once again thinking about hucklerobby prone bone. but just resting. just cockwarming. thinking about robby laid fully on top of den, pressing him into the mattress, big and warm and soft. his dick nestled up deep as it'll go in den's dripping, fluttering cunt, stuffing him so nice n full.
dennis who's lost in a drooly, dumb haze, panting soft against robby's sheets, whimpering mindlessly with each tiny shift of the thick cock inside of him. hot, throbbing pleasure, molten in his bloodstream, pulsing between his legs. trapped, kept, owned. completely and wholly robby's, enveloped by him, every inch of him wrapped up and filled up with robby's warmth.
robby who's just as drowsy, so warm, den's cunt fluttering so heavenly around his dick, milking him and squeezing him in that velvety, wet warmth. he's blissed out and lax in a way he rarely gets, mindless in a way that's even rarer. mumbling little praises against the back of den's neck, fuck, good boy, mmh, squeezin me so good... precious, perfect little angel... god, baby, you make me feel so damn good, feels s'good... my favorite boy. my baby. my sweetheart....
dennis who sniffles into the sheets, tears dripping, feeling so good he can't help the emotion. whimpering I love you, daddy, please... huffing out sweet little moans into the mattress when the quiet declaration makes robby cum, finally, pumping him full of warm spend. his own hips jerk and grind his achy tdick against the mattress til he's following robby into bliss, squeezing tight around his oversensitive, softening cock, listening to the older man whine in his ear.
recovering together after, gently adjusting to their sides, robby spooning dennis possessively close and squeezing tight, like a child with a comfort stuffie. murmuring I love you too, baby, love you s'much. so much.
“i never see you at the club” ok well i never see you on ao3 at 2am reading about the same two bitches falling in love for the 1000th time in the 500th way
Feeling so soft right now thinking about cuddling with the sergeants...
Lazy days on leave spent in the too-big bed kyle impulsively bought one drunken night, warm under fluffy blankets and cozy pajamas. Kyle at your back, one arm curled into your waist and keeping you tucked against him, the other tangled in soaps hair.
Soaps already awake, but he silently scrolls on his phone, basking in the total silence. The safety of it all. Your face nuzzled against his furry chest. No one really wants to move so no one does.
Your ankles knock together, the sun warms your skin in striped through the blinds. You could lie here forever, cuddled up with them. Never move again and you'd be happy.
blind heiress reader * gatekeeper simon. she by touch, he by surrender. slow burn; sensory; gentle domination
The first thing she noticed about him was that he was heavy.
Not fat. Not slow. Heavy.
The old oak floors groaned beneath his boots with each step of his certainty, carrying the weight of a man who had spent years walking in body armour, through places where careless footsteps were remembered only by the dead.
She smiled before he announced himself.
“You’re the new keeper.” A new set of footstep sounds in her cognition.
“Yes.”
His voice was lower than she expected. Not rough and not gravelly.
“Simon.”
“Yes.”
“I imagined you taller.”
He paused.
“I am.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. It was the first sound that surprised him.
The estate was sat above the sea, wrapped in mist most mornings. Wealth insulated it from the world like thick grass. Gardners clipped roses she cannot see. Staff polished silver she can never admire. The house belonged to her in the way the sound echoes and the particular ways warmth moved across her skin.
She knew the marble hall made the footsteps sharper than the library. The greenhouse smelled like wet earth and mint. That must be the colour green. The western room held the afternoon sun because it stretched warmth longer on her fingers across her knees by three o’clock.
Simon learned her world before he asked her to learn his.
“There are three steps.”
A beat.
“Now two.”
Another.
“The railing is on your left.”
He never reached her unless she asked. Never steered her by the elbow like she was fragile cargo. He described and she decided. It was a respect so subtle most people would have missed it. She didn’t.
On his third week she asked, “Do people stare at you?”
Because they’re now quiet for a longer moment before talking to her, thinking her not seeing them means she didn’t recognise who was nearby.
He looked up from cleaning the mud from his boots. “They do.”
“Why?”
“They’re curious.”
“About what?”
“My face.”
Silence stretched like a living thing.
“You don’t have to answer.”
“I know.”
He returned to his boot and the conversation ended there. She liked that about him. He never explained himself to earn sympathy.
So, she discovered him piece by piece. The smell of cedar soap and leather gloves drying beside the fire. Big fingers too, the glove hung loose on her hand when she tried it sensing he’s not around (he was around). Black coffee. How he carried winter with him even in July.
One evening the electricity failed. The house closed into darkness and, the staff hurried about with candles and nervous voices. She remained exactly where she was in the library chair, hands folded.
“Nothing changed.” She said with a faint smile.
Simon almost smiled back.
Weeks became months. She learned his moods by breathing alone, how every exhale was slow and deep when he was relaxed beside her in the garden, how his breath shortened by imperceptible degrees when some old memory she assumes found him. How there was always a little wheeze to his breathing, she guessed his nose is either broken or crooked.
One rainy afternoon she looked towards her shoulder where she knows he is. “You had a nightmare.”
“…No.”
“You did.”
“I slept.”
“You weren’t breathing the same. I heard it even next room.”
He looked at her for a long time which proved she was right. “Yes.”
She didn’t ask an explanation.
;
It happened on the first truly cold morning of autumn. The house was silent except for rain on glass like impatient fingers.
She stood there with one hand resting on the shelves and the other loose at her side. “Simon?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask something strange?”
“You may.”
“I’ve never known your face.”
He said nothing. Because that is the very reason, he’s, her keeper.
“I know your boots... and your hands…. And your voice, when you’re tired.” She smiled faintly. “But I don’t know… where your eyes are.”
He felt it tighten against his chest. Everyone wanted to see his face. She wanted to understand it.
“If it helps,” he said quietly.
She lifted her hands. Gave him every opportunity to step away. He didn’t.
Her fingertips found the fabric of his shirt first, then the warm line of his throat. His jaw. Fresh stubble rasped beneath her fingers. That crooked nose. One of her hands cradled his cheek and the other felt the eyebrow interrupted by scar tissue. His temple. She lingered there.
“There’s another scar.”
“Yes.”
“You were very young.”
“…yes.”
She reached until her fingertips rested above his eyes; he closed them instinctively. Not because she could see. Because he suddenly felt seen.
Her thumb brushed the line where an old wound disappeared into his hair. “You frown more on this side.”
He gave a small huff of amusement. “Yes.”
“You’ve been hurt.”
“… Yes.”
There was no pity in her voice. Only grief for a road she didn’t walk alongside him.
Her hands began to retreat. And without thinking-without planning- he caught them. Gentle as he is, not tightly. Just to stop them from leaving.
Rain on glass and fire whispering in the grate, her eyes were closed. His rough hands wrapped around hers. She waited.
He guided one of her palms back to his cheek.
She smiled. “There you are.”
He had crossed borders under false names. Disappeared into crowds and hid from cameras. Spent years and masks making sure no one could truly find him. Yet in here, before her who had never seen a single feature of his face, Simon experienced something he had long forgotten. He didn’t feel exposed, but recognised. Being known didn’t feel dangerous.
;
Days later the rain returned, softer this time. Apologetic. It didn’t rap against the windows, washed the walls gently.
She sat curled in her usual chair, a thick volume unopened on the table beside her.
Simon was near the shelves, putting books back in their places with the same economical precision. She took in the soft thud of each volume sliding home, the faint creak of the ladder when he needed to reach higher. She remembered lifting her hands quite high to reach his face.
“Simon?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated, fingers tracing the embossed cover of the book beside her. “Would you read to me?”
She could hear him weighing it.
“Now?” he asked.
“If you’re not busy.”
He crossed the room. She heard him pull the chair closer - wood scraping on oak – then settle into it. The fire popped and the leather shifted as he picked up the book.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Anything. Whatever you want. Or this one. It doesn’t matter.”
He opened the book. She listened the pages rustle, imagined his scarred hands holding it carefully.
His breathing was low and his voice was dry. He read it without flourish, straight. Honest.
She closed her eyes – not that it changed anything – and let his voice draw the story. He didn’t dramatise and didn’t soften. He simply read and maybe it was plainer than how the story should be read.
After a few pages he paused. “Still good?”
“Yes,” she whispered, “don’t stop.”
So he continued. She reached out slowly, found his knee, and rested her hand there. Just an anchor. He didn’t flinch. After a moment, his free hand came down and covered it – rough palm and the steady warmth that had become her favourite constant in the house.
They stayed like that for a long time. His voice rolling through chapters and her fingers occasionally tracing small circles on his knee. Learning the muscle through the fabric, the way it tensed and relaxed with the story (her).
Outside, the sea murmured against the cliffs. Inside, he wished…
When he closed the book finally, the room felt more theirs.
“Thank you.” She said.
He made that small sound in his throat, that meant more than most men’s entire sentences. “Anytime.”
The rain kept falling for that whole week and that became a routine.
;
Boots on oak and her favourite landmark. One evening after the power failed again, he carried her to her bed the way he started doing. In the dark she mapped him again, lower this time, learning the topography of his chest, the ridges of old wounds and the way his breath caught when her fingers found the line of his hip. He let her. All the way.
And when he moved inside her it was with the gravity he brought to everything else. Two people that knew how to disappear, finding themselves back.
In the morning he warmed her teacup before placing it in her hands and announced himself with a gentle caress on her arm before leaning to kiss her. He rotated her chair so the weak winter sun would fall across her shoulders, and he adjusted his pace by half a step closer to her.
ꨄ︎ - when Johnny and co first met you, you almost refused to acknowledge he was even there, your attention solely focused on Sue, Reed, and Ben.
ꨄ︎ - to say he was irritated would be an understatement because you were (respectfully) SO attractive.
ꨄ︎ - after meeting the four you end up working as a sort of behind the scenes backup incase there was ever a time when someone couldn’t get to a minor job, interview, or villain, and this starts up his flirty antics.
ꨄ︎ - in my head you start to wear gloves (frozen core) after joining the group on recommendation of Reed, just to make sure you don’t actually give anyone freezer burn or frostbite.
ꨄ︎ - Johnny knows this, and yet is constantly trying to get you to make any form of physical contact with him, much to your (and his sisters) dismay.
ꨄ︎ - the first time you were ever severely hurt in a fight, he was by your side in an instant, hands cradling your face and steam rising from where your skin met his.
ꨄ︎ - Johnny stayed by your bedside for your entire recovery process, not moving a muscle in case you woke up and needed something, needed him.
ꨄ︎ - and when you did wake up and see him sitting there, hair askew and shadows darkening his face, you did soften to his advances, and even began some of your own.
ꨄ︎ - you came to a compromise about touching, no skin to skin for now, and you would only hold pinkies when you had your gloves on. Obviously he was disappointed that was all he got, but being near you is being near you so he got over it quick.
ꨄ︎ - neither of you decided to put a label on whatever you had, but you did notice a very distinct change; Johnny never flirted with anyone again after your accident, and that made your cold heart grow three sizes.
no thoughts just simon riley and your new back tattoo.
his first thought is fuck - because it's big and intricate and must have fucking hurt.
his next thought is also, still, fuck - because all he can picture now is digging his fingers into the meat of your hips and fucking you from behind with this addition to his already perfect view.
that night he's uncharacteristically gentle; carefully helping you peel the wrapping off, rinsing blood and plasma and excess ink from your back in the shower. and for the next two weeks? he's there, helping spread cocoa butter over every inch of your new tattoo with careful touches; learning the shape of it with his fingertips.
and when it's healed? yeah, he's getting a cumshot video to cherish forever. something to take with him when he's away next to remind him of you. the perfect video of thick white ropes of his cum running down your tattooed back; gathering in the dimples either side of the base of your spine.
Dennis who hates being on top. Not just fucking someone but he hates riding, riding cock, riding face. Basically anything that doesn't involve him just lying there and taking it. Maybe he's lazy or spoiled but he just gets so tired. His legs start to ache and cramp.
Usually this isn't an issue, Jack and Robby love using the boy. But it does make a great punishment for him. The men love watching the boy whine as he bounces on Robby's dick. Moaning, whining and begging for the attending to just flip him over and fuck him. "Aww puppy don't you want to make it up to us?" Jack coos mockingly. Stroking his cock as tear drip down Dennis's face. Watching as the man goes up and down on his husband. Watching the clench around cock, the soft o shape of the boys mouth.
robbys eases his puppy into full captivity so carefully that dennis falls into his new life as easily as falling asleep. it starts with the pair adventuring into puppyplay every so often, which both of them loved. dennis had been ecstatic when he'd been bought a collar and leash for play time, and robby had been delighted.
soon occasional scenes during sex turned into weekly scenes, then tri-weekly, and then it became their everyday life outside of work- so easy. as soon as they weren't on shift, dennis was collared tightly and allowed to drop so deep for his owner. he was a puppy at home, that was that. robby knows his plan is working by this stage, seeing how happily dennis had given over so much of his life to being his puppy and nothing more. seeing dennis's glazed eyes and the way he'd pant and bark and present himself for his owner made his heart clench in excitement. soon, soon, he'd have this all the time.
the next phase of easing his puppy into his new normal were the holidays. just little ones, three or four days in robby's woodland cabin at a time, but where dennis did not resurface from his puppyspace until it was time to return to pittsburgh. its the first time dennis has been a pup for over 24 hours at a time, and marks the start of where he begins to struggle to pull himself back out.
whenever they set off, robby would strip him naked and tuck him into his crate in the backseat, collar and leash on, a special puppy-dog nestled in blankets. he wasn't allowed any words, only puppy noises, and he wasn't to touch himself or go anywhere without owner's permission. the fuzzy feeling in dennis's head gets stronger and stronger in these holidays, until he isn't suppressing his human words to act like a puppy- he actually believes himself to be one. he can't remember any human words or where he came from or what he does. when he has to be coaxed into his normal headspace at the end of the holiday, he always cries his eyes out as robby coos. dennis doesn't feel safe as a person anymore, he feels wrong and vulnerable and like he's defying his rightful owner.
robby hushes his fears and kisses him, smiling contentedly when the little thing sobs into his neck at having to have his collar taken off. his puppy is so, so close to where he needs him to be. dennis starts drifting at work, fumbling and stuttering, and robby plants the seeds of doubt in his mind- is denny sure medicine is the right path? remember how good he is as a dumb little puppy-dog... dennis starts to crave staying at home where he's naked and canine and cherished.
soon after this, robby pounces. he takes denny on another holiday- the last holiday, because his puppy won't ever see an end to his fuzzy, brainless headspace again. dennis goes down so easily and looks so delighted as his words fade away and he's left as nothing more than a puppy that robby knows he's made the right choice.
he switches out dennis's old collar for something bigger, thicker, permenant. strong leather with a padded inside, good for puppies who aren't ever going to have a bare neck again. dennis preens and barks happily at his gift, enjoying the pressure and the look on owner's face. he must've been very good to deserve this- he probably has been, but owner's words don't make sense, it's all just deep and soothing sound. dennis only recognises his own name.
he sniffles a bit when owner puts his puppyparts in a cage of some sort, but the praising tones he gets for allowing himself to be locked away tell the puppy he's doing the right thing. dennis isn't sure where or when the command was instilled in him, but he knows his body belongs to owner.
they don't go back to pittsburgh after three or four days. they don't go back after a week or two either. they don't go back at all, not that the dumb puppy has any concept of time- or even a concept of where pittsburgh is or why he'd been there. dennis's whole world is owner and making sure he was good. his brain was always muted and fuzzy and comfortable, his collar and cage and leash his only clothing. he never regained any words, not even in his head. he could only bark and whine and growl, or yip when owner wanted to play with him.
his biggest problem were the punishments if he barked to loudly or nipped at owner by accident, which would see owner muzzle him until he proved he was a good dog again. denny knows he's not supposed to, but he quite likes the muzzle. he likes having owner control his voice as well as his body, and he'd be pretty happy to wear it more often, the tight leather forcing his mouth closed and the straps round his head making him dumber and fuzzier than usual. it was a good, good life.
robby's noticed his dog likes the muzzle, of course. he's not blind. he thinks about keeping his pup muzzled two days a week and decides it's a good plan moving forwards- a treat for them both, because nothing made robby harder than his puppy-dog all trussed up for him.
when robby sits in bed at night, his naked, caged, collared puppy snuggling into him and licking at him lovingly, he knows he's made the perfect life for them. goodness knows dennis wasn't made to be a doctor- no no, dennis is only a stupid doggy, meant to serve and pleasure and play. he's only got a small brain, after all. he'd always needed an owner to keep him in check.
they've been at the cabin a year now. his denny won't ever have another human thought, or speak another word- robby's never taking his puppy back, or the collar off his neck.
robby scratching through dennis's curls behind his ear and it makes dennis's eyes roll back and his leg involuntarily tense up and shake because it feels so good. robby laughing and teasingly going 'oh, who's a good boy? you're my good boy!' while dennis hides his red face in robby's chest. pouting and swearing that he didn't know it'd make him do that and it's never happened before
Simon 'Ghost' Riley is a simple, plain man. Meaning he hates spending money on himself unless it's absolutely necessary, this man has thousands in the bank because he just doesn't spend it.
That's why Simon loves high maintenance women, specifically you. He loves that you get your hair done every month, loves that you get your nails done, eyelashes, facials, pedicures. God he absolutely loves providing for his woman.
The only problem is that you're not used to spending other people's money. You work, and you work hard for your money.
"Bye Si. I'll see you later," you shouted as you put your shoes on, just about to head out the door.
"Where you going love?"
That made you stop and slowly turn to face Simon. "I've got my nail appointment today." You said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, which it was. You had wrote it on the calendar.
"Hm and who's paying?"
"Um... Me?"
"Guess again," Simon was already in front of you, placing his bank card between your cleavage.
"Simon."
"Don't 'Simon' me," he mumbled as he kissed your forehead. "You know the rules. You look pretty and I pay for it." And you couldn't argue because Simon smacked your arse before pushing you out the door and locking it.
Oh, and don't bother trying to pay. Simon already took your credit card.
