I wanted to make a introduction and a small list of my stuff in categories also for myself so I dont lose stuff.
Well my name is Gwen! I'm 18! I am from the Netherlands. I am studying to became a teacher.
Music taste : Metallica , Type O Negative, Nirvana , MCR, Chappel Roan , Bauhaus. The Cure , Siouxsie and the Banshees, System of a Down, KoRn, Slipknot and Destroy Boys and alot alot more!!
I write about my oc's and fanfic!
Fandoms im in is mostly stuff like twd! but i mostly write Eddie Munson!
You didn't mean to bring it up. Hell, you didn't even mean to think about it. It was just that the air in the safe house was too thick, the silence between you and Simon was too heavy, and the bottle of whiskey you'd been nursing had made your tongue loose and your filter non-existent.
You were perched on the edge of the rickety bed while he leaned against the wall, cleaning his rifle with the methodical focus of a saint polishing a relic. The only light was a single naked bulb, casting a jaundiced glow and carving his face into a landscape of harsh shadows.
The conversation had been about nothing. Mission fatigue, the shitty food, the way the rain sounded like nails on the tin roof. Then, you'd made a joke. A stupid, clumsy joke about a fellow soldier who couldn't keep it in his pants.
"Man's a walking liability," you slurred, a little too loudly. "Thinks with his dick, gets himself into all kinds of trouble."
Simon just grunted, his eyes never leaving the barrel of his gun. But you, feeling the warm, reckless burn of the whiskey, pushed on.
"At least he's getting some, I guess. Not like some of us are dying over here."
That got his attention. His head lifted, his dark eyes pinning you in place. "That what's on your mind, Sergeant? Dying for a shag?"
The way he said it, so casual, so dismissive, should have made you shut your mouth. Instead, it acted like gasoline on a fire. "Maybe," you retorted, trying for bravado and landing somewhere in the vicinity of pathetic. "What's it to you, anyway?"
He set the rifle down with deliberate slowness, the clatter of metal on wood sounding like a gunshot in the small room. He pushed off the wall and crossed the space in two long strides. He was a tower of muscle and barely contained violence, and you were suddenly aware of how small the bed was and how close he was.
"You sound like a bloody teenager," he rumbled, his voice low and dark. "It's just a fuck. It's not a holy grail."
And that's when it happened. The words tumbled out, a drunken, shameful confession that you couldn't claw back even if you tried. "Well, maybe I wouldn't know, would I?"
The air in the room changed, going from thick with tension to frozen solid. Simon stared at you, his expression unreadable, but you saw the flicker of surprise, the slow-dawning realization, and the subtle shift in his posture.
"Say that again," he commanded, his voice quiet, cutting through the whiskey haze.
You shook your head, a wave of intense heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting with a mortification so acute you thought you might be sick. "Forget it," you mumbled, trying to look anywhere but at him.
He crouched down in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. His gloved hand reached out, tipping your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Those eyes were searching, dissecting you.
"You're a virgin." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a kind of breathless awe that was somehow worse than mockery.
"Shut up," you hissed, trying to jerk your head away, but his grip was firm. The shame was a living thing inside you, clawing at your throat. You felt exposed and raw, like he'd peeled back your skin and found something soft underneath.
He let go of your chin, but he didn't move away. He just stared, his mind clearly working behind those dark eyes. You expected him to laugh, to call you a kid, or to tell you to get the fuck over it. Instead, he said something that shattered you completely.
"You want me to fuck you."
It wasn't a question either. It was the most terrifying, exhilarating statement you'd ever heard. Your denial was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to the unbearable vulnerability. "No! I didn't say that. I just..." You trailed off, because what could you say? You did. You wanted it so badly it hurt. You wanted him. The terrifying, scarred, lethal man who now knew your most private secret.
His lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. It wasn't mocking; it was hungry. "You're a shit liar," he murmured. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made your skin pebble. "Is that why you've been lookin' at me like a lost puppy? Hoping I'd bend you over and show you the ropes?"
The crude, direct language sent a jolt straight to your core. You squeezed your thighs together, a pathetic attempt to relieve the sudden, throbbing ache. "Fuck you, Simon," you whispered, but it sounded weak and breathless.
"That's the idea, sweetheart."
So it had started as a joke, a stupid, whiskey-fueled slip-up that you'd both tried to bury under layers of snark and forced professionalism. For a few days, it was like a bizarre, unspoken truce. He didn't mention it, and you tried to pretend you hadn't basically offered up your virginity on a silver platter. You trained harder, kept your head down, and avoided his eyes like they were the abyss.
But the world had shifted on its axis, and you couldn't unsee it.
You started noticing things. The way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached for a high shelf, the fabric straining over the solid muscle of his shoulders. The way his tactical gloves creaked when he balled his fists. The scent of him that seemed to linger in the air long after he'd left a room.
His eyes were the worst. Before, his stares had been assessing and analytical. Now, they were heavy, weighted with a new kind of intent. You'd feel them on you during a briefing, a heated, lingering sweep from your boots to your face that made your breath catch and your cunt throb. He was looking at you like he was picturing you naked, and the constant, low-level humiliation of your secret acted as a toxic aphrodisiac.
He was harder on you, too. His critiques in the field were more cutting, his expectations higher. He'd push you during PT until your lungs burned and your muscles screamed, his voice a low, relentless bark in your ear. "Again, Sergeant. Is that all you've got?" It felt like a punishment, or maybe a test, and every time you pushed through it, you felt a flicker of pride, followed by the hot rush of imagining what he'd do to you if you really impressed him.
The tension coiled tighter and tighter, a wire vibrating at a frequency only you and he could feel. It was only a matter of time before it snapped.
It was a normal enough afternoon. The whole team was sprawled in the common room, the low hum of the TV and Price's cigar smoke filling the space. Johnny was recounting some wild story about a bar fight in Prague, his voice boisterous and animated. You were trying to laugh, trying to be normal, but all you could feel was Simon's presence on the other side of the room. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a beer bottle in his hand. He wasn't looking at you, he was looking at Johnny, but you could feel his attention like a physical touch.
Then Johnny, the glorious, oblivious bastard, said something that twisted the knife.
"Aye, but you know what it's like, Si," he said, grinning. "Sometimes you just gotta get in there, get the job done, no matter how tight the fit is. Am I right?"
A beat of silence. Your heart stopped. Simon's eyes, slow and deliberate, slid from Johnny to you. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, Johnny," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seemed to be directed only at you. "Sometimes you just have to be patient. Make sure they're ready before you... make your move."
Johnny laughed, clapping Gaz on the back. "See? The man's a poet."
But you weren't hearing it. Your blood was roaring in your ears. He was going to tell them. The paranoia, the toxic cocktail of shame and fear, exploded in your chest. He was going to expose you, right here, in front of everyone. He'd tell them you were some pathetic virgin who'd begged for it, and they'd all laugh, and you'd have to leave the task force.
Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood up, your movements sharp and jerky. "I need some air," you mumbled, not meeting anyone's eyes.
You didn't make it two steps before Simon's voice stopped you. "Sergeant. A word."
Your stomach dropped. You turned to see him pushing off the wall, his expression unreadable. He mystic jerked his head towards the hallway. "Now."
The others were already back to their conversation, but you felt their curious glances as you followed him out of the room and down the hall, your boots feeling heavier with every step. He pushed open the door to his quarters and you followed him inside, the door clicking shut behind you with a terrifying finality.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you hissed, the words tearing out of you the second the door was closed. "Are you going to tell them? Just get it over with and humiliate me, you bastard!"
He turned to face you, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "Tell them? What the hell are you on about?"
"Don't play dumb!" you shot back, your voice cracking. "You're going to tell them I'm a... that I'm... that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing!"
His face softened just a fraction. The anger bled out of him, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like pity. "Jesus," he muttered, running a hand over his masked face. "I'm not going to tell them anything. That's your business, not mine."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?" you demanded, your breath catching in your throat. "Why are you always fucking looking at me?"
"Because you're driving me fucking insane," he ground out, taking a step towards you. "I'm trying to give you space, trying to be a fuckin' gentleman, and you're over here thinking I'm about to announce your sexual history to the whole squad?"
The sheer absurdity of it, the relief mixed with the lingering fear, was too much. The words you'd been holding back for weeks finally burst free. "Just fuck me and get it over with!" you blurted out, the words sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Just do it so I can stop thinking about it!"
He stared at you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then he spoke, his voice quiet, cold, and utterly commanding.
"No."
Your heart plummeted. "What?"
"I said no." He took another step closer, crowding you, his presence overwhelming.
You stammered, your brain short-circuiting. "I-I don't understand. You... you want to, don't you?"
His eyes flashed, a dark fire igniting in their depths. "Wanting to and fucking you are two different things, Sergeant. I'm not going to take your virginity because you're having a fuckin' panic attack. You'll wait."
"Wait?"
"You'll wait until you're sure. Until you can ask me properly." His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "And you'll ask me in my bed, after everyone's asleep. Then, and only then, I'll consider it."
The shift in power was dizzying. He wasn't rejecting you; he was setting the terms. And God help you, you wanted to agree to every single one.
"Okay," you whispered, your voice trembling.
He tilted his head, a gesture of both command and curiosity. "Okay, what?" His gaze was piercing, demanding.
You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The old shame was there, but it was being drowned out by a new, more powerful feeling: a desperate, clawing need to please him. You sank to your knees on the cold, hard floor of his room, the movement feeling both shameful and right. You looked up at him, your heart pounding against your ribs.
"Please, Simon," you whispered, the words barely audible. "Please... fuck me."
A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, visible even around the mask. He reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a surprising tenderness.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Now get up and go back to the others. Act normal. I'll see you later."
You didn't remember much of the rest of the evening. You sat through the briefing, you ate dinner, you even managed a few stilted laughs at Johnny's jokes. But all of it was a blur, the background noise to the roaring in your head. You were going to Simon's room tonight. The thought was a live wire in your stomach, sparking terror and anticipation in equal measure.
Hours later, the base was quiet. The hallway was deserted, the only light coming from the red glow of the emergency exit signs. You moved like a ghost, your bare feet silent on the linoleum as you made your way to his door. You didn't knock. You just turned the handle and slipped inside.
He was waiting for you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his mask illuminated by the single lamp on his bedside table. He'd taken off his tac vest, leaving him in just a tight-fitting black t-shirt and his cargo pants. He looked human, and terrifyingly sexy.
"Lock the door," he said, his voice soft but firm.
You did, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. You turned back to him, your body thrumming with nervous energy. And then you noticed the room. It was different. The usually stark, military-neat space was softened. The bed had clean, crisp sheets on it. And there were candles, a few simple tea lights flickering on the windowsill and the dresser, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room.
"You... lit candles," you said, your voice small.
"I wanted you to be comfortable," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He patted the space on the bed next to him. "Come here."
You went, your legs feeling unsteady. You sat down, a careful distance between you, your hands twisting in your lap. He didn't rush you. He just watched you, his dark eyes patient.
"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "If you've changed your mind"
"I haven't," you said, a little too quickly. "I want this. I want... you."
He nodded slowly. "Good." He reached out and took one of your restless hands, his grip warm and steady. "We'll go slow. We'll go as slow as you need. And you tell me to stop if you want to stop. Understand?"
You nodded, your throat tight. "I understand."
He leaned in, and for the first time, you thought he was going to kiss you. But he just pressed his forehead against yours, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made your eyes sting. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin.
"Relax," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."
Then he did kiss you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It was slow, soft, exploring. His lips were warm and firm against yours, and the fact that you could feel them, that the mask didn't cover them, made it incredibly intimate. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping out to taste you. He tasted like mint and the faint, bitter hint of coffee, and it was the most intoxicating thing you'd ever experienced.
You kissed him back with a clumsy, desperate enthusiasm, your hands coming up to clutch at his t-shirt. He let you, his own hands moving to your waist, guiding you. He pulled you closer, until you were half in his lap, and you could feel the solid, hard plane of his chest against yours.
"Simon," you breathed against his lips, his name a prayer on your tongue.
"Shhh," he soothed, his hands sliding under your shirt. His fingers were calloused, rough against the soft skin of your back, and you shivered at the sensation. "Just feel."
He kissed his way down your jaw, to your neck, his lips and tongue tracing a path that made you arch into him. He pulled your shirt over your head, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in your simple cotton bra. He reached around and unhooked it with practiced ease, letting it fall away.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his hands coming up to cover your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. The praise, so sincere, so raw, sent a bolt of heat straight to you. You'd been so focused on your own inexperience, you hadn't considered that he might actually want this, want you, with the same desperate hunger.
He laid you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, and continued his exploration. He kissed every inch of your exposed skin, his touch reverent. He was taking his time, so much time, working you up with a maddening slowness that had you writhing beneath him.
He started kissing your tits, his mouth hot and wet as he closed his lips around one nipple, flicking it with his tongue. The sensation was electric. And in your head, the old, ugly thought surfaced: He's done this a hundred times. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you're just another body in his bed. The thought made you squirm, a mix of jealousy and insecurity twisting your gut.
He must have felt the change in you, because he pulled back, his eyes searching your face. "What is it?" he asked. "Talk to me."
"I just..." you couldn't say it. It was too embarrassing. But he just waited, his gaze patient and unwavering. "I just... I know you've done this before. With people who know what they're doing."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Yeah, I have," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble. "And do you know what I've learned?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I've learned that nothing is hotter than watching someone fall apart for the first time. I've learned that I fucking love being the one to make it happen."
He moved down your body, his hands hooking into the waistband of your pants. "I'm going to eat your pussy now," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And you're going to let me hear every single sound you make. No holding back. Understand?"
You nodded, your breath coming in short, shallow pants. He pulled your pants and underwear down in one go, leaving you completely bare to him. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them apart. He looked up at you, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue on your cunt was like a lightning strike. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your back arching off the bed. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.
"Fuck, you're wet," he rasped, his tongue lapping at you with long, slow strokes. "So fuckin' wet for me."
He ate you out with a devastating skill, his tongue finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling and sucking until you were a whimpering, moaning mess. You could feel his spit mixing with your own slickness, the obscene, wet sounds filling the room.
While he worked, his hands found yours, his fingers lacing through yours, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your hips. It was an anchor, a connection in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure. He held your gaze, letting you watch him, his eyes dark with lust as he showed you exactly what his tongue was doing to your swollen, aching clit.
"Tell me how it feels," he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Talk to me."
"It feels... so good," you gasped, your nails digging into the backs of his hands. "Your tongue... fuck, Simon, don't stop."
His grip on your hands tightened, a silent acknowledgment of your plea. Your pussy was burning, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded more. You felt a fullness in your belly, a tightening coil of pleasure that was wound so tight it was almost painful.
He slid a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. The stretch was intense, a dull burn that quickly melted into pleasure. He was watching your face, reading your every reaction, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.
"You're taking my fingers so well," he praised, his voice thick with arousal. "Look at that. So fuckin' tight." He pumped his fingers in and out of his mouth, his tongue still working your clit.
The dirty talk, the sight of him between your legs, the feel of his fingers and tongue, it was too much. The coil in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. You came with a loud, broken moan, your thighs clamping around his head as he worked you through it, drawing out every last shatter of pleasure.
He finally released you, crawling back up your body and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You could feel his erection, a hard thick line pressing against your thigh, and you were suddenly desperate to feel it, to feel Ghost.
You reached down, your hand palming his cock through his pants. He hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily. You wanted to make him feel as good as he'd made you feel. You wanted to show him how desperate you really were.
You pushed at his shoulders, surprising him. He let you roll him over, until you were straddling his thighs. You quickly undid his belt and fly, freeing his cock. It was even more intimidating up close, long, thick, and flushed dark red at the tip. A bead of pre glistened there, and you leaned down, licking it off on a whim.
"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. "Show me," you whispered. "Show me how you like it."
His eyes snapped open, dark with lust. He wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking it slowly from base to tip. "Like this," he said, his voice strained. "Spit on it."
You did, your saliva glistening on the head. He used it as lube, his fist moving in a smooth, steady rhythm. You watched, utterly mesmerized, as he pleasured himself.
"Your turn," he grunted.
You replaced his hand with yours, your grip tentative at first. You mimicked his movements, and he let out a low, encouraging sound. "Yeah, just like that, love. Tighter. Squeeze the head when you get to the top."
You followed his instructions, your confidence growing with every groan you elicited from him. He was leaking steadily now, his pre-cum making your hand slick.
You leaned down and flicked your tongue over the head again, tasting the bitter saltiness of him. He twitched in your hand, a guttural sound escaping his lips. Emboldened, you took him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue around him. The taste, the feel of him on your tongue, the power of having this strong, dangerous man at your mercy, it was intoxicating.
"Jesus, fuck," he gasped, his hand flying to your hair, not to guide you, but just to hold on. "You're gonna make me come, you little minx."
You smiled around his cock, a surge of feminine pride washing over you. You cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your hand, marveling at the weight of them. You even ran your fingers through the coarse, dark hair at the base of his cock, finding the fact that he was unshaven, so naturally and undeniably male, incredibly hot.
"Christ, stop looking at me like that," he groaned. "You're gonna make me blow my load before I even get inside you."
You pulled off him with a wet pop, grinning. "Sorry."
"You're not," he said, sitting up and kissing you hard. He flipped you over again, pinning you beneath him.
He reached over to the bedside table, grabbing a condom and ripping it open. He rolled it on with practiced efficiency, his eyes never leaving yours. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you.
"Last chance," he said, his voice serious. "Tell me to stop."
"Don't you dare," you breathed, your legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer.
He pushed forward, slowly, so slowly, the stretch immense. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders. It burned, but it was a good burn, a sign of the connection you were making. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed against yours.
"You're doin' so good," he murmured, his voice strained. "So fuckin' good. Just breathe."
You did, and as you did, he slid in deeper, inch by incredible inch, until he was seated fully inside you. The feeling of fullness was absolute, overwhelming. He was so deep, so much a part of you, it brought tears to your eyes.
He kissed them away, his lips gentle. "You okay?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.
You nodded, unable to speak. He started to move, his thrusts shallow and slow. He held your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours, anchoring you as he began to fuck you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It wasn't frantic or rough. It was deep, intimate, and devastatingly slow. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, his lips worshipping your body as his cock worshipped your cunt.
You could tell he was holding back, his body trembling with the effort of not pounding into you. His thrusts were angled perfectly, stimulating a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed. The pressure built again, a slow, rising tide of pleasure that was even more intense than the first.
"That's it," he panted in your ear. "I can feel you gettin' tighter. Are you gonna come on my cock, sweetheart? Gonna come all over me?"
His words, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure, sent you over the edge again. You came with a silent cry, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shaking with the force of it.
"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his rhythm finally faltering. "I can feel you comin'. So fuckin' hot. So goddamn perfect." He slammed into you once, twice, three more times, and then he was coming with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled the condom.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, heavy blanket. You lay there, tangled together, your breathing slowly syncing up as you came down from the high. After a long moment, he rolled off you, disposing of the condom before pulling you back into his chest.
You were silent, your mind reeling. You felt different. Changed. The shame, the insecurity, it was all gone, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction.
Simon pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Stay," he murmured, his voice already heavy with sleep.
You didn't need to be asked twice. You cuddled closer, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. In the morning, things would be different. But for tonight, in the warm, candlelit glow of his room, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
The only thing more shocking than the fact that you'd just lost your virginity to Simon 'Ghost' Riley was the realization that you wanted to do it again. And again.
The first few days after were a weird, hazy blur. You moved through your training exercises on autopilot, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache. A deep, pleasant soreness that was a constant, throbbing reminder of the way he'd felt inside you, the way he'd held you, the sounds he'd made. Every time you caught sight of him across the compound, a dark, imposing figure against the grey concrete, a jolt of heat would shoot straight to your core.
You expected things to be awkward. You'd braced yourself for smirks from Johnny or a pointed, knowing look from Gaz. But there was nothing. Simon was the consummate professional on the field, his commands sharp, his demeanor as unreadable as ever. If anything, he was a little more distant, a little more controlled, as if he was holding himself back with a supreme effort. And Johnny just thought you were hungover.
That first night back in the safety of your own room, you'd slid your hand into your panties and touched yourself, trying to replicate the devastating pleasure he'd given you. It was useless. Your own fingers were a poor substitute for the thick, insistent stretch of his cock, the expert roll of his hips. You came, but it was a hollow, fleeting thing, and it only made you miss him more.
It took three days of this simmering tension before you snapped. You were in the gym, pounding away your frustration on the treadmill, when he walked in. He was wearing a tight-fitting black tank top and sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower. He didn't look at you, just gave a curt nod and headed for the weights. But you saw the way his jaw ticked, the way his hands flexed at his sides.
You hit the stop button on the treadmill, the machine's whine cutting through the quiet hum of the room. "My room," you said, your voice sounding more confident than you felt. "Ten minutes."
He didn't even turn around. "I have a briefing."
"You'll be quick," you retorted, a sharp heat rising in your chest. You saw his shoulders shake with a silent, dark laugh before he gave you a single, sharp nod.
You were waiting for him, your heart pounding when your door creaked open. He slipped inside, closing and locking it behind him with the same quiet efficiency he did everything. He didn't say a word. He just crossed the room, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.
It wasn't sweet or slow this time. It was a kiss born of days of frustrated denial. His tongue was in your mouth immediately, claiming, possessing, and you met him with equal desperation. You clawed at his tank top, pulling it over his head, and he did the same to yours, his hands rough and impatient on your skin.
"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he growled against your lips, backing you towards the bed. "About this tight little body. About how you felt squeezing my cock."
His filthy words sent a rush of wetness between your thighs. You whimpered, your hands scrambling for the button of his pants. He shoved his trousers down, kicking them away, and then he was on you again, his naked, scarred chest pressing you into the mattress. He was already hard, his cock heavy against your stomach.
Si was tearing at your pants, and you lifted your hips to help him, kicking them away along with your panties. He was between your thighs in a second, his cock nudging at your entrance. You felt the tear of a condom packet and you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.
"Don't," you said, your voice breathless.
He stilled, his eyes searching yours. "You sure?"
"I'm on the pill," you rushed out. "And I trust you. I just... I need to feel all of you. Please, Simon."
He stared at you for a long, tense moment, something raw and vulnerable flashing in his eyes. Then he crushed his mouth to yours, the condom forgotten. He pushed into you in one long, smooth stroke, and the sensation was overwhelming. No thin barrier, just the hot, silky feel of him, every vein, every ridge. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, you could feel him everywhere.
"Fuck," you gasped, your head falling back. "You feel so good."
He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking in protest. "You feel like fuckin' heaven," he gritted out, his face buried in your neck. "So wet, so bloody tight for me."
You wanted more. You needed to be in control, to set the pace, to take what you needed. You pushed against his chest, and he let you roll him over with surprising ease. You straddled his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you, and braced your hands on his chest.
The sight of him below you was breathtaking. His chest was heaving, his muscles tensed, his eyes fixed on you with a burning intensity. And his mask, it had shifted slightly during the tussle, riding low on his nose, revealing more of his face than you'd ever seen. The sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the scar there. He looked wild, untamed.
You started to move, rising and falling on his cock, setting a rhythm that had you both moaning. His hands found your hips, then slid down to grip your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh as he guided you, helping you take him deeper.
"Simon," you panted, your head lolling back. "I can't... I can't stop thinking about you. You've done this to me. I'm obsessed."
His grip on your ass tightened, his eyes blazing. "Yeah?" he rasped, his voice strained. "Tell me what you're thinking about, sweetheart."
"Thinking about how full you make me," you whimpered, feeling another orgasm coil low in your belly. "How you stretch me so good. Si, please... please don't stop filling me up."
That was what broke him. With a groan, he sat up, wrapping his arms around you and crushing you to his chest. His mouth was on your neck, sucking and biting as he drove up into you, meeting your downward thrusts with powerful, desperate strokes of his own.
His mask was pushed down further, and you turned your head, your lips finding the corner of his mouth, kissing the scarred skin there. "You feel so good, LT," you whispered in his ear. "So fuckin' good inside me."
He came with a roar, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself inside you, the hot, thick flood of his cum triggering your own release. You came with a silent scream, your whole body clenching around him, milking him for every last drop. You collapsed against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just held each other, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was still inside you, softening but not gone, a warm, comforting presence. He reached up and gently adjusted his mask, pulling it back into place. The intimacy of the gesture, the quiet trust it implied, made your heart ache.
"Now you stay the night," you murmured into his neck, not a question, but a statement.
He didn't answer. He just held you tighter, and that was answer enough. You knew, with a certainty that this was no longer just about getting rid of your virginity. This was something else entirely.
And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you realized you were in way deeper than you'd ever planned to be.
A collection of one-shots featuring my favorite video game men, all inspired by Lana Del Rey songs
Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader
Rating: Explicit
Summary: You attempt to distract your boyfriend while he plays a game.
Word Count: 1k
What kind of man comes home from a job where he kills actual–living, breathing (until they’re not)–people, and plays games where he…kills people? Your boyfriend, that’s who. The man has been at it for hours, phone on speaker where he yells back and forth with his teammates, imbeciles of the same vein. One would think they didn’t get enough action in the field, the way they hop on the controllers at another’s beckon.
“Simon?”
“Yeah?” He replies, half-arsed.
The man’s not paying you a lick of attention.
You giggle the keys in your hand, their brassy jingle echoing through the small apartment. “I’m gonna go rob a bank. Need anything while I’m out?”
A click of a button–god, that sound makes your blood simmer–and the repulsive battering of make-believe bullets hitting make-believe characters.
“Nah,” he grunts, eyes locked on the screen. The way he looks so delectable over there, head thrown back against the lip of the sofa, knees spread, hands between them…holding that stupid piece of plastic. Oh, how you could throw it against the wall. “You have fun, now.”
“Yeah, see you later,” you gripe, opening the door then closing it, feet not moving an inch. Eyes reflect the screen across from him, the colors reflecting in the glossy whites. They move back and forth like he’s intently watching a tennis ball being passed between the grids of rackets. Imagine that, enjoying a game outside. He’s going to get scurvy at this rate. At least he took his mask off so he could soak in the Vitamin LED radiating from the television.
A whole minute of you staring at him from the door has passed and he still hasn’t noticed that you never left. He’s putting all those bad-ass military skills to use elsewhere.
“Si?”
“Yeah.”
“Incredible,” you murmur beneath your breath, appetite for actually going out dissipating in a second. Perhaps you could jump in front of the screen like you did last time he played for hours, uninterrupted, though it didn’t get you what you wanted at all, and the night ended with both of you sleeping on separate edges of the bed, backs turned to one another. Or…
You set your bag down on the kitchen counter, collecting your loose strands into a ponytail at the crown of your head, licking your lips in preparation. Lowering yourself onto all fours, you crawl your way to the sofa, sneaking between his legs.
He quickly lunged at the ‘mute’ button on his phone screen. The disembodied voice of Soap celebrates a win with an excited yell, cut off by Simon’s own. “Woah, woah.” Like he’s steadying a naughty horse. “What are you doing, there, birdie?”
“Don’t mind me,” you sing, looking up at him as your fingers make work of the fabric tie of his sweatpants. “Keep playing.”
“Alright then.” He moves his arms closer up his chest so you have free reign at his thighs. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the phone call is still muted. You quickly press the button. So does he, muting it once more. “Can’t do that, love.”
You’re fast to remove your hands, pulling away to recline on your heels. “I wanna play too, Si.” Pressing your lips in a pout, you hover a finger over the ‘mute’ button.
“Fine, fine,” he relents, letting you return the call to its default state, the ears of his friends and teammates available on the other end.
He raises his seat off the cushion so you can tug at the band of his sweatpants and briefs, pulling them down to his ankles. The man is just about fully erect, his thick cock eagerly awaiting your mouth. Ditto.
As you swipe the tip of your tongue up the length of his shaft, his hips stutter and there’s something of a faint gasp that leaves his throat. Coming to the head, you see his hand move toward his phone, and with the wag of your finger and the absence of your tongue, he retreats.
Back to business.
You pay special attention to the throbbing vein that stretches from base to tip, taking your time licking and lapping. He tosses his head back in ecstasy. You hear it bang against the wall above the ridge of the sofa.
A hand comes to your back, palm sliding up to the nape of your neck as you finally take his full length between your lips, head bobbing up and down, tongue caressing every single inch.
His hips rut uncontrollably, forcing all of him into your mouth, and you revel in the taste of his arousal as it paints the gummy roof.
“F–”
He quickly shuts himself up, tossing the controller aside to free up a hand. It cups his mouth with a clap as his muffled bellows fog up his palm.
You squeeze your tongue into a point, swirling the tip on his weeping head before heading back down to the base once more. One hand wraps around the bottom of his shaft, the other comes up to play with his balls. That’s what pushes him to the edge.
He pulls you off his cock by the shoulders, eyes piercing yours. They’re thick with primal need.
“You’re done for.” His voice is thick, accent just as heavy, as he grabs you in his arms with an ursine growl and tosses you over his shoulder, spanking your cheek. Controller and game be damned. He’s going to punish you so good.
And he does. For what seems like hours but what only ten minutes.
After you clean yourself up, sullied and ruined, but perfectly content to be so, you pad into the living room, and reach for the remote to turn off the T.V.–the final nail in the coffin of his game night. You gasp at the realization, “Oh shit, Si.”
“What is it, love?” He asks, moseying out from the bedroom, tossing his t-shirt back over his head, eyes lowering to the phone in your hand.
No thoughts, just fem!reader who isn't used to men being gentlemen to her and task force who doesn't let her do ANYTHING.
"I'm hungry," you said in a flat tone. It was just a passing comment. Nothing serious.
"Hungry? What do you want to eat, dove?" Soap took out his phone, waiting patiently for you to say what you wanted.
"Oh. Em, I was joking..." you whispered. Maybe you weren't, but you were too shy to admit it.
"Come on, bird, tell us what you want," Price looked at you with a little smile on his face.
"Sushi..." You turned your head, trying to avoid their eyes.
"Sushi it is." Soap started to search his phone for the nearest sushi restaurant.
"Fuck, my room door is stuck and won't close. I need to fix it. Where's the toolbox?" you said, entering the common room and waiting for an answer.
"Are you fixing it by yourself?" Gaz asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah?"
"Hell no." He stood up from the couch, grabbed the toolbox from one of the cabinets, and walked out of the room.
Thankfully, your door ended up looking like nothing had ever happened. Thanks, Gaz.
This was your third lap running around the base.
"Soldier, stop right there," you heard Ghost shout at you, and you obeyed instantly. "Your laces are untied."
"Oh, yeah, I will—" You were cut off abruptly in the middle of your sentence, watching in shock as Ghost knelt down in front of you, tying your shoelaces.
"There you go. Watch out next time," he said, looking at you flatly before standing back up.
A meeting at 7:00 AM? Boring. But you had no choice. You were just about to put your hand on the doorknob when another hand stopped you. Price opened the door.
"Ladies first." He stepped aside to let you go first.
Divorcée!Simon Riley just hates when he hears his ex wife!Reader is going on a date.
It was all supposed to go perfectly. Your friend had set you on date for Friday night, Simon had the kids at his place because it was his weekend. Kelela blaring from your speakers as you fixed your makeup in the mirror, large rollers in your hair, a nice dress freshly ironed layed on the bed.
Simon absolutely ruined it.
Petty argument that was laced with every bit of jealousy, spiraling into you on your hands and knees, getting your back blown out by your massive ex husband who was stretching you desperate spasming pussy out in the sluttiest way imaginable.
Your slick dripping onto fabric of the dress who worked hard to buy. Sobbing at how good you felt while Simon railed into, using your hips as leverage, practically bruising them. He grunts, “This what you’re doin now? Hm? Hah- thinkin about cheatin
“Fuck- fuck you- mmmph- we’re not- aangh- were nooot-“ you can’t even finish your own sentence, broken moans escaping your mouth, your head falling and toes curling as your ass kept rippling against his pelvis every time Simon bottomed out.
“-We’re not wot? Huh? Wot was tha again?” He cocks an eyebrow at you, slamming his hips into your harder, only earning more keens of his name and curses. You walls quivering around his hefty girth, tears burning your eyes. Then you feel the sting of his hand come down on your rear end, “I’m expecting words from you, that brain on?”
No- probably not- all you knew it was so much- a good much- taking over your entire body. Your hands grinned the headboard of the bed, trying to wiggle your way out of his hold.
“Awww,” the blonde condescendingly croons, dragging your hips down to the base of his member, “Mama can’t take ‘er husbands cock.” He hikes himself deeper inside you, hissing as your nails vlaw as his thigh. “Can help you remember swee’art, ‘s what ‘m ‘ere for.” His arm snakes around your neck, calloused hand around your neck and guiding your hips back into his, the filthy smack, smack, smack! filling the bedroom with every pound of his cock into you.
Simon has you cumming and cumming, endless as a car pulls into your driveway. Simons eyes are nodded over, holding you so close and tight as he grinds into you, “My dear wife,” the military man’s stomach tightens, jaw clenched as he rests his head on your shoulder, sloppy thrust after sloppy thrust in your your oozing pussy, slowing filling with your mix of cum. “pretty fuckin wife, love you so- shit- sooo much dovie” he slurs out, leaving more little bruises up your neck, breathless and sucking your ear as he empties his creamy load into your perfect cunt, “where else would I be without you, baby, bloody hell-“
It’s those screams you’re letting out that has your date thinking your calling out bloody murder that makes the guy rush in your unlocked house. The noises are louder with every step he man makes up the steps the bed threatening to break with every brutal thrust. And you’re there, on the bed, legs over Simons broad shoulders, while he pistons into your slipper pussy, balls smacking against your ass. Your ex husband is pushing you down by your plush thighs, feet flat on the bed and drilling into you without a care in the world. Simon whips his head around, the stranger gobsmacked in horror.
A sinister smirk grows on Simons face, “Guest ‘f honor is ‘ere dovie, don’t you wanna great ‘em?”
Your heat only clenches, only thinking about your husband- the father of your kids, love of your life— Simon, Simon, Simon, Simon-
“So cockdrunk yer speakin out loud,” he lowly snickers, pushing your knees up to your earlobes, smooshing his strawberry cockhead against your cervix, pushing his fingers in your mouth for you to shut up, but you only moan at the sensations he’s giving you. Both mouths stuffed, both set of puffy lips drooling in delight.
Simon cracks his neck, staring holes into your ex date, “If you could close the door on your way out, her husbands taking care of ‘er now.”
a/n: he holds me in his big arms, drunk and I am seeing stars, this is all I think of
Synopsis: Simon has been watching you for a while. So he waits for you heat to finally make a move.
No use of y/n. No ai used.
Mdni!! 18+
Wc: 4.8k
Cw: Non-canon au. Omegaverse. Alpha!Simon. Omega!reader. Kissing. Make outs. Short plot. Fingering. Dacryphilia. Brief mention of blood (sorry). You’ve got a deep dish. Bulges. Size difference. Squirting. Marking. Scenting. Pubic hairs. Knotting. Unprotected sex. p in v. Fat dick Simon. Cum eating. Cum play.
Grey dull skies. An enmity of snowy clouds. Barely audible patters of snow smear the concrete. Frost fragments fracturing the roads. Small cracks. An icy cast. Slippery. Polished by the freezing air, reflecting a cold blue-grey.
The town is quiet. People retiring to their homes. A combination of flats and houses. Bricked. Semidetached. All lifeless and ashen now painted in snow.
It’s December. The cold’s really taking root. You’re in a small cabin just a few yards away from the main road. Dark wood, white stained trees looming around, making it seem like you're buried deep into a forest. Luckily, you live close by to the nearest town centre. English weather was never really nice.
You’re in your kitchen. Pastel yellow coloured walls, adorned in small beautiful plant paints. Pictures of flowers you’ve taken over the years. Paintings you’ve bought. Small counter top, bluey-grey marble board at the surface with white coloured sides. You’re wearing your white turtle neck paired with a long black silken skirt and black Mary Jane flats. All covered by a long black trench coat. The week’s coming to a close. You’re running out of ingredients.
Black pen in hand tapping slowly at your bottom lip, a small note in the other.
Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, go to pharmacy.
You’re missing something. Eyes squinting in annoyance. Brain raking, it’s bothering you. You’re getting lost in the walls around you, trying to figure out what this thing is. You repeat the list again.
Meats. Vegetables. Fruits. Water bottles. Pharmacy.
Ah.
Suppressants.
You rolled your eyes scoffing at yourself. You’ve been a bit forgetful lately. Waiting until your suppressants are nearly out. You’re checking your cupboard. One..two pills left you count. You sigh.
“Tomorrow.” You say aloud.
You’re used to this little life you’ve created. Weekly shopping, Sunday cleaning. Wake up 5am. Earphones in. Jog, eat, shower, work, repeat.
Like clock work, you’re awake. Still black out. Alarm panging, dead on five. Screeching in your ears.
You’re laying in your long sleeve bunny pyjamas belly flat on the bed, head turned, pressed into your pillows. Brows screwed, eyes squinting, sleep lines etched on your face. Crust stuck at the corners of your eyes. Your nose crinkling in annoyance. Sniffing. You bring up your right elbow from its disfigured but comfortable position and smack it down on your alarm clock sitting on the bedside table.
Groaning, you rise slowly. Stretching your back, tiptoeing, arms up high now folding behind you. Heading to the bathroom, you’re splashing cold water on your face. A slow deep breath. Arms steady, hands holding either side of the sink. You meet a tired you in the mirror. Opening it, you reach for your scent repellent. Just two sprays. Now you’re ready for your day.
Shutting the front door behind you, earphones in, you stretch a bit. Left arm swinging, right arm under it. You do it the other way. Back bent downwards, legs straightened, arms elongated, touching your toes, the ground almost. With a gradual rise and a long exhale, you’re on your way. Unhurried, lazy runners pace. You maintain that for a lap around your cabin. Then you’re headed to the main road. ‘Nettles’ by Ethel Cain playing softly in your ears. Low melodious. Pace still measured, arms shifting each step. You’re a few metres in, flats, houses forming in your peripheral. A corner shop open. Bright. Vivid.
You could use a drink.
You head down further into town, body directed at the shop. Eventually meeting the door of the shop, your body slightly adjusted to the frozen air. A ring of the bell is heard as you enter. The male shop keeper notices you, his face resting in one of his hands, eyes heavy. Sagging. A purple brownish colour engraved below them. His head falling and quickly rising. His eyes lighten fairly upon seeing you. Waving sluggishly at you. You give a soft smile and wave back.
Heading to the drink section, you grab a five hundred millilitre bottle of water from the fridge and walk up to the till. Placing your bottle down on the counter, you pay shortly after.
“Have a nice day.” You say. Short, soft, concise.
“And you too.”
-
The sun had already risen. A pale whitish sphere, faintly piercing through. 9am, the clock read. You were in your home, had already showered, eaten. Although your fridge was practically begging to be full. Only a couple red peppers remained. ‘More shops will probably be open.’ You thought.
You were out the cabin, car keys in hand on your way back to the town centre. A small, red Mini Cooper sitting slumped in heavy snow just outside. You open the drivers side, snow falling off that side of the car, and sit down. Plugging your keys into the vehicle, wind shields wiping away at the snow covered front window. You drive steadily into town.
Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, pharmacy — must go!!
A vivid image of the note you made flashed. It repeated in your head, chanting almost.
First stop, the supermarket.
-
A cold quiet morning. Harsh crispy air brushing against your cheek. Your eyes crinkle at the feel of it. You’ve parked your car in a nearby parking garage.
Not so often you see the supermarket this silent. You’re dressed warmly in a loose white shirt underneath a grey jumper. Straight legged dark blue jeans covering your black uggs. All hidden under your black trench coat.
Boots crunching in the snow, you’re walking in. Automatic doors sliding open for you. You grab a basket and begin your search.
-
Heavy bags weighing down at your sides. Full of fresh ingredients, meats.
Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, pharmacy.
“Alright.” You whisper, cold air passing through your lips, pleased with your small achievement of the morning.
Second stop, small shop.
You enter the shop, a bell sounding as you do so. There’s a few people in the shop. About four if you bothered to look. You pay no mind though. Just solely focused on one task at hand. That task being water bottles. You’re pacing around the shop, eyes raking up and down the shelves. The bottles. Finally. Placed on the grey marble ground, in front of a transparent fridge directly reflecting the shop door. A free mirror, you think. You crouch down, hands out and ready to grab one pack. For a reason you couldn’t explain, your eyes glance up to the fridge, unfocusing, you see a few people walking by, their figure cutting out where the fridge ends. Still looking around, you see the trees, how they’re no longer green but white. The no longer brown wood, eyes trailing down the trees back to the public. Eyes- you notice deep hazel eyes staring as if staring at your open skeleton itself. Fixed on yours. You let the thought of the transparent fridge fool you into believing no one could see you. A coincidence.
Shrugging, you pick up either end of the pack of water bottles and stand to your full height. Out of curiosity, you eye the see-through shop door.
Khaki coloured eyes. Closer now. Black jacket. Hooded up. A man that seems to be in a balaclava?
He’s huge, you ponder. Biceps nearly bursted at the sides of his black coat. His lower half is covered by bushes. Your face contorts into a puzzled look. There’s no way he saw you. You don’t want to believe it. Looking away you head over to the till and pay.
Exiting the shop, hefty bags carrying all your shopping, a litter of bumps gather on your skin. You want to believe it’s from the cold. A low lump sitting at your belly. A warning maybe.
You head over to the last stop on the list. The pharmacy. Suppressants. Your brain reminding you once again.
It’s a cramped place. Medicine stacked on the dark wooden shelves across the room. Chalky walls. Ashen almost. The lights flicker a bit. Must be old. There’s a man at the other side of the till. Got a gloomy look to him. Thin glasses hanging at the top of his bridged nose. Crinkled skin. A small bruise on the side of his cheek. Eyes droopy.
“Can I help you?” You hear his tired voice ask.
You give a small smile.
“I’m here for a replenishment.” You keep your eyes on his, still smiling as you readjust a bag on your arm.
“Your name please.” He responds dryly. Your face falters a bit.
You give him your name. He types away at the old white desktop on his right. He reaches over to a small brown plastic bag and hands it to you.
You hear a smile chime of the pharmacy bell but don’t pay too much mind to it. There’s heavy thuds behind you. A hefty musky smell, woody almost with a hint of an orange peel. A citrusy smell meant something. A near heat or rut possibly. A familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach. Fear? It's only footsteps, probably getting their suppressants. You’re still focused on the man in front-
“Have I seen you ‘round here before?” A deep baritone voice sounding behind you. Close to you. You spin around, eyes all wide at the sound of him. The pharmacist immediately drops into a crouched position. He knows that voice. Can’t let this customer see him.
“Uh—uh…” You stutter. Lip quivering.
You know him. Know exactly who this is. Simon Riley. Or what the town calls him, ‘Ghost’.
The whole town knows of him. They know to steer clear of him. Never get in his way. Avoid him if you can. Don’t let him get you. A menace. Killer. All sorts of nasty comments you haven’t heard before. He’s got a familiar balaclava on. Almost looking like the one you saw earlier. Squinting eyes staring deep into your wide ones. Head tilted slightly, amused by your reaction. You can’t tell though.
“Can’t talk?”
“Uhm no—no. No you uh haven’t.” You’re shaking your head looking everywhere else but at him. There’s a thin line of sweat forming at your forehead. You try not to wipe it.
His broad frame, blocking everything in front of you. You finally look up at him, eyes all doey, scared.
“Hm.” He grunts, gives you a slow look over. Eyes falling slowly down your frame then back up to your nervous face. Cute.
He turns back around and exits the pharmacy. You heave a sigh of relief. Ghost? Talking to you? You nearly don’t believe it. Not until the pharmacist behind you speaks.
“H—here. Please leave. Quickly.”
Weight bags on either side of you, you’re walking over to your parked car. The cold air, still lingering. You’re heart patters in your chest. Simon Riley. Absolutely no way.
You make it to your car, fiddling with your bags arms scurrying deep in each one to find the key. You hear it unlock and you’re carefully placing the bags at the back seat, then heading quickly into the front. Door slamming shut. Locked. Both hands on the wheel. Knuckles losing then regaining colour.. You’re brain still lagging. You look around yourself, assessing the area. You see him. Again. Your breath stutters when you notice him. He’s staring deep at you. He’s to your right, body slightly hidden by a tall bush. You’re tapped in place, body hypnotised, regulating. Registering something deep. Pooling low. A small warmth. There’s no way. Your body recognises him as compatible. You have his full attention.
Your breath’s still stuck in your throat.
“Simon.” You breathe out finally. It’s almost as if he heard you because he’s walking now. Quick measured steps toward you. You’re shaking. Yet you can’t move. Hands still plastered at the wheel. He’s nearer. Walks over to the passenger's seat window. One two firm taps at the window. Eyes still fixed on him. He never left yours. Your body responds before your mouth can. A needy smell illuminates you. Lemony. Citrusy. Your eyes are fully dilated. The omega in you keening. Inviting. You want him. Your brain hasn’t caught up yet. His scent now etched in your body. You didn’t even realise he had been warming you up to his smell this whole time.
A whisper of a faint musky orange peel surfaced your brain. It was when the autumn air still lingered. That citrusy smell you couldn’t get enough of. You’d perch over your opened windows, eyes all closed as you relished the smell. He was scenting your home and you didn’t know. You recall hearing small cracks of sticks but it could’ve been anything. Except it was Simon.
Your right arm moves to open the passenger door. He opens it and sits his burly body inside your car, shutting the door as he does so.
You’re still looking at him, mouth parted slightly. You can’t understand why your body is reacting this way. He’s still staring. Eyes heavy, low. You don’t know what it is but you start the car, engine roaring quietly. You’re driving home now. A hidden command from him. Your omega wants him in your space. Wants him to invade your things. Invade you. Is it your heat? That’s not until a couple— days. You wanted to think weeks. But your body has found a compatible mate. It just so happens to be the worst person you can think of.
You park in your entry, turn off the engine and slowly look to your left. Eyes hazy, breathing hesitant. A whine stopping at your throat. Trapped in your esophagus. He knows you want to. Doesn’t need to ask you.
You’re both stumbling into your cabin, his tongue deep in your mouth. Balaclava bunched on his crooked nose.
He’s ripping your coat off your body. Biceps contracting. Your black trench falls carelessly on your floors. Green veins running up his large hands holding the back of your neck, your waist. One of his hands drifting down, gripping your arse. Groaning into your mouth. Spit mixed. Your odours intertwine. A ripe lemon and orange peel staining the air.
You're whining. Teeth clashing. He’s biting at your bottom lip. Strong arms wrapping you. Engulfing your body.
“Been watching you for weeks.” His voice came out heavy, breathy.
You can’t respond with anything other than a mewl. Your hands haven’t left the fabric at his chest. You’re clutching at him. Body all needy. The warmth at your lower belly blooming into a vicious heat. White hot pleasure taking hold of you. Body seizing up. You're stunned. Eyes all wide and wet. Breath coming in fat heaves.
“Si—” You whimper out. Knees bending. Betraying you. Submission. He sees your body submitting to him before you can even voice it. You really want to. Badly.
Beefy arms pull you up and into him. Your legs hanging off his forearm, head lulled out, falling backwards.
He knows where your room is. Knows where everything in your home is. He knows exactly where you keep your suppressants, your diary. He’s read it all. You’ve never heard anyone enter your home at night. Yet he’s always there. Watching you sleep. He admires how your tits puff out when you breathe in, how you drool a bit. A few snores. Fucking obsessed with your body. The fat of your thighs. His alpha knew you were his.
You’re trembling, snivelling into his chest. He sets you down on your bedsheets, body going slump. He stands to his full height, pulling down his balaclava back over the rest of his face and just watches. Hidden again.
He’s slow to take his jacket off. Pulling the zip down in a long stroke. Shoves it off his body.
“I need nghh~” You’re moaning out, hands attempting to take your top off. Too weak. There’s a little drool spilling at the side of your mouth.
He doesn’t bother to take the rest of his clothes off. He’s come too far in this to focus on himself.
“Shh.” Your body, listening immediately.
He hauls your top off for you, now left in just a black lace. Sweat glistening on your chest. Beads rolling down.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” He curses low.
His arms circle your body, taking the lace off. Tits spilling out, the air wafting over your hardened nipples. You sob. Body clutching in on itself. He doesn’t let you. His large hand, pushing you down at your shoulder.
“No movin’.” A warning.
Your arms are flat on the bed, hands resting above you, fisting the pillow. He removes your lower clothing in one strong pull. Your hips lifting instinctively. Your insatiable need to please your mate.
Panties gone. You're vulnerable before him. Hairs decorated around your wet pussy. Weeping. Leaking. A bead of slick sliding down from your hole onto your arse. Hips twitching.
Your body’s flushed, waiting. He’s being too slow. He has to savour this moment.
“Please.” You whimper out.
“A talkative bird ain’t ya.” He voices, still low toned.
“Gotta please this pussy, don’t I?” Taunting you. Letting out a low, mocking whistle.
He’s got his knees pressed into your bed, hands on your inner thighs, pressing into them. Your pussy parting each time. A tear slips out of you. Your head’s thrown back into the pillow. Lips tightly pressed, suppressing the moan trapped at your throat. Eyes shut tight.
He presses in once more, and you can’t help the noise that left you. You bring down one of your arms, scratching at his, trying to bring it where you need it most.
“Want me there, hm?
My fingers in your cunt?”
You’re vigorously nodding. A string of ‘please’s leaving your wet, kissed stained mouth. He doesn’t remove your hand. Doesn’t need to. You can’t move someone as big as him.
You still can’t see his face fully. Only his eyes. But you know he’s smiling at you. You make out a small dent under the balaclava. His alpha pleased at your omega. You want to see more of him. But your heat won’t let you form the sentence.
He doesn’t care though. He’s going to take you.
He brings his rugged thumb, circles it on your throbbing puffy clit.
“Angh!”
Your hips twitch towards him. More beads of slick fall out your drenched pussy. A few more tears rolling down your face. The heat nearly consuming you.
His thumb moving slowly up and down your clit, inching towards your gaping hole. Your hips follow on instinct. Rolling with his hand.
“Fuck sakes.” You’re a sight. His tip leaking heavy drops of pre.
His thumb finds your soaked hole, another bead leaking out coating it. He pushes in slow and deep. Long thick thumb stretching you out.
You scream. Back bowing. Toes curled into the sheets, fingers still scratching at his arms. Your head is lulled to the side, the whites of your eyes on display.
He’s thumbing your hole. Quick deep strokes of his thumb.
Squelch squelch.
“She’s a loud twat, ain’t she?” Voice rugged.
You’re moaning loud, your heat making it feel way better than it’s supposed to.
Fuck you’re close. Body heating up even more, twitching, writhing. Leaving moon shaped dents on his forearms.
“You markin’ me already?” He’s cackling low.
“Ngh c—close!”
“I know.” You pussy throbs.
His voice has such an intense effect on you. He’s been scenting your clothes so you get used to his smell. Needs your body reacting before you do.
One…two..three pumps of his thumb and your convulsing. Body quaking. Mouth hung open in a beautiful ‘o’ shape, brows squinted. You silently cry out letting your orgasm wash over you. Long waves of heat spread over your body.
“Need you.” Voice all gone, yet you managed to whisper out.
“You’ll ‘ave me.”
He slowly pulls his thumb out and stares at it in awe, glistening in your cum. You’ve marked him as yours, now he has to return the favour.
Not giving you any time to recover, he plunges two thick long fingers deep into your pussy. You let out a shocked scream. Hips jerking at the sudden stretch. He leans his body into yours as he pushes his fingers as far as they could go. He’s close to you now. Face just a few inches from yours. You're breathing out hefty breaths, fanning his hidden face. Eyes fully dilated.
“Got a deeep cunt on ya.” He praises. You moan in response. Your arms feel heavy, your trembling fingers attempting to hook the edges of his balaclava and pull down. It comes off revealing messy blonde locks. The two of you reach forward, lips meeting in a sloppy kiss. Mouths open, breathing heavy. Tongues rolling against each other. He’s pistoning his fingers fast. Quick deep strokes making it hard for you to kiss him back. It’s too messy.
He’s grunting into you, you’re whining into him. One hand gripping the hairs at his nape. The other gripping the hairs at the middle of his head. You're rolling your hips into his hand. His thumb bumping your clit every stroke. He’s fucking at your g spot, fingers curling, scissoring your pussy. You break the kiss with a loud moan.
“C—can’t take it! Simon—”
“You will. Didn’t wait this long for you to tap out.” He sounds so rough.
“Anhh! Hngh.”
Another few scissors of your pussy and you’re sooo close again. You’re whinging, body twisting, turning away. You want to run. Want to scream at him. Fight him.
You’re smacking at his chest, he’s still too close watching your face so intently. He needs to see what makes it contort. He likes that you fight back. Makes him harder. He’s straining at his boxers. Cock twitching, itching to be inside your needy cunt. He knows you need his knot.
You're slapping his shoulders, hands balled up in fists, punching at him. He curls his fingers just right and you’re screaming. White blinding pleasure. You’re clutching at him now. He’s fucking his fingers at that exact spot. Engrossed in the way your brows contorted, the way your cheeks deepen in colour. How your wet lashes stick to the top of your cheeks.
“F—fuck fhuck!” Your orgasm, ripping through you.
Your arse pressed deep into the sheets, back arched, pussy gushing out ruining his hand. Arms flailing.
Squelch
His hand sliding out slowly from your bruised pussy. Admiring your work on his fingers. Shining wet. He sees your pussy lips flutter in the corner of his eyes.
“You’re something else.”
He brings his stained fingers to his mouth, sucking them deep, relishing the taste. Groaning deep. Eyes fluttering shut.
“Knot. Y—your knot please.” You cry out. Head still planted to the side. Arms wobbly, you reach out to his dark grey joggers. Fingers tugging at the top of it. His happy trail peeking out. He helps his dick out of his joggers, his boxers next, not taking them off fully. It’s so big. Thick veins running up a few sides, dark red at the tip. Angry. Purple almost. So girthy. Leaking so much pre. He’s so wet for you.
Your omega hungry at the sight. The orangey peel stench, very prominent now.
“Gonna fuck you now. Knot you.”
“Please.”
He lines his fat cock at the opening of your cunt. Rubs it slowly up and down your clit. You’re hips jutting, bucking away from him.
The tip pops into you in a slow, deep stroke. He stalls for a moment. Hot pulsing pussy pulling him in.
“Fuck—”
He pushes further in. Still slow. You feel every vein on his cock, every curve. Every inch, stretching your walls out. Your mouth, watering at the fullness.
You push at his lower hard stomach, a few hairs tickling your fingers. He’s fucking huge. You can’t take it all at once. You’re weeping, tears spilling at the sides of your face, tits puffed out.
“M’gonna make you take it.”
He hikes your thighs on top of his, pushes himself further into you, digging your knees into your chest. He sinks in another few inches. Your squinted eyes peer down at where you’re both connected, there’s still so much more. Your head falls back as you sniffle, a tiny noise leaving your lips.
He pulls his hips back all of a sudden, you gasp at the loss. Your head comes up quickly. Watching.
“Noo. Simon, fuck—”
Slamming his cock deep, hips grinding into yours. His hairs nudged right against your clit. A bulge forming at your lower belly. Your head collapsing back onto the pillow, brain fogged. Your eyes forced back, body quivering. Quick heaves of your chest, your mouth left hung open, more drool spilling out.
Plap plap
He’s fucking you so deep. Big burly body rocking into you, your pussy sucking him in so tight. So wet. So hot. The room’s filled with the mix of your bodies, your sweat, the smell of your pheromones. Blooming. Inviting him even more. He takes it.
Cock, pistoning so good. Fucking at your spots. You're wailing against him, scratching at his chest, his hard rigid stomach, his neck. Leaving red crescent marks all over.
“Anngh!”
“Such a good bird huh? Taking a stranger's cock so well.”
“Y—yeah nghh ahh.”
He’s grinning at you, a few teeth on display.
You’re gone. So far gone. You're grinding your hips into his, grabbing behind him, his back, pulling him into you. He slows. Deep long strokes now. You can’t do anything but feel it. The dent of your stomach, more evident at every rock of his body into yours. Simon places one of his hands on the bulge. Pressing. Pushing it.
You scream, your juices squirting out of your uncontrollably. You’re shaking so much. Crying. Head stretched back, you're pushing at the bed, jolting away from him.
“Thereeee’s a girl. Thaa’s it, squirt all on me.”
He’s still fucking you slow and deep, riding you through it. The bed, soaked in your cum, your sweat.
“Knot! Knot me please.” You beg. Voice strained, gone from pleasure.
Sitting up, his arms come to the neck of his sweat stained shirt. All sticky. Dark wet patch on lower part of it. He’s taking his shirt off now.
His broad hairy chest on show. Ample. Decorated in various tattoos. You’re in awe of his body.
A few wet hairs stick to the top of his forehead, cheeks dusted pink. Eyes heavy, low. He’s ogling at your scent gland, right by the curve of your neck and shoulder.
“M’gonna mark you.” His eyes gestured at the gland. You can barely hear him through your heat.
He moves both of your legs on his shoulders, pushes closer to you. Breaths mingling. He pulls his cock out to the knob, then rams into you. Quicker, harder than before.
“Ouuh fuck.”
You’re breathing all over his face. Cheeks deepened in colour.
Chasing his own high now, on the brink of release. Cock brushing at your cervix on every thrust. Did he get bigger? Your eyes widening at the thought. There’s a swollen feeling at the bottom of his— knot.
“Want my thrust knot hnyeah? Tell me girl. Thrust. Tell me how bad you wan’ it.” His voice, straining. Low, deep. Grunting.
“I wan’ it. Want it so bad. Please. Please. Please—”
He angles his face at your neck, his mouth a breath away from your gland. One hard heavy thrust into your pussy he’s finally cumming. He bites down hard. Your gland, blooming. Blood spilling from the corners of his mouth, his eyes rolling back. You shriek at the feel. Your breath comes in short, rapid pants. Eyes shutting tight. More tears spilling. It hurts so good. Burning sensation washing over you. White hot. Scorching.
White blotchy spurts of his cum flooding you deep. Throaty groans leaving his mouth. You're soaking, drinking it up. There’s so much cum, it’s spilling out. Dropping on the sheets. His body nearly collapsed on yours. Your body can’t take the weight on you. He’s so heavy. Your omega yearns for it, wants the weight on you.
His knot, plugging your cunt, trapping you together. You sigh in pleasure. Satisfaction. Content. You still feel a twitch of his cock, small spurts shooting into you.
A few beats pass, his knot finally deflating. Cock only half hard now. He’s pulling out of you slowly. Beads of his cum following suit. It catches on his tip.
His breathing ragged as he brought his face down to your bruised pussy. It throbs under his burning stare. His mouth inches closer. Wetting his bottom lips, he lunges into you. Sucking, circling, licking at your pussy.
You’re whining, mewling, bucking your hips away from him. He’s quicker. Pining your hips down with two large hands. He’s eating his cum out your pussy.
“T—too much!”
“Mmh.” Groaning, voice vibrating through your over sensitive pussy.
He brings one of his hands, two fingers plugging it back in. Deep. Fucking his cum back in. You’re on the cusp again. Hips hiking up. Back arched in a beautiful bow.
His tongue curling, circling on your clit. You’re seeing stars, everything’s all blurry. You’re cumming again.
“Simon!”
His fingers slow. Just strong unhurried thrusts. You’re coming down. Breath haggard. Eyes blown.
Simon Riley who's a gentle giant outside of his work life, especially when he's staying with you. He loves your place, a cosy little cottage that's nestled away far enough away from the neighbouring city to be quiet but it's definitely not rural enough to be considered too far away from civilisation. It's settled in a nice medium ground. What he doesn't love however, is how far down he has to duck to get around it. There's been more than one occasion where he's banged his head on a solid wood door frame and instinctively you've come to kiss it better each time.
He treats you like you could break, like you're made of glass so fine even a slight breeze could cause it to shatter, essentially because he knows himself better than anyone, and knows the things he's capable of. He knows what he's done with his hands and that those actions are things that he never wants to bring home, he never ever wants to bring it to you. When he's not in his mask, he's not the revered Ghost of task force 141, he's just Simon Riley, and to you, he's just Simon.
His touches are gentle, hands carefully placed so that he isn't gripping you too harshly. He allows himself to be soft with you, cuddling you, kissing your plush lips like you're a delicate flower who's petals will wilt if you're too rough. He would never lay his hands on you, not after what his own old man did to his mother and how he broke her, he could never dim your light like that. Even the thought of it twists his stomach into a painful knot. Never in his life has Simon smiled as much as he has when he's with you.
Textbook princess treatment is what Simon provides. When the flowers bloom in the well loved garden you tend to, he cautiously asks if he can pluck a few, just to weave them into your hair, tucks them behind your ears just to see you smile. His lockscreen is a picture of one of those occasions, but he'd never admit that even when you confront him with his phone in your hands showing it one day.
When it comes to your sex life with Simon he's so tender, hands touching places so delicstely with his giant calloused hands, he always acts like he wants to commit your body to memory for when he's away. Desperate to remember each curve and dipof you, kissed every mole or blemish you think you have. You can't complain, he's gentle, you always get to have at least one orgasm, but his treatment of you feels like he believes you're a porcelain doll, going to crack and snap at any and every touch, and quite frankly it pisses you off, you just wish he wasn't so hesitant and careful witb his touches, wishing he'd just take something from you rather than dance around you with fleeting or careful touches.
He overhears you talking to a friend about it on the phone, military level silence coming into play whilst he hears your conversation. He doesn't want to spook you after all.
"Don't get me wrong, it's amazing, I can't really complain.. it's just he seems uncertain about placing his hands on me.." You trail off. "No, I'm not asking for him to throw me around and manhandle me. I just wish he was more.. I dont know how to word it.. assertive?" You let out a sigh. "I don't want him to be aggressive with me but I also don't want him to view me as something like a prized possession you dare not to breathe on."
After your call is finished he goes back to the sofa and waits for you to come down to watch your show together. You notice how his touches are a bit more firm and present, rather than the feather light ones from before. There's more confidence in his touches, more of an assertiveness and you think maybe he's just gotten a slight bit more comfortable with you.
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.
Daryl teach Y/N how to follow tracks and how to hunt
Even if she take hours to prepare
Daryl was standing next to the tent waiting for Y/N to get out, it was like 30 minutes since him get out so is obvious that she is really producing herself. Daryl want to interrupt her but he knows she have a bad temper in the morning, Merle came to mock him and laugh about being hold by a woman like a pussy.
But before he can say something the zipper of the tent move open and a black platform boot fly to Merle face knocking him down. Daryl move some steps backwards to then watch Y/N emerge from the tent, ready to hunt and always with her goth style, she walk some steps to Merle grabbing her boot back and kick Merle I'm the stomach with the boot she have on.
"No one call my baby a pussy, idiot!"
She kick merle again to then move to get her boot on and walk to Daryl smiling to him, Daryl was getting obsessed with her more and more by her actions.
"Hunting?"
Y/N said grabbing Daryl shirt taking him to the forest.
And Daryl is still surprised that she can hunt and run with her platform boots
Y/N was having a table to herself having her hands full of black paint for clothes starting to get a cute dress full of it, Daryl watch her not knowing how to interrupt her, after some minutes he get to her watching her work to then talk.
"What’re you doing hon?"
Y/N turn her head abruptly to Daryl rising her hands from the almost finished dress
description: you are a groupie for the up-and-coming Corroded Coffin. your "boyfriend," damien, ditches you for another groupie, conveniently landing you in the arms of the band's frontman, eddie munson.
pairing: rockstar!eddie x groupie!reader (fem!reader)
tags: rockstar!eddie x you, no y/n, 90's rock-scene vibes, little plot/mostly smut, groupie!reader, high sex, cocaine use (it's the 90's), mutual pining, asshole boyfriend, lowkey cheating, but damien cheated first, lowkey breeding kink, okay maybe there is some plot because i need there to be (silly brain)
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!, PiV, unprotected, breeding kink (ish), cocaine use, asshole ex bf
WC: 3.6k
A/N: requested by @julxsxx hope you enjoy!!! <33 sorry for the slight hiatus, life has been lifeing lately and i wasn't really in the headspace to write, but we r SO BACK!!
reblogs are always appreciated <33
enjoy loves xoxoxoxo
“What the fuck, Damien?” You scoff, pushing his hand off your shoulder—his cheap way of trying to “console” you.
“Whaaat, baby? No harsh feelings or nothin’. That’s just rock n’ roll. You know how it is.” He smirks, tightening his grip around his new plaything for the night.
“You can always join, y’know. The more the merrier.”
Your body revolts merely on principle alone. You weren’t shy to perform that sort of request before, but now it's different. Or was, anyway. To your knowledge, you and Damien had been “exclusive” for about six months.
At any award show, you were his arm candy. Drunk? His first call. Post-show stress reliever? You were already anticipating his arrival in his trailer.
There weren’t any official or established labels, but you sure as shit knew Damien Thatcher wanted you and only you, all to himself. Until now, at least.
His new plaything stared at you with glazed-over eyes, clearly off of whatever good shit Jeff bought earlier that evening, lips curled into a smug smirk.
You shook your head and waved them off, scoffing before sashaying away towards the living room. When you arrived, to your surprise, the living room was empty, and the band's usual buffet of substances was left unsupervised on the glass coffee table.
The Corroded Coffin mansion was rarely this quiet; post-show parties were basically a must during tour season. But here you were, sitting on the couch, a massive array of drugs staring back at you, and not another soul in sight. That was until the front door opened.
Eddie Munson, the band’s frontman, wandered in from smoking his usual every-twenty-minute cigarette. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed him before. That would’ve been impossible, honestly. Not when he looked like that.
The man had become something of a rockstar sex symbol over the last few years, and for good reason. Long dark curls, tattooed body, and a grin that somehow managed to look both dangerous and inviting at the exact same time. He carried himself with the kind of confidence that only came from knowing exactly who he was.
And unlike Damien, who constantly demanded attention from every person in a room, Eddie never seemed to need it. It just found him anyway.
You'd caught yourself watching him more than once during shows, standing side stage with a drink in your hand as he commanded entire stadiums with nothing but a microphone and a crooked smile. He was attractive in the same way thunderstorms were attractive: beautiful, loud, and probably a terrible idea.
Not that it mattered; you were Damien’s girl. Or at least, you thought you were.
Unbeknownst to you, Eddie had noticed you a long time ago. Long before Damien had started dragging you around on his arm. Long before you became a familiar face backstage. Long before he'd ever learned your name.
Because truthfully? You were impossible not to notice. Every venue, every afterparty, it didn't matter where. Eddie's eyes always found you eventually.
Maybe it was the confidence. The way you carried yourself like you belonged wherever you happened to be standing. Maybe it was your attitude; the sharp tongue, the sarcastic remarks, the fact that you never seemed particularly impressed by fame despite spending most of your time surrounded by it.
Or maybe it was simpler than that. You were just fucking gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that didn't feel manufactured.
Messy lipstick at three in the morning. Smudged eyeliner after a concert. Leather jackets thrown over tiny dresses. Cigarettes shared on balconies overlooking cities you'd forget by next week.
You looked like every rock song he'd ever written and every bad decision he'd ever wanted to make. Not that he'd ever done anything about it; you were Damien's.
And despite what most magazines liked to print about him, Eddie wasn't in the habit of chasing after things that belonged to other people.
So he'd settled for watching. For knowing exactly which laugh was yours in a crowded room. For pretending he wasn't disappointed whenever Damien draped an arm around your shoulders. For occasionally wondering what a girl like you was doing wasting her time with a guy like him.
Now, as he stepped into the empty living room and spotted you sitting alone on the couch, his brow furrowed slightly. Because for the first time since he'd known you, you looked genuinely and wholeheartedly miserable.
One perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. “Well, that can't be good.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “Fuck off.”
Eddie blinked. That wasn't exactly the response he'd been expecting. Over the years, the two of you had developed something of a comfortable acquaintanceship. You'd traded enough sarcastic remarks and drunken conversations over the years that he knew you weren't usually this hostile. Not towards him, anyway.
Which meant something had happened.
“Jesus.” He snorted, tossing himself into an armchair across from the couch. “Who pissed in your cereal?”
“Why does everyone always use that expression?”
“Because it's funny.”
“It isn't.”
“Okay.”
For a moment, Eddie figured that'd be the end of it. You'd tell him to mind his own business, and he'd steal a beer and leave. Simple.
Instead, your shoulders sagged, ever so slightly. But enough that Eddie immediately noticed.
“Alright.” His voice softened. “What's wrong?”
You stared down at your hands. The anger was already fading, which almost made everything worse. At least being angry felt productive; now you just felt embarrassed.
Embarrassed that you'd somehow convinced yourself Damien actually cared. Embarrassed that everyone would probably know by tomorrow morning. Embarrassed that after six months of acting like his girlfriend, you'd apparently never been one at all.
“Damien cheated on me.”
Eddie stared. Then he looked away, dragging his tongue across the inside of his cheek.
Because that was not the reaction he was supposed to have, not even a little bit. The correct response was sympathy or outrage.
The correct response was literally anything besides the sudden rush of excitement currently threatening to make him grin like an asshole.
So he swallowed it. “What'd he do?”
You laughed bitterly.
“What'd he do?” you repeated. “Oh, nothing crazy. Just invited me into a room to watch him fuck crack-head Amy.”
Eddie's jaw tightened. “Seriously?”
“Mhm.”
“What'd he say?”
“His exact words were, ‘that's just rock n' roll, baby.’”
For the first time all evening, Eddie looked genuinely horrified. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No, he did not.”
“I swear to God.”
Eddie rubbed a hand over his face. “That's the most embarrassing thing I've ever heard.”
Despite yourself, a small smile tugged at your lips. “Right?”
“Like, forget cheating for a second.” He pointed at you. “That line alone should get him arrested.”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. And Eddie felt his chest do something stupid, because there it was. That laugh, the one he'd spent years overhearing from across crowded green rooms. The one he'd always found himself listening for without meaning to.
You shook your head. “I feel like an idiot.”
Eddie shook his head in response, plopping down next to you on the couch.
“Nah, you’re not an idiot. ‘That’s just rock n roll, baby.’” He put on an exaggerated macho voice. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
You laughed again. “I don't know.”
“No, seriously.” Eddie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I've been in rock n' roll for years. I practically invented being an asshole. And even I have no clue what that's supposed to mean.”
“Maybe it's in the handbook.”
“The handbook?”
“The Official Rock Star Handbook.”
Eddie snapped his fingers. “Right. Chapter seven: How to Cheat on Women and Make it Sound Deep.”
“Chapter eight: Cocaine.”
“Chapter nine: Buy leather pants two sizes too small.”
You snorted. “Chapter ten: Develop a God complex.”
“Chapter eleven: Die at twenty-seven.”
The joke landed with a little less humor than the others. Then Eddie sighed dramatically and reached toward the coffee table.
“Well.”
You watched as he sorted through the various substances scattered across the glass.
“Well, what?”
“Well, we have two options here.”
“Which are?”
Eddie held up a finger.
“Option one: you continue sitting here feeling sorry for yourself over a man who voluntarily chose to say the words ‘that's just rock n' roll, baby’ out loud.”
You groaned.
“See? Already sounds terrible.”
“Exactly.”
He held up a second finger. “Option two.”
Your eyes followed him as he picked up a small baggie from the table. “You do a little cocaine and get your mind off it.”
You stared at him. “That's your professional recommendation?”
“Absolutely.”
“You're a terrible therapist.”
“Good thing I'm a musician.”
A reluctant smile crept onto your face. “Jesus Christ.”
“Listen.” Eddie shrugged. “I'm not saying it'll solve your problems.”
“No?”
“Not even a little.”
“Great.”
“But it might make you stop thinking about Damien for twenty minutes.”
You considered it, mostly because there wasn't much else to do.
“Or.” He tossed the baggie back onto the table. “We could sit here and talk shit about him.”
That earned another laugh. “That's a little immature.”
“It's extremely immature.”
“And you're offering it as an alternative?”
“I think it's actually healthier than the cocaine.”
“That's a low bar.”
“Still.”
You sat back, then shook your head, reaching across the table to the small baggie. “May I?”
Eddie leaned back, draping both arms across the back of the couch. “Please. Shit talking will be way more fun coked-out anyway.”
His eyes drifted over your face for a brief second before looking away again.
Because now that you were laughing and leaning over the table, he was finding it increasingly difficult to remember why he'd ever convinced himself you were off limits.
Especially considering Damien Thatcher had apparently just fumbled the hottest woman he'd ever seen.
The night went like so for hours: Eddie’s long fingers working with practiced ease, cutting two neat lines on the glass table with a hotel key card.
The faint chemical tang already hung in the air, mixing with the ever-present haze of cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey that clung to every surface of the mansion.
He passed you a rolled-up bill without a word, his dark eyes catching yours for a second longer than necessary.
You leaned in. One sharp inhale, and the world sharpened at the edges, warmth blooming fast behind your ribs.
Eddie did his own line right after, then chased it with a generous pull from the bottle of Jack he’d grabbed from the side table. He offered it to you next, and you took it, the burn sliding down your throat like liquid fire.
“Fuck,” you muttered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. The coke hit quick; euphoric, electric, loosening the knot of humiliation that had been sitting heavy in your chest.
Eddie grinned that crooked, dangerous smile and slid closer on the couch. Not a safe distance next to you, but right beside you. His thigh pressed against yours, the heat of him bleeding through his jeans.
“Better?” he asked, voice low.
You nodded, leaning into the feeling. “Yeah. A lot better.”
He didn’t pull away. If anything, he shifted so his arm draped along the back of the couch was behind your shoulders, fingers brushing the bare skin of your arm where your dress left it exposed.
“You know,” Eddie murmured, tilting his head so his curls fell forward, brushing your shoulder, “Damien’s a fucking idiot. Always has been. But tonight? Christ, he really outdid himself.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, unashamed. The kind of look that made your pulse jump.
You laughed softly. “You’re not exactly subtle right now, Munson.”
“Subtle’s never been my brand, sweetheart.” His fingers traced a lazy circle on your shoulder, then drifted higher, thumb grazing the side of your neck.
“Been watching you waste six months on that clown. Figured it was time someone reminded you what you’re worth.”
The words hit like another line. You turned toward him, knees knocking together, and he didn’t hesitate. Eddie’s free hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your lower lip before he leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t tentative. It was hungry; months, maybe years, of restrained want pouring out in the press of his mouth.
His lips were warm, tasting like whiskey and sin, and when you parted for him, he groaned softly into the kiss, tongue sliding against yours with filthy confidence. The hand on your neck tightened, tilting your head exactly how he wanted as he deepened it.
You kissed him back just as hard, fingers threading into those wild curls, tugging until he made that low, wrecked sound again.
Eddie pulled back just enough to speak against your lips, voice gravel-rough. “Fuck, you taste good.”
His other hand slid down your side, then slipped under the hem of your dress. Calloused fingertips traced up your thigh, achingly slow, until they reached the lace edge of your panties. He teased there for a moment, watching your face like he was memorizing every reaction.
“Eddie…” you breathed, hips shifting toward his touch.
“Yeah?” He smirked, eyes dark. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
You didn’t, obviously.
Instead, you pulled him back into another messy kiss, and he took that as permission. His fingers pushed the lace aside and slid through your slick folds, groaning at how wet you already were. “Shit, baby. This all for me?”
Two fingers circled your clit with practiced pressure before dipping lower, pressing inside you; slow at first, then deeper, curling just right. The stretch and the steady rhythm had you gasping into his mouth, thighs parting wider on the couch.
“Goddamn,” he muttered against your jaw, nipping at the skin there while his thumb kept working your clit. “You’re so fucking tight. Been thinking about this… about how you’d feel around me.”
Your head fell back against the couch, hips rocking to meet his hand, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet living room. Eddie watched you the whole time, lips parted, curls wild, looking every bit the “rockstar sex symbol” the magazines called him. But this close, it was just Eddie; chaotic, intense, and completely focused on pulling you apart.
He kissed you again, swallowing your moan as his fingers sped up, curling against that perfect spot inside you until your thighs started to tremble.
Then, just as the edge started building, he slowed and withdrew his hand. You whined at the loss, but Eddie only grinned and brought his glistening fingers to his mouth. He licked them clean while holding your gaze. “Such a sweet thing you are.”
You moaned in response, taking his hand out of his mouth and placing his digits in your own. The sound that left his throat made your thighs tremble. You bobbed your head and sucked his fingers until the taste of your sex was gone. He grinned at the sight.
“C’mon, gorgeous,” he said, voice wrecked. He stood and offered you his hand, pulling you up against his chest. “My room’s upstairs. I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”
His arm wrapped around your waist as he guided you toward the staircase. The door to Eddie’s room barely clicked shut before he had you pinned against it. His mouth crashed back onto yours, all teeth and tongue and zero patience now that you were alone in his domain.
One hand fisted in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back and expose your throat so he could bite down the column of it, sucking hard enough to leave marks you’d feel tomorrow. The other hand shoved your dress up around your waist, as if to offend him.
“Fuckin’ finally,” he growled against your skin. “Been waiting fucking months to get my hands on you like this.”
You laughed breathlessly and shoved at his leather jacket until it hit the floor. “Then stop talking and do something about it, Munson.”
Eddie pulled back just far enough to grin at you; eyes blown black, curls messy.
“Oh, I’m gonna do a lot of somethin’, sweetheart. Gonna fuck you so good you forget that asshole ever existed.”
He dropped to his knees right there in front of the door.
Your panties were ripped down your legs and tossed somewhere behind him before you could blink. Then his mouth was on you. Hot, wet, filthy. No teasing. No slow build. Eddie licked a broad stripe up your cunt like he was starving, then sealed his lips around your clit and sucked hard enough to make your knees buckle.
“Jesus—Fuck—Eddie—”
He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you wider, and groaned like you tasted better than anything he’d ever put in his body.
Two fingers pushed inside you again, curling viciously while his tongue worked your clit in tight, relentless circles. The wet sounds were obscene. He didn’t care. He moaned into you every time your hips jerked against his face, like getting you off was the only thing that mattered.
“Fuck, listen to you,” he rasped between licks, voice wrecked. “Already dripping down my wrist. Damien’s never made you this wet, now did he?”
You couldn’t even answer. Your head thunked back against the door as he added a third finger, stretching you open, fucking you on his hand while he sucked and licked like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else. The pressure built fast, way too fast, to where your thighs were shaking around his head.
He pulled off right as you started to tip over the edge.
You whined, high and frustrated, and he just laughed, dark and delighted, wiping his shiny mouth with the back of his hand as he stood.
“Not yet, angel,” he said, voice low. “Wanna feel you come on my cock first.”
He manhandled you toward the bed, so much so that you barely got a glimpse of the room (guitars on stands, posters peeling off the walls) before he spun you around and bent you over the edge of the mattress.
The sound of his belt and zipper was loud in the room. Then the thick, hot weight of his cock slapped against your ass. Eddie dragged the head through your folds, coating himself in your slick, teasing your entrance.
“Gonna fuck you so deep you feel me for days,” he promised, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. The other fisted in your hair again, pulling your head back so he could lean over and speak right against your ear.
“Gonna fill this pretty pussy up. Make sure you remember whose cum is leaking out of you tomorrow when that loser tries to talk to you again.”
He pushed in.
One long, relentless thrust that stretched you wide and punched the air from your lungs. Eddie didn’t give you time to adjust; he bottomed out with a groan that sounded like it was ripped from his chest, then started fucking you like he meant to break the bed.
The pace was brutal. Skin slapping skin. His hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt you up the mattress with every thrust. The hand in your hair kept your back arched, the other sliding around to rub tight circles over your clit.
“Fuck—fuck, you feel better than I imagined,” he panted, voice strained. “So tight. So fuckin’ wet. Taking me so good, baby. That’s it—squeeze me just like that.”
You moaned loudly, pushing back to meet every thrust. Every drag of his cock against your walls felt electric.
Eddie leaned down, chest pressed to your back, and bit at your shoulder.
“Tell me,” he demanded, hips never slowing. “Tell me his dick never felt like this.”
“Never—fuck, Eddie—never felt like this—”
“That’s right.” He sounded smug and feral at the same time. “Weak-ass little dick couldn’t make you scream like this. Couldn’t make you this fuckin’ messy.” His fingers on your clit sped up. “You’re mine now. Say it.”
The pace was so brutal you could only speak gibberish, which Eddie did not take a liking to. So, naturally, he sped up more than you thought humanly possible and growled into your ear, “Fucking. Say. It.”
You were close again, the edge rushing up fast. “Yours—Eddie, I’m yours—”
He growled, low and satisfied, and pulled out just long enough to flip you onto your back.
Your legs were shoved up and over his shoulders as he slammed back in, folding you nearly in half. The new angle had him hitting so deep it bordered on too much.
Eddie’s hand wrapped around your throat—perfectly tight enough to cut off air and just enough pressure to make your head spin in the best way. His thumb stroked your pulse while he fucked you harder, eyes locked on yours.
“Look at me when you come,” he ordered. “Wanna watch you fall apart on my cock.”
You did. The orgasm crashed over you so hard your vision whited out for a second. You clenched around him, crying out his name, and Eddie fucked you straight through it, pace turning erratic.
“Fuck—gonna come—gonna fill you up—” His rhythm stuttered. He buried himself and came with a broken groan, pulsing hot and deep inside you. His hips kept rolling in short, shallow thrusts like he was trying to push it even deeper, claiming every inch.
He stayed there for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard. Then he kissed you, slower this time, but no less possessive, while he was still buried inside you.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark and satisfied.
“Tapped out already?” he murmured, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. “Damn. And I’m not even close to done with you yet.” His cock twitched inside you, already starting to harden again.
The night was young, and Eddie Munson had no intention of letting you leave his bed until the sun came up and every trace of Damien Thatcher had been fucked out of your system.
when your stupid ex boyfriend kicks you out of the flat, he forgets to give you your cat back. you find the meanest looking guy in the bar to help you get her back.
type: one-shot (3.4k), ao3
cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+
There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.
You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.
You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.
You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.
A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.
The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.
It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.
There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.
That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.
You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.
"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"
He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.
"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."
His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."
"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."
The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.
"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"
"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"
He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.
"Suppose."
"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"
He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.
"Wot's tha' include?"
"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."
"Tha's my specialty, love."
"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."
"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."
"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."
A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.
"'m Simon."
The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.
You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.
"Olright, love. Lead the way."
Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.
"This wot he stole?"
You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.
"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."
The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.
You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.
"What the fuck is this?"
You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.
"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."
"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."
"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."
Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.
"Who the bloody hell is that?"
You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.
"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"
Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.
"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"
Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.
"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."
Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—
Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.
He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.
"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."
"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"
"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"
"Please…"
"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.
"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"
"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.
"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."
He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.
"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.
The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.
"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.
"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—
Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.
"Ahh—fuck."
You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.
You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.
"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"
It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.
"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"
"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."
You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.
"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.
"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.
"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"
"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."
"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"
Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.
The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.
Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.
Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.
Nothing at all.
He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.
"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.
"Never better."
Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.
Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.
It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.
She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.
"Yeah," Simon takes another sip of his tea. "This'll do."
You’d been with the 141 long enough that the team felt like home—Price’s cigars, Soap’s endless jokes, Gaz’s easy laugh, and Ghost… well, Ghost was Ghost. Silent, broad-shouldered, always layered in black long sleeves and that damn mask. You’d never seen an inch of skin. Not once.
Well, until today.
You’d caught him in the gym, sleeves pushed up while he wiped down equipment. And oh God—Ink. A full sleeve on his left arm—dark, intricate, covered from wrist to bicep—maybe even higher— in sharp lines and shadows. Skulls, barbed wire, something that looked like a grim reaper. It suited him perfectly, and the sight hit you low in the gut.
You couldn’t stop staring. When he noticed, he tilted his head, that masked stare pinning you.
“Something wrong, love?”
You swallowed. “Your arm. I didn’t know you had any tattoos. They’re… really fucking cool.”
Ghost paused. “You want a closer look?” His voice dropped, low and rough, a warning but.. you didn’t catch it. “Might not be able to unsee it.”
You nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I want to see.”
You not catching that warning was more blessing than curse— now you’re in his quarters, door locked, the only light a sad lamp casting shadows across the room. Your back is pressed to his chest, legs spread over his thighs as he fucks up into you from behind—slow, deep, relentless. The thick, tattooed arm hooked around you, and he’s got three fingers shoved deep in your mouth, stretching your lips, pressing down on your tongue, keeping you quiet.
You can see every inch of the ink.
The sleeve is even more detailed up close—black and gray, textured, the designs shifting with every flex of his forearm as he works his fingers in and out of your mouth in time with his cock. Saliva slicks his fingers, dripping down your chin, but you don’t care. You moan around them, eyes locked on the tattoos, on the way his muscles move, on how hot the contrast is between the deadly ink and the way he’s using that hand to keep you quiet and full.
“Fuckin’ asked if you were sure..” he growls against your ear, accent thick, breath hot through the mask he won’t remove. “Now look at you. Mouth stuffed with my fingers, cunt clenching every time you see somethin’ new. Dirty girl.”
He thrusts harder, hips snapping up, the wet sounds were obscene. His tattooed arm stays exactly where you can see it—fingers hooked in your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as he makes you take them deeper. You gag softly and he chuckles, low and dark, never slowing.
“That’s it. Keep your eyes on it while I ruin you.”
Your hands grip his forearm, fingers tracing the lines of the tattoos as your orgasm builds fast and sharp. Ghost doesn’t let up—he fucks you through it, fingers muffling your cries, the full sleeve on display just for you like he promised.
When he finally pulls his fingers free, strings of spit connecting them to your lips, he drags the wet digits down your throat, over your chest, and presses the tattooed palm flat against your stomach so you can feel every inch of him still buried inside.
“Next time..” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “you’ll trace every line while I’m balls deep. Yeah?”
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
A/N: ….I’ve been going feral since the sleeve reveal guys..
summary: Your shitty boyfriend's left you stranded. Again. This time, at the recording studio where his band has been working on their new song. It's fine though, because Eddie has something you can help him with.
content: 18+ mdni!!!!, rockstar!eddie au, no use of y/n, CHEATING—r is cheating on her shitty bf (plz don't do this irl; don't like don't read), porn w/o plot really, afab genitalia r (pinv), spit kink, exhibitionism (audio recording sex to sample in a song), eating it from the back but like over the back of a couch AKA oral (f! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), kinda condescension, pet names (sweet girl, baby, sweetheart, etc.), pussy pronouns, missionary on a couch, dirty talk
note: loosely inspired by that part of guns ‘n roses’ “rocket queen.” on that same note, title is from "rocket queen." edited at 2AM with stale eyes so sorry for any typos/grammatical errors :*)
word count: 6,874
It was close to midnight when you came to the startling realization that Jax was not coming back to get you.
You replayed Jax’s parting words. “Baby, it’s–it’s my sister. She, uh, needs a ride. Went out drinking tonight, you know how that is.” He was already halfway out the door of the studio.
“Oh, okay, let me just grab my—” You sat up quickly when suddenly he appeared in front of you, ushering you back onto the couch.
“Oh, no, no. She’s, like, got her friends with her, so there won’t be any room, but I’ll come back and get you, okay?” He guided you back to the couch with a kiss on your forehead.
“Oh…well, could you just drop me off at home first?” You didn’t really have a purpose for being in the studio without your boyfriend there.
He grimaced like it pained him to even say it. “I mean, I would, but I really need to—” He jutted a thumb to the door. “Don’t wanna keep her waiting, y’know?”
You didn’t know. “I can’t just stay here, Jaxon—”
“The guys are here, it’s fine. I’ll be back in an hour tops!” He didn’t give you any time to react before disappearing out into the night.
Slowly, Gareth and Jeff trickled from the studio, leaving only you and Eddie.
When you’d grown tired of just twiddling your thumbs, you finally called Jaxon’s sister, Suze. The phone rang for nearly a full minute before you heard, “...Hello?” She sounded groggy.
“Hey, Suze, just making sure you made it in.”
“Wh—Huh?”
“Jax told me about coming to pick you up, so I just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”
“He told you what? Sorry, I’m still half asleep—I haven’t seen Jax today.”
You sighed. Honestly, you should’ve known.
You muttered off apologies to Suze—Sorry, I think I got mixed up, goodnight—before hanging the phone back on the hook so aggressively it rang out in the quiet studio.
Peeking through the glass into the booth, you watched Eddie, the frontman of the band, pick at his guitar. You couldn’t hear him, but you could tell by the papers crumpled up at his feet and the way he seemed to be singing softly to himself that the new song wasn’t coming along as smoothly as the band had been hoping for.
You heard Gareth and Jeff grumbling about the track as they left earlier. It seemed they were at a stalemate.
You flopped back onto the sofa, snatching the Rolling Stone magazine from the coffee table. Of course, it was Corroded Coffin’s 1989 issue. You had this exact issue in your apartment, sitting on your coffee table too, actually, but you couldn’t help but drink in the cover like it was the first time you’d seen it.
Eddie stood in the middle, looking down at the camera. His chest was bare, showing the expanse of his pale skin littered with black ink. His guitar rested against his lower half, partially blocking his pants, but the shine of the leather was still noticeable. His fingers, adorned with rings, of course, gripped the neck of the guitar. One eyebrow was quirked slightly beneath his bangs; his lips were parted gently. You could see his tongue prodding the inside of his cheek.
Jax, Jeff, and Gareth were around him, posed similarly, albeit more clothed—almost every rock band of the era was going for this look—but there was something about Eddie that kept drawing your eyes back to him. He oozed charisma and sex appeal, even through the glossy pages.
You guessed that was why he was the frontman.
You flicked through the magazine, attempting to read the stories but inevitably skimming through them. You’d just read it too many times.
Not long after, the door clicked open and Eddie emerged.
His hair was sticking up like he’d been running his fingers through it (he probably had been). Despite it being just a studio day with no planned public appearances, he still wore a studded belt and rings on nearly every finger.
He blinked at you, stuttering out your name. “I didn’t realize anyone was still here. Jax said you had to go pick up Susan—”
“He,” you corrected, flopping the magazine back atop the table. “He went to get Suze.” You put airquotes around the latter part of your statement. Jax’s behavior wasn’t exactly a secret, so what was the point in even pretending?
Eddie’s forehead wrinkled like he was holding back a wince. “Shit, I’m sorry—and he just what? Left you here?”
“Said he was coming back to get me, but I guess he got too lost in whatever groupie’s pussy—” You sighed, scrubbing your eye with a fist as heat rushed to your face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He shot you a small smile. It was laced with something close to pity. “I mean you have every right to be mad, sweetheart; he—” He raised a ringed hand to scratch above his eyebrow. “Honestly, I thought you were done after the Layna incident.”
Layna was a well-known Corroded Coffin groupie. Around a year ago, she’d totally disappeared from the scene, then reappeared three months ago with a baby, claiming Jax was the father. Too bad Jax admitted to fucking her before the paternity test came back negative.
You don’t think you could ever forget the way his face fell when he heard the news—like he’d wanted to be the father. You’d left for around three weeks before coming back that time.
It wasn’t even that you still had feelings for Jax. It’d be impossible for that at this point. It was more so just routine, and sure, maybe it was selfish, but you enjoyed hanging around with the band.
Drinking and hanging out with Jeff’s girlfriend, Livie, at concerts; dinner with Gareth and his wife, Aleah, on Sundays. Sure, you could’ve still hung out with Livie and Aleah without being Jax’s girlfriend, but you wouldn’t have had an excuse to see Eddie anymore. It’d dwindle to only seeing him on paper or grainy television screens.
You couldn’t imagine he’d hang out with his bassist’s ex-girlfriend.
“Yeah. Me too, to be honest.” You sighed. “How’s the song coming? It sounded good earlier.”
Eddie sighed back, moving to plop next to you. He let his head fall back against the top of the couch, his eyes closed. “It’s, hah, I dunno.” He turned to look at you. “Missin’ something, I guess.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” You wrung your hands together in your lap, giving him a small smile.
Sitting on the couch like this, your faces were close. You forced yourself to keep your gaze on his nose and above—no glancing down any further.
But Eddie didn’t abide by this rule. His eyes darted down to your lips. He must’ve not meant to do it because he sat up, resting his elbows on his knees and successfully hiding his face from you. He cleared his throat.
“Why’re you looking at me like that?” he asked.
You raised your eyebrows, but before you could answer, he sighed, leaning back against the couch cushions again. “Sorry—I’m sorry. I dunno why I—” He ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know why I asked you that. ‘M being unfair.”
“It’s—You’re fine.” You tried to keep your voice steady despite the confusion that was rising within you.
“Can I ask you something?” He was looking at you again.
“Sure.”
“Why are you still with him?”
You blinked. You couldn’t pretend you hadn’t been asking yourself that same question.
“Guess I just got used to it. It’s my routine…” You shook your head. “Honestly, I don’t know. He treats me like shit. Left me to go ‘pick up his sister.’ I called her, and she hadn’t even talked to him. I mean, I already knew he was lying…Well, I figured he was. Still, it–it fucking sucks that he sucks.” You laughed a little, self-pityingly.
You sighed again. You mumbled, “Dick’s good, I guess.” An afterthought to yourself, really. You weren’t sure why you said it to Eddie Munson of all people. It wasn’t like it made you look any less pathetic—only made it worse, if anything. You dropped your head in shame the moment the words left your mouth.
Why would you bring up your sex life with your shitty boyfriend to his very attractive bandmate—
“Yeah right.”
Your head snapped up and over to Eddie. For a moment, you thought you might’ve imagined it. “Wh—huh?”
Eddie, who any other time was the opposite of nonchalant, was suddenly cool and composed. He shook his head as one shoulder rose. “Just find that hard to believe, ‘s all.”
You couldn’t stop yourself from retorting,“You some kind of sex expert or something?” Oh God, why did you say that, why did you say that, he’s going to think you’re a total freak—
“Maybe. Never heard that one before, but I haven’t heard any complaints either.”
Heat rose up your neck.
Haven’t heard any complaints.
Suddenly you were plagued with the images of the girls you’d seen leaving Corroded Coffin’s shared apartment. Girls with makeup smeared across their faces, their hair a mess—even then you’d known just sleeping didn’t make you look like that, but you’d forced the thought from your head.
“Know I’m better than your shithead boyfriend, that’s for sure.”
You couldn’t stop your brows from shooting high on your forehead. Eddie was talking about Jax like they weren’t bandmates—weren’t friends. Your thoughts must’ve been clear on your face because Eddie added, huffing out a laugh, “You ever see me get along with him?”
Your gut instinct was to say yes, but the more you mulled it over…had you?
You thought back to last week at the bar. Had you seen Jax and Eddie speak? You could only remember Eddie addressing you. Then, a few weeks earlier, at their apartment for dinner…again, only you.
Your face flushed. You’d been so caught up in your own interactions with Eddie, you hadn’t even noticed the tension between the two.
“I could be better than him.” Eddie was so close, you could see specks of gold in his eyes. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip.
“What are you saying?” you asked, eyes trailing from the curve of his lips up to where his eyes seemed to be boring into you.
“I think you know what I’m saying.”
“Are you really playing games right—mmph—”
A flash of brown hair was the only warning you received before his lips met your own. Your eyes were wide and you were taken with how soft his lips were. Frozen, you couldn’t get your body to react.
Eddie was kissing you. He was kissing you, and it wasn’t weird. He was kissing you, and he tasted like cherry chapstick and tobacco.
He slowly pulled away, and you realized you hadn’t kissed him back—you’d just sat there, unmoving. His eyes darted away from you. “Oh Christ, I’m sorry I–I don’t know wh—mmph—”
You rushed forward, meeting his lips again. For a moment, like you had been, he was frozen in place, but he quickly relaxed into it. His hand met your hair, and you easily let his tongue into your mouth as his grip tightened on you.
You brought your own hands up to his chest as his hand shifted from your hair to your neck, tugging you closer to him. You moved together, the only sound in the empty room the slick clicks of your mouths.
Eddie pulled back, rubbing his nose against yours. “Can I ask you something?” His thumb was running up and down the side of your throat, and you worked hard to concentrate on what he was saying.
“Ye—” You cleared your throat. “Yeah.”
His eyes left yours. “Feel free to smack the shit out of me if you want—”
“I’m not gonna do that.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He didn’t look convinced, so you added, “I’m not gonna hit you, okay? Just ask.”
“Well,” he started. “I had this idea for the record—”
Okay. Maybe you would smack the shit out of him. “Is now really the time for that?”
“Yeah, actually.” He glanced from you to the recording booth. “The record—What it’s missing—” He sighed before starting again. “I think you can help me.”
You leaned back in his grip to laugh. “Me? I can’t sing, let alone play an instrument. I can’t even play the triangle.”
“I think you can do the kinda singing I need.” His eyes darted down across your body, and it felt like they’d shot lasers at you.
“Wh—I’m not sure I know what you’re saying.”
“I don’t mean to make assumptions here, sweetheart, but if we, ahem, keep goin’...” He nodded his head as he spoke, clearly choosing his words carefully. “Could we move it to the booth?”
“You mean—” You blinked and gestured a finger at the both of you.
“Yes.” He quickly added, “But only if you want to.”
“But…everybody’ll hear me.”
“Nobody has to know it’s you. I won’t say anything.” A small smile peeked at his lips. “It can be our secret.”
Your secret. Your secret with Eddie. It made you giddy like a schoolgirl to think about. You could be on the song. More specifically, you and Eddie having sex could be on the song. You didn’t want to dwell on why that made your stomach flip and your neck hot.
Everyone who bought the record would hear you and Eddie. Even before that, the band would hear you and Eddie. The band, including Jaxon, would hear you and Eddie—
“Oh my god Jaxon.” Your stomach flipped again but this time, soured. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about Jaxon—He’ll hear and–and he’ll know—”
“I thought you said you didn’t know why you were still with him?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“This’ll show him he can’t get away with just treating you like this. He’s always blowing you off and treating you like shit. Somebody needs to show him what happens when you take a pretty girl—a good girl—who has always done right by you and you treat her like garbage.” Eddie’s chest was nearly heaving, and he looked down at himself slightly, like he wasn’t sure where all that had come from. “But—I mean—only if you want to. Of course.”
You swallowed. He had a point. I mean, where was Jaxon now? Definitely not with his sister, that was for sure. You thought back to the number of times he’d ditched you and were embarrassed to realize it was easily in the double digits just this month.
You frowned. When had you decided you were fine with being treated like a doormat? When had you decided that this was what you were worth—
Eddie must’ve interpreted your silence as rejection. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to bash you or–or something. I just—You deserve better.” He took a deep breath. “You don’t have to do this with me. Or–Or you can, but we don’t have to—” He shot a thumb back towards the recording booth. “You can forget I asked. I can figure something out. It’s, uh, not a big deal.”
You wondered what ‘figuring something out’ looked like. Dropping the idea all together and trying something else for the record? Or asking someone else?
Your stomach rolled at the idea of Eddie asking another woman. You knew he wouldn’t have any issues doing so either. Part of you knew it was unfair to be jealous about it, but that didn’t matter.
You stood from the couch abruptly. You had made your mind up—honestly, you had made your mind up the moment he asked you.
“We can just forget this happened—” he started, but instead of moving towards the exit, you moved towards the door to the booth.
“Are you coming or what?” you asked, narrowly biting back a smirk.
You’d never seen him move so fast.
You tried to maintain your confidence, but something about Eddie melted it down to mush. “B-But is it—”
“It’s recording, sweetheart; don’t worry.”
You were both seated on a couch in the recording booth. You hadn’t ever thought of Eddie as muscular per se, but he’d pulled the couch from the studio into the booth effortlessly.
He cradled your neck as he planted kisses along your throat.
“Oh—Okay.” You were nodding, and you knew you should’ve been embarrassed at how desperate you were from just a few kisses.
Eddie sure didn’t seem to mind. His cool rings pressed against your neck as he pulled you closer to him. You braced yourself with both hands on his shoulders, quickly moving them to caress up and down his shoulders in an attempt to mask the fact you were truly gripping him for dear life.
Getting impatient at the attention your neck was getting, you grabbed his hand from your waist, moving it to your center. You felt his teeth as he smiled against you.
He pulled the button from your pants with one deft hand, and you bit back the jealousy that was stewing. How many women had he practiced on to get that just right? Not that you had any room to talk considering you had a boyfriend, albeit a shitty one, but—
You didn’t have time to overthink when Eddie immediately tucked your panties to the side to run agile fingers up and down your folds. You instantly noticed the calloused pads of his fingertips—that of a guitarist.
“Oh, sweetheart.” He leaned back to rub his nose along your cheekbone. “You get this wet for him, or is this just for me?”
For a moment, a stab of guilt ran up your spine, making you sit up straighter, but it quickly morphed to arousal when you felt the tip of his finger dip into you.
“Eddie, I—mmph—” He trailed his finger back up to dance around your clit, never quite giving you the pressure you needed.
“Yeah? Tell me something, baby.” He was still nosing across your face.
“D-Don’t wanna talk about him.”
“Hm, that’s right. You don’t need him when I’m here, huh?”
You shook your head shamelessly—the wetness between your legs had already given your desperation away.
Eddie smiled. “Sweet girl.”
You leaned into him at the nickname, making him chuckle.
Suddenly, he took a step back, pulling his hand from your pants, leaving you suddenly cold without the warm touch of his fingers.
Your lower lip jutted out into a pout, and he chuckled at you again. “I know. Here.” He tapped his fingers that had just been at your cunt across your lips. “Get ‘em wet for me, baby.”
You opened your mouth instinctively, wrapping your lips around the digits. Overcome with the desire to be good for him—to even remotely wreck him the way he already had you—you bobbed your head, taking his fingers down to the glittering silver along his knuckles.
He was watching you, his lips slightly parted as you gagged around his fingers. “Knew you’d have a sweet fuckin’ mouth.”
You gagged around him, the sound wet and humiliating, but you couldn’t be embarrassed—not when his mouth lolled open while he watched. You went to bob your head again, but he withdrew his fingers, leaving your mouth empty and waiting.
Without hesitation, he gripped your cheek, four digits on one side, his thumb on the other, as he pulled your mouth to his. He spread your saliva across your cheek with his fingers.
With your chest heaving, you could only peer at him through your lashes.
Eddie paused, drinking in your features. “Is–Is this okay?” He moved like he was going to retract his hand from your face.
You nodded eagerly, grabbing his hand to keep it there. You nuzzled your face towards his hand as best you could with his grip on you. “I—” Your face was warm, and you were starting to feel a little dizzy. “I like it dirty.”
For a split second, you couldn’t read his expression. But then, you noticed the sparkle in his eye. “Yeah? Sweet girl likes it dirty? I should’ve known.” He tilted your chin back. He planted a surprisingly chaste peck on your lips before murmuring, “Open your mouth.”
You blinked up at him, and God, all he could think about was painting your pretty fucking face with his load. Especially when your lips parted so obediently.
He didn’t hesitate to spit directly into your waiting mouth, not missing the way your thighs pressed together. He watched your throat bob as you swallowed his warm spit, shamelessly removing his wet hand from your face to adjust himself in his jeans.
“You like that, baby?”
You nodded, but that wasn’t enough. “Tell me,” he insisted.
“Yeah.” Your voice came out breathy and high. “Yeah, I like it, Eddie.”
“Fuck,” he practically groaned. “I need to see you.”
You didn’t need to hear anything else, instantly moving to pull your pants down, stumbling about in your attempts to be swift. You felt your face heat, but when you looked over at Eddie, he was too busy pulling his own belt from its loops and shucking his pants down to his ankles, just as desperate.
As if he felt you staring, he suddenly looked up. His hair was unruly against his forehead, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed deeply. His eyes darted from yours, and you could’ve sworn his cheeks were dusted pink, but it was hard to tell in the dim lighting.
You lifted your hips to finish pulling your bottoms over the swell of your ass, and Eddie quickly jumped into action. His jeans rustled as he kicked them off his legs. One foot got caught at the bottom, causing him to jump and flail until it flew onto the floor with a thump.
You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped you.
Here was Eddie Munson—rock band frontman, guy you’d seen smash paparazzi cameras for getting too close—dancing around, trying to get his pants down his legs.
Somehow, he made it not dorky, though. Okay, maybe it was dorky, but he managed to make it charming.
“Whatcha laughing at?” He approached you again.
You would’ve thought Eddie was the type of guy to wear tight black briefs. In your head, he was in a perpetual state of chains and leather. But instead, he wore a pair of loose blue checkered boxers, clearly choosing comfort over his typical garb.
He put his hands against your pants at your knees, looking up at you from beneath his bangs. He raised his eyebrows at you. “Is this okay?” He suddenly sounded worlds smaller.
You nodded incessantly, helping him tug your pants the rest of the way down your calves. He balled them up and threw them in the general direction of where his own pants were.
You pulled at the bottom of his t-shirt, and he quickly got the hint, pulling it over his head.
You’d seen him shirtless plenty of times. There was the Rolling Stone cover (along with countless other magazines), outdoor Corroded Coffin shows where he’d inevitably end up shirtless, even days when he’d invite the band over to his fancy rooftop apartment to lounge by the pool in the summertime. But you’d never been this close.
Close enough to see the spot on his chest beneath his collarbone where the one of the legs on his spider tattoo was a shade more faded than the rest.
Your gaze shifted down his torso to the dark trail of hair that disappeared into his boxers. Suddenly struck with the fact you’d been blatantly ogling him for the past few minutes, you looked back up to his face quickly, expecting to find him already staring at you.
He was staring at you, just not at your face like you’d expected.
You couldn’t exactly pinpoint where his gaze was, but it was without a doubt far below your neck.
You were naked, sure, but something about the way he was so openly peering at you made you feel even a step past naked. It was like he’d stripped a layer of you back, and was looking at you completely. It made your skin prick with something beyond arousal.
For a moment, you wanted to sink in on yourself—you couldn’t name a time you’d felt more exposed. But the way his boxers were tented replaced any mortification with something hot injected straight into your veins.
He finally looked up at your face, shameless about being caught, and leaned in, closing the gap between you. Your lips met and his moved against yours like second nature.
His tongue licked into your mouth like he was trying to map it. You suckled at the warmth of his tongue as he began to pull at the hem of your shirt. You parted long enough for your shift to join the pile of the rest of your clothes.
Eddie’s hand met your face and caressed you gently, a stark contrast for the way his tongue was ravaging your mouth. Your chest heaved as you moved impossibly closer to him, centimeters from being entirely in his lap.
“Here,” he mumbled against your lips before softly turning you around until you were over the back of the couch.
Your breasts pressed against the top of the couch, your nipples pebbled on the rough fabric, as your knees sunk into the cushions of the seat. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t purposefully push your ass out, presenting yourself to him.
The wet spot in your underwear was growing uncomfortable and you were painfully aware of it as you pressed your thighs together in a lame attempt to ease the incessant throbbing in your core.
You sat up on your elbows to peer over your shoulder. Eddie was running his tongue over his bottom lip, and when you noticed the slight jerk of his arm, your gaze trailed lower to watch him tug on his cock slowly. You couldn’t help the way you arched your back further.
He’d dropped his boxers just enough to free his cock and for a moment, you (embarrassingly) hated you missed the exact moment he’d pulled it out—hated you missed the way it surely had bobbed up towards his stomach from the sheer weight of it once he’d pulled his underwear down.
He paused at the base to squeeze tightly, and God, it gave you the opportunity to truly admire it.
You knew he would be big. I mean, come on. It was clear by the way he acted that he would be packing. But shit, your imagination really had nothing on the real thing.
Thick and long—you were sure your hand wouldn’t be able to fit around its girth. Against his hand it seemed even bigger. A pronounced vein ran up the side to the rosy tip.
Eddie gave it another slow stroke, a smirk on his face. “Big enough for you, sweetheart?”
Your only response was the slight shift of your shoulder and chin.
He squeezed his cock, mumbling under his breath, “Too fuckin’ sweet.”
You didn’t have any time to react before Eddie was diving down onto his knees, his mouth latching onto your glistening pussy.
“Oh!” You jumped, and Eddie wrapped his arms beneath your thighs to keep your cunt held tightly against his hungry mouth.
He licked a stripe from your clit to the edge of your tightest hole. For a moment you thought his tongue was going to keep going right across, and you weren’t sure if you liked the way the mere idea of it made heat crawl up your neck, but he stopped to pull back.
“Sweet girl, even sweeter cunt.”
Cunt.
“Eddie,” you whined, feeling your heartbeat in your ears.
He sucked two fingers into his mouth before you felt them run along your slit.
“Yeah, baby?” He rested his cheek right below the swell of your ass. “Talk to me.”
Suddenly, you were hyperaware of the recording equipment surrounding you and picking up every word, sound, and rustle. You dropped your face to the top of the couch, rubbing your nose against it.
“Hey,” Eddie mumbled. His hand shifted and ran across the globe of your ass. “I can delete it if you don’t like it.” His other hand came up, then he was caressing the expanse of your ass broad with both his wide palms. “I’m still enjoying myself, okay? I’m not just doing this for the record, I…” You heard him swallow. “I think you’re gorgeous—fuckin’ perfect, really—and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about you before…like this.”
Leave it to Eddie to make you blush when he just had his entire face in your cunt.
You lifted your head to peer over your shoulder at him. “No, no—I, uh. I wanna keep going. And I want you to use it for the record. I just—” You sighed. “I don’t wanna sound stupid.”
He immediately bristled. “You’re not gonna sound stupid.” He brought his hand down a few times on your cheek, not quite a spank. “Here, turn this way.” He helped you maneuver until your back was against the couch cushions. “Help me out, baby.” He pressed your legs up from beneath your knees, and you tucked your arms there, holding yourself open for him.
He made a low sound in his chest, and you realized how exposed you were. You didn’t get bashful though. You managed to keep yourself the way he wanted, even with the way you felt heat rising up beneath your skin.
“Don’t think so hard about it, okay?” Eddie said as he lowered himself back down to you. “It’s just you ‘n me.
And the recording, you thought, but his words eased you nonetheless.
You were suddenly thankful he had you holding your legs as his nose prodded your hole as he moved to suckle at your clit.
“Oh, th–that—yeah,” was all you managed to spit out.
“Mhm?” he hummed against you, and you swore you felt it down to your toes.
“Yeah,” you sighed.
A hand reached down to swipe his thumb across your clit as his tongue finally dipped into you.
You whined. “Please.”
“Hm? Talk to me, sweet girl, d’you want it?”
“Mhm, I’wan’it.” Your words all slurred into one another.
When you felt his middle finger prod at your hole, you couldn’t help the desperate sound that left you.
“Yeah? That what you need?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Ah…c’mon. Tell me.”
“That’s what I need, Eddie,” you quickly breathed out. In that moment, you would’ve done anything he asked you.
“There we go,” he said, more to himself, as he finally sunk a finger into you.
You couldn’t even be embarrassed anymore with the sounds that left you. You were so wet, you could hear the slick sucking sound everytime he fucked his finger into you, and he quickly added another.
“So wet. She’s sucking me in.” He didn’t even look up as he spoke. Your pussy was drooling around his fingers and down his wrist, his rings now coated with milky white. Your clit was puffy and swollen, peeking out with every thrust of his hand.
You raised your hips as he continued, following him as he curled his fingers up into you, hitting that spot. You hadn’t even realized your mouth had been wide open, sounds falling out freely.
“Ed—oh.” You bit your lip harshly. “Your mouth.”
He raised an eyebrow at you, never one stopping his ministrations. “Huh, baby? She want a kiss?”
You nodded eagerly, hands slipping along your thighs that had become balmy with sweat. “Yeah, yeah, please.”
“I’ll give her a kiss, baby.” The last thing you saw before he lowered his head again was the flash of his smile.
When his lips met you, you gasped. He closed them firmly around your clit and the wet sound was so loud you were certain the microphones were picking it up. You didn’t care anymore—you couldn’t care, not if it felt this good.
His tongue on your swollen bud paired with his fingers inside you—curling so perfectly you swore your vision whited out every time he did it—brought you barreling towards your release. You could barely pant out, “I’m–I’m gonna—” before you were cumming loud and unabashedly. He worked you through it, finally stopping when your whines got especially pitchy.
The moment he raised up from your core, you dropped your legs, now boneless. Your heartbeat was still a steady pulse in your clit. You caught your breath, swiping the sweat from your face.
“Good?” Eddie asked, looking a little too smug (though you guessed it was earned).
“Better than good,” you said, your voice already halfway ruined.
You sat up properly on the couch as Eddie maneuvered back over to his pants, pulling something from his pocket. He turned back around and now had a condom pulled over the length of his dick, making you sit up even straighter.
Once your legs had stopped feeling like jelly, you had had every intention of returning the favor. You started, “Y’don’t want me to—”
“No, no.” You heard the smack of his hand against his dick. “Fuck. I mean, yeah, sweetheart, ‘course I do, but I need to be inside you, like, now.”
“Next time, then,” you said, narrowly biting back a smirk.
He quirked a brow at you, not bothering to bite back his smirk. “Next time?”
“Yeah.” You spread your legs, making room for him. “If you don’t kill me first.”
He fit perfectly between your legs, crowding you against the couch. His gaze was glued to your slippery cunt as he tapped the spongy tip of his cock against your clit. He raised his eyes long enough to say, “Could say the same for you.”
He slid his length up and down your slit, coating himself in your juices. You tried to be patient, you really did, but when he tapped his head against your clit again with a wet squelch, you couldn’t help the whine that left you.
“Alright, alright,” he mumbled. He said it so gently and lovingly, you swore your pussy spit out another half gallon. “I’ll put it in, now you just gotta sing for me. You’ll do that for me, right?”
“Yeah, yeah.” You were nodding eagerly. “Please, please, please just put it in. I need it. I—oh—”
He sunk in easily, you more than prepared after your first orgasm, but his size still made your breath catch in your throat. He groaned like he wasn’t doing much better.
“She’s choking me, baby, fuck.” He sounded pained, the veins in his arm flexing where he was holding himself up over you.
It was a stretch, and you could feel every inch of him in you, yet you still clawed at his arms, wanting—no, needing more.
“More, come on, I need it all—” No quicker than the words left your mouth, Eddie pushed all the way in with a loud groan.
Now, it was you that sounded pained, but you’d never felt better in your life. It felt like he’d sunk completely up through your stomach and into your throat. You could feel him everywhere. Your head flew back against cushions and you gripped his bicep as you looked down where you were taking him.
He had been staring up at the ceiling, his mouth wide open, but when he saw where your gaze was locked, he lowered his own, and you watched as his neck all the way down to his chest grew red.
“Fuck, I’m, fuck—” He pulled out maybe an inch before sinking back in, like he couldn’t bear to pull out. He couldn’t. “She’s sucking me right in.”
Finally, he began to shallowly thrust into you and the grip you had on his bicep tightened as your mouth fell open. His heavy cock was splitting you right open and felt like it was hitting every spot, if that was even possible.
Eddie raised one hand to cup your chin, running his thumb along your bottom lip. “C’mere, baby,” he said lowly.
He lowered his face to yours and spat right into your waiting mouth. As he did, he pulled all the way out, leaving his tip kissing your hole, before plunging back in completely. You didn't recognize the strangled, pornographic sound that left you.
His spit was warm in your mouth and you could feel your slick gushing from between your legs with every thrust of his fat cock. You were easily gripping him for dear life—both with your hands and your cunt.
He shifted until his dick was kissing that spot that he’d so easily found with his fingers. The sounds—your whining, his moans, the slick sound of your bodies meeting—seemed to bounce off the walls, and the recording equipment couldn’t have been further from your mind. All you could think was Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.
It seemed to be the same for him, the way your name left his lips in desperate puffs. “Touch yourself, please, I’m so—” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, but never once stopped his eager pace.
You dropped your hand between your legs immediately, your fingers slippery as they scrubbed across your clit.
“Right—right there.” You had squeezed your eyes shut. You were right at the edge of your release, you just needed— “Right there, right there, right—ohmygod—”
“Yeah? Yeah, baby? I got you, I fuckin’ got you—”
You clung to him, your vision spotty and your chest heaving, as you came with a loud whine of his name. He buried himself to the hilt with a shout of your name, the hair at the base of him borderline overstimulating your sensitive clit.
He dropped down against you, his cock softening inside you. His arms wrapped around you, and you felt he was trembling. You weren’t in much better shape.
“Are you—” He stopped to inhale shakily. “Jesus, you okay?”
You hummed. Your bodies were both slimy with sweat and other juices, which sounded more than uncomfortable, but you found the warm weight of him comforting.
He peered at you, petting your hair away from your face. “You sure?”
“‘M good,” you finally croaked. “You—I—” You paused to laugh, shaking your head. “I think you fucked my brains out."
He laughed, strands of his damp hair shaking with the force of it.
“Yeah, well, if that’s the case then you sucked out my soul.” He ran a finger along the length of your face. “You know, through your puss—”
“I get it,” you cut in, laughing. You glanced over to the window to the production room. “Think we got anything good?”
Eddie looked at you like you’d grown three heads before his lip curled, a devious smile on his face. “I dunno…might better do it one more time. Just to be safe.”
Six months later.
“Eddie, you gotta tell us, man.” The interviewer leaned over his desk towards him. “Everybody’s dying to know about…that part on the new record.”
“What part, Howard?” Eddie shot a knowing glance at the audience, which got a few cheers. “I know Gareth killed the drums on the bridge.”
The crowd laughed.
“You know the part,” Howard insisted, laughing. “I think everybody knows the part.”
“I think it speaks for itself,” Eddie said. “Don’t really have much to say on that.”
“Well, your fans have had a lot to say about it,” Howard continued.
“No denyin’ that, that’s for sure.” Eddie tugged at the collar of his shirt, making the crowd laugh.
“I think one of the biggest questions has been…well.” Howard shrugged. “I don’t know how else to ask it—but well, was it real?”
Eddie looked from Howard to the audience. Right before he opened his mouth to speak, the television flickered off.
“Hey!” you called. “I was watching that.”
Eddie sat the remote down on the coffee table before taking a seat on the couch next to you. “You’ve watched it at least ten times since it aired.”
“Maybe I was trying to make it eleven.”
He hummed, his arm coming around your shoulders. You melted into his side easily.
“How’s the new guy?” you asked, rubbing your cheek against his chest.
“Good. He’s a great fit for the band.” He dropped his cheek and rested it on top of your head. “Jaxon hasn’t tried to reach out anymore. Or showed up at the studio wasted, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried.” It was true—you weren’t. You knew Eddie would handle everything. He always did.
“Good.” He planted a kiss on your head.
You sat up and grabbed the remote from the table. He groaned as you turned it back on.
“You could probably recite this word-for-word by now.” He shook his head.
You pressed back against him, pushing your tongue to your teeth to prevent a smile.
“Everyone’s dying to know who it is,” Howard was urging. “At least give us a hint.”
On the screen, Eddie shrugged, clearly trying and failing to seem nonchalant. You couldn’t stop yourself from mouthing the words along with him as he said, “Well, it’s my girl.”
Simon Riley really delving into his oral fixation.
See, you'd asked Simon to stop smoking after reading that it would damage his sperm. Trying for a baby apparently meant he needed to give up his vice.
But you were his missus, and he'd learned a long time ago—don't fucking argue with the missus.
Already by day three Simon was buying multiple packs of gum a day. Grumbling around base and the house. But he wouldn't take it out on you, never on you.
Your tits? Different story.
Simon had been sucking on your tits for almost an hour, switching between your now swollen and spit slick nipples. Yes, it felt fantastic—but Jesus Christ what was his obsession tonight?
"Simon." You murmur, tugging at his hair to pull him up. "You're usually inside me by now."
Simon grumbled, licking his lips. "You had me quit smokin' my fucking mouth needs to be doin' somethin'"
After that confession, Simon was always on you.
He comes home from work, and he pushes your shirt up while you read some book on the couch. His mouth immediately locking around your nipple. The tension built throughout the day leaving his body.
He'd suck on your tits of a morning instead of going for his usual smoke. Though you point out that he spends a lot longer on your nipples than he ever did his cigarettes.
You can't even take your shirt off around him without Simon pawing at your tits and sucking on you for at least five minutes before you finally batt him off to go cook dinner.
After a long weekend though, you went to work with sore tits. Your coworkers getting excited after hearing you'd been trying for a baby and now you were adjusting your bra all day.
Simon only chuckled when you complained to him that afternoon, letting you frustratedly throw your bra at him. "Just tell them that your husbands helping you practice for when you're actually breastfeeding."
He then had to dodge your heel at that comment.
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