hello! if you're new to my blog, I mostly write for the masked men I'm currently obsessed with
requests are closed, but if you wanna chat, hmu ;p | kinktober masterlist
✧.* ghost:
apologizing for being in love :( angst/fluff
Beneath the Surface (pt 1) (pt 2) nsfw
bf!ghost nsfw
dbf!ghost hurt/comfort
delivery guy fluff
eating a popsicle in front of simon nsfw
Favorite Regret (pt 1) (pt2) angst
gymbro!ghost nsfw
Hot Summer Day nsfw
M.I.A angst
mood ring fluff
neighbor!simon fluff
reader accidentaly eating edibles slight nsfw
roomate!ghost: homemade lasagna, power cleaning
toxic!bf!ghost nsfw
Under one Roof (pt 1) (pt 2 slight nsfw)
voyeurism nsfw
✧.* könig:
Colonels' Wife nsfw
dbf!könig nsfw
Enemy (pt 1) (pt 2) nsfw
könig's accent nsfw
milking him dry :( nsfw
overstimulation nsfw
sitting on his face :( nsfw
sub!könig hcs nsfw
yandere!könig
✧.* others:
141 at sephora fluff
141 with a high maintenance s/o fluff
141 with a f!teammate who can't eat anything on a stick suggestive
Aphrodisiacs nsfw ; ghost x f!reader x könig
Birthday Gift nsfw ; ghost x f!reader x könig
In For It nsfw ; ghost x f!reader x gaz x price x soap
Is It Really You? angst ; price x f!reader
One Last Time angst ; price x f!reader
studying with soap nsfw ; soap x f!reader
Three's a Crowd nsfw ; ghost x f!reader x könig
always such a struggle when you get to the sex scene part of the fic you're writing and you're not horny at all. i don't know. their things were touching. without ANY underwear. the end.
can't help but think about shaving dex's stubble during the shower and he can't help but get a shameless erection at you touching him :((
(18+)
omg :( taking a steamy shower with dex and offering to help him shave. turning his head to different angles while you work on shaving his stubble, so focused and completely oblivious to the battle he's fighting. every loving touch that shows you actually care is sending heat straight to his dick, every graze of your fingertips against his jaw only makes him throb harder. you're just being so gentle with him, and it turns him on so so much :(
it's only until you take a break to wash off the razor under the shower stream that you look down and notice the painfully hard boner he's sporting, cock sitting flushed against his abs, globs of pre dribbling down his shaft every now and then. "dex–" a suprised, but knowing smile grows on your face, and you're only more amused when you see his ears are a pretty pink at the tips. "m'sorry, baby, you were just– touching me... and-" he shakes his head in embarrassment, unable to come up with a good explanation as to why his cock is literally twitching from just you shaving him.
"it's okay" you shush, him hand snaking down between the two of your wet, bare bodies to close around his member, pulling a whine from him. "i'll take care of this, okay? how's that sound?" you coo, getting him to nod and bringing his head to rest on your shoulder, eyes closed in bliss, and also overwhelming love. "god– thank y'you baby" "love you" "always helping me..." he's whispering little praises and pressing reverent kisses to your shoulder as you jerk him off slowly, caring for him like no one has before.
he cums all over your tummy with a soft moan, hips bucking into your fist as he spurts the last drops of his warm, sticky release out. he lets you clean him up under the hot shower, he's in awe of just how much you love him, and just how much he loves you <3
couldn't stop thinking about england x argentina yesterday on the semifinals || warnings: none! pure fluff
and simon riley, the usually very composed man, a man who really doesn't care that much about soccer, throwing a big tantrum when argentina starts scoring against england
you widen your eyes as he nearly flips the coffee table with the way he cheers at england’s goal, screaming in a way you never seen before
only for him to yell at the players when argentina scored their first goal by the end of the second half
“bloody muppets.” he shouted, his heavy english accent sipping through his irritated voice.
“honey…” you tried cooing at him, but he was tense, and gently pushed you aside so he wouldn't hurt you if he jumped or got even madder.
“not now, lovie.” he said in a surprisingly sweet tone, still holding your knee to anchor himself as he watched the added time.
he sank even deeper in the couch after the second goal, holding the bridge of his nose as his nostrils flared with annoyance.
“honey…” you said again, reaching for his hand. he wrapped a hand over yours and took a deep breath, then stood up.
“not. now. lovie.” he said, forcing himself to sound gentle as he went towards your shared bedroom.
you laughed to yourself at the stupidity of your man, a giant and intimidating wall of muscles, who never cared that much about this, getting upset at the loss (and rightfully so).
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader
— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns men—"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sir—"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Please—"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"
"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simon…"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't want—"
"Wasn't bloody askin’."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."
"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and it’s anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
it's always a pleasure going back to my origins and writing for dbf simon because i'm a big slut who can't get over this man
had a can of monster, bad cramps, pulled an all nighter and this came up
and also i'm celebrating this blog turning 3 years old if anyone cares
✧.* summary: your father always warned you about soldiers, he just forgot to specify which one.
✧.* wc: 5,9k
✧.* pairing: dad's best friend!simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader
✧.*warnings: kinda mean!simon, implied age gap, praising/humiliating, face fucking, unprotected sex, choking, slight dacryphilia ?, minor waterboarding (?, drunk driving (please don't do that), reader has major daddy issues, no use of y/n
• MDNI | NSFW under the cut •
Being raised by a father who's in the military along with the absence of a mother figure made it feel like you had enlisted too.
Everything was a strict routine, from waking up before sunrise to going to bed at night. There was a time and place for everything: breakfast, studying, chores, coming home, hell, even answering his calls. Needless to say, spontaneity was a foreign concept in the household. Sometimes you actually wondered if your father forgot he was raising a daughter and not commanding a platoon.
It wasn't really intentional how he micromanaged your life and treated you like a little girl you were long gone. Actually, unbeknownst to him, you were an adult! A grown, functioning adult! Who maybe still lived under his roof just so he'd have someone to get home — when he decided to come home. Not like he much deserved it either way, but he had lost important people in his career, so you played along.
You weren't sure how Simon really showed up in your lives, like he’d just surged out of nowhere to bring a bit of joy to your father's life, at least. He was his buddy, mate, friend or whatever term they endorsed over headquarters. It's not like you cared enough.
He showed up a few times over the last year, mostly to discuss a thing or two with your dad over a six pack of beer and football, and it pained you how boring it all sounded despite from a few good army stories.
Dad believed you didn't have many friends, and honestly, he wasn't that far off. What he was believing at this moment was that you were back at home studying while he was on duty, when you were actually at the bar, waiting for your friends to arrive.
You sat down on the bar, waiting a bit anxiously for your friends when a familiar voice pulled you out of trance.
“Didn't expect to see ya here.” Simon slid his glass on the counter, taking the empty seat next to you. He could see it from your expression how you'd tensed up at meeting him here. “Relax, won't tell your father.” He added with a small grin, finishing the remaining bourbon in his glass.
You could tell he was already slightly drunk, the kind of drunk that came from sitting alone in a bar, trying to drown the feeling of one of those nights. He looked different tonight, also. The man who was always an imposing presence looked less dull around the edges, you couldn't pinpoint why, though.
“Suppose you can buy me a round if you want me to trust you.”
“Shouldn't this be the other way around?” He scoffed at your boldness, looking down in his glass and then shaking his head.
He signaled the bartender silently, holding two fingers up, one for a refill, and another glass for you. His fingers ran over his face and he scratched his stubble, as if contemplating what life was throwing his way tonight.
Before he could overthink it, the bartender slid both drinks his way, and he slid yours across the counter. Bourbon wasn't really your strong, but again, he was paying for this one, you wouldn't really complain.
He lifted his own glass slightly in salute before taking another slow sip from it, you silently saluted him back with your own liquor.
“What brings you here?” You asked, attempting to break the ice. He took another pull before answering properly.
"Same reason everyone else is here, I s’ppose. Needed somewhere to be.”
The bar noise swelled around you, the laughter and clinking bottles fading in the background while silence stretched between the both of you. He noticed how you chewed the inner part of your bottom lip.
“You ever been here b’fore?”
His question hung in the air for a brief moment, you had to blink your way back to reality.
"Once or twice with the girls." You said. "Don't usually go out a lot, but one of ‘em just got the job she wanted so we're celebrating." You added, raising your glass in the air like you were toasting with them already. "Or… should be." You looked around, not seeing them there yet.
Simon followed your gaze, scanning the crowd along with you, even if he didn't know what your friends looked like. He also noticed your uneasiness.
“They're late, huh?” He grunted under his breath, sounding more like a statement than something else.
“Maybe I'm too early. Like always.” You said with a bit of resignation, trying to sound cheerful, but failing as it came out sharper than intended. You groaned as you took the first sip of your bourbon. “How's work?”
He caught the edge in your voice, and glanced at your frown for half a second before answering. “Work’s work.” He said flatly. “Same shit. Different day.” He looked down as he swirled the liquor around. “Spent six hours staring at satellite imagery of some godforsaken stretch of desert trying to spot targets.” He scoffed humorlessly into the liquid, tilting the glass against his lips.
“Thrilling.” You added, then glanced at the time in your phone, and frowned again due to the lack of any notifications from your friends.
“You mad at them?” He didn't try to pry, he was just trying to keep up a conversation.
"No- not really." You said, failing yet another time to sound nonchalant. "I mean, I'm used to it by now."
This next sip felt like now you were the one trying to drown the feelings of one of those nights. The bourbon burned down your throat, almost comforting in its own way.
Silence stretched longer between you two, Simon didn't say anything, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he could see right through you.
"I am. A bit." You blurted out. "Why can't they just get ready earlier? Does my time matter less than theirs?" You said, irritation slipping into your voice before you could stop it.
"Sorry, I'm ranting again." You chuckled helplessly into your glass, taking the last of the bourbon.
Simon didn't react to it, didn't show pity or sympathy besides raising his empty glass to the bartender again, who brought both of you another refill almost immediately.
“Time matters. Yours, theirs.” He said simply, then nudged your glass with his index finger. “Drink up.”
You took a sip from the new glass of bourbon sitting in front of you. "Fair point." You tsked.
You rested both elbows on the bar counter, letting yourself sink slightly into the seat.
Another sip followed in silence, a little bigger this time. The frustration was still there, but it wasn't really about your friends being late anymore. That was just the first and easiest thing to blame.
There was something else bothering you that you couldn't quite put into words.
Simon noticed. Again. He had always been observant, but he wasn't about to push. He just sat there beside you, quietly nursing his drink. Maybe that was why the question slipped out.
"Why don't you have a wife?"
You turned your head to look at him, resting your cheek against your hand as you waited for his answer. It wasn't meant to be teasing, but you couldn't help it after it came out.
The bourbon caught him wrong, and he gave a quiet cough trying to clear his throat. It was probably the first time you'd ever seen him look caught off guard.
He stared at you for a moment, like he was trying to figure out whether you'd actually asked him that. He then slowly set the glass back down.
"Wife?" The word came out quieter than expected, almost like he was testing it.
A small, breathless laugh escaped him, sounding more like disbelief than amusement. He shook his head slightly, looking away for a second before meeting your eyes again.
His fingers tapped once against the bar, the usual steady rhythm slightly off this time.
"I'm not exactly..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Husband material." Another small scoff.
"I work too much. Spend most of my time somewhere I probably shouldn't be. Come home smelling like shit." He glanced down at his drink, turning the glass slightly between his fingers. "Not exactly fancy.”
"Suppose that's true." You nodded slowly, content with the answer for now, but your curiosity didn't go away, if anything, it only grew.
Your father had spent your entire life warning you about the military, the people in it, the things you supposedly needed protecting from, but never actually told you anything about that world.
"Is it true about the women there?" You asked. The question made Simon pause.
"What do you mean? Like officers? Medics?" He frowned.
"No, I meant..." You hesitated, trying to find the right words. A quiet sigh escaped you as you looked down at the amber liquid in the glass.
"I wanted to join the army back in the day." The confession sat between you two for a moment.
“Dad talked me out of it." You traced your finger along the edge of the glass, avoiding Simon's eyes. "Said something about how a pretty girl like me would end up as a bunny?"
You frowned slightly, almost embarrassed by saying that out loud. "I never really understood what he meant."
“Bunny?" The word came out slowly, like he was making sure he'd heard you right and he wasn't hallucinating. "Like in ‘barracks bunny’ bunny?" he repeated. The disbelief in his voice was palpable. "The fuck's wrong with your father?"
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the reaction, now assuming how bad this term could mean.
Simon had tolerated your father's opinions for quite a while. The old-fashioned comments and the closeted misogynist way he saw the world, yet he didn’t think that would extend into the way he saw you.
"You really don't know what that means?"
You shook your head and a humorless breath left him as he rubbed a hand over his jaw.
"A barracks bunny is what some people call women who hang around military bases and date soldiers. Usually in a pretty damn disrespectful way." He paused, watching your expression change as you processed it.
"Oh.” It came out quietly. "Oh."
The realization settled in slowly, and then all at once. You stared down at your glass, almost like you were waiting for it to make more sense. Like there could be any other explanation you had missed.
His fingers tapped once against the glass. "Your father thought that was something you were destined to become just ‘cause you’re pretty?" He shook his head slightly, clearly irritated. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry. That's a reflection on the way some men think.”
A bitter laugh escaped your lips. "Of course." You shook your head, disbelief turning into something else, something sharper. "Yeah. That makes perfect sense." Your fingers tightened around the glass.
"Pretty girl like me, right? Obviously I'd just become a slut the second I got around military men." The words tasted bitter coming out of your mouth, yet they were the truth, your father's truth.
You took another large sip, the bourbon burning on its way down.
"Of course my decorated father would use some disgusting, derogatory term like that to his innocent little girl just to keep her away from the military." You let out another humorless laugh. "Because apparently I couldn't possibly have enough self-control to exist around men without throwing myself at them."
The anger was no longer hidden now, mixed with the anger of also being ditched by your friends tonight. It had been building for years, buried beneath every rule, restriction, every lecture about “could”s and “couldn't”s.
And suddenly, yeah, it all made sense now. It was never about protecting you.
You looked up at Simon, and something in his expression only made the frustration burn hotter, churning low in your gut.
"You know what?” Your voice was quieter now, but somehow more determined. "I'm tired." You swallowed. "Tired of his rules, of pretending to be someone I'm not just because that's the version of me he can swallow." You finished the rest of your bourbon and placed the glass back on the counter with a sharp clink.
"I'll prove to him how wrong he can be." Your eyes zeroed on Simon. "Are you doing anything after this?”
Simon’s breath caught, enough for you to notice: a brief betrayal from someone who was usually so impossible to read.
His eyes widened slightly, fixed on you like you'd just pulled the pin from a grenade and casually placed it on the table between you. For a few seconds, he genuinely didn't know what to say.
"Sweetheart." It came out slower than usual, like a low warning coming from your father's best friend.
He lifted a hand, placing it flat on the bar between you. He didn't touch you, instead, he created a distance that suddenly felt very deliberate. "You're pissed." His eyes flicked briefly to the empty glass in your hand before returning to you. "Not thinking straight.”
"I asked you a question." Your voice came out sharper than you intended as you crossed your arms over your chest.
The noise of the bar seemed to fade into background static. The music, the conversations, the clinking glasses, it all dimmed.
There was only him and you at that damn bar. And the stubborn hand still resting between you like a line he refused to cross. "No."
You stared at him, but he didn't look away.
"I’m not doing this." His voice lowered, meant only for you. "You're drunk both on bourbon and rebellion right now." His tone was nearly scolding. "And I'm not going to be whatever reckless decision your father warned about." The words landed harder than you anticipated.
His fingers tapped once against the bar before he pulled his hand back. "Get a cab home.” He scratched his stubble.
"Fine, then I'll get a cab home with the first man I get my hands on in this bar." You watched him carefully, waiting for a reaction, hopeful you'd strike a nerve. "Or..." You tilted your head slightly. "You can take me home."
Simon went still, every instinct in him making him snap into focus. Nothing would be able to hide the irritation in his expression as he clenched his jaw.
He slowly exhaled through his nose, attempting to ground himself.
"Sweetheart." The nickname sounded like a warning, like he was hanging from the last thread of patience his body was capable of having.
In one smooth movement, he stood. He pulled out his wallet, dropped enough cash on the counter to cover the drinks and a generous tip, then turned back to you.
In silence, he simply reached for your elbow, guiding you through the crowd. You complained, but his grip was firm as he guided you toward the exit.
He opened the passenger door and guided you inside, roughly, to say the least.
He was annoyed. At you, at himself, annoyed because he knew exactly what you were trying to do and tagged along anyway.
The drive was silent, but somehow worse than if you two were arguing. You stared out the window, the heat of the bourbon fading into something else momentarily. You felt tired, embarrassed, hell, maybe even a little pathetic.
Because somewhere in between trying to prove your father wrong and trying to prove you weren't the person he thought you were, you were inclining towards proving him absolutely right.
You noticed the way Simon kept his eyes locked on the road, jaw tense, his grip was steady on the wheel like he was trying to control himself more than usual. Though the faint smell of bourbon that lingered in the car couldn't be ignored, because neither of you should have been driving right now. And both knew it.
Yet, there he was, by your left side, risking both of your lives to get you home in safety. Ironic.
When the car finally stopped in the driveway, Simon shifted into park and looked over at you. "Home."
You looked towards the house, then back at him. "But I don't wanna go in alone, it's so dangerous."
You crossed your arms like a stubborn infant, putting on the most exaggerated pout you could manage. You cringed a little at yourself, but fuck it, you were drunk, you might as well commit to the bit.
“Get off my car, woman.” He ordered, truly being a gentleman, yet there was something almost disbelieving about the way he said it.
He had dealt with hostile situations, difficult people, impossible orders, and, apparently, you refusing to leave his passenger seat was where his patience was tested.
When you didn't move, he simply stared at you, then he let out a quiet breath. He turned off the engine, unbuckled his seatbelt with a sharp click, and stepped out of the car.
A moment later, he opened the passenger door. The night air hit you as you looked up at him. The house was dark and quiet, your father obviously still at base. Simon stood there, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking like an irritated guard.
“Out." And again, you didn't move. He shook his head. "Unbelievable."
He reached in, grabbed you firmly by the waist, and lifted you out of the seat before you could protest. A man used to problem solving, removing the problem from his vehicle.
Your feet hit the pavement, and you immediately looked up at him in disbelief. He completely ignored the look.
"You're welcome."
The dry remark almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself he hadn't just carried his best friend's drunk daughter out of his damn car.
He shut the door behind you, locked it with a beep from his keys, and nodded toward the house. "Inside, young lady.”
"That is no way to treat a woman!" You called him out, rubbing your side where he had so effortlessly moved you out of the car, getting only a stern look in return.
He reached into your bag, found your keys, and started unlocking the front door with the kind of confidence that suggested he'd done this before, except never while dealing with a drunk, stubborn woman complaining at him.
"You are no fun." You yelled, following him up the steps, still annoyed. "Just like him."
The words made him pause for half a second. "Just like every other soldier." You added, and scoffed, walking past him and into the house. "Don't even know what the big deal about you guys is!"
For a moment, he stood there, your comment clearly landing differently than the others. But he just sighed quietly, stepping inside after you and closing the door behind him.
The house was exactly how it always was: quiet. Nearly painfully familiar.
The faint smell of your father's cigars still lingered in the air, mixed with the sterile neatness that seemed to follow him everywhere. Everything had its place. Everything was controlled.
You kicked your shoes off harder than necessary and made your way toward the couch.
Simon went straight to the kitchen, you watched him from the corner of your eye as he turned on the tap, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water.
A few seconds later, he walked back over and placed the glass down on the coffee table in front of you like he was making a statement.
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms and legs as you looked up at him, motionless. Simon stood there, towering over you. "Drink it."
The command was simple, and for some reason, that tone sent an unfamiliar shiver down your spine.
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
You swallowed in hard, refusing to let him see the effect it had.
"Not thirsty.” You shrugged, looking away like you hadn't just challenged him.
“You really don't know when to quit.” He said, taking matters into his own hands. Quite literally.
Before you could realize what was happening, he was straddling your thighs, effectively trapping you against the couch. Your attempts at pushing him away were futile as he held your wrists above your head with one large hand, and tilted the glass of water to your lips.
You tried facing away, but he gripped your jaw, forcing your mouth open.
“Ah, ah, you're drinking it all.” He demanded.
You blinked quickly, trying to understand why he was doing that but mostly, trying to understand why the fuck was that turning you on.
He poured it a little too aggressively, causing you to choke. You coughed, spat a little and tried pushing him away again.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” You yelled, hitting him square in the chest.
He held you by the jaw again, tilting the glass once more. You tried chugging down faster this time, and choked another time, coughing.
He set the glass down on the coffee table again, but didn't leave your lap.
“You're insane. Completely mental.” You said, voice a little bit hoarse, trying to sound irritated to hide the fact this little stunt made you realize something about yourself today that you would rather have not.
There was some serious staring going on. Your cheeks were flushed red and you were trying so bad not to seem that affected. Still, he saw right through you.
His lips crashed against yours in a searing kiss, both of his hands cradling your jaw as he allowed himself to get lost in the heat of the moment for once.
The kiss was hot, messy, and apparently, wet from how he'd nearly waterboarded you into soberness, but it fit so much with the idea you had created of him in your mind.
His hand yanked a good chunk of hair in the back of your head, and pulled you right onto his lap, making you wince. His strength made it look effortless.
“You're gonna prove to your daddy how wrong he is about you by being a good slut to a military man, sweetheart?” He asked, placing a lock of hair behind your ear, eyeing your kiss swollen lips. “That's your brightest plan?” He scoffed, already leaning into his mean side, enjoying mocking you. Oh, he would make you suffer for it.
“Shut up.” You muttered under your breath, capturing his lips in another breathtaking kiss. Except it was slower this time, a small contrast to the things he had whispered, like he was mapping every inch of your lips with his.
His hand stayed locked in your hair, and the other one squeezed your ass so tight you groaned into his mouth.
He broke for air just enough to whisper against your lips again. “Can you handle it, darling?”
It sounded like he was mocking you again, but you shook away that thought almost immediately, replacing the embarrassment with need.
“Yes, fuck, I can handle it.” You moaned against his mouth once again as he ground you down on his bulge.
“Then be a good girl, go down on your knees f’ me and suck me off, would ya?” He grinned.
You helplessly nodded, sitting on your knees in between his legs as he worked his belt off slowly.
Once he fully freed himself, your mouth salivated at the sight. He was so girthy, veiny and fucking hard when he pumped himself a few times before guiding you down by the hair.
“Prove it to daddy.” He grinned mischievously.
First thought, gross? At least, your body should be thinking that it was icky! Still, not even a guillotine could pull the head you were about to give this man.
Second thought, you were contemplating if he was calling himself daddy or just genuinely enjoying messing with your unresolved issues. Either way, it was working.
Your tongue was flat on the slit of his tip, lapping on the bead of precum his body had already carefully created for you. You moaned against his skin, licking the underside, from base to tip.
He groaned, unable to resist your teasing anymore. It pained him to have to control your head the way he wanted to, it really did!
He fucked into your mouth with no warning, using your throat as his personal toy until you were a drooling mess over his lap.
“Sorry, m’ dear, need to make sure ya could be a good bunny.” He hissed through gritted teeth, smirking like the bastard he was.
You tried pulling away, and he could see it in your eyes how angry you had gotten, but it only fueled him further. He held your head down, effectively making you choke on his cock. Your body rejected the foreign object impaling your throat, and you felt like you were either about to puke or pass out.
He pulled you away and you gasped for air, grasping on his thighs for support, like a silent plea for redemption. He smirked once again, caressing the hair away from your face, before pushing you back down on him.
The wet sounds of choking and gagging were downright pornographic in the living room. His hips jerked upward, each thrust forcing his cock deeper into your throat until tears pricked at the corner of your eyes.
Oh, he absolutely loved this.
He loved the way you looked right now, lips parted around him, beautiful lipstick getting smudged, your eyeliner and mascara melting on the corners or your eyes.
“That's it, take it all, sweetheart.” His voice was ragged, tightening his grip. “Oh, fuck, you're such a good little bunny. Good. Little. Fucking. Bunny.” He punctuated each word with a thrust, enjoying taunting you with this nickname now.
You pulled back, crying prettily from the constant abuse, gasping desperately for air.
“Don't think ya could be a good bunny, ya can't barely keep up.” He grinned, chuckling in a teasing tone.
What he didn't expect was the sudden wave of devotion and the need to keep proving yourself washing over you.
“No, I can, I can.” You stuttered, scrambling to kiss his messy, drool covered cock, peppering it with desperate little pecks. “I can, I promise, I'll be a good bunny. I promise, please.”
Your pathetic pleas made him chuckle, dark and mocking. He let you kiss his throbbing length, admiring your teary doe eyes. His hand cradled your jaw, tilting your chin up just so he could land a sharp slap to your face.
Irritation flared your nostrils again, but there was nothing you could say to a man that simply didn't care. And frankly, you were right where you wanted to be.
“Prove it.” He demanded.
He slapped his cock against your face, smearing your own tears and saliva across it, and you took it without complaints when he pushed it past your lips.
The same thing happened again, he used your mouth like your throat was nothing but a fleshlight. He was so close, but he couldn't bring himself over the edge so soon.
It didn't take long for you to pull back abruptly, gasping for air another time. He grinned, hand still in your scalp, and tossed you aside on the couch with no finesse. Your face met the cushions and you could finally attempt to breathe properly.
“I am really not sure you can keep up, sweetheart.” His chest heaved as he yanked your hips up, pushing your skirt up your hips, inhaling the scent of your weeping cunt through your underwear.
He grunted almost animalistically against your skin, landing a sharp slap to the plump skin of your ass.
He slid your panties aside, “God, you are so fucking wet.” He chuckled, low and gravelly. “It's even pathetic how desperate your cunt is to be fucked.”
His tip glided in between your slick covered folds, smearing your sweet arousal over your clit. This shouldn't feel as good as it did, he was your father's best friend, for God's sake, but still, the embarrassment of being called out by him burned low in your stomach.
He pushed your face deep into the couch cushions, one large hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you pinned as he pushed himself inside with no mercy.
There was no sweet talk to ease the searing pain of him stretching your pussy with his aching cock, so tight you could feel every vein from his length as it dragged tortuously in and out.
Simon’s rhythm was brutal, unrelenting fucking keeping you teethering on the edge of overstimulation already. Each snap of his hips slammed into that spongy spot inside you with enough precision to make you see stars.
That angle had him hitting it every single thrust. Your broken moans muffled into the fabric of the couch gave away how wrecked you already were. His breath came in harsh pants above you, a hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave indents in your skin, the other one bracing against your back for leverage as he plowed into your tight heat.
"Ya like being treated like this, don't ya?" He smirked, never stopping his pace, a low growl escaping his throat at the way you clenched around him. "Ah, there’s no denying, sweetheart, you'd be a great, great bunny."
His words were filthy, possessive, even, and they electrified straight through your body. The smirk was audible in his voice as he kept pounding into that perfect spot, each thrust punctuating his praise like it was a reward.
"Fuck- look at you," he rasped, leaning over your back to bite your shoulder. "Taking my cock so well... gonna make such a pretty little bunny for me."
The hand on your hip made its way to your clit, his chest now leaning against your back as his fingers drew agonizing circles across your folds. "Oh, ya gonna be a good, good girl." He whispered against your ear as he played with your clit. "Wanna feel ya squeezing real tight as ya come, sweetheart. You can do that, can’t ya?" He added.
You moaned loudly in return, managing a stupidly minimal nod, this new combined stimulation doing nothing but keep you on the edge.
“Please.” You groaned. “Don’t stop, please, Simon… so close…”
A string of pleas escaped your mouth as you begged, clenching around him so tight it ripped a low groan from deep down his chest. “That’s right, honey, cum f’ me, be a good girl.” He encouraged you.
The moan that left your throat was downright obscene, a wave of arousal crashing right over you, an orgasm hitting your lower body like a freight train. Your pussy formed a small white ring around his cock, a warm, messy rush resulted by how turned on your body was. And holy fuck, did it make his hips stutter, yet not quite enough to lose focus.
He rode out your orgasm with relentless thrusts, dragging every last spasm from your oversensitive body while chasing his own.
"Yer daddy was right 'bout ya." He grunted, keeping a steady pace. "Ya'd be such a famous little bunny in the barracks, sweetheart, can see why it’d hurt his pride." He groaned. "With the way you clench around me like this, I might want fo fuck ya every day from now on."
He tilted his head back, both hands on each side of your hips, pulling your body against his.
Simon’s voice was wrecked, raw with a mix of pleasure and a possessive pride at fucking you.
His hips rolled in steady, deep thrusts, each one pushing him further into your oversensitive cunt, the stretch bordering on too much but also so damn good at the same time. "Fuck," he hissed through clenched teeth, "could keep ya in a collar too, let every bloke see what a good pet you fucking are."
His words were filthy. Degrading. Yet he said them like he was worshipping your body in his own twisted way.
Simon’s thrusts grew rougher, less controlled, more primal. This sick barracks fantasy playing in his head was clearly affecting him in a foreign way to him.
He leaned over your back, one hand splaying across your stomach to pin you against him while the other gripped the couch cushion. His breath came in ragged, hot bursts against your ear as he fucked into you with that same punishing rhythm.
One arm hooked under your chest, yanking you flush so he could haul you upright against his chest.
"Love how ya take it," he panted against your ear, voice gravelly with exertion and lust. "Hope I ruin any other man for ya after this..." His teeth grazed your neck, nipping and sucking on it. His arms locked around you like a vise, one forearm across your neck, the other low on your stomach, as he kept pounding into you from behind.
His hips stuttered as he got close, and he had a flicker of hesitation. Guilt should’ve stopped him, he shouldn’t be doing this to his friend’s daughter. Hell, fuck him, he shouldn’t be doing this out of respect to you. Yet, he was fucking you raw on the couch like some reckless young recruit breaking every rule in the book.
The guilt should have stopped him, but it didn’t. Instead he buried his inner turmoil deep inside your cervix.
He thrusted harder, as if trying to brand you both with this sin before reality caught up to his senses again. He came in hot and thick spurts of cum, filling you up to the brim, panting heavily as his body collapsed on top of yours.
His massive frame pressed down as he tried to catch his breath, forehead resting between your shoulder blades. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of two people gasping like they’d run a marathon.
His release had been a very intense one, every pulse inside you feeling almost too much after how hard and deep he’d taken you.
Post-coital haze was thick in the air between you two. He didn’t pull out immediately. Didn’t say anything either. He just breathed like his brain was finally rebooting from pure animal instinct back to human who knows he just fucked up spectacularly.
"Guess ya really couldn't control yourself around military men, young lady." He said, forcing himself to pull out and to fill that awkward silence. He smirked as he tossed himself on the couch.
"Doesn't.. prove anything." You said, scrambling to sit down, completely fucked out and disoriented.
"Hm. It does, though." He grinned again like the bastard he is. As if he was trying to turn this whole situation against you as if he wasn’t one to blame either.
Simon leaned back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling. "...I've made some questionable decisions in my life."
“He’s gonna fucking kill ya, that’s for sure.” You said it.
Both of you chuckled at the absurdity of what just happened, and somehow, that sounded like the beginning of a much bigger problem than either of you had planned for.
um hi random tuesday btw but been thinking bout bullseye lately like
come one you've seen how that man is around women he's definitely a guy that would eat you out for his own pleasure
“...Dex.” You moaned for what, sixth time? It wasn't exactly a moan anymore, it was more like a “please let go of me for one second before I pass out” plea. And, frankly, considering Dex's state right now, he wouldn't be going anywhere, any soon.
You didn't know exactly how you ended up sprawled out on his couch, in your defense, it had started to become a bit blurry after the third glass of wine.
Yet, there you were. Having him sucking your soul out with each flick of his tongue, savouring that moment like you're his last meal.
He's just your neighbor, you have to remind yourself of that! And honestly it's kind of embarrassing now that you think about it-
“Dex!” You gasped as he added two fingers without any prep or warning, and didn't stop licking and sucking on your clit.
He was eating you out and moaning against your heat like he was the one taking pleasure from that, and, yeah, the way he palmed the thick bulge over his jeans didn't quite help either.
You tried to push his head away multiple times and end this sweet torture he was bringing upon you, until you simply couldn't take it anymore. “Dexter, stop!” You yelled.
Well, he'd never told you his full name, you could only assume that was short for it. He stopped, opening his eyes to look at you like you offended him, and hovered just above your pussy.
“Good thing that's not my name.” He smirked mischievously like the bastard he is, and latched his tongue onto your puffy, overstimulated clit.
You looked confused, trying to argue about it while you clearly had bigger problems, getting closer and closer with the relentless tease.
“Wha-” you looked down, watching him worship your pussy like a starved man.
“Got half of it right, though. Good girl.” He patted your thigh with his free hand as he muttered, muffled by your skin.
Needless to say, he made you come so hard that, indeed, you almost passed out.
hey so turns out i didnt forget the password for this account
annual simon riley hyperfixation is hitting me hard so BEAR WITH ME
Summary: literally having sex with a hot guy you met on a cruise
Word Count: around 1,9k
Warnings: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!reader, unprotected sex, no use of y/n, real light bondage (if you squint
NSFW under the cut // NOT PROOFREAD
You sat alone with a glass half full of liquor, contemplating if entering this cruise alone was really all you could do. It was, though, would you really toss the ticket in the bin after working God knows how long to afford your vacation? It really wasn’t your fault that the guy you were with decided to cheat on you just a day before the trip.
It was unfortunate, but if he wasn’t going to board with you, the least you could do was try to make it fun.
So there you were, eyeing a poor man like a hawk.
Poor man. You scoffed to yourself for thinking that. He most definitely wasn’t poor. Yet, something kept nagging at you that nothing about him suggested he truly belonged to the world of wealth.
He looked like he tried to blend in; to you, at least. The others couldn’t care less about his presence. He was too composed, deliberate in a way you couldn’t quite put a finger on. He seemed dangerous, like a wolf amongst the sheep. A man like him, alone in the wild, felt almost intentional. He looked like the type of man that would, to put it shortly, ruin your life. Or give you such a soul sucking orgasm that you’d be head over heels and he’d disappear out of thin air. In any way, it all falls into the same category as ruining your life.
You must’ve been staring for too long, because said man was now walking towards your stool.
He placed his glass in front of him, taking a seat next to you. His scent reminded you of oak and ember, which was usually nauseating, but today, it filled your senses so fast and in just the right way that you weren’t even mad.
“Subtle, aren’t we?” He grinned, sipping his watered down whiskey. You wanted to say you didn't mean to stare, but it was a lie, you did mean to, it was actually impossible not to stare.
“What can I say? You’re too… noticeable.” You exhaled softly through your nose.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He huffed in amusement. “Simon.” He finally introduced himself, kissing the back of your hand when you extended it to shake his.
A bottle of champagne sat untouched at the end of the bed, along with the two clean glasses, as he towered over your body, desperately kissing your lips, neck and collarbone. “Respectfully, fuck the champagne.” He groaned against the hot skin of where your neck meets your earlobe, a small response to your previous protest when he entered your room. It’s not like you expected for both of you to sit down and share a glass of champagne like two composed adults right after you invited him to your room under the promise of libidinous acts. And it’s not like he could really contain himself after seeing you in a silk robe with nothing but black lingerie underneath it.
His calloused hand roamed your body, unlacing the loose knot that kept him from touching your bare stomach. He was massive, completely blocking your view from the ceiling — not like you can complain, though.
The black sash was smoothly drawn away from your robe, he let it coil around his hand, knuckles tightening as the fabric was pulled taut. He slid the robe off your shoulders, taking in the sight of your perfect breasts held together by the lace in your bra. He wanted nothing more than to tear it to shreds like a madman and take them in his mouth, but he held back the need to give in to such animalistic natures.
You pulled on his button up, bringing his broad frame towards you. Button by button, your fingers worked to set him free. The effort finally paid off, and you were met with the most perfect chest you’d ever seen. Not only his chest, but his whole torso, carved out like a greek god. It made you damp at the thought of touching it while riding him, imagine how it'll be when you finally get to it.
He noticed your lack of words — and breathing, and flexed just slightly as he adjusted his angle to take the shirt off. In a moment, he was back at you, pulling you closer by the back of your head.
His lips crashed into yours, rolling on the bed, pulling you on top of him. You straddled his hips, feeling the bulge already formed beneath you. Your bra was no longer on your body from what you registered, and he was leaning in, sucking one of your nipples and lightly pinching the other. You rocked your hips against his clothed cock, already desperate to feel him inside you, and that made him groan, pulling you further against him.
You pushed him back on the bed, crawling until you were on all fours in between his legs, sticking your ass in the air while you undid his pants. He was too impatient to let you work, and he took over, nearly ripping his pants and boxers off as he slid them down his thighs.
God, he was huge.
Too light-headed to assimilate his size, you grabbed it with one hand, letting the tip flop right into your mouth. A long lick along the shaft made his head fall back, letting out a grunt. You kissed it, licked it, bracing yourself for the jaw pain. Difficult wasn’t exactly the right word to use, but to say it was easy to take his cock inside your mouth was like saying you weren’t completely wet at the thought of him, which, judging by the damp spot in your panties, was definitely an untruthful statement.
His hand instinctively touched the back of your head, applying a small amount of pressure just to ease you down on him. You bobbed your head up and down, using your hand to jerk the rest of his shaft. Before you knew it, his tip was hitting your throat, making drool slowly pool down his crotch. “Fuck, you look so pretty like this.” He groaned, and it made you moan.
He swore he could cum if you kept looking at him like that, with teary eyes and your mouth stuffed with half his cock, completely enjoying yourself.
“Alright, enough-” He pulled back with a grunt, pulling your chin towards him and kissing your lips. You tried protesting, but the way he just manhandled you like you weighed nothing caught you off guard.
Simon tossed you on the bed, pulling your hips in the air and taking advantage of the motion to take the last piece of clothing you had on. His large fingers filled your wet hole with sloppy sounds, giving you no time to prepare or even adjust before setting a quick pace. He kneeled beside you in the bed and pulled your hair back with his spare hand, exposing your neck. “Such a needy little cunt, look at you.” He nearly growled. “All wet f’ me, darling, and I didn’t need to do a thing.” His scoff was almost mocking you as he felt your pussy clenching around his fingers, desperate for more of him.
Your moans filled the room, beautifully ringing in his ears. They were cut out by the abrupt way he removed his fingers from you, and let your face fall back onto the mattress. You used one hand for support to try to catch your breath, but he pulled it back, along with the other hand, and used the sash from your robe he’d wrapped in his hand before to tie your wrists behind your back. Your pussy ached in anticipation, making you unconsciously arch your back further.
He didn’t even need to use spit or lube to prep you, you were wet like you’ve never been with anyone else. His tip pressed against the entrance, slowly pushing inside you. It stung, but the pain was bearable. “So tight, darling, fuck.” He muttered, finally bottoming out.
“Fuck, Simon.” You pleaded, slowly rocking your hips against him. He held your wrists, pulling out until the only thing inside you was his tip, and then he pushed back in. You cried out for him against the sheets, just for him to pull back and do the same thing. You could tell the fucker enjoyed the frustration he was causing you.
You got what you wanted as soon as his hands held you by the hips, slamming his cock in and out relentlessly, feeling your insides clenching so tight around him while you tried to claw away from your restraints. It wasn’t hurting or anything, but the amount of pressure he was applying on top of you felt like you were going to break in half like a twig.
He audibly chuckled at your attempts, letting go of your hip to hold your wrists, with his free hand, he yanked a fistful of your hair back. “What’s wrong, can’t take it?” The mocking tone was present in his voice, taunting you as his hips slammed into yours. You tried saying anything, protesting, but your body was already in its limits. The air flow wasn’t exactly happening properly and, with a fuzzy brain, the only thing your body chased was your own orgasm.
He let go of your hair and pulled out, turning you to face him and pulling you in his lap. There was a small desk in the room, and that’s where he took you. He spread your legs apart on the desk, kneeling to give you some good licks, and resurged with his leaking tip ready to get inside of you again.
No warnings, just straight up bliss when he rocked his hips against yours, using his thumb to draw circles over your clit. It was enough to send you over the edge, your head fell backwards, your body desperately seeking the gut wrenching orgasm you’ve anticipated since you landed eyes on this man. “Simon, fuck, I’m gonna-”
“Yes, darling, cum f’ me.” He said lowly, feeling his own high approaching him. With you spasming around him, he couldn’t help himself. “Tell me you’re on the pill.” He groaned, sounding completely strained. You nodded feverishly, wanting nothing more than to hug his broad shoulders and dig your nails in his skin while you felt him filling you up. You finally collapsed, legs trembling and eyes closed shut, giving in to your orgasm. He followed shortly after, the way you squeezed him milked him entirely dry, coating your insides in white.
You both panted heavily, trying to catch your breaths. He undid the knot behind your back, rubbing your wrists to ease the pain.
After many ragged breaths, wet wipes and small kisses, he took you to the bed, tucking you in. You were nearly passed out, assessing the fact you just fucked a stranger on a cruise that was destined to suck. Well, you were the one doing the sucking, though.
He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead and you watched him put his clothes back on, already missing the feeling of him inside you.
simon riley grabbing an item of the top shelf at the supermarket because you can't reach it
simon riley not leaving your mind through the aisles while you shop because obviously you just met hulk
simon riley bumping into you when you're getting a dozen of eggs and he's taking all the damn stock for himself because forgive him and his bulking diet
simon riley literally laughing when you two meet again by the chicken freezers, saying you're following him at this point
simon riley getting roughly 4kg of chicken breasts because a man needs to reach his protein goals
simon riley who says it's destiny that you two are literally parked across from each other and decides to ask you for your number
and finally simon riley who can't wait to get home and text you to ask if you got home safely but in reality he just wants to talk to the pretty lady he met at the supermarket that day
uhm yeah ok so still on the bf’s dad!simon brain rot
consider this a pt2 maybe? idk im going completely insane haha this is probably bad too
so you wake up before your boyfriend, leaving him there in his unconscious state, knowing he'll be passed out for the whole day.
you go downstairs to make some breakfast as you were used to, and thank god mentally that you didn't see a fridge walking around in the kitchen.
of course it would be nice to see him but especially after last night you still feel something… weird. not that it was bad, but you start to wonder if you actually did the right thing.
and as the smell of burnt starts to come from the pan in your hands you remember about the lipstick stains in someone's neck, bringing you back to reality.
you scramble your eggs, buffing for letting it get a black spot, but you eat it anyway, and after doing so, you go do your dishes.
“morning.” his voice makes you shiver, and you hold onto the balcony so you wouldn't fall on your feet.
“good morning.” you answer quietly.
he opens the fridge looking for some water, and just now you realize he had nothing but sweatpants on. his hair was still damp from the shower, shoulders still a bit wet. he was doing it on purpose now.
“thought you'd wake up earlier to join me on a run.” he closes the door of the fridge and leans on the kitchen island behind you.
“not my thing.” you chuckle. “especially after having wine.”
“headache?” he asks.
“no, actually i’m fine.” you smile. “have you had breakfast yet?” you ask as you finish cleaning your dishes and dry your hands with the towel.
“i’m about to.” he smirks, not wasting time to step closer to you and lift you on the counter. a small ‘what’ escaped your lips. “you know, i had to wait for my breakfast to wake up by herself.”
you laugh as he takes your shorts off just like he did last night, planting kisses from your knees to your inner thighs.
“you're crazy, what if he hears us?” you lay on your elbows, chuckling from the feeling of his growing beard brushing your skin. he raises an eyebrow and gives you a doubtful stare. “okay, okay.” you laugh, letting your head fall back.
his tongue invades your clit with lust, licking and sucking you with so much hunger. it feels so good, definitely better than your fingers.
he grabs your thighs from behind, squeezing your skin to keep himself from moaning in your pussy. two of his fingers start to tease your entrance and play with your clit to collect your wetness before sliding deep into your pussy.
you put both hands over your mouth to keep it shut, but what you really wanted was to scream his name.
he slides his fingers in and out as he licks your clit, making a knot start to form in your stomach.
“close…” you moan, making him pick up the pace until the knot inside you finally snapped. your legs were still shaking when he pulled away and you couldn't believe you were eaten out by him on the kitchen counter.
he taps your thigh and gives you a small, gentle kiss.
you get up and put your shorts back on, admiring as simon started to make his own breakfast too.
Rules: pick a song for each letter of your URL and tag that many people
Thank uuuuuuu for the tag my beloved: @chompchompluke 🩷🩷🥺
C: Caffeine By Foreign Air
O: Opaul by Freddie Dredd
N: Never Want to Be in Love by Savahanna Colney
N: Run on by Jamie Bower ft King Sugar
O: One Time by Marian Hill
R: Radio By Lana Del Rey
S: Sanctuary By (((O)))
U: Unfair by The Neighborhood
I: I'm Tired by Zendeya ( Euphoria Soundtrack)
No pressure tags for my lovies: @amica-aenigmata-naboo @midnightcrw @aethelwyneleigh27 @jamespotterismydaddy @lipstickghoulie @arcielee @aemonddtargaryen @aemondtarqaryens @aemonds-holy-milk
finding so many 's' songs in my playlists was actually hell ngl [ty for tag 💜]
[s] skyfall (adele)
[s] sunflower (post malone + swae lee)
[t] this is what sadness feels like (jvke)
[o] out of my league (fitz and the tantrums)
[r] raison d'etre (eve)
[m] mob (eve)
[y] you should see my in a crown (billie eillish)
[s] starboy (the weeknd)
[k] k.k. cruisin' (animal crossing)
[y] you're on (madeon)
[e] electric feel (shagabond edit)
[s] still feel. (half alive)
[s] skate (silk sonic)
no pressure tags: @greatstormcat, @naivegh0ul, @loveindefinitely, @gogh-with-the-flow, @gazmialmagemela, @stargirlrchive
thank you for the tag @loadedberetta my love, this was so fun!! im exposing my very odd music taste
C - chillwave by jaymzwright
A - are by XENO! and plebhed
P - ptolemaea by ethel cain (her only song i like,,,,)
T - tahiti II by sugs
A - almost (sweet music) by hozier
I - i miss my sandman by emily jeffri
N - norfleet by sugs
J - jupiter by sleeping at last
A - arrow by half alive
M - my love all mine by mitski
S - smoko by the chats
T - takeshi kovacs concerto in f minor by do not resurrect
E - egirls are ruining my life by corpse and savage ga$p
R - rahhhh by alt!
no pressure tags; @konigsblog, @ghostsbimbo, @shadofireshinobi @honestlyhiswife @whinesandwhimpers I AM SO SORRY YOU ALL HAVE RELATIVELY LONG USERNAMES dont do this unless you want to my darlings!!! <3<3
random, no pressure tags; @httpsghostie @barefoothighlander @yawnderu @diejager @prodigy-from-pluto @cigsmokerghostie @gremlingottoosilly @lucyisdoingfine @hyperfixatesnwrites and anyone who wants to join 🌷💗
do we even talk about bf's dad!simon enough? i don't think so
just imagine
he's a single dad with a son who happens to be your annoying boyfriend, an arrogant man who treats you poorly and never makes you cum.
he's his father's disappointment, simon hates that his kid turned out like that, but it's his son after all.
it's saturday night, your boyfriend invited you over to his house only to leave you there with his dad while he went out to get drunk with his friends.
it's windy outside, making branches hit the window of his room — where you were trying to sleep, so you go downstairs to make yourself some tea and as you could imagine, simon is in the living room having beer and watching a movie.
he offers to make you a tea, you two start to talk and eventually you're on wine — and you know what wine does to you, but you shrug it off.
you're sitting by the table, playing with your glass of wine as you talk about hating to be left alone like that, and simon is listening to every bit of it, apologizing for not raising a better man.
you joke about wanting your boyfriend to be a bit more like him, and somehow that joke goes straight to his cock.
you're slightly drunk, and really, really horny.
you let him take the first step, and it ends with him taking off your shorts and panties, kissing your inner thighs as you spread your legs on the chair, arching your back as soon as he gives you the first lick in your bare core
“sorry, i'm not used to it.” you chuckle. “he says it's disgusting.”
the look on his face says it all, he's going to make it up to you.
he kisses and licks every right spot, using his thick fingers to tease your entrance and make you a moaning mess.
and, of course, he makes you cum so easily that you're disappointed for making it end so fast.
stumbling over your feet, you end up bending over the back of the couch, feeling his tip sliding into your pussy. you clench your fists trying to get used to his size. he slides out and back in again, holding your hips for support.
“fucking tight, ‘ya.” he says between gritted teeth, moving his hips forward and settling a pace.
needless to say you become a drooling mess as he fucks you better than anyone, holding your neck against his chest, kissing and biting your ear.
he picks up the pace, his tip hitting your cervix with every thrust, until he finally cums right into you, groaning in your ear.
it's weird how good it feels to be with him, how he holds you tight in his arms, how you just had the best fuck in your life, even though it was quick.
he cleans you up, helping you with getting your pajamas back on. it's a little awkward when you go back to bed, thoughts flooding your head before you finally fall asleep.
and there you stay until morning, waking up beside a very hangover boyfriend with pink lipstick stains on his neck.
i could not get this off my mind, btw hi im alive!!,, <;3 tw noncon?
stalker!könig being everywhere you could possibly think of going, always one step ahead of you. he just can’t help himself, you’re too naive to even think there’s something wrong with it, thinking of it as a coincidence. it wasn’t until you bumped into him in a convenience store close to your house near 1am while dealing with an unpleasant breakup, having to hear from your now ex that you were gross for sleeping with another dude while dating him. which was… odd. you weren’t sleeping with anyone else but him, where did he take that from?
stalker!könig who obviously noticed your puffy red eyes, plump lips and slightly irritated nose while you walked to the back of the store to grab ice cream, because that’s what women do when they get dumped.
stalker!könig who had to hold his breath and look up so he wouldn’t get a boner just from looking at your ass as you bent to get your keys you had dropped on the floor, finally mustered up the courage to offer help in a moment where you were so fragilized and sad that you couldn’t even consider his bad intentions as he followed you home :(
stalker!könig who finally had the opportunity to shove his thick cock inside you and pound you from behind in your pretty little couch, sinking your face in the cushion so you wouldn’t wake the entire neighborhood, making you beg for him to slow down as he rutted his hips into yours and filmed it all to send it to your ex, just like the times he had broken in to take some pictures in your sleep :(
✧.* a/n well, the break I took from tumblr was longer than I anticipated, but I really needed it, so for now, I present you dirty and filthy halloween smut<3
✧.* summary: october 31st shifts are insane, and you're left alone to close the store while two creepy men wait for you outside.
• DDDNE, you've been warned | MDNI | this content it strictly 18+ •
You particularly hated the ending shifts, especially after holidays, being left with all the cleaning and organizing because your boss was a shithead. Having to fold all the clothes that the clients left behind after only taking a glance at it. God, you hated them. But the closing shifts had a weird thing about them, it brought out the smallest bit of joy to finally see the store without anyone in it. No soul, no kids running impatiently by the racks, no entitled ladies screaming at you. It was peaceful, but you could almost say it was creepy too, turning off the lights as you got out through the back door, having to walk alone in the dark night to your car.
But you would be alright, you always were, why would anything change just now?
There was a strange feeling running through your veins, weirder than the telltales your coworkers used to talk about this place being haunted. It never really bothered you until you were left alone to close the store after an insane shift on October 31st. You had to be overthinking, Jesus, it was so odd.
Your fingers trembled as you picked the keys to lock the door, letting it fall down two times before succeeding. In the meantime, a really, really tall being – you weren’t sure if it was even human – towered over your small frame. He wore a Jason Voorhees mask, great, classic. These fucking shitheads these days. The air got knocked out of your lungs, making you gasp and let your bag fall on the ground. Was he there the whole time watching you struggle? God, that was pathetic.
“S-sorry, we’re closed.” You said, taking your stuff and rushing back to your car, glancing back to see if he wasn’t following you.
There was no time to think, nor to act, and your brain was overheating. Car keys, where the fuck were they? And also, where the fuck was he going? It was obvious the store was closed. He should be out there trick or treating, or feasting on people's blood or whatever. You were frantic, almost on the verge of tears. No. No, this won’t be the day you turn into statistics. You're not getting killed on Halloween night by a freak with a slasher mask. It can’t happen this way.
The beep of your car was like a symphony to your buzzing ears, and you locked it as soon as you got in, trembling limbs struggling to put the keys in the ignition. Thinking of it now, you should’ve bought that car with the start/stop button, but it seemed so silly then. The thought process of your brain is derailed, making you struggle to hit the clutch and put on first gear. You can do it, fuck you, you have a fucking license. You slowly released the clutch, hitting the gas pedal lightly to get out of there as soon as possible, but there was no movement from your car. Nor the sound of the engine running. Are you really that dumb? No light on the dashboard, for Christ’s sake not even your radio turned on. You didn’t turn the car on.
You looked down to the keys, getting so close to crying when you felt something cold touching your neck. Your body freezed before your brain could even register the events, you looked through the rearview mirror and someone was there, cold eyes watching you from behind a really neat Ghostface mask— like the one from the last movies or so, but it seemed expensive.
“Don’t move if you don’t want your beautiful brain mass decorating the interior of your car.” His deep, husky voice with a british accent spoke, and your spine immediately went cold.
“I-I don ‘t have any money on me.” Your voice was shakier than ever.
“Oh, darling, it’s not money that I want, no.” His tone was calm, far too calm for someone in his position. You wonder if he’s ever done this before.
Realization hit you like a truck. The tears in your sleep deprived, exhausted eyes fell down with ease, wetting your red cheeks in embarrassment. No, this couldn’t be happening to you. You looked further into the parking lot, watching the guy from earlier walking towards the car. You couldn’t even process your movements when you quickly lowered your head and got out of the car, hoping he’d be too much of a coward to pull the trigger, and ran towards the man who you previously misjudged for a creep. He was there to save you, your hero. And it never even crossed your mind that you could be putting this poor man in danger by doing this, until your face hit his chest, sobbing uncontrollably as you screamed for help. He hugged you close, almost suffocating you with his force, and he shushed you, easing you down. But this felt off, why wasn’t he startled? Why wasn’t he on full alert mode? Oh, no. Nononono, you were so fucked.
The guttural laugh he let out that followed your second realization made the electric waves go straight to his cock, groping your tits and waist as he forced you against him. You tried pushing him away, but he was too big – and definitely too strong to be affected by your pointless attempts.
That other man, slightly shorter than the beast cupping your breasts from behind, approached you with tape and rope in his hands. “No, no, no. I'll give you anything you want. Please, no. Not this, nonono-” your pleas were muffled by the tape covering your mouth as the guy behind you held you in place. You kicked your feet in the air, but they were too strong, and you were simply too small compared to them. You were the sweet little lamb to their torturous slaughter.
Rope burned your wrists as you tried wriggling away from confinement, but it was all useless. This was no movie, you didn’t carry a magical pocket knife that could really come in handy right now, and you were at mercy of two insanely big masked men who decided to land their hands on you – without even asking you out first.
Rude.
They dragged you to your car, throwing you in the backseat. The shorter one looked for your phone in your purse as the taller one got in the driver’s seat, doing everything you apparently forgot how to do. “Ghost, turn off her phone, ja?” He said, taking a glance at you with eyes shut and tears falling down from your eyes.
The drive was somehow silent, filled with your sobs and pants as they went down the dark roadway, this ‘Ghost’, whom you assumed would be short for ‘Ghostface’, sometimes turning back to check on you. You got exhausted, from crying, from fighting, from the shift. Why did you have to get kidnapped after a long day of work, especially during Halloween, why not in the morning? Maybe it was really fucked up that the thing you got angry the most was this being a lost day of work. Come on, if you knew you would die on a certain day, would you even show up?
You didn’t know when but you fell asleep somewhere in the forced trip to an unknown destination, waking up when your nose forgot to breathe for a solid minute. You looked to the sides, so many trees, such a dense forest you were getting into, the dirt road making nothing but get the car dirty – your car, which you have worked your ass off to be able to pay for.
You’re dozing off when the car stops, and the comforting sound of the engine dies.
They get out, getting back on their feet to drag you around. “Stop- fuckin’ struggling.” Ghost said between gritted teeth as he threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. To him, though, you probably didn’t. Your eyes could register a small part of where you were at, a not so big cabin surrounded by nature, and no civilization for at least thirty kilometers. That was it, they were going to carve your organs out and dissect your body to sell in the dark web. Probably. That was the only thing they could do, right?
You were thrown on a thin mattress like a worthless bag of potatoes, tape being ripped off of your face to make you wince in pain. Screaming was worthless, you had already learned that, so your mouth stayed shut.
“Hase, don’t give us that look.” The taller one said. He also had an accent, a german one, that was almost too sweet compared to the behemoth of a man he was.
“What do you want from me?” Your voice cracked from being quiet all this time, your throat was completely dry.
You heard a laugh coming from Ghost before he crouched down to get in your eye level. You could see him tearing your clothes off, hungrily inhaling your scent as he pretty much eye fucked you.
The hand squeezing your throat brought you back to reality again as he pressed you against the wall. "I can't believe we finally have hands on her. König, it's fuckin’ unreal." He said excitedly.
What weird names they had was your first thought. The second one was who the fuck were they and why were they obsessed with you.
What seemed to be König walked over to you, caressing from your ankles to your thighs and laughing at your attempts to squirm away. "You're gonna be such a tasteful, little pet, maus."
"Please, no." You looked away in embarrassment, pressing your thighs together and close to your body. Your hands were hurting behind your back, tied way too tight around your wrists.
"Ah, yes, darling. You're gonna be such a good girl for us, won't 'ya?" Ghost asked, grabbing your face towards him. "Good little girl, are gonna take it all like a good slut."
"No- please" you cried. "I'm- please, no- I'm still a virgin." You sobbed, looking away from him.
Were you really that dumb and naive to think they would back down, pity you? No, no. You were wrong, so, so wrong. Your sentence only brought them life, covering their eyes with a spark. Not only were you their perfect little prey, but they would have the privilege of being your first? This was too good to be true.
"Kleine maus… where were you this whole time?" König walked towards you, gently grabbing a fistful of your hair and making you look up at him. The tent in his pants was displayed in front of your face, and you weren't able to ignore the elephant in the room. He caressed your mascara stained cheeks with his free hand, and in a moment of complete uncertainty, you gave in to his touch, raising your chin to get the last bit of his affection, only to have his large palm meeting your cheek in a painful slap.
Ghost kneeled down beside you, running his hand along your chest and squeezing your tits. You tried to move your arms and get away from the rope, and he noticed your failed attempts. "It's hurting…" you gave him doe, teary eyes.
He glanced at König, who gave a small nod. "Want me to take those off, eh?" He asked, and you nodded in response. He undid the knot, freeing you and letting you rub your wrists. Before you could even think of doing anything, the same gun from before appeared in your sight again. He held it to your forehead, squeezing your neck with his free hand. "Don't try anything stupid."
You nodded, tears slowly falling down from your eyes again. As he pointed the gun towards you, the taller one didn't even struggle as he ripped your shirt off, the shitty fabric of your uniform not really helping with anything. He took off your pants and panties, throwing them somewhere in the cabin along with your bra.
He made you kneel in front of him, ordering you to undo his pants. You hesitated, but the gun jiggling in front of you was enough motivation. Your small fingers worked the zipper down, bringing his pants and boxers low enough to expose his cock, which was too heavy to stand on its own. His arms were crossed in front of him, waiting patiently for your initiative. Your hand grabbed his dick, putting the tip in your mouth, trying not to break eye contact as your teeth slowly grazed his head. "You'll be dead before you even try." His tone gave you a reality check, bringing the consciousness back to your body.
You worked your head back and forth, trying to take his size in your mouth like those greedy girls in porn, from where you had your knowledge. You gave head before, just not for someone as big as this guy.
Hands roamed your body again, flickering your hard nipples and squeezing your tits. His right hand, the one who held the gun, brushed the cold tip from your neck to your lower stomach before sliding the cold barrel in your slick. You moaned, not expecting such a thing. He worked the length between your folds, laughing as he felt your wetness dripping down his fingers.
It was a natural, physiological reaction of the female body, it’s not like you could control it, but the look of shame in your face when you realized your body had betrayed you was worthless in their eyes. “Hmm, don’t give us that look. You want it so bad, don’t you?” Ghost whispered to you. “Ride it.”
“What?” You pulled away from the cock in front of you, staring at him with widened eyes.
“I didn’t tell you to stop.” König growled, shoving his dick inside your mouth again as he had a fistful of your hair in his grasp. He abused your throat, making you gag and drool all over your tits.
“And I told you to ride it. Come on, baby, wanna see you getting off on it. Such a needy ‘lil thing, show us how much of a slut you are.” Ghost’s voice in your ear made you clench around nothing, making you slowly move your hips as your brain turned into putty and was melting out your ears.
Your eyebrows were furrowed, but you still managed to keep eye contact with König. “Aw, hase… don’t look at me like that.” He said, filling your mouth with his fat cock. “Why ‘you looking at me angry? Hm? You should be thankful.” He groaned, letting his head fall back at how good you hollow your cheeks for him. He raised his shirt, letting you look at his perfect toned body, that fucking attractive happy trail he snudged your nose at. “Answer me, schatzen, why are you angry? Be thankful that I’m even fucking your mouth. Say thank you.”
The humiliation of riding the gun and having your throat abused washed away your self respect, mumbling ‘thank you’ while your mouth was filled with his dick. “What is it? I didn’t understand you.” He laughed, looking deep into your eyes as you tried to say it again, only for it to be muffled by his size invading your throat.
The coil inside your stomach grew painfully with each time you moved, and Ghost helped it by playing with your tits and moving the gun. You were so wet it was pathetic. Your hips moved back and forth, chasing your high as he pulled the object away from your pussy, slapping your oversensitive clit to watch you cry.
You gagged, cried at the humiliation when König pulled out from your mouth, your puffy, swollen lips still connected to him by strings of saliva. Your mind was white from the denial, making you see stars while your world spun. “Whose slut are you?" He slapped his cock in your face, smearing tears and drool in your cheeks. You coughed, mewling a 'you'. "Whose fucking slut are 'ya?" König yelled.
"Yours." You said, fighting the tears again.
Another time, his hand slapped your face. "Whose?" He yelled.
"Yours!" You screamed, crying out.
"Good girl." König pumped his cock a few times in your face before stepping back, letting Ghost finally stand in front of you with his dick free, spouting precum from the tip. The barrel of the gun invaded your fucked out mouth, you tried resisting, shaking your head away from him, but as soon as his hand grabbed your cheeks, forcing your mouth open, you finally complied. “How does it taste, hm?” He laughed, pulling it away and pressing it against your forehead as he stepped towards you. You sucked in the knot in your throat and started to bob your head up and down his shaft, jerking off the length that didn't fit your mouth. "God, that 'lil mouth of yours." He moaned, eyes rolling to the back of his head. "Such a better use for it when it's wrapped around my cock."
The same weapon he made you get off to was being held at your face to make you suck him off. Maybe you were a little fucked up to get so aroused by the thrill of getting hurt, maybe you did need help, like a coworker of yours said once. Your free hand pulled his pants down lower, grabbing his muscular thigh for support. He seemed to have enjoyed that as he moaned when your nails dug into his skin.
"Come here." He snatched your hand, walking backwards and pulling you forward, making you get on your hands and knees. He kneeled in front of you as König positioned himself behind you, easing his long fingers into your sopping cunt. When you opened your lips to moan, your mouth was filled with Ghost’s cock again. He pushed his shirt over his head, exposing himself fully to you, and that alone made your toes curl.
They were built like gods, every single aspect. Fat, veiny cocks that would usually make you drool watching porn, strong arms, wide shoulders, that slutty fucking waist. Fuck off, you were attracted to them. What could you even do? You’re already there, being finger fucked and having your mouth stuffed by two complete c̶r̶e̶e̶p̶s̶ strangers, you might as well enjoy it.
It doesn’t take long for you to feel a bulbous tip pressing against your entrance, pushing past it. “Relax.” König ordered, feeling your gushy walls squeezing hard. You weren’t used to that feeling, let alone with someone of his size. He pushed it in with a slow thrust, readjusting himself behind you so he could be closer. It was painful, yet addictive, but you needed him to move. He slowly started to mold you to accommodate his sheer size, moving just enough to turn you into a babbling mess, having your moans muffled by Ghost’s cock.
Your jaw was sore, but Ghost’s pace as he forced his dick into your throat made you fuck yourself back into König. His hips were smacking onto your ass, massive hands grabbing on the fat of your hips with full force, making you wince in pain as the thought of being marked by them crossed your mind.
When you thought your jaw couldn’t stand it anymore, Ghost pulled out, laughing at your fucked out face when you gasped for air. “Such a messy eater, ‘luv, you do enjoy putting that mouth to use, hm?” He said as he gave you small slaps. “You’d look so good with your face covered in cum, but I don’t want the fun to end just now.”
He stood up, stretching his back as he walked towards a table in the room. You tried paying attention, but the constant movement of König’s girthy shaft pushing you forward was overwhelming. Ghost got back with what it seemed to be a camera, and you immediately hid your face in the mattress. “Come on, honey, y’don’t like watching pornos, huh? Imagining it was you getting railed by those guys. Now you’re gonna star in one. Don’t ‘ya wanna get famous?”
“Please-” you sobbed, sinking further into the mattress, but it was useless. König yanked your head back, making you face the camera.
“God, fuck, look at you.” Ghost groaned, squeezing your tear, saliva and mascara stained face as his dick twitched upwards. “You’re so fucking pretty like this, so much prettier.”
“Please, pleaseplease-” You cried, shutting your eyes closed, only to have your mouth stuffed with Ghost’s large fingers. He’d lost the gun somewhere, you had only realized that now. One of König’s arms was thrown around you, hands finding your clit to rub circles on it, and the other one was entwined with yours behind your back, making you unable to move. Ghost grabbed your throat, filming your face as you got fucked brainless, König’s dick abusing your cervix repeatedly. He stepped back, filming your body entirely as a bulge grew on your stomach each time König thrusted. “Ahh- ahh. I’m going to..”
And just like an asteroid crash, an orgasm hits your body, making you shake and clench inevitably around him, leaving a white ring of arousal on the base of his cock.
Suddenly, you felt empty, sighing at the loss. Your world spun when König flipped you over, laying you on your back. He grabbed the camera and Ghost immediately lined himself with your entrance, lifting his mask just enough to expose your mouth and spit on your pussy.
Your vision was foggy from such a strong orgasm, stronger than what you could achieve alone, and your cheeks were so hot you could mistake them for the sun. Ghost’s length slid inside, and König was making it his goal to record every bit of it; your pussy swallowing his cock, the way you moaned when he started fucking you, holding your thighs to each side of your head. “Fu-uck, so. Fucking. Tight.”
König kneeled by your head, tapping the tip of his cock on your tongue and invading your mouth with all he could make it fit from this position. “Look at this greedy little throat of yours, taking my dick so well, mein liebchen.” He filmed your throat bulging with his size.
Ghost’s rapid pace was making you spiral again, his thumb massaging your sweet little bundle of nerves, increasing the knot forming in your stomach. With his free hand, he pressed your stomach, feeling himself inside you. The feeling was odd, irritating, and the fact you couldn’t voice that due to a monstrous dick making you gag was infuriating, and you struggled, hitting your hands on the mattress. But the thing that followed was nothing but a gut wrenching orgasm, your whole body spasming around his shaft and you were a whiney, crying mess. “For someone who didn’t want this you’re clearly enjoying it, aren’t ‘ya?” He asked, making you feel empty again.
König filmed your limp body before positioning the camera on the table, pointing towards the couch. He lifted you up from the mattress, almost too fucked out to function, barely even breathing and surely not able to stand on your own. He carried you to the couch, where he sat down and pulled you onto his lap, squeezing and slapping your butt. You wrapped your hands around his neck, burying your face in it as he made you sink your weight on his cock. You mewled an uncomfortable moan. “Shhh, mein blümchen, it’ll end soon, ja?”
Ghost positioned himself behind you, and you felt a cold fluid touching your butthole. “No, nononono-” you arched your back and tried to get rid of them, but König threw both arms around your neck, locking you in position.
Ghost’s fingers entered your empty hole and you winced in pain. “Stop squirming or it’ll be worse.”
“Please, not my ass, no.” You cried.
“Schatzen, don’t you think it’s fair, hm?” König squeezed your neck harder. “I took your pussy first, and he’ll take your ass. Now be a good girl and stop struggling. Maybe you can cum again one more time.”
“I’ll die before you rip another orgasm out of me.” You struggled to say, and he squeezed you tighter, you were sure he would snap your neck, maybe that way you could actually get some rest.
“Is that a challenge?” Ghost gnarled. As soon as he withdrew his fingers, you thought you had finally won something, but he soon replaced them with his cock.
König let go of you, grabbing your waist to finally move you onto his dick as you've been cockwarming him for the whole interaction. He groaned, feeling you getting tighter with Ghost's length inside of your ass. You sank your face in the crook of his neck, licking and sucking at his skin. You felt the sharp growing beard in his face grazing your cheek, and he lifted the mask just enough to let it rest on his nose.
Fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck was he pretty. Handsome. Spectacular. Defined jawline, beautiful fucking nose. Scar cutting his lips. He was divine. His mouth was inviting, so, so inviting as he looked at you with a pussy drunk stare, mouth slightly ajar. Fuck it. Your own mouth was salivating at his sight.
You kissed him desperately, sucking his tongue then biting his bottom lip. You had almost forgotten about the pain of getting both holes stretched out by them. Ghost pulled his mask up to his nose too, bending over your body to mark up your neck.
If you thought König's tongue was heavenly, it was clearly before Ghost was sucking and playing with your neck as they rutted their throbbing cocks into you. "Told 'ya it'd ease down, darling." He whispered as he finally heard your moans again.
"Fuck off-" your sentence was cut off with König's large palm slapping your face, immediately leaving a mark. He grabbed it, then pulled his mask back down.
"Show some fucking respect, slut." He said between gritted teeth. "'Ya need some sense fucked into you? Wasn't this enough?"
His eyes darkened and he growled at how good your pussy clenched around him. You shook your head, looking down in embarrassment. Ghost played with your tits, pinching your nipples between his fingers as you bounced up and down. His mouth traveled down from your neck to your shoulder, where he left a pretty fucked hickey.
"Wanna take care of her ass?" Ghost asked, getting a hum in response. "Come here, darling." He sat on the couch, pulling you on his lap, just like you previously was on König's.
You sit on his dick, arching your pretty ass in the air to have König brutally shoving his cock into your gaped hole, muttering curses in german. Ghost's pace wasn't also so friendly, but it felt like the world spun on its axis when you looked at his face. Jesus fucking Christ. This man was something else.
Maybe that's why his tongue was so good on your neck, look at that pretty mouth of his, all at mercy for you.
You kiss him feverishly, tongue invading his mouth as you memorized his flavors. God he was a good kisser. You wondered how his head game would be, if he'd let his tongue flat, lick you like ice cream on a cone as you drip down his fingers.
Their cocks are hitting your spots just right, and you can feel something building up again, the coil you swore you wouldn't have again. Orgasming right now would make them get all cocky and raise their ego.
Fighting against it was like pouring gasoline on a fire. With all the thrusts, all the kisses, all the bruises, you finally collapsed. You screamed as you came, wetting the poor Ghost who was beneath you. "Such a filthy slag you are. Look at you, pet, can't stop yourself from cumming and making a mess on our cocks. You're so sick for enjoying this, but you can't stop it, can 'ya? Can't stop yourself from liking this."
Ghost's words were quick, his gaze was locked on your eyes as he worked his hips upwards. You can tell he's been holding his breath for a few seconds when you feel your pussy getting full of his cum. You were too in trance to complain.
"Gonna fill you up real good, mein schatz. Tell me how bad you want it." König said, but as he met with silence, his arms crossed in front of you, holding you in a headlock. "Tell me how fucking bad you want it, tell me you want my fucking cum inside your ass."
"Please…" you screamed. "Please, please cum inside me. I'm your good little slut, I am, I promise. I'll take it all."
You couldn't even believe the words spilled from your mouth like a waterfall, you didn't mean to. His thrusts became erratic, and in the final one, he came. He came so hard inside your ass, so thick that it dripped from your ass down to your pussy, meeting with Ghost's cum.
König quickly grabbed the camera and filmed your cum covered pussy and your gaping holes, desperate after being fucked senseless by their dicks. Cum dripped down to Ghost's crotch, and your body finally shut down.
From what you knew, you were cleaned, it seemed like they cared after you, giving you a shower. You could only remember glimpses of it, as most of your vision was blacked out. Right now, whoever this chest was, it was the perfect place to finally sleep.
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