he says before he shoves his fingers back in, curling them forward and grinding the slickwet heel of his palm down on your clit, sending sparks up your spine and your eyes rolling back as you cum on his hand. he pulls his fingers out with a wet squelch when you whimper at the overstimulation, for once. normally he'd have you writhing and whining, cumming as many times as he could wring out of you in rapid succession. this time? he seems content to watch the slimy, bloody strings of slick slide down between his fingers and onto his palm with an almost reverent look. if not for the mask, you'd almost be worried he'd try to suck his fingers clean.
"you gonna-?" you ask, letting the question hang in the air as you watch with a cocked eyebrow at ghost as he entertains himself with the blood dripping down his fingers. your blood. should you be worried? considering what this man does for a living, you're not sure if it's entirely a good thing for him to develop a blood kink or something.
"yeah, i will, just wanna try somethin' first." he replies, sounding like he's mentally far away from here. he's clearly in his own head about this, he's not even looking at you as he prods at your pussy with his fingers again, slipping between folds, dipping inside of you, and watching the red strings of slick cling to his fingers as he pulls them out. there doesn't seem to be any pattern to his touch, particularly. clearly he's not doing this to get you off again, he just seems to be exploring down there.
"bein' so good f'me, lettin' me muck about down 'ere. nobody's ever let me just play a little. not when they're bleedin' like this. fuck, look so good in red, sweetheart." he murmurs as he uses an index finger to scoop out some bloody slick and write 'sr' on the inside of your thigh. you bite back your scolding and disgust, but just barely. he genuinely seems a little mesmerized, his focus is entirely on your bloody pussy and the red mess on his hand. any rebuke you could possibly have for him would clearly wash right over him, totally unnoticed.
"need to fuck you." he says suddenly, quickly pulling his hard cock out of his boxers, holding your thick thighs apart and out of the way with a bloody hand as he pushes in without any further preamble. the slide in is easy, you're absolutely fucking soaked, and ghost still isn't looking at your face as he glides in and out of you. you can kind-of, sort-of see what's got his attention over your tits and belly: his cock is absolutely covered in blood, matting down the thick patch of hair at the base. he picks up the pace a bit, and the wet slap of skin on skin sounds even more lewd than usual. you let your head roll back and just take it. it's hard not to enjoy it, really, the stretch is incredible and ghost is really putting his back into it this time. you might have to give him a heating pad when this is done.
the silence when he fucks you is almost oppressive. not that he's particularly verbal anyways, but there isn't even an 'oh fuck', or even a 'bloody fuckin' hell' like normal. just stone cold silence as he fucks you hard, staring down at his bloody cock as it slides in and out of you. whatever's going on inside of his head, he's in there deep, and probably won't surface back up to the real world until after he cums.
it's not until you reach down to play with your clit that he even seems to remember that you're there, grabbing your wrist and pinning it by your side as his gaze finally snaps up to your face. he laughs to himself, and it sounds mean. it makes you feel breathless and off-balance, like the floor's been dropped out from underneath you. something's shifted, the game has clearly changed and you're not sure how worried you need to be.
"oh, you're going to hate this." ghost says lowly, and you're not entirely certain he meant to say it out loud. alarms immediately start going off in your head. before the words 'hate what' find their way out of your throat, he pulls out, swipes his hand across your cunt, and smears the bloody slick down the side of your face. you smack at his shoulder in disgust as he pushes himself back in, resuming his pace.
"what the fuck?! what is wrong with you?!" you screech while he just chuckles at you in response.
"yeah, c'mon, fight me, softie. beg me to stop. that all you got? go on, try and get me offa you, fight me off. that shit gets me so fuckin' hard." he snarls into your ear before he smears the blood across your cheekbone with his thumb. his pace continues to be ruthless, and you try your best to push him off of you. not because you think you can actually do it, but because you think it might make him cum faster, which means you'll be able to clean up and go the fuck home faster. whatever it takes to get this fucking over with, right? you didn't sign up for this shit, and frankly? it's getting a little more intense than you'd bargained for.
you beat at his shoulders and swear at him, and in return he grinds his hips in, rubbing circles on your clit. you feel your body jerk without permission as you careen towards your orgasm. no, no, fuck no, all you want is for him to cum and let you leave. you already came once, you're good, you don't want this. right? you're pretty sure you don't... even if it does still feel good. you struggle underneath him anyways, trying to wriggle away, and he just pins you by the shoulder, and keeps grinding on your clit, forcing hissed curses through your teeth as you cum on his cock, eyes rolled back and nails scratching at him in belated anger, hoping it'll be enough to get him off and get it over with before he overstimulates you into a third orgasm.
it seems to work, and he pulls out with a grunt to cum on your stomach in just a few moments. there's blood everywhere, and you're just glad it's not your sheets you've made a mess on. ghost stares at you through his mask as you try to catch your breath underneath him.
"got some red on you." he jokes, and you throw him an unamused look while you sit up and try to see what you could clean up with, since ghost clearly isn't making any moves to help. "fucking hell, it looks like i fucked you to death."
"i need to clean up." you say flatly, hoping that'll get him to volunteer where tissues or a washcloth or a shower is located. instead he scoots on his knees to hold you from behind, his big arms wrapping over your shoulders.
"you mad at me, sweetheart?" the question isn't sincere, and neither is the pet name. he's mocking you.
"i didn't agree to... the second half of that." you bite out, unable to make the words come out. he just chuckles and you feel your fury flare up. that condescending asshole, who the fuck does he think he is-
"you liked it, though. maybe as much as me. felt how tight you got, how hard you came on me. you don't have to act like you didn't. can be our little secret, if you like." he coos, bloody finger trailing down the side of your heated face. "you got another couple days of this, yeah? you go home, think about if you want to keep pretending you didn't like it, and i'll see you tomorrow."
"tomorrow? we're not meeting again until thurs-" you start to argue until ghost cuts you off by gripping your hair, turning your head to face him, and mashing your face against his mask in a gross facsimile of a kiss. he's never done anything like that for the past few months that you've been hooking up, and it sets off even more alarms in your head. when he finally breaks away, you're breathless mostly from fear.
"i'll see you tomorrow, and if you don't come 'ere, i'm goin' over there. got it?" he says in a low, threatening tone. you don't want me goin' over there, is what he doesn't say, but you understand perfectly well that it's what he means. you get dressed in a rush with minimal cleanup and go home, immediately packing a bag and texting out of town friends to see who's up for entertaining a guest for the next few days.
Through Me (The Flood)
Simon Riley masterlist
Anthology
Simon Riley / female reader
secret baby fic / 18+
Something at first sight
Surprise on the street
The world looks different
Too much and not enough
Puzzles
Fish and chips
Seen
Emergency contact
Family or not
Take your baby to work day
Moon and stars
Hard truth
Liar
fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
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