YOUR EYES widen at the sight of his cock infront of you. You had assumed he would be big but not that big, he was atleast nine inches.
âWhat the fuck.. that will never fit in me.â Toji lets out a quiet laugh, a smirk playing on his lips. âSure it will.â He grabs your thighs spreading them open, you were already soaked from just the sight of him.
Two fingers slide into your entrance, scissoring them, stretching you wider for preparation. Your head falls back against the pillows, your mouth dropping open, moans echoing around the room. He curls his fingers upwards, pushing them further in till his knuckles bumped against your entrance.
But as soon as he felt your walls clench around him, he pulls his fingers out, he didnât want you to cum just yet. You whine softly from the sudden emptiness. He rubs his tip against your wet folds, before slowly pushing inside you.
You already felt so stretched from just the tip, his hands holding your hips as he then pushed himself in a bit more, not even halfway yet and you had begun to feel full. âAre you in?â You ask, lifting your head off the pillows to look at him.
âNot even close.â You could practically hear the smugness in his words, clearly enjoying watching you struggle to take him.
Tears brim in your eyes as he finally fully bottomed out inside you. He doesnât move for a moment, letting your body adjust to his size. âYou alright, princess?â He asks, rubbing his thumb over your hip.
You nod your head quickly, your head dropping back against the pillows again. âPlease.. move.â You sighed out.
He starts to move his hips, thrusting in to you slowly at first, letting you get use to it before he starts to pick up the pace, His tip hitting against your cervix
The sound of his hips smacking against your skin filled the room along with his groans and your moans. Your walls tight around his cock made him lose his mind, pounding into you harder. The headboard banging against the wall, your whole body jerking forward with each deep thrust.
One of his hands find their way to between your thighs, rubbing your clit in circles as he drove into you. The sensation overwhelmed your body with pleasure, your eyes squeezing shut as your orgasm started to build up. âCome on, princess.â He groans out.
As if on cue, your body immediately reacts to his words. Your walls clamped around him as your back arched off the mattress. Your body convulsing around his cock as pleasure surged through you, your mouth full of pure moans.
The sounds of your desperate moans drove him over the edge, his breathing became uneven and his thrusts more erratic as he tightened his grip on your hips. He thrusts himself deep inside you one last time before he fills you up with his release, a gutteral groan tearing from his throat.
âGood girl, i knew you could handle it..â he muttered out of breath as he pulled out his softening cock, both of your releases dripping down your thighs.
alpha! simon "ghost" riley x fem!omega!reader | alternate universe to In Limbo | omegaverse!au | read on AO3 | pinterest board
Simon Riley has a keen sense of smell that's kept him alive working for John Price and his illicit business, and it's a sense that's not easily fooled. But when he comes across you, an omega who has no distinct smell except for the lingering aroma of something much too sickeningly familiar, he finds himself infatuated.
Little does he know, there's something else lurking in the depths of your silage, something that will leave him wrapped around your very fingers.
a/n: this is an alternate universe to my story In Limbo. you don't need to read the story to understand it, but there might be some references you won't recognize. please heed the warnings on each chapter; overall, there are themes of violence, minor gore, death, and heavy smut that comes along with omegaverse universes
a gift to @bi-writes who planted this idea in my brain ages ago on discord <3
Synopsis: Simon has been watching you for a while. So he waits for your heat to finally make a move.
No use of y/n. No ai used.
Moodboard inspo
Wc: 4.8k
Cw: Non-canon au. Omegaverse. Alpha!Simon. Omega!reader. Kissing. Make outs. Short plot. Fingering. Dacryphilia. Brief mention of blood (sorry). Youâve got a deep dish. Bulges. Size difference. Squirting. Marking. Scenting. Pubic hairs. Knotting. Unprotected sex. p in v. Fat dick!Simon. Cum eating. Cum play.
Grey dull skies. An enmity of snowy clouds. Barely audible patters of snow smear the concrete. Frost fragments fracturing the roads. Small cracks. An icy cast. Slippery. Polished by the freezing air, reflecting a cold blue-grey.
The town is quiet. People retiring to their homes. A combination of flats and houses. Bricked. Semidetached. All lifeless and ashen now painted in snow.
Itâs December. The coldâs really taking root. Youâre in a small cabin just a few yards away from the main road. Dark wood, white stained trees looming around, making it seem like you're buried deep into a forest. Luckily, you live close by to the nearest town centre. English weather was never really nice.
Youâre in your kitchen. Pastel yellow coloured walls, adorned in small beautiful plant paints. Pictures of flowers youâve taken over the years. Paintings youâve bought. Small counter top, bluey-grey marble board at the surface with white coloured sides. Youâre wearing your white turtle neck paired with a long black silken skirt and black Mary Jane flats. All covered by a long black trench coat. The weekâs coming to a close. Youâre running out of ingredients.
Black pen in hand tapping slowly at your bottom lip, a small note in the other.
Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, go to pharmacy.
Youâre missing something. Eyes squinting in annoyance. Brain raking, itâs bothering you. Youâre getting lost in the walls around you, trying to figure out what this thing is. You repeat the list again.
Meats. Vegetables. Fruits. Water bottles. Pharmacy.
Ah.
Suppressants.
You rolled your eyes scoffing at yourself. Youâve been a bit forgetful lately. Waiting until your suppressants are nearly out. Youâre checking your cupboard. One..two pills left you count. You sigh.
âTomorrow.â You say aloud.
Youâre used to this little life youâve created. Weekly shopping, Sunday cleaning. Wake up 5am. Earphones in. Jog, eat, shower, work, repeat.
Like clock work, youâre awake. Still black out. Alarm panging, dead on five. Screeching in your ears.
Youâre laying in your long sleeve bunny pyjamas belly flat on the bed, head turned, pressed into your pillows. Brows screwed, eyes squinting, sleep lines etched on your face. Crust stuck at the corners of your eyes. Your nose crinkling in annoyance. Sniffing. You bring up your right elbow from its disfigured but comfortable position and smack it down on your alarm clock sitting on the bedside table.
Groaning, you rise slowly. Stretching your back, tiptoeing, arms up high now folding behind you. Heading to the bathroom, youâre splashing cold water on your face. A slow deep breath. Arms steady, hands holding either side of the sink. You meet a tired you in the mirror. Opening it, you reach for your scent repellent. Just two sprays. Now youâre ready for your day.
Shutting the front door behind you, earphones in, you stretch a bit. Left arm swinging, right arm under it. You do it the other way. Back bent downwards, legs straightened, arms elongated, touching your toes, the ground almost. With a gradual rise and a long exhale, youâre on your way. Unhurried, lazy runners pace. You maintain that for a lap around your cabin. Then youâre headed to the main road. âNettlesâ by Ethel Cain playing softly in your ears. Low melodious. Pace still measured, arms shifting each step. Youâre a few metres in, flats, houses forming in your peripheral. A corner shop open. Bright. Vivid.
You could use a drink.
You head down further into town, body directed at the shop. Eventually meeting the door of the shop, your body slightly adjusted to the frozen air. A ring of the bell is heard as you enter. The male shop keeper notices you, his face resting in one of his hands, eyes heavy. Sagging. A purple brownish colour engraved below them. His head falling and quickly rising. His eyes lighten fairly upon seeing you. Waving sluggishly at you. You give a soft smile and wave back.
Heading to the drink section, you grab a five hundred millilitre bottle of water from the fridge and walk up to the till. Placing your bottle down on the counter, you pay shortly after.
âHave a nice day.â You say. Short, soft, concise.
âAnd you too.â
-
The sun had already risen. A pale whitish sphere, faintly piercing through. 9am, the clock read. You were in your home, had already showered, eaten. Although your fridge was practically begging to be full. Only a couple red peppers remained. âMore shops will probably be open.â You thought.
You were out the cabin, car keys in hand on your way back to the town centre. A small, red Mini Cooper sitting slumped in heavy snow just outside. You open the drivers side, snow falling off that side of the car, and sit down. Plugging your keys into the vehicle, wind shields wiping away at the snow covered front window. You drive steadily into town.
Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, pharmacy â must go!!
A vivid image of the note you made flashed. It repeated in your head, chanting almost.
First stop, the supermarket.
-
A cold quiet morning. Harsh crispy air brushing against your cheek. Your eyes crinkle at the feel of it. Youâve parked your car in a nearby parking garage.
Not so often you see the supermarket this silent. Youâre dressed warmly in a loose white shirt underneath a grey jumper. Straight legged dark blue jeans covering your black uggs. All hidden under your black trench coat.
Boots crunching in the snow, youâre walking in. Automatic doors sliding open for you. You grab a basket and begin your search.
-
Heavy bags weighing down at your sides. Full of fresh ingredients, meats.
Meats, vegetables, fruits, water bottles, pharmacy.
âAlright.â You whisper, cold air passing through your lips, pleased with your small achievement of the morning.
Second stop, small shop.
You enter the shop, a bell sounding as you do so. Thereâs a few people in the shop. About four if you bothered to look. You pay no mind though. Just solely focused on one task at hand. That task being water bottles. Youâre pacing around the shop, eyes raking up and down the shelves. The bottles. Finally. Placed on the grey marble ground, in front of a transparent fridge directly reflecting the shop door. A free mirror, you think. You crouch down, hands out and ready to grab one pack. For a reason you couldnât explain, your eyes glance up to the fridge, unfocusing, you see a few people walking by, their figure cutting out where the fridge ends. Still looking around, you see the trees, how theyâre no longer green but white. The no longer brown wood, eyes trailing down the trees back to the public. Eyes- you notice deep hazel eyes staring as if staring at your open skeleton itself. Fixed on yours. You let the thought of the transparent fridge fool you into believing no one could see you. A coincidence.
Shrugging, you pick up either end of the pack of water bottles and stand to your full height. Out of curiosity, you eye the see-through shop door.
Khaki coloured eyes. Closer now. Black jacket. Hooded up. A man that seems to be in a balaclava?
Heâs huge, you ponder. Biceps nearly bursted at the sides of his black coat. His lower half is covered by bushes. Your face contorts into a puzzled look. Thereâs no way he saw you. You donât want to believe it. Looking away you head over to the till and pay.
Exiting the shop, hefty bags carrying all your shopping, a litter of bumps gather on your skin. You want to believe itâs from the cold. A low lump sitting at your belly. A warning maybe.
You head over to the last stop on the list. The pharmacy. Suppressants. Your brain reminding you once again.
Itâs a cramped place. Medicine stacked on the dark wooden shelves across the room. Chalky walls. Ashen almost. The lights flicker a bit. Must be old. Thereâs a man at the other side of the till. Got a gloomy look to him. Thin glasses hanging at the top of his bridged nose. Crinkled skin. A small bruise on the side of his cheek. Eyes droopy.
âCan I help you?â You hear his tired voice ask.
You give a small smile.
âIâm here for a replenishment.â You keep your eyes on his, still smiling as you readjust a bag on your arm.
âYour name please.â He responds dryly. Your face falters a bit.
You give him your name. He types away at the old white desktop on his right. He reaches over to a small brown plastic bag and hands it to you.
You hear a small chime of the pharmacy bell but donât pay too much mind to it. Thereâs heavy thuds behind you. A hefty musky smell, woody almost with a hint of an orange peel. A citrusy smell meant something. A near heat or rut possibly. A familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach. Fear? It's only footsteps, probably getting their suppressants. Youâre still focused on the man in front-
âHave I seen you âround here before?â A deep baritone voice sounding behind you. Close to you. You spin around, eyes all wide at the sound of him. The pharmacist immediately drops into a crouched position. He knows that voice. Canât let this customer see him.
âUhâuhâŚâ You stutter. Lip quivering.
You know him. Know exactly who this is. Simon Riley. Or what the town calls him, âGhostâ.
The whole town knows of him. They know to steer clear of him. Never get in his way. Avoid him if you can. Donât let him get you. A menace. Killer. All sorts of nasty comments you havenât heard before. Heâs got a familiar balaclava on. Almost looking like the one you saw earlier. Squinting eyes staring deep into your wide ones. Head tilted slightly, amused by your reaction. You canât tell though.
âCanât talk?â
âUhm noâno. No you uh havenât.â Youâre shaking your head looking everywhere else but at him. Thereâs a thin line of sweat forming at your forehead. You try not to wipe it.
His broad frame, blocking everything in front of you. You finally look up at him, eyes all doey, scared.
âHm.â He grunts, gives you a slow look over. Eyes falling slowly down your frame then back up to your nervous face. Cute.
He turns back around and exits the pharmacy. You heave a sigh of relief. Ghost? Talking to you? You nearly donât believe it. Not until the pharmacist behind you speaks.
âHâhere. Please leave. Quickly.â
Weighty bags on either side of you, youâre walking over to your parked car. The cold air, still lingering. Youâre heart patters in your chest. Simon Riley. Absolutely no way.
You make it to your car, fiddling with your bags arms scurrying deep in each one to find the key. You hear it unlock and youâre carefully placing the bags at the back seat, then heading quickly into the front. Door slamming shut. Locked. Both hands on the wheel. Knuckles losing then regaining colour.. Youâre brain still lagging. You look around yourself, assessing the area. You see him. Again. Your breath stutters when you notice him. Heâs staring deep at you. Heâs to your right, body slightly hidden by a tall bush. Youâre tapped in place, body hypnotised, regulating. Registering something deep. Pooling low. A small warmth. Thereâs no way. Your body recognises him as compatible. You have his full attention.
Your breathâs still stuck in your throat.
âSimon.â You breathe out finally. Itâs almost as if he heard you because heâs walking now. Quick measured steps toward you. Youâre shaking. Yet you canât move. Hands still plastered at the wheel. Heâs nearer. Walks over to the passenger's seat window. One two firm taps at the window. Eyes still fixed on him. He never left yours. Your body responds before your mouth can. A needy smell illuminates you. Lemony. Citrusy. Your eyes are fully dilated. The omega in you keening. Inviting. You want him. Your brain hasnât caught up yet. His scent now etched in your body. You didnât even realise he had been warming you up to his smell this whole time.
A whisper of a faint musky orange peel surfaced your brain. It was when the autumn air still lingered. That citrusy smell you couldnât get enough of. Youâd perch over your opened windows, eyes all closed as you relished the smell. He was scenting your home and you didnât know. You recall hearing small cracks of sticks but it couldâve been anything. Except it was Simon.
Your right arm moves to open the passenger door. He opens it and sits his burly body inside your car, shutting the door as he does so.
Youâre still looking at him, mouth parted slightly. You canât understand why your body is reacting this way. Heâs still staring. Eyes heavy, low. You donât know what it is but you start the car, engine roaring quietly. Youâre driving home now. A hidden command from him. Your omega wants him in your space. Wants him to invade your things. Invade you. Is it your heat? Thatâs not until a coupleâ days. You wanted to think weeks. But your body has found a compatible mate. It just so happens to be the worst person you can think of.
You park in your entry, turn off the engine and slowly look to your left. Eyes hazy, breathing hesitant. A whine stopping at your throat. Trapped in your esophagus. He knows you want to. Doesnât need to ask you.
Youâre both stumbling into your cabin, his tongue deep in your mouth. Balaclava bunched on his crooked nose.
Heâs ripping your coat off your body. Biceps contracting. Your black trench falls carelessly on your floors. Green veins running up his large hands holding the back of your neck, your waist. One of his hands drifting down, gripping your arse. Groaning into your mouth. Spit mixed. Your odours intertwine. A ripe lemon and orange peel staining the air.
You're whining. Teeth clashing. Heâs biting at your bottom lip. Strong arms wrapping you. Engulfing your body.
âBeen watching you for weeks.â His voice came out heavy, breathy.
You canât respond with anything other than a mewl. Your hands havenât left the fabric at his chest. Youâre clutching at him. Body all needy. The warmth at your lower belly blooming into a vicious heat. White hot pleasure taking hold of you. Body seizing up. You're stunned. Eyes all wide and wet. Breath coming in fat heaves.
âSiââ You whimper out. Knees bending. Betraying you. Submission. He sees your body submitting to him before you can even voice it. You really want to. Badly.
Beefy arms pull you up and into him. Your legs hanging off his forearm, head lulled out, falling backwards.
He knows where your room is. Knows where everything in your home is. He knows exactly where you keep your suppressants, your diary. Heâs read it all. Youâve never heard anyone enter your home at night. Yet heâs always there. Watching you sleep. He admires how your tits puff out when you breathe in, how you drool a bit. A few snores. Fucking obsessed with your body. The fat of your thighs. His alpha knew you were his.
Youâre trembling, snivelling into his chest. He sets you down on your bedsheets, body going slump. He stands to his full height, pulling down his balaclava back over the rest of his face and just watches. Hidden again.
Heâs slow to take his jacket off. Pulling the zip down in a long stroke. Shoves it off his body.
âI need nghh~â Youâre moaning out, hands attempting to take your top off. Too weak. Thereâs a little drool spilling at the side of your mouth.
He doesnât bother to take the rest of his clothes off. Heâs come too far in this to focus on himself.
âShh.â Your body, listening immediately.
He hauls your top off for you, now left in just a black lace. Sweat glistening on your chest. Beads rolling down.
âFuckinâ âell.â He curses low.
His arms circle your body, taking the lace off. Tits spilling out, the air wafting over your hardened nipples. You sob. Body clutching in on itself. He doesnât let you. His large hand, pushing you down at your shoulder.
âNo movinâ.â A warning.
Your arms are flat on the bed, hands resting above you, fisting the pillow. He removes your lower clothing in one strong pull. Your hips lifting instinctively. Your insatiable need to please your mate.
Panties gone. You're vulnerable before him. Hairs decorated around your wet pussy. Weeping. Leaking. A bead of slick sliding down from your hole onto your arse. Hips twitching.
Your bodyâs flushed, waiting. Heâs being too slow. He has to savour this moment.
âPlease.â You whimper out.
âA talkative bird ainât ya.â He voices, still low toned.
âGotta please this pussy, donât I?â Taunting you. Letting out a low, mocking whistle.
Heâs got his knees pressed into your bed, hands on your inner thighs, pressing into them. Your pussy parting each time. A tear slips out of you. Your headâs thrown back into the pillow. Lips tightly pressed, suppressing the moan trapped at your throat. Eyes shut tight.
He presses in once more, and you canât help the noise that left you. You bring down one of your arms, scratching at his, trying to bring it where you need it most.
âWant me there, hm?
My fingers in your cunt?â
Youâre vigorously nodding. A string of âpleaseâs leaving your wet, kissed stained mouth. He doesnât remove your hand. Doesnât need to. You canât move someone as big as him.
You still canât see his face fully. Only his eyes. But you know heâs smiling at you. You make out a small dent under the balaclava. His alpha pleased at your omega. You want to see more of him. But your heat wonât let you form the sentence.
He doesnât care though. Heâs going to take you.
He brings his rugged thumb, circles it on your throbbing puffy clit.
âAngh!â
Your hips twitch towards him. More beads of slick fall out your drenched pussy. A few more tears rolling down your face. The heat nearly consuming you.
His thumb moving slowly up and down your clit, inching towards your gaping hole. Your hips follow on instinct. Rolling with his hand.
âFuck sakes.â Youâre a sight. His tip leaking heavy drops of pre.
His thumb finds your soaked hole, another bead leaking out coating it. He pushes in slow and deep. Long thick thumb stretching you out.
You scream. Back bowing. Toes curled into the sheets, fingers still scratching at his arms. Your head is lulled to the side, the whites of your eyes on display.
Heâs thumbing your hole. Quick deep strokes of his thumb.
Squelch squelch.
âSheâs a loud twat, ainât she?â Voice rugged.
Youâre moaning loud, your heat making it feel way better than itâs supposed to.
Fuck youâre close. Body heating up even more, twitching, writhing. Leaving moon shaped dents on his forearms.
âYou markinâ me already?â Heâs cackling low.
âNgh câclose!â
âI know.â You pussy throbs.
His voice has such an intense effect on you. Heâs been scenting your clothes so you get used to his smell. Needs your body reacting before you do.
OneâŚtwo..three pumps of his thumb and your convulsing. Body quaking. Mouth hung open in a beautiful âoâ shape, brows squinted. You silently cry out letting your orgasm wash over you. Long waves of heat spread over your body.
âNeed you.â Voice all gone, yet you managed to whisper out.
âYouâll âave me.â
He slowly pulls his thumb out and stares at it in awe, glistening in your cum. Youâve marked him as yours, now he has to return the favour.
Not giving you any time to recover, he plunges two thick long fingers deep into your pussy. You let out a shocked scream. Hips jerking at the sudden stretch. He leans his body into yours as he pushes his fingers as far as they could go. Heâs close to you now. Face just a few inches from yours. You're breathing out hefty breaths, fanning his hidden face. Eyes fully dilated.
âGot a deeep cunt on ya.â He praises. You moan in response. Your arms feel heavy, your trembling fingers attempting to hook the edges of his balaclava and pull down. It comes off revealing messy blonde locks. The two of you reach forward, lips meeting in a sloppy kiss. Mouths open, breathing heavy. Tongues rolling against each other. Heâs pistoning his fingers fast. Quick deep strokes making it hard for you to kiss him back. Itâs too messy.
Heâs grunting into you, youâre whining into him. One hand gripping the hairs at his nape. The other gripping the hairs at the middle of his head. You're rolling your hips into his hand. His thumb bumping your clit every stroke. Heâs fucking at your g spot, fingers curling, scissoring your pussy. You break the kiss with a loud moan.
âCâcanât take it! Simonââ
âYou will. Didnât wait this long for you to tap out.â He sounds so rough.
âAnhh! Hngh.â
Another few scissors of your pussy and youâre sooo close again. Youâre whinging, body twisting, turning away. You want to run. Want to scream at him. Fight him.
Youâre smacking at his chest, heâs still too close watching your face so intently. He needs to see what makes it contort. He likes that you fight back. Makes him harder. Heâs straining at his boxers. Cock twitching, itching to be inside your needy cunt. He knows you need his knot.
You're slapping his shoulders, hands balled up in fists, punching at him. He curls his fingers just right and youâre screaming. White blinding pleasure. Youâre clutching at him now. Heâs fucking his fingers at that exact spot. Engrossed in the way your brows contorted, the way your cheeks deepen in colour. How your wet lashes stick to the top of your cheeks.
âFâfuck fhuck!â Your orgasm, ripping through you.
Your arse pressed deep into the sheets, back arched, pussy gushing out ruining his hand. Arms flailing.
Squelch
His hand sliding out slowly from your bruised pussy. Admiring your work on his fingers. Shining wet. He sees your pussy lips flutter in the corner of his eyes.
âYouâre something else.â
He brings his stained fingers to his mouth, sucking them deep, relishing the taste. Groaning deep. Eyes fluttering shut.
âKnot. Yâyour knot please.â You cry out. Head still planted to the side. Arms wobbly, you reach out to his dark grey joggers. Fingers tugging at the top of it. His happy trail peeking out. He helps his dick out of his joggers, his boxers next, not taking them off fully. Itâs so big. Thick veins running up a few sides, dark red at the tip. Angry. Purple almost. So girthy. Leaking so much pre. Heâs so wet for you.
Your omega hungry at the sight. The orangey peel stench, very prominent now.
âGonna fuck you now. Knot you.â
âPlease.â
He lines his fat cock at the opening of your cunt. Rubs it slowly up and down your clit. Youâre hips jutting, bucking away from him.
The tip pops into you in a slow, deep stroke. He stalls for a moment. Hot pulsing pussy pulling him in.
âFuckââ
He pushes further in. Still slow. You feel every vein on his cock, every curve. Every inch, stretching your walls out. Your mouth, watering at the fullness.
You push at his lower hard stomach, a few hairs tickling your fingers. Heâs fucking huge. You canât take it all at once. Youâre weeping, tears spilling at the sides of your face, tits puffed out.
âMâgonna make you take it.â
He hikes your thighs on top of his, pushes himself further into you, digging your knees into your chest. He sinks in another few inches. Your squinted eyes peer down at where youâre both connected, thereâs still so much more. Your head falls back as you sniffle, a tiny noise leaving your lips.
He pulls his hips back all of a sudden, you gasp at the loss. Your head comes up quickly. Watching.
âNoo. Simon, fuckââ
Slamming his cock deep, hips grinding into yours. His hairs nudged right against your clit. A bulge forming at your lower belly. Your head collapsing back onto the pillow, brain fogged. Your eyes forced back, body quivering. Quick heaves of your chest, your mouth left hung open, more drool spilling out.
Plap plap
Heâs fucking you so deep. Big burly body rocking into you, your pussy sucking him in so tight. So wet. So hot. The roomâs filled with the mix of your bodies, your sweat, the smell of your pheromones. Blooming. Inviting him even more. He takes it.
Cock, pistoning so good. Fucking at your spots. You're wailing against him, scratching at his chest, his hard rigid stomach, his neck. Leaving red crescent marks all over.
âAnngh!â
âSuch a good bird huh? Taking a stranger's cock so well.â
âYâyeah nghh ahh.â
Heâs grinning at you, a few teeth on display.
Youâre gone. So far gone. You're grinding your hips into his, grabbing behind him, his back, pulling him into you. He slows. Deep long strokes now. You canât do anything but feel it. The dent of your stomach, more evident at every rock of his body into yours. Simon places one of his hands on the bulge. Pressing. Pushing it.
You scream, your juices squirting out of your uncontrollably. Youâre shaking so much. Crying. Head stretched back, you're pushing at the bed, jolting away from him.
âThereeeeâs a girl. Thaaâs it, squirt all on me.â
Heâs still fucking you slow and deep, riding you through it. The bed, soaked in your cum, your sweat.
âKnot! Knot me please.â You beg. Voice strained, gone from pleasure.
Sitting up, his arms come to the neck of his sweat stained shirt. All sticky. Dark wet patch on lower part of it. Heâs taking his shirt off now.
His broad hairy chest on show. Ample. Decorated in various tattoos. Youâre in awe of his body.
A few wet hairs stick to the top of his forehead, cheeks dusted pink. Eyes heavy, low. Heâs ogling at your scent gland, right by the curve of your neck and shoulder.
âMâgonna mark you.â His eyes gestured at the gland. You can barely hear him through your heat.
He moves both of your legs on his shoulders, pushes closer to you. Breaths mingling. He pulls his cock out to the knob, then rams into you. Quicker, harder than before.
âOuuh fuck.â
Youâre breathing all over his face. Cheeks deepened in colour.
Chasing his own high now, on the brink of release. Cock brushing at your cervix on every thrust. Did he get bigger? Your eyes widening at the thought. Thereâs a swollen feeling at the bottom of hisâ knot.
âWant my thrust knot hnyeah? Tell me girl. Thrust. Tell me how bad you wanâ it.â His voice, straining. Low, deep. Grunting.
âI wanâ it. Want it so bad. Please. Please. Pleaseââ
He angles his face at your neck, his mouth a breath away from your gland. One hard heavy thrust into your pussy heâs finally cumming. He bites down hard. Your gland, blooming. Blood spilling from the corners of his mouth, his eyes rolling back. You shriek at the feel. Your breath comes in short, rapid pants. Eyes shutting tight. More tears spilling. It hurts so good. Burning sensation washing over you. White hot. Scorching.
White blotchy spurts of his cum flooding you deep. Throaty groans leaving his mouth. You're soaking, drinking it up. Thereâs so much cum, itâs spilling out. Dropping on the sheets. His body nearly collapsed on yours. Your body canât take the weight on you. Heâs so heavy. Your omega yearns for it, wants the weight on you.
His knot, plugging your cunt, trapping you together. You sigh in pleasure. Satisfaction. Content. You still feel a twitch of his cock, small spurts shooting into you.
A few beats pass, his knot finally deflating. Cock only half hard now. Heâs pulling out of you slowly. Beads of his cum following suit. It catches on his tip.
His breathing ragged as he brought his face down to your bruised pussy. It throbs under his burning stare. His mouth inches closer. Wetting his bottom lips, he lunges into you. Sucking, circling, licking at your pussy.
Youâre whining, mewling, bucking your hips away from him. Heâs quicker. Pining your hips down with two large hands. Heâs eating his cum out your pussy.
âTâtoo much!â
âMmh.â Groaning, voice vibrating through your over sensitive pussy.
He brings one of his hands, two fingers plugging it back in. Deep. Fucking his cum back in. Youâre on the cusp again. Hips hiking up. Back arched in a beautiful bow.
His tongue curling, circling on your clit. Youâre seeing stars, everythingâs all blurry. Youâre cumming again.
âSimon!â
His fingers slow. Just strong unhurried thrusts. Youâre coming down. Breath haggard. Eyes blown.
âCanât leave me now.â He tells you, voice quiet.
PAIRING: dilf!toji fushiguro x rich girl!fem reader
TAGS & WARNINGS: dark content, dubcon, age gap (reader is in college, toji is in his forties), unprotected sex, implied infidelity, slight angst, implied virgin!reader, cherry popping (read: exterminating), manhandling, rough sex, mirror sex, hair pulling, oral sex (f receiving), degradation, choking, spitting, fingering, obscene dirty talk, creampies, dumbification, overstimulation, dacryphilia, marathon sex, size kink, size difference, stomach bulge, cervix mentions, doggy, mating press, missionary, referenced public sex, referenced quickies, referenced phone sex and sexting, smoking, alcohol consumption
WORD COUNT: 15.2k
SUMMARY: You find yourself tangled in an intense affair with the last man you should ever wantâToji Fushiguro, broke, rugged, and utterly irresistible.
Š toshisdecadence
Toji Fushiguroâa single dad, financially struggling, with a bare apartment and rugged dispositionâseemed to unite some of the worst misfortunes in existence; and had lived nearly 42 years with many things that distressed and vexed him.
His life had been far from ideal, but he tried his best. Well, as good as âbestâ could be. If it was just him, Toji wouldâve just fucked off to some other dump. But he wasnât. He had Megumi, his only son. A son he was barely a father to, admittedly, but Toji never claimed to be a model parent.
A skill that Toji had picked up from his shitty four decades of living was the ability to read people off the bat. Their body language. Demeanor. Way of speaking. The way they held their gaze. He could tell when a person had never experienced any form of hardship.
You were one such person. Toji could smell it from the moment you emerged behind Megumiâs back, dressed in a pretty white ensemble that no doubt cost one of his paychecks.
Youâd shown up to Megumiâs apartment with a practiced ease that screamed entitlement. Not the loud, obnoxious kind, but the subtle sort that came from never having to second-guess whether the world would open its doors for you. You carried yourself like someone whoâd never been told ânoâ in a way that actually mattered.
Toji noticed it right away.
It wasnât just the clothes, though the crisp linen blouse that clung to your figure and understated pearl earrings definitely told a story. It was the way you lingered in the doorway without stepping aside, as if the worn-out carpet and cheap furniture might rub off on you. The slight wrinkle of your nose, almost imperceptible, quickly smoothed over when Megumi introduced you. The polite, pretty smile that didnât quite reach your eyes.
Yeah, Toji knew your type.
He leaned back against the raggedy, saggy couch, sprawled out in a way that was equal parts lazy and deliberate. Heâd learned a long time ago that people like you hated men like him. Men who didnât clean up well, who didnât pretend to be better than what they were. He let his gaze drag over you just long enough to make you shift uncomfortably.
âDidnât know Megumi had friends like you,â Toji said, voice low and rough around the edges.
You arched a perfectly manicured brow, the polished kind of expression that said you werenât easily rattled. âLike me?â
âYeah.â He took his time lighting a cigarette, even though Megumiâs annoyed glare told him not to. He liked pushing buttons, liked seeing how far people could bend before they snapped. âThe kind who looks out of place here.â
The corner of your mouth twitched, caught somewhere between irritation and amusement. Your voice remained even as you replied, âAnd what kind is that?â
Toji smirked, slow and mean, the scar running through the corner of his mouth making it almost look like a sneer. He exhaled smoke in your direction, earning a furrow of your brow. âThe kind who thinks this shitholeâs beneath her.â
âDad, could you not?â Megumi groaned, intercepting the exchange.
Toji simply shrugged, lazily letting his gaze trail from his son to you.
You stared at him, your expression controlled. If anything, you looked amused.
The tension sat heavy between you, like a tug-of-war where neither side wanted to flinch first. Toji could see the war in your eyes. The same kind he saw in all the women who thought they were too good for him but still couldnât stop looking.
Before either of you could push further, Megumi came back into the room, breaking the moment. Toji watched the mask slip back into place as easily as it had fallen. Polished, perfect, untouchable.
âThen, excuse me, Mr. Fushiguro,â you said, smiling politely.
He leaned back against the couch, cigarette dangling from his lips, and let his gaze follow you as you walked behind Megumi in tow. Toji appreciated the view. Prissy as he thought you were, you sure are one pretty woman.
And then you looked back over your shoulder, meeting his gaze with an unreadable expression.
Yeah, this was going to be fun.
You spotted him by accident.
The streets of downtown gleamed under the afternoon sun, polished storefronts and valet stations lining the walkways. The sun almost made the pavement shimmer a blinding white. It was your kind of area. Clean, expensive, and carefully curated to keep out the riffraff. Which is why Toji Fushiguro stuck out like a sore thumb.
He was leaning against the faded green truck parked half on the curb, the black sleeves of his sweater rolled up to his forearms, cigarette dangling between his lips as if he had all the time in the world. The smoke curled around him, blending with the faint scent of engine oil and sweat that seemed to follow him.
You almost didnât recognize him without that thin black t-shirt clinging to the kind of frame belonging to a man in his forties. But the moment he turned and locked eyes with you, the unmistakable scar on his lips twisting as his lips spread into a lazy smirk, you knew exactly who he was.
âMr. Fushiguro,â you greeted, lips tightening into a strained smile.
Toji raised an eyebrow. âThatâs a new one. Didnât think youâd bother pretending to be polite.â
You stopped a few feet away, your hand gripping the strap of your leather designer bag from sliding down your shoulder. âIâm polite when I need to be.â
âAnd this is you needing to be polite?â He blew out a puff of smoke, eyes dragging over you appreciatively like he was appraising something valuable, lingering a moment too long on your legs before flicking back up to meet your stern gaze. âCouldâve fooled me.â
âYouâre blocking the valet lane,â you said, voice steady.
Toji glanced at the painted curb, then back at you without moving an inch. âThink theyâll survive.â
âBold of you to assume they wonât tow that thing.â
His grin widened. âBold of you to assume Iâd care.â
The words might have hit harder if his eyes hadnât been pinned to you the entire time. Steady, calculating, like he was waiting to see whether youâd crack under the weight of his gaze. But you didnât. Youâd dealt with enough men to know how to handle it.
âWell,â you said lightly, your hands loosening around the strap of your bag, âtell Megumi I said hi.â
âSure,â he said, but he didnât make a motion to move, the cigarette burning down between his fingers. âYou sticking around?â
The question shouldâve sounded casual, but it didnât. It hung there, thick and heavy.
âJust passing through.â
âFigures.â He exhaled slowly, eyes never leaving yours. âGuess Iâll let you get back to swiping that platinum card of yours.â
The corner of your mouth twitched, but you didnât rise to the bait. Instead, you smiled sweetly, stepping closer just long enough to brush past him and murmur, âHave a good rest of your day, Mr. Fushiguro.â
He took a long drag of his cigarette, eyes roaming over you in a way that felt deliberateâlingering on the contours of your face, your lips, the slope of your bare shouldersâbefore flicking back to your face.
âCall me Toji.â
âIâll stick with Mr. Fushiguro.â
Your smile was as sharp as your words, but he didnât flinch. If anything, his grin deepened, slow and wolfish. With a polite bow of your pretty head, you walked away with your head high and your heels clicking against the pavement.
You didnât expect Toji to show up.
It was supposed to be a quiet dinner between friends. Just you and Megumi, grabbing food at a spot you introduced him to right after class. Something close enough to the bus stop so Megumi could catch his bus back to his side of town. But instead, Megumi was already sitting at the table when you arrived, arms crossed, scowling like heâd rather be anywhere else. And sitting across from himâhalf-sprawled in the booth with an elbow placed on the tableâwas Toji.
You faltered for a split second before slipping into the seat next to Megumi, carefully ignoring the older manâs amused glance as you set your bag down.
You let your expression do the talking, nudging Megumiâs leg under the table.
âI didnât know,â Megumi muttered in defeat. âHe just showed up.â
Tojiâs voice cut in before you could respond, smooth and slow as ever. âRelax. Iâm just here for the food.â
âNot sure you can afford it,â you said without looking up.
Megumi snorted. Toji didnât.
âYou worried about my finances, princess?â
You finally looked at him, meeting his dark green eyes across the table. âJust imparting financial literacy. Thatâs all.â
His lips curled, but before he could fire back, the waiter appeared with menus. You ordered first without even looking at the menuâsomething seasonal with a bottle of sparkling waterâwhile Toji leaned back when it was his turn.
âBurger,â he said. âFries. Whatever beer youâve got on draft.â
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Megumi looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.
Toji didn't care. He let the silence stretch, absently flipping over the silverware while Megumi focused on his phone. And when his gaze eventually slid back to you, it felt deliberate.
âYou and Megumi,â he said after a beat. âYou two dating or something?â
Megumi groaned, but you were already replying. âNo.â
âSure about that?â
âCertain.â
Tojiâs grin was slow, almost predatory. âGood to hear.â
You hated the way your pulse jumped at the implication.
âDad, donât start,â Megumi muttered, staring daggers into his father.
âWhat?â Toji said, feigning innocence. âIâm just curious about who you might or might not be dating.â
âMegumi and I are just friends,â you clarify.Â
âSmart girl,â Toji said, leaning back again. He cocked his head to the side, lips curling, that scar through his lip embedding itself in your eyes. âYou could do better.â
Your nails dug into your palm under the table.
âYouâre one to talk,â Megumi snapped suddenly, cutting through the tension. âYou show up out of nowhere, act like you give a shit, and thenââ
Tojiâs expression shifted. Subtle, but sharp enough that Megumi immediately clamped his mouth shut.
âIâm still here, arenât I?â
âBarely.â
âBetter than nothing.â
Megumiâs jaw clenched. Youâd never seen him this visibly frustrated before. You knew that he had a dubious relationship with his father, but you didnât realize it was this bad. Usually, Megumi was the definition of even-tempered. Calm and composed. He never let anyone or anything ruffle him. But Toji clearly had a talent for poking at weak spots.
Your gaze flickered between the two of them. The tension was uncomfortable, like being trapped in a room with a lit fuse.
âThis is why we donât talk,â Megumi said suddenly, pushing his chair back with a sharp scrape.
Tojiâs brows lifted slightly, as if the outburst amused him. âBecause I showed up to hang with my kid?â
âNo,â Megumi snapped. âBecause you always do this.â
Toji leaned forward, resting his beefy arms on the table. âDo what?â He asked with a cock of his head.
âShow up when itâs convenient. Then disappear just as fast.â
The words hung in the air for a moment before Megumi stood up, grabbing his phone and bag. âIâm out of here.â
You blinked up at him. âWaitâMegumiââ
âIâll text you later,â he muttered, already halfway to the door. He didnât even glance at Toji as he left.
The restaurant door closed behind him, leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake.
âWell,â Toji leaned back again, looking thoroughly unfazed by the whole ordeal. âGuess itâs just us now.â
You set your glass down carefully, staring coldly into his face. âApparently.â
Tojiâs smirk widened. âYou donât have to look so happy about it.â
Your eyes narrowed. âWhy are you still here?â
âFree food,â he said easily.
âYou said you came here to hang out with Megumi.â
âSame thing. Besides, that brat left already.â
You exhaled sharply, already regretting letting Megumi drag you into this mess. Toji didnât seem inclined to leave anytime soon, given his lackadaisical manner, and there was something about the way he looked at youâcasual, curiousâthat made it impossible to relax.
âSo,â he said after a moment, eyes flicking down to your glass before dragging back up to your face, âhow long have you and Megumi been friends?â
You hesitated, not liking the sudden shift in focus. âA while.â
âClose?â
âAs close as anyone can be with him.â
Toji snorted at that, and the sound made your jaw tighten. He wasnât wrong, but something about his attitude made you bristle.
âDonât act like you know him,â you said sharply.
That seemed to catch him off guard. For a second, his smirk faltered, replaced by something darker. âAnd you do?â
âBetter than you, apparently.â
Toji leaned in slightly, resting his elbows on the table. âThat so?â
You didnât back down, even as his piercing gaze pinned you in place. âYeah.â
There was a long pause before Toji laughed, a low, rough sound that grated against your nerves. âYouâve got some nerve, princess.â
Your eyes narrowed. âDonât call me that.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause you donât know me.â
His wolfish grin returned, sharp and deliberate. âNo,â he said, voice lowering. âBut I think Iâm starting to.â
Your stomach twisted at the implication. You hated how casual he sounded, like he already had you figured out.
You picked up your drink, taking a long sip and finding refuge in the burn of the fizz to bury the mortification burning through your body.
âSo,â Toji said after a moment, breaking the silence again. âWhat do rich girls talk about over dinner? Stocks? Real estate? Or just all the guys who couldnât impress you?â
You set your glass down with a soft clink. âI donât waste my time talking about men.â
Toji whistled. âThat so?â
âMost of them are disappointing.â
His brows lifted, and for the first time, he looked like he was actually interested. âDisappointing how?â
You leaned back, crossing your arms as if you were completely unfazed. âLetâs see. No ambition. No sense of direction. No emotional intelligence. No general intelligence. No follow-through. Should I go on?â
The corner of his scarred mouth twitched, and something about it made you feel like youâd walked into a trap.
âSounds like youâve got high standards,â he said, voice low and smooth. âBut what happens when no one meets them?â
You didnât answer right away, letting the question hang in the air. Toji didnât look away. He wasnât like the other men youâd brushed off before; the ones who shrank under your stare or fumbled over their words, trying to impress you. No, Toji looked at you like he wasnât the least bit intimidated. If anything, it felt like he was the one sizing you up.
âI donât settle,â you said finally.
âNo?â
âNo.â
âThatâs cute, princess.â
You ignored him, picking up your drink again and taking another slow sip. But the heat prickling your skin didnât fade. Not with Tojiâs green eyes still on you, sharp and dark, like he was waiting for the exact moment youâd falter.
The food arrived soon after, cutting through the tension for a brief moment. You ate slowly, composed, carefully spearing your salad while Toji tore into his burger like he hadnât eaten in days.
âSo, what is it you do?â you asked eventually, letting the question drip with feigned politeness.
Toji glanced up, mouth still half-full. You tried not to let your expression sour at the sight. âDepends,â he said.
âDepends on what?â
âWhat pays.â
You raised an eyebrow. âNo real job, then?â
âNot one youâd approve of,â he said, leaning back and wiping his mouth with a napkin.
âYou donât strike me as the kind of guy who cares about approval,â you said, tilting your head.
âI donât,â Toji said. âBut you do.â
Your fork paused just above your plate.
âYou think so?â
âI know so,â he said, voice low and steady. âGirls like you? Everythingâs about appearances. Doesnât matter whatâs underneath, as long as it all looks good on the surface.â
âAnd what about you?â you countered, your voice sharp. âWhatâs underneath?â
Toji leaned in slightly, his lips curling. âAll you had to do was ask if you wanted to see me naked, princess.â
Your breath hitched before you could stop it, but you covered it up with another sip of your drink. The worst part wasnât the smugness in his expression, or the blatant flirting and teasing; it was the fact that he was right. Everything about him, from his ragged edges to the dark look in his green eyes, was something you shouldâve and usually turned your nose up at. And yet, you couldnât stop staring.
You set your glass down, fixing him with an unimpressed stare.
âAre you seriously flirting with me?â
Toji shrugged. âItâs whatever you think it is, princess.â
The conversation shifted after thatâcourtesy of you blatantly ignoring the topic altogetherâbut the tension never fully faded.
By the time the check came, you were more than ready to leave. Toji leaned back and stretched. The waiter approached the table cautiously, clutching the black leather bill folder like it might detonate in his hands. He glanced between the two of you. First at Toji, whose broad frame and casual slouch made him look wildly out of place at the upscale restaurant, then at you, perfectly composed in your crisp linen top and polished jewelry.
You didnât miss the flicker of hesitation in the waiterâs eyes. He was clearly trying to piece together the dynamicâfather and daughter? Boss and employee? Lovers?âbefore ultimately deciding he didnât want to guess wrong.
âWhenever youâre ready,â the waiter said, placing the bill carefully in the middle of the table.
Toji reached for it first, but you were faster, sliding it out from under his fingers before he could even lift the cover.
He raised a brow at you. âWhat? You think I canât pay?â
You flipped the folder open without looking at him, not bothering to look at the total.
âNo,â you said coolly, already pulling your dark brown leather wallet out of your purse. âI know you wonât.â
Toji grinned wolfishly, leaning back like this whole thing amused him. âSmart girl.â
The waiter lingered awkwardly, pretending to straighten the silverware as you pulled out some crisp bills. The metal cards in your wallet glinted under the soft lighting, unmistakable even to someone like Toji.
âNice card,â he said, voice dripping with something that couldâve been admiration, or mockery.
âThanks,â you said, snapping the folder shut and handing it back to the waiter. You smiled warmly at the waiter. âKeep the change.â
The waiter blinked at the implied tip, which was generous enough to make up for the strained atmosphere that had hung over the table all night, before he thanked you and quickly excused himself.
Toji whistled low, watching the waiter walk away, before he dragged his gaze back to you. âBig spender, huh?â
You reached for your purse, unfazed. âItâs not a big deal.â
âNot to you,â he muttered, almost like he hadnât meant to say it out loud.
You paused, but only for a moment. âNo,â you agreed softly, letting the word linger before you rose from your seat. âNot to me.â
Toji stayed seated, watching as you gathered your things with practiced ease, smoothing down your skirt and adjusting your jewelry.
âLeaving already?â he asked, sounding far too entertained.
You met his eyes, calm and composed despite the tension still lingering in your chest. âThe mealâs settled,â you said simply. âWhat else is there to stick around for?â
He didnât answer right away. Instead, he let his gaze drag over you, taking in every detailâyour immaculate clothes, your careful and upright posture, your perfectly applied lipstick.
Oh, how Toji wanted to smear them.
âFair point,â he said at last, but there was something in his tone that made it feel less like an agreement and more like a challenge.
The faint thwack of tennis balls echoed across the court as the conversation continued, but you stayed quiet, idly running your fingers through the rim of your racket. Marissa and Chloe were still picking apart the details of dating someone outside their worldâoutside the carefully curated expectationsâand every word struck a chord you didnât want to acknowledge.
The others were still talking about Chloeâs boyfriend, picking apart his flaws with clinical precision, but you barely heard them anymore. You were too busy dissecting your own ridiculous impulses, the way your body had betrayed you, the way your mind kept circling back to him.
Toji Fushiguro.
You hated even thinking his name, hated how it echoed in your head like a whisper you couldnât shake. It was absurd. He was absurd. What did he even have to offer besides a handsome face and a body that looked carved out of stone? He didnât belong anywhere near this worldâyour worldâand he never would.
He wasnât polished. He wasnât educated. He wasnât even financially stable. He was the type of man who looked out of place in restaurants like the one youâd taken him to, and you knew that he hadnât even cared. Not one bit.
Thatâs what got under your skin the most.
Youâd spent your life perfecting the art of composure, of setting expectations and making sure they were met. Because in your world, expectations mattered. They were everything. But Toji? He didnât live by expectations. He didnât even pretend to. He just existedâblunt and crass and unapologeticâand it infuriated you how freeing it seemed.
âHeâs sweet,â Chloe repeated defensively, but the words sounded hollow. âHeâs just a bit⌠rough around the edges.â
âSweet only gets you so far,â Marissa said, adjusting her tennis bracelet. âWhat happens when youâre hosting a fundraiser or when youâre at dinner with your parents, and he doesnât even know which fork to use?â
âExactly.â Julia, who had been scrolling absentmindedly on her phone, finally looked up. âYou canât spend your whole life trying to fix someone. If heâs not polished enough, he never will be.â
Chloe sighed, slumping back into her seat. âItâs not like Iâm trying to marry him,â she muttered.
âYeah, because your mom and dad would never approve,â Marissa said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. âItâs about being practical, Chloe. If he canât keep up with you now, heâs not going to suddenly catch up later.â
âItâs not that simple,â Chloe huffed. âHeâs not bad, okay? Heâs sweet, and he tries, butââ
âBut heâs broke,â Marissa finished bluntly.
âNot broke broke. He just doesnât have family money. Heâs still working his way up, and you know how hard it is to find a guy whoâs actually attractive and driven.â
âPlease.â Marissa snorted. âItâs not that hard. Youâre just being sentimental.â
You werenât paying attention before, but now? Now the words stuck.
You leaned down to retie your shoelace, turning your head sideways to hide the way your jaw tightened.
The hypocrisy of it all gnawed at you.
Because no matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise, you knew the truth. If Toji had been richâif heâd been sitting in that restaurant in a tailored suit instead of an old raggedy sweaterâyou wouldnât have cared about his age or his baggage or the fact that he had a grown son your age that was your friend. You wouldnât have even blinked.
And the worst part?
You werenât any better than Chloe.
âHe doesnât have to be rich,â Chloe argued, drawing your attention back to the conversation. âBut he should at least aspire to something, right? I canât keep pretending it doesnât bother me when he gets uncomfortable when I try to take him somewhere nicer than a steakhouse.â
âItâs a compatibility thing,â Marissa said. âYou canât force someone to fit into this lifestyle. If heâs not comfortable in it now, he never will be.â
Your stomach twisted.
The words rang in your ears, uncomfortably close to the thoughts that had plagued you since that dinner. Since Tojiâs sharp smirk and unbothered stare had somehow left you feeling raw and exposed.
âI mean, whatâs the point of all of this?â Chloe gestured vaguely around the pristine tennis courts. âWhatâs the point of working hard and doing well if weâre just going to settle for guys who canât keep up? Itâs exhausting.â
You almost laughed. Exhausting.
Toji wasnât exhausted. He wasnât running himself in circles trying to impress anyone. He didnât even try to fit into places he didnât belong. And yet, for all his bluntness, for all his rough edges and the casual way he seemed to exist without apology, heâd felt more solid than anyone youâd met in years.
And that terrified you.
âYouâre quiet today,â Marissa said suddenly, pulling you back to the present. âEverything okay?â
âPerfectly fine.â You managed a smile, twirling your racket by its grip. âJust thinking.â
âAbout what?â
âNothing important.â
You gripped your racket tighter, nails digging into the synthetic leather.
âAre we playing another set or what?â someone asked.
You forced yourself to stand up, to push him out of your head and focus on the game.
But even as you stepped onto the court and adjusted your stance, you knew it wouldnât last.
The clock on the wall ticked away lazily, the soft hum of your air conditioning the only sound breaking the silence in your lavish apartment. You were sitting at your kitchen island, flicking through some textbooks as you mentally prepared yourself for the hours of work ahead. Megumi had texted earlier, saying heâd drop off the final details for your project. Heâd promised to take care of it when you saw him last. But now, sitting in your pristine apartment with a glass of rosĂŠ beside you, you couldnât shake the feeling that something was off.
The soft ping of a text from Megumi interrupted the quiet of your apartment. You glanced down at your phone, fully expecting it to be a message about the project materials. Instead, your eyes widened slightly as you read the sudden shift in plans.
Sorry, thereâs an emergency with Kuro so Iâm at the vet. Iâm sending my dad instead to drop off the stuff you need. Hope that's okay. Iâll catch up with you later.
You exhaled sharply, your fingers momentarily gripping the phone tighter. Toji. The last person you were expecting.
You had half-expected Megumi to be reliable. Sure, his father was... something else, but it wasnât like he couldnât follow through. You rubbed your forehead, sighing as you felt the unrelenting weight of the fact that TojiâMegumiâs deadbeat dad, the man with a charm as sharp as his lack of direction in lifeâwas about to show up at your door.
For a moment, you almost texted Megumi back to argue. To suggest he just drop it by tomorrow, that you didnât need his father showing up like this. But before you could even type out your thoughts, a knock echoed through your apartment.
Your heart skipped a beat, whether from excitement or dread, you couldn't pinpoint. You set your phone down on the countertop, trying to steady your breathing, but your pulse was already racing. You had no business feeling this way. He was an obstacle, a challenge to your composure, but nothing more. This was just another inconvenience, another reminder that you were far above whatever Toji was.
With a reluctant exhale, you made your way to the door, clicking the lock open, and standing there in the frame, Tojiâs tall figure filled the doorway. He leaned casually against the frame, holding the folder in his hand, looking every bit the same unbothered, rugged man youâd met before.
You stood there, holding the door open just a little too long as your mind races. Tojiâs presence in your apartment felt like a looming storm; heavy, pressing, relentless. Megumiâs absence only amplified the tension, leaving you alone with the one man you know you should not be alone with.
Toji stepped inside, just far enough to clear the doorway, his eyes already scanning the room. His gaze swept over the space with a mixture of appreciation and something darker, something more intense. Heâs not just looking at the furniture or the art on the walls. Heâs looking at you.
â...Mr. Fushiguro,â you managed.
You closed the door behind him, standing just a little too close, but you canât exactly tell him to leave. Not when you need the materials, and not when your damn pulse is racing just from being in the same room as him. Your eyes fell to the folder in his hands, trying to distract yourself, trying to stay calm. You donât want to feel anything.
He gave a small grunt of acknowledgement but didn't immediately hand you the folder. Instead, he set it down on the coffee table, his gaze locking with yours in that way he always does, like heâs studying you.
You felt exposed. Your place, your clothes, everything about you right now feels vulnerable. You werenât expecting this. Toji Fushiguro, your friendâs father, standing in your apartment, staring at you with that heavy, calculating gaze. Itâs not the first time heâs looked at you like that, but itâs the first time itâs made you feel this much.
"Nice place," he said, his voice low, his tone appreciative but edged with something more, something that causes your pulse to pick up, just a little. "Definitely fits you. All the right things in all the right places." Heâs not talking about the apartment anymore.
You managed a tight smile. "I like to keep it clean." You tried to sound nonchalant, but your hands, now clutched in front of you, betrayed the nervous energy you canât seem to shake. Heâs too close, his presence too powerful.
He stepped closer, examining the space with a casual interest, but itâs all too clear that his eyes are more on you than the apartment. "Yeah. I can see that." His gaze lingered a moment too long before he pulled his focus away to gesture around the room. "All this... it fits you. Perfectly."
You swallowed, your heart picking up its pace. The compliment should feel good, should be flattering. But instead, it twists in your stomach. You donât need his approval. You donât need any of this. So why does it make you feel like youâre being torn open, laid bare?
"Thanks," you muttered, the word slipping out easily despite the discomfort tightening in your chest. Tojiâs proximity feels suffocating now, his every movement calculated and unnervingly direct.
You glanced down at the folder on the island, the one containing the documents youâd been waiting on, but your mind is somewhere else entirely. His presence overwhelmed you. It was strange how it seemed to fill the room with the kind of pressure that had nothing to do with the space around you.
âAnd,â you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady as you took the folder from his hand. You canât help but notice the way his eyes linger on you, that slow scan of his gaze, the way it feels as if heâs undressing you with nothing but a look. âThanks for bringing this.â
âDonât mention it, sweetheart.â
Your grip on the folder tightened, but it wasnât because of the papers inside.
It was him.
Standing there, weight shifted lazily onto one leg, arms crossed over his broad chest like he had all the time in the world. Like he could feel how badly you wanted him gone, but more than that, how badly you wanted him to stay.
He smirked, slow and easy. "You gonna open it, or just stand there clenching it like that?"
You forced a breath through your nose, willing your hands to relax. "Iâll look through it later."
He hummed, unconvinced, stepping closer. "That so?"
You nodded, lips pressing into a thin line as you refused to look up. Because if you did, youâd see the way his dark eyes gleamed with amusement. With certainty.
Toji thrived on this, on the push and pull, on the game you were trying so damn hard not to play.
"You know, youâre real uptight, sweetheart," he murmured, voice dipping just enough to make the hairs on the back of your neck rise. "Always actinâ like you got somethinâ to prove."
Your jaw tensed. "I donât have to prove anything to you."
That damn smirk deepened.
"Never said you did." His voice was smooth, like velvet laced with something sharp. "Just funny how you keep tellinâ yourself that."
Your fingers curled into your palm, nails pressing into skin. You could feel the heat rising in your chest, something dangerously close to frustrationâno, not just frustration.
It was something else you didnât want to acknowledge.
Because goddamn it, he was right.
Every time Toji was near, it took everything in you not to acknowledge the pull, the way your body betrayed you in his presence. It wasnât fair. He wasnât fair.
Toji shifted, and suddenly, he was too close, the scent of himâsmoke, leather, and something distinctly masculineâwrapping around you like a noose.
"You always this tense around guys, or is it just me?" His voice was low, teasing, but there was something beneath it. Something pressing.
Your throat felt tight. "Just you."
The words left you before you could stop them.
His smirk vanished, replaced by something heavier, something darker. A beat of silence stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid.
"Yeah?" he murmured.
You swallowed the dryness in your throat.
He didnât move, but you could feel it. His patience thinning, the careful line he was toeing fraying with every second you stood there, staring up at him like you were waiting for something to happen.
And maybe you were.
Maybe youâd been waiting this whole damn time.
His gaze dipped, lingering on your lips just long enough for your breath to hitch before dragging back up, locking onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak.
Thenâso slight it couldâve been accidentalâhe reached out, fingertips just barely grazing the back of your wrist.
You should have pulled away.
You didnât.
The touch was fleeting, gone before you could fully process it, but the damage was done. Your pulse pounded, skin burning where heâd touched you, and Toji knew.
Oh, he fucking knew.
He exhaled a quiet laugh, so low you almost didnât catch it. "Hate to break it to ya, sweetheart," he murmured, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost over your cheek, "but I think you like it."
Your stomach dropped.
Because he wasnât wrong.
And that? That terrified you more than anything.
Your breath came too fast, too shallow.
Toji wasnât just close. He was looming, his presence swallowing up all the space between you, thick and suffocating. He wasnât touching you, not really, but it didnât matter. His heat curled around you, his scentâsmoke, steel, something darkâflooding your senses, making it impossible to think.
You needed to stop this. You had to stop this.
"Stop playing with me," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
His lips twitched. Amused. Unbothered. "Ainât playinâ."
God, you were shaking. You gripped the folder tighter, knuckles white, but it was useless. You had nothing. No grounding, no control. Just the unbearable weight of his gaze and the way your bodyâtraitorous, desperateâleaned closer when it should have pulled away.
"Thisâthis is a bad idea," you tried, your voice breaking.
Toji hummed, slow, like he was thinking about it, like it was even a question. "Probably."
Your stomach twisted. "Megumiâ"
"âainât here," he finished smoothly, cutting you off before you could even try to make that excuse stick.
Your stomach twisted, your resolve slipping like sand through your fingers. "You're his dad."
He tilted his head slightly, gaze heavy-lidded, knowing. "That bother you?"Â
Yes. No. It should.
Your lips parted, but the words caught in your throat because goddamn it, the way he was looking at you was undoing every carefully built wall youâd spent months constructing.
His hand liftedâslow, deliberateâuntil his fingertips brushed against your jaw. A barely-there touch, but your whole body reacted, heat blooming under your skin like heâd set you on fire.
"Youâre too old for me," you whispered, desperate now, clinging to anything.
Toji huffed a quiet laugh. "That so?" His thumb dragged along the curve of your chin, tilting it up just enough to make you meet his green eyes. "Funny. You donât feel like you mind."
A shiver ran down your spine. You did mind. You had to mind.
Your breath hitched as he leaned in, close enough that you could see the scar slicing through his lips, close enough that if you so much as swayed, youâdâ
"No job," you blurted, grasping at straws now, voice breathless. "You're broke."
Toji laughed. Laughed. Low and amused, like none of this even fazed him. "That why your heartâs racinâ?"
Damn him.
You could hear itâfeel itâthe thundering pulse in your chest, your body's betrayal laid bare in the space between you.
You had one last defense. One last excuse.
"Iâ" Your voice wavered. "I donât want this."
Liar.
Tojiâs smirk softened, just barely, but the hunger in his eyes never wavered. His fingers trailed from your jaw to your throat, light, teasing, before settling against the rapid beat of your pulse.
"Lemme hear you say that again."
You opened your mouthâready, willing yourself to say itâbut nothing came out.
Because you couldnât.
Because it wasnât true.
And Toji knew it.
Knew it when your breath shuddered, when your lashes fluttered, when your body leanedâjust the smallest fractionâtoward him instead of away.
His lips barely ghosted over yours, not quite a kiss, but there, teasing, taunting.
"Thatâs what I thought."
And just like that, the last of your excuses crumbled.
You donât know how it happens. One moment, you were trying to catch your breath, trying to think. The next, Tojiâs crowding you against the counter, his sheer presence suffocating, intoxicating, inevitable.
"Been fightinâ this so hard, huh? Thought you were too good for it?" His voice was nothing but a slow, lazy drawl, but you felt the way his words curl around you, creeping into the deepest, filthiest parts of your mind.
You tried to push at his chest, your palms pressed against the hard muscle, useless. His hand engulfed your wrist with a single squeeze, pinning it beside your head. The other? It slid slowly over your thigh, teasing the hem of your shorts.
"Tojiâ" your voice was a breathless whisper, but even you don't know if youâre begging him to stop or to keep going.
"Tell me to stop, then." His grip tightened when you squirmed, his thumb pressing just right over your pulse point. "Tell me you donât want it."
You should. You have to. But your mouth refused to form the words when his fingers dipped lower, grazing the damp fabric of your underwear. A sharp inhale betrayed you, your thighs tensing against his touch.
"Filthy girl," he rasped, the smirk in his voice unmistakable.
With one sharp yank, your shorts are gone, tossed somewhere and forgotten along with the folder Toji had come here to bring. A gasp caught in your throat, embarrassment warring with the unbearable need twisting low in your stomach.
Thenâ
"Fuck, look at you," Toji groaned, dragging his roughened thumb against your slick folds, heavy and hot. "Gotta stretch you out first, yeah? Canât even take the tip like this."
The first press of his fingers had you choking on a gasp. Thick, deliberate, his touch was slow as he worked you open, forcing your body to take more, his thumb pressing teasing circles against your puffy clit. You trembled beneath him, whimpering as he curled his fingers inside you, stretching your gummy walls, coaxing out slick with every lazy stroke.
"Mmm, still too tight," he mused, his voice a rough purr against your ear. "Gotta make sure you can handle me, baby. Donât want you breakinâ on me too fast."
Your body betrayed you, hips rocking into the steady intrusion, your thighs trembling when he scissored his fingers inside you. Itâs too much. The sensation, the way he watched you, the way heâs holding back just to make sure you felt every second of this.
âYouâre creaminâ all over my fingers, baby,â Toji cooed, fucking in two rough fingers. Your face burned at the sound of squelching. You could hear how wet you were. Could feel it soaking his palm, your ass, and even the kitchen island beneath you. âDo you not touch yourself, hm? Pussyâs so fuckinâ tight.â
You quivered beneath him, thrashing and twisting as his thick fingers fucked into you. You felt tears pricking at your eyes from the sensation. You felt so full. His rough fingertips rubbed against the ribbed walls of your cunt, curling into a spot that rendered you breathless.
Toji relished the sight. âAtta girl,â he rasped, the sound sending heat straight to your pussy. âYou can take more fâme, hm?â
Your mind was too cloudy to properly respond, your lips parted in a silent cry, mewls and whimpers escaping your glossy lips.
Toji smiled wolfishly. ââCourse you can, sweetheart.â
Then he pushed a third finger in. Your walls clamped down on him, fluttering like it was panicking from the stretch.
He grunted at that, working his finger in. âSo tight. Almost makes me think youâre a fuckinâ virgin.â
Your walls fluttered at that, your body tensing at the words. Tojiâs smirk deepened, eyes sharpening as he caught the subtle shift in your reaction. He stilled his movements for just a moment, head tilting slightly as realization dawned on him.
âOh,â he drawled, voice dropping even lower, thick with something dangerous. âThat so, sweetheart?â His fingers flexed inside you, making you jerk. âFuck, no wonder youâre squeezinâ me like this.â His wolfish grin widened, teeth flashing as he leaned in, voice like a growl against your ear. âYour first time, and itâs gonna be with me? Hah. Ainât that somethinâ?â
Your breath hitched, shame and arousal mixing in a dizzying heat. Toji chuckled darkly, fingers starting to move again, slower, deeper. âDonât worry, baby,â he murmured, pressing a filthy kiss to your jaw. His scent overwhelms youâcigarettes, musk, and something warm. âIâll make sure you never forget it.â
You clenched even tighter at that, earning a grunt from Toji who had to work much harder to fuck his fingers into you.
Toji chuckled, voice dripping with amusement. âOh? That got you clenchinâ up real tight. What is it, baby? The thought of this big cock being your first get you all worked up?â His fingers curled again, stroking that spot inside you deliberately. You choked on a gasp, your hips jerking against the countertop.
His free hand moved to your jaw, gripping it roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. âNah, canât be. Not with a fuckin' pussy like this,â he murmured, his voice dark and amused. âToo fuckinâ sweet. Too fuckin' greedy.â He pried your lips open with his thumb, watching with a glint in his eye as your tongue lolled out on instinct. âSee? Good little sluts always open up for me.â
Before you could respond, he spit. The thick warmth of it landed right on your tongue, and you whined, your body betraying you as you swallowed without thinking. He grinned at the sight, fingers still fucking deep inside your cunt.
âThatâs it,â he murmured, voice thick with approval. âKnew youâd be fuckin' perfect for me.â
His fingers spread inside you, stretching you even wider, and you gasped, hands flying up to clutch at his wrist. His grin only widened.
âAww, poor thing,â he mocked, leaning in so his lips brushed against the corner of your mouth. âCanât take my fingers? Then how the fuck you gonna take my cock?â
You couldnât answer. All you could do was whimper as he fucked his fingers into you harder, knuckles-deep, the wet sounds of your arousal obscene in the quiet of the kitchen.
âMaybe I should make you beg for it first,â he mused, lips ghosting along your jaw. âMake you admit how bad you want me to split this tight little cunt open.â
His fingers finally withdrew, leaving you empty and aching, but before you could complain, Toji was already lowering himself between your thighs. He lifted one of your legs over his broad shoulder, his hands gripping your thighs tight enough to leave bruises.
âGotta open you up nice and proper, baby,â he murmured, voice dripping with sin. âCanât have this tiny fuckinâ hole strugglinâ too much, huh?â
His breath was hot against your drenched folds, his dark eyes locked onto your fluttering cunt. Then, without warning, he spit. The thick glob of saliva landed right on your swollen clit, mixing with your arousal, and you gasped at the sensation.
Toji groaned at the sight. âFuckinâ messy,â he muttered, using two fingers to spread the slickness over your folds. âBet youâve never had anyone eat this pretty pussy, huh?â
You barely had time to shake your head before he dove in. His tongue was hot, rough, and unrelenting as he licked a long, slow stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking. Hard.
Your back arched off the counter, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as Toji devoured you like a man starved. His tongue worked you over, hot and wet, flicking and swirling in ways that had your thighs trembling around his head. He didnât just eat pussy; he dominated it, owned it, made it his.
His fingers pressed back into you, two thick digits stretching you open while his tongue teased your swollen bundle of nerves. He pumped them slowly at first, letting you feel every ridge of his calloused fingertips rubbing against your slick walls.
âGotta get this tight little hole ready,â he murmured between licks, his breath hot against your soaked folds. âCanât have you cryinâ when I stuff you full.â
You whimpered, your hands flying to his dark hair, gripping tight as your hips bucked against his mouth.
Toji growled, pleased by your desperation, and shoved his fingers deeper. âThatâs it, baby. Fuckinâ take it.â
His tongue never relented, flicking, sucking, teasing, until the pressure inside you coiled unbearably tight. He could feel it, the way your walls squeezed around his fingers, the way your body trembled beneath him.
âGonna cum for me, huh?â he rasped, his voice vibrating against your clit. âGo on, then. Fuckinâ soak me.â
A few more ruthless strokes of his tongue, and you shattered.
Your orgasm tore through you, your body locking up as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Toji groaned against your pussy, drinking in every drop of slick that gushed out of you, his fingers still working you through it, milking every last bit of your release.
When you finally came down, breathless and trembling, Toji pulled back just enough to admire his work. Your cunt was puffy, glistening, a mess of his spit and your cum.
âFuck,â he muttered, voice thick with approval. âNow thatâs a pretty sight.â
Toji pulled away from your ruined cunt, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his dark eyes full of something primal as he stood to his full height. His cock strained against his sweats, a thick outline pressing against the fabric, and he smirked down at you, chest rising and falling heavily.
âNow,â he drawled, gripping your thighs tighter, his voice a dark promise, âwhere do you want me to ruin you, baby? Right here on the counter? Bent over that fancy couch of yours?â His smirk deepened as he leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur against your lips. âOr should I stretch you out on that big, empty bed of yours?â
He let the question hang in the air, but the wicked glint in his eyes told youâthis wasnât really your choice.
Toji didnât wait for an answer. Not that you could give him one. Your brain was too fogged with lust, your body too pliant in his grasp. He hauled you up effortlessly, strong arms keeping you locked against him as he carried you through the dimly lit halls of your home. The path to your bedroom felt both too long and too short, every step sending another wave of slick arousal dripping down your thighs.
Your back hit the mattress before you even realized he had thrown you down. The bed dipped under his weight as he crawled over you, eyes dark and hungry as he took in the sight beneath him. Your flushed skin, your trembling legs, the way your breath came in short, desperate pants.
âLook at you,â he murmured, running a rough palm up your thigh. âFuckinâ perfect. Spread out for me like a good little girl.â
His hand gripped the underside of your knee, shoving your legs further apart. The air was thick with the scent of sex, your arousal glistening between your thighs. Toji groaned low in his chest, tapping the heavy weight of his cock against your swollen clit, smearing your slick all over the thick head.
His fingers trailed down your belly, calloused fingertips tracing over your trembling skin before stopping just above your pelvis. "You on the pill, baby?" he asked, voice low, rough, almost like he didnât really care what the answer was.
You swallowed thickly, nodding. "Y-yeah."
His smirk widened, lazy and dangerous. His palm pressed down against your lower stomach, fingers flexing possessively. "Mm. Not like it wouldâve mattered."
Your breath caught in your throat, your stomach tightening at the weight of his words. The realization barely had time to settle before he shifted, spreading your thighs wider, his broad hands gripping the plush of them like he owned every inch.
"Fuck, look at you," he muttered, dragging the fat head of his cock along your slick folds, coating himself in the wetness he had worked you into. "Drippinâ for me like a needy little thing. Bet youâd take it either way, huh?" His tone was mocking, almost pitying. "Doesnât even matter, babyâIâm gonna fuck you full, gonna stretch this little cunt open till youâre ruined for anyone else."
A pathetic whimper slipped from your lips, and Toji groaned, guiding himself to your entrance, pressing just enough for you to feel the unbearable pressure of his size.
âYou ready for me, baby?â His voice was almost mocking, a dark smirk pulling at his lips. He knew the answer. Knew from the way your body trembled, from the way your breath hitched when he pressed the fat head of his cock against your entrance.
Still, he wanted to hear it.
You nodded, gasping as he rubbed slow circles against your clit with his cock. âY-Yeah.â
âYeah?â He raised a brow, feigning disinterest. âDunno, sweetheart. You sure this tiny little pussy can take me?â
You whined, your hips bucking instinctively, desperate for more friction. âPlease,â you whimpered, voice barely above a breath.
Toji chuckled darkly. âThereâs that pretty begginâ again.â
He didnât make you wait any longer.
A sharp gasp left your lips as he pushed in, the thick crown stretching you open in a way his fingers never could. The burn was instant, overwhelming, your walls struggling to take the sheer size of him. Toji groaned, low and guttural, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he fought to keep himself from bottoming out too fast.
âShit,â he ground out, watching the way your tight little hole struggled to take him. âTakinâ me so fuckinâ good, baby.â
Your head tipped back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut as your walls clenched down on him. It was too much. Too big, too thick, too deep already, and he wasnât even fully inside yet.
âRelax,â he muttered, voice strained with restraint. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, taunting circles to ease the tension. âYou can take it, sweetheart. You wanted this, didnât you?â
You nodded frantically, fingers twisting in the sheets as he pushed in another inch. The stretch was unbearable, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but the pleasure was just as intense. You felt so full, so stuffed, your body struggling to accommodate him.
Toji groaned at the sight of your teary, desperate face. âFuck, look at you. Cryinâ on my cock already.â He pushed in another inch, watching the way your body trembled beneath him. âYou wanted this, baby. So take it.â
And then he slammed the rest of the way in.
"Biiig stretch, sweetheart," he rasped, teasing, savoring the way your walls fluttered in panic. "Deep fuckinâ breaths. This pussyâs gotta learn to take me."
A broken cry tore from your throat, your back arching off the mattress as he bottomed out. The sheer fullness of him sent a shudder through your body, your thighs twitching where they were spread wide. Toji stilled, gritting his teeth at the way your walls spasmed around him, struggling to adjust.
âFuck, youâre squeezin' me so tight.â His voice was wrecked, a guttural groan rumbling from his chest. âTakin' me so fuckin' deep, baby⌠Look at you, stretched so pretty around me.â
Your fingers dug into his biceps, nails leaving crescent moons in his skin as you tried to ground yourself. Toji's hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.
âBreathe,â he rasped, his thumb dragging over your parted lips before pressing down against your tongue. âThere you go. Just like that. Lemme in, sweetheart.â
You whimpered around his thumb, dazed, overwhelmed, your mind drowning in the sensation of being so utterly filled. Toji grinned, something dark and satisfied curling in his expression.
âThatâs it,â he praised, shifting his hips slightly, letting you feel every inch of him buried inside you. âThis pussy was made to take me.â
Then he pulled back, just an inch, before driving his cock back in. Harder, deeper.
You choked on a gasp, pleasure ricocheting up your spine as Toji set a brutal rhythm, dragging his length out before slamming it back inside, making sure you felt every ridge, every vein, every inch. Your bed creaked pitifully beneath the force of it, the sound of skin meeting skin obscene in the quiet room.
âSo fuckin' good,â Toji groaned, his grip on your thighs tightening. âMakin' a mess all over me, baby. So desperate, so needy for cock.â
Your walls clenched at his words, the filthiness of it only heightening the coil tightening in your stomach. Toji caught it immediately, his grin widening.
âYeah? You like that? My dirty little girl, gettin' off on being used?â
You couldnât answer; not when he was fucking you so deep, so hard, the air punched from your lungs with every thrust. All you could do was sob, overwhelmed, delirious with pleasure.
Toji chuckled darkly, leaning in, his breath hot against your ear. âSuch a nasty little slut.â
Your stomach twisted, shame and arousal tangling into something unbearable, but Toji didnât let up.
âWhat would Megumi think, huh?â he sneered, voice dripping with mockery. âHis pretty little friendâso fuckinâ proper, so well-behavedâlettinâ his deadbeat old man fuck her stupid.â
A sob tore from your throat, half-formed, half-pleasure, half-mortification. Toji only laughed, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to look at him.
âThatâs right, baby,â he cooed, thrusts growing rougher. âNothinâ you can say now, huh? Too busy cryinâ on my cock.â
Toji groaned, his pace never faltering. âYouâre mine now, sweetheart. Gonna fuck you so full, make sure you never forget who this pussy belongs to.â
His hand slid down between your bodies, pressing against the bulge in your lower stomach, making you feel just how deep he was inside you. âYou feel that?â he murmured, voice thick with possession. âThatâs me, baby. Right where I fuckinâ belong.â
Your breath hitched, eyes rolling back as his fingers returned to your clit, rubbing in tight, relentless circles. The sensation was too much, your body wound tight, teetering on the edge of something devastating.
âGonna cum for me?â he taunted, his thrusts turning sharp, bruising. âGonna cream all over my cock like a needy little thing?â
You sobbed, legs tightening around his waist, nails raking down his back. Toji groaned at the sting, at the way your walls spasmed, clenching down so hard it nearly broke his rhythm.
âFuck,â he hissed. âThatâs it, sweetheart. Give it to me.â
The coil snapped, pleasure washing over you in waves so intense you nearly blacked out. Toji cursed, feeling you tighten around him, his own release barreling down on him as he drove into you with frantic, punishing thrusts.
âTake it,â he gritted out. âTake all of it.â
A final thrust, a guttural groan, and he was spilling inside you, filling you up with everything he had. His body shuddered, muscles taut as he rode out his high, keeping himself buried deep, making sure not a single drop was wasted.
He slumped over you, pressing a lazy, filthy kiss against your temple before pulling back slightly, just enough to meet your dazed, ruined gaze.
âTappinâ out already, sweetheart?â he murmured, faux sympathy in his husky voice. âIâm not done with you yet.â
Your reflection in the vanity mirror was a mess. Teary-eyed, mouth open in gasping moans, body trembling from overstimulation. Toji had you bent over the vanity, his rough hands gripping your hips, keeping you steady as he pounded into you from behind. The mirror shook violently with each thrust, the delicate perfume bottles and makeup brushes rattling dangerously close to toppling over.
âLook at you,â Toji rasped against your ear, one large hand sliding up to fist into your hair and yanking your head back, forcing you to watch yourself. "Letting a man like me use you like a cumdump. What would your parents say?" He punctuated his words with a brutal snap of his hips, knocking the air out of you.
A choked sob left your lips, your body jolting forward from the sheer force of it. Your nails scraped against the wooden surface, legs trembling as Toji groaned behind you, his hands tightening on your hips.
âFuck, youâre still so goddamn tight,â he growled, pulling back just to slam in again, knocking the breath from your lungs. âThought I broke you in already, but this pussyâs still clinginâ to me like it doesnât wanna let go.â
Your mouth opened in a silent cry, the stretch unbearable, the pleasure too intense. Tojiâs hands slid up your body, one wrapping around your throat, forcing you to lift your head and look at yourself in the mirror.
âWatch yourself,â he ordered, his grip tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. âWanna see what a filthy fuckinâ mess you are takinâ my cock.â
Your teary eyes locked onto your reflectionâonto the way your body jerked with every punishing thrust, onto the way Toji loomed over you like he owned you, his scarred lips curled into a smug smirk. The sight alone had your walls fluttering around him, clenching tight in helpless desperation.
Toji groaned, his free hand twisting in your hair, yanking your head back further. âTight little thing,â he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. âYou like this, donât you? Beinâ used like this? Letting a man old enough to be your daddy fuck you stupid?â
You whined, barely able to form a response, your cheek smushed against the cool surface of the vanity. The only sounds leaving your lips were broken moans and gasps as he stretched you out, stuffing you full and hitting deep with every ruthless thrust.
"N-notâ" you tried to speak, but Tojiâs grip tightened in your hair, tugging you up so your back arched further, making his cock slide even deeper inside you. You sobbed at the sensation, thighs trembling from the overwhelming pleasure.
"Not what, sweetheart?" He mocked, his free hand slipping around to wrap around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head spin. "Not supposed to let me fuck you like this? Too late for that. Look how fuckinâ messy you are for me."
He leaned in, his lips slanting over yours in a sloppy, desperate kiss, tongue plunging into your mouth and swallowing your gasps whole. He kissed like he fucked. Hungry, all-consuming, utterly devastating.
The vanity rocked harder, the mirror shaking so violently you thought it might crack. Tojiâs pace was relentless, his grunts and growls mixing with the obscene wet sounds of skin slapping against skin. You could barely keep yourself upright, your arms shaking as you tried to brace against the vanity.
"Fu-fuck, Tojiâ" you mewled, your entire body burning from overstimulation.
"What, baby? Canât handle it?" He cooed mockingly, a smirk tugging at his lips as he pulled back slightly, only to slam back in with enough force to make the vanity screech against the hardwood floor. "Donât tap out yet, princess. Iâm not finished with you yet."
He wasnât lying. His hands roamed over your trembling form, one hand gripping your hip in a bruising hold while the other moved to press firmly between your shoulder blades, forcing you deeper into the vanity. The change in angle had you keening, tears welling up in your eyes, body jolting with each harsh thrust. His fat tip was practically making out with your cervix. He was reaching so deep you swore he would somehow rip into you.
"Thatâs it, take it," he growled, pressing wet kisses along your spine, only to bite down hard enough to make you yelp. You felt his stubble tickling your skin. "Gonna fuck you so good, you wonât be able to think about anything else."
His fingers found your swollen clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles that had your legs shaking violently. The overstimulation was unbearable, but you couldn't stop yourself from clenching down around him, your body betraying you in its desperate need for more.
Toji chuckled darkly, feeling your gummy walls spasm around him. "Yeah, thatâs it, sweetheart. Cream all over my cock. Show me just how much you fuckinâ love it."
You let out a choked sob, your release slamming into you with blinding intensity. Your body seized up, pleasure crashing over you in waves so strong it left you breathless.
âGo on, then,â he murmured, voice dripping with filth. âCum for me, baby. Make a mess of yourself.â
His words shattered whatever restraint you had left. Your body convulsed, pleasure washing over you in waves so intense you nearly blacked out. Your walls spasmed around him, milking him, dragging him deeper. Toji groaned, his pace turning frantic, bruising, his own release barreling down on him.
âFuck,â he snarled, snapping his hips forward one last time, burying himself deep. âTake itâtake every fuckinâ drop.â
He filled you up, his body shuddering against yours, his breath ragged in your ear. His grip loosened on your throat, his other hand sliding down to rub slow, lazy circles against your overstimulated clit, making you jolt with aftershocks.
Your body barely had a second to recover before Toji was moving again, hands gripping your thighs as he dragged you off the vanity and down onto the cold hardwood floor. The shock of the cold floor jolted your warm body, shining with a thin sheen of sweat. Your legs were jelly, trembling from overstimulation, but he handled you like you were weightless, shoving you onto your back and manhandling you into a deep mating press.
Your knees nearly touched your shoulders, folded up so tight you had no controlâno escape. Toji loomed over you, his massive frame caging you in completely, dark eyes hooded with hunger as he took in the sight of you laid out beneath him. His fat cock, still slick from your previous release, slapped against your raw, swollen folds, making you whimper.
Pap. Pap. Pap.
âNot done with you yet, sweetheart,â he murmured, rubbing the thick tip against your overstimulated clit, making your whole body jolt. He smirked at your reaction, pressing in just enough to make you gasp. âYou can take more, canât you? Fucked this little pussy open real nice already.â
You moaned, brain too foggy to form words, only able to squirm under him as he teased you. His hands slid down, gripping the backs of your thighs and spreading you even wider, completely exposing you to him. He groaned at the sight, his cock twitching. âFuckinâ made for this. Just look at you.â
You tried to babble somethingâmaybe a protest, maybe a pleaâbut Toji didnât give you the chance. He pushed in with one brutal thrust, bottoming out instantly, punching the air from your lungs. The stretch was unbearable, white-hot pleasure and pain mixing as your walls spasmed around the thick intrusion.
Toji let out a rough groan, rolling his hips to make you feel every inch of him buried inside. âBiiiig stretch, baby,â he grunted. His large hand pressed down on your belly, right where he was nestled deep, and his smirk widened when he felt the outline of his cock there. âFuckinâ hell,â he rasped, pressing down harder. âFeel that, baby? Youâre so fuckinâ full of me.â
Tears pricked at your eyes, body overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it all. You nodded weakly, a choked sob escaping as he gave an experimental thrust, grinding deeper, making your vision blur.
âToo muchââ you whimpered, nails clawing at his biceps, but Toji only chuckled darkly, leaning down until his lips brushed your ear.
âToo bad,â he murmured. âTakinâ it. Every fuckinâ inch.â
And then he started moving.
His thrusts were deep and brutal, slamming you down into the floor with every snap of his hips. The obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, the wet squelch of your soaked cunt, and Tojiâs rough groans filled the room. Your moans were reduced to broken, breathless cries, your legs twitching from the relentless pace.
âFuck, look at you,â he groaned, voice thick with lust. âThis tiny pussy takinâ me so goodâlook at the mess youâre makinâ.â
You barely registered his words, too lost in the stretch, the overwhelming fullness of him splitting you open. Your nails dug into his arms, desperate for something to ground yourself with, but it was useless. He had you trapped, helpless beneath him.
Then, Toji leaned in, capturing your lips in a filthy, desperate kiss. It was messy, all tongue and teeth, his breath hot and heavy against your mouth. He swallowed your whimpers greedily, sucking on your tongue before pulling back just enough to let a thick strand of spit drip into your mouth.
âSwallow,â he ordered, voice dark and commanding.
You obeyed without thinking, your body too far gone to do anything but submit. He grinned, dragging his thumb down to smear your spit-slick lips before diving back in, devouring you in another feverish kiss.
âSuch a good fuckinâ girl,â he gritted out, watching the way your body took him. âLettinâ me break you in like this. Letting an old man like me fuck you stupid on the floor.â He dragged his tongue along your cheek, tasting the salt of your tears. âPretty princess was pampered all her life, but all she really needs is some good dicking down, huh?â
You could only nod your head weakly, overwhelmed, overstimulated, completely at his mercy.
Toji growled, his grip tightening on your thighs as he drove into you even harder, grinding so deep you could feel him in your stomach. âGood,â he muttered. ââCause youâre mine now. Ainât gonna let anyone else have this pretty fuckinâ pussy.â
Your back arched off the floor as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak, your walls clamping down around him, pulling him deeper. Toji cursed under his breath, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic.
âGonna fill you up,â he groaned, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles to push you over the edge. âFuckinâ take it, baby. Wanna see you dripping with me.â
A strangled cry ripped from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you, body convulsing under him. Your walls spasmed, milking his cock, and that was all it took. Toji snarled, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, his body trembling with the force of his release.
For a long moment, all that filled the room was heavy breathing, the both of you panting against each other, bodies slick with sweat. But Toji wasnât done.
His dark gaze flickered down to where you were still twitching around him, his cum leaking out in thick dribbles. A slow, lazy smirk stretched across his lips as he rolled his hips once more, making you shudder.
Your legs twitched with overstimulation, your mind blank with pleasure as Toji fucked you through every last wave. He leaned back just slightly, admiring the sight beneath him; your thoroughly ruined form, the way your body trembled, the way his cum dripped from your swollen, used pussy, smearing along your inner thighs and pooling beneath you on the floor.
âMessy fuckinâ girl,â he muttered, dragging a thick finger through the creamy slick spilling from your cunt. He pushed it back inside, groaning at the way you clenched around the intrusion. âStill takinâ me so good, even like this. Guess I fucked the fight right outta you.â
He leaned down, pressing a slow, filthy kiss against your parted lips, savoring the taste of you, the heat of your breath against his. Then he pulled back, eyes dark and gleaming with satisfaction.
âHope you didnât have plans tomorrow, sweetheart.â
âHello? Earth to dumbass.â
You blinked, abruptly pulled from your haze by the irritated voice across the table. Megumi was staring at you, brow furrowed, fingers drumming against the chipped ceramic of his coffee cup.
âYouâve been spacing out for the past five minutes,â he said flatly, taking a sip of his drink. âWhat the hellâs up with you lately?â
Your fingers curled around your own cup, but you barely registered the warmth seeping into your palms. Your mind was still stuck in the days before, still reeling from the way Toji had left you a mess. Inside and out.
And then, heâd left his number.
You hadnât even had time to process it before your phone buzzed later that night, his nameâwell, not really, since he saved himself as just âTââlighting up your screen. Since then, you have been texting. Constantly. Not just late at night, but throughout the day, his presence worming its way into your routine, his words lingering in your head long after you locked your phone.
And fuck, the things he said.
Your thighs pressed together instinctively under the table, breath hitching as you thought about his last text. About how he described exactly what he wanted to do to you next time, about how he made sure you understood just how ruined you already were. How he had you sending him voice messages late at night, muffling your moans into your pillow while he groaned filth into your ear.
It wasnât just dirty talk, though. Toji had a way of creeping into your head, teasing you about how you were already addicted to him, how he bet you couldnât go a single day without thinking about how good he felt. And the worst part? He was right.
You had tried to keep the conversations short, to play it cool, but Toji was relentless. Always saying just enough to get under your skin, to have you squirming with frustration or anticipation. Like when heâd sent you a lazy, taunting text that morning:
Bet your legs are still sore, huh?
Good girl. Meant to do that.
Your stomach twisted just remembering it, the phantom ache between your thighs only proving his point. The way he talked to youâlike you were already his, like you belonged to himâmade your skin burn, made your breath hitch in a way you couldnât control.
âYouâre doing it again.â Megumiâs voice cut through your daze once more, and you nearly jumped. His gaze was sharper now, scrutinizing. âWhatâs up with you?â
âNothing,â you said quickly, too quickly. You grabbed your coffee, taking a sip to mask your flustered expression, but the heat did little to hide the flush crawling up your neck.
Megumi didnât buy it. His eyes narrowed slightly. âBullshit. Youâre never this quiet.â
You swallowed, forcing a casual shrug. âJust tired.â
He frowned, clearly unconvinced. âYou sure? Because youâve been acting weird for days now. Spacing out, jumping at your phone like itâs gonna bite youââ
âI do notââ
âYou do.â He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. âAnd now youâre acting all weird and fidgety. If I didnât know any better, Iâd think you were talking to some guy.â
Your stomach twisted violently, fingers tightening around your cup. Megumi said it like a joke, like the idea of you sneaking around with someone was ridiculous. But if only he knew.
If only he knew that you had let his father, of all people, stretch you open on your own bed. That you had been texting him for days, hanging onto every filthy word, every little reminder of how thoroughly he had wrecked you. That even now, in the middle of a cafĂŠ, you could still feel the ghost of Tojiâs hands on your skin, still hear the way he groaned your name in your ear.
You let out a nervous laugh, waving a dismissive hand. âYeah, right.â
Megumi hummed, eyeing you for a long moment before finally sighing and dropping the subject. âWhatever. Just get your shit together for our group project. Iâm going to murder Nobara if she keeps ghosting our group chat.â
You nodded, swallowing hard as you forced yourself to focus on the conversation, but your mind was already wandering again. Right back to Toji.
It had become a bad habit.
A filthy, reckless, all-consuming bad habit.
You werenât sure when it officially started. When the first time bled into the second, then the third, until keeping count felt pointless. Maybe it was when he first showed up outside your place late at night, an amused glint in his eye when you opened the door and let him in without question. Maybe it was when you started to leave it unlocked for him, knowing heâd come anyway.
Now, it was routine. Toji slipped into your sheets, into your body, into your life like he had every right to be there. He didnât wait for an invitation anymore, just took what he wanted, when he wanted, and you let him. Every damn time.
And it was never safe. Never careful. Always on the verge of getting caught.
A quick fuck in a restaurant bathroom between lectures. His large hand stuffed over your mouth, teeth sinking into your shoulder to muffle his own grunts as he forced you to stay quiet.
Bent over the hood of your car in an empty parking garage, the metal cool against your burning skin, his palm flat between your shoulders to keep you in place.
His fingers pressing into you under the table at a restaurant, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured filth, his other hand idly stirring his beer like he wasnât two knuckles deep inside you.
It didnât matter where, didnât matter when. If he wanted you, he took you. And you let him.
You were addicted to the danger of it, to the sick thrill of knowing just how easily you could be found out.
And that was the worst part. Because despite knowing how disastrous it would be if anyoneâif Megumiâfound out, you still didnât stop.
It was supposed to be just physical.
A bad decision. A reckless indulgence. Something to get out of your system before you went back to your real life. Before you found someone appropriate, someone who made sense.
A mistake, then a bad habit, then something you stopped trying to name because there wasnât a word for what you and Toji had become. It wasnât love, wasnât romance. But it wasnât just fucking, either.
Somewhere between the nights tangled in his sheets and the stolen moments that left you breathless, the lines had blurred. It wasnât just about the way he touched you anymore, or the way you fell apart under him. It was the way you felt when he looked at you like he knew youâreally knew you. Like he saw past the carefully curated version of yourself that the rest of the world expected.
Toji had a way of dragging the real you to the surface, of unraveling you with nothing but a smirk and a well-placed taunt. He didnât care about appearances, didnât give a fuck about the prim and proper image youâd spent your entire life maintaining. With him, you didnât have to be perfect. You could be messy, needy, selfish. You could whimper and beg and take everything he gave you without worrying about how it looked or what it meant.
And he liked that. He liked knowing he was the only one who got to see you like this. He liked reminding you of it, too, voice rough in your ear as he told you no one else could fuck you like he did, that no one else would ever know you like he did.
The worst part was that he was right.
But it wasnât just him getting under your skin. Youâd learned him, too, in ways you werenât sure anyone else had. Toji wasnât the type to open up, wasnât the type to share unless he had something to gain. But you caught the way his expression softened sometimes, the way he listened when you talked, even if he pretended not to care. Like how he always remembered little details about you, things you hadnât even realized you mentioned. How he never outright said it, but you could tell when he was listening, when he was paying attention. How he poked fun at the life you led but still entertained it in his own wayâswiping a sip of your overpriced coffee just to grimace at the taste, picking at the expensive fabric of your clothes like he couldnât believe people paid so much for something so impractical. Heâd tease you about your rich girl problems, mock you for your spoiled habits, but then heâd fix your necklace when the clasp got caught in your hair, or toss his jacket over your shoulders when he thought you looked cold.
It was a push and pull, a delicate game neither of you acknowledged but played all the same. You werenât sure when it had started feeling like more than a transaction, when the nights you spent together stopped being about lust and started being about something else entirely. Maybe it was the way he never left right away anymore. Maybe it was the way he pulled you against his chest when it was over, tracing lazy circles into your hip like he didnât want to let go.
Or maybe it was the way you let him.
The air was thick with the lingering scent of cigarette smoke, the low hum of the city outside filtering through the open window. You sat at the edge of the bed, legs crossed, fingers curled into the plush fabric of the sheets. Toji was leaning back against the headboard, shirtless, sweat still cooling on his skin, lazily dragging from a cigarette. The orange ember flared as he inhaled, casting a fleeting glow over his sharp features.
You shouldâve gotten dressed. Shouldâve left already. But instead, you were here, tracing the seam of the pillowcase, debating how to say what youâd come here to say.
His eyes flicked to you, amused, like he could already tell something was on your mind. âYouâre quiet.â
You hesitated. âI have something to tell you.â
Toji exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. âThat so?â
You nodded, swallowing. Your throat felt tight. âIâm getting engaged soon.â
There was a pause. A beat where all you could hear was the faint hum of the city beyond the window.
Then Toji huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. âKnew it was cominâ.â
Your stomach twisted. There was no shock in his voice. No real reaction at all. Just that same damn smirk, lazy and knowing, like he had been waiting for this moment.
He flicked the cigarette into the ashtray, stretching his arms above his head. His muscles flexed, shifting under his scarred skin. âGuess that means our little arrangementâs gotta end, huh?â He was grinning now, but there was something biting underneath it. âWouldnât wanna mess up your perfect little life.â
You swallowed, your gaze searching his. Trying to find something beneath that smug exterior. Something real.
But Toji just smirked wider, eyes half-lidded as he raked a slow glance down your bare skin. âWhatâs the lucky guy like? Bet heâs got a nice suit, fancy-ass watch. Sâwhat your folks always wanted, huh?â
You said nothing.
He tsked, shaking his head. âWhat a shame.â Then his hand was on your chin, fingers firm, tilting your face up to his. His grip was possessive, almost cruel. âHope he knows what heâs gettinâ. âCause I sure as hell do.â
And then he kissed you.
It wasnât gentle. It wasnât sweet. It was deep and filthy, like he was branding you, making damn sure you remembered exactly who had you first. His teeth scraped against your lower lip, his tongue claiming your mouth, a cruel mockery of every time he had pulled you under him and ruined you. His grip tightened when you whimpered, and his other hand found your waist, dragging you closer like he didnât care that you had just told him you belonged to someone else.
Because right now, you still belonged to him.
And he was making sure you never forgot it.
The arrangement dwindled the way all things doomed to end eventually did.
It wasnât abrupt, wasnât some dramatic confrontation. It simply faded. A slow decline, a natural withering. The late-night texts became scarce. The stolen moments fewer. The lingering touches reduced to nothing. You got busier, consumed by the responsibilities of graduation, the whirlwind of your engagement, the pressure of stepping into the life that had always been laid out for you.
And Toji let it happen.
He saw it coming. Of course, he did. He always knew this was temporary, a guilty indulgence neither of you shouldâve entertained for as long as you did. He didnât chase, didnât demand an explanation. His last message had been weeks before the wedding, something teasing, something impersonal. One last echo of the man who had unraveled you so thoroughly.
You hadnât replied.
The wedding was perfect. A masterpiece of wealth and status, orchestrated down to the finest details. The Italian villa gleamed under the golden afternoon sun, its marble floors reflecting the light of extravagant chandeliers. Crystal glasses chimed in elegant toasts, the air thick with the scent of imported florals, the hum of string instruments weaving seamlessly into murmured conversations.
You were the picture of a bride who had it all. Draped in delicate lace, diamonds glittering at your ears and throat, the weight of expectation settled as effortlessly as the veil cascading down your back. Chloe, Marissa, and Juliaâyour bridesmaids, your childhood friends, your social equalsâstood beside you in gowns carefully chosen to complement your own, their smiles radiant, their laughter effortless.
âYour husband is absolutely smitten,â Chloe teased, adjusting the bracelet on her wrist as she leaned in. âI donât think heâs taken his eyes off you all evening.â
âHeâd be a fool if he did,â Marissa added with a smirk, sipping her champagne. âGod, this whole thing looks like something out of a dream. Youâve really outdone yourself.â
Julia sighed wistfully, watching the crowd swirl around the dance floor. âItâs everything we imagined when we were little, isnât it?â
You smiled, because it was expected, because you knew the right expression, the right words, the right way to nod as if everything was falling into place exactly as it should.
And yet, your mind wandered.
Across the room, Megumi sat among the other honored guests, suited up and polished, the image of the young man he was always meant to be. A quiet presence, sharp-eyed and observant, a reminder of a past that should have been long buried. Your gaze lingered on him too long, searching, tracing the familiar shadows of his father in the angles of his face. The resemblance sent a ripple through you, something unsteady and unshakable.
Toji should not have been in your thoughts today. And yet, he was everywhere. In the phantom sensation of calloused hands gripping your hips, in the echo of a gravelly chuckle against your ear, in the ghost of bruises long faded but never truly gone.
Your husband touched the small of your back, his warmth a contrast to the chill creeping up your spine. âYou look beautiful,â he murmured, his voice full of quiet reverence.
You turned to him, offering the practiced softness he deserved. He was good, kind, everything your family had hoped for. Everything you had been raised to want.
So why did you feel like a guest in your own life?
The clinking of glasses signaled another toast, another moment to be captured, another perfect memory being curated for the life you were meant to lead. You lifted your champagne flute, smiled for the cameras, and played your part with practiced grace.
But deep down, you knew.
No matter how beautiful the setting, how flawless the performance, there was a version of you that had been left behind in tangled sheets and rough hands, in whispered taunts and breathless gasps. A version of you that had been ruined long before you ever recited your vows at the altar.
The wedding night only made you remember the gruff man with the scar running through his lip and a pair of poisonous green eyes.
Your new husband held you in his arms, kissed you with a gentleness that shouldâve made you feel cherished, safe, loved. He was everything you were supposed to want; handsome, well-mannered, well-bred, the kind of man your parents would be proud of. He looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. And yet, you felt nothing.
Not like you did with Toji.
Because with Toji, there had never been any pretending. He had seen you, the real you, in ways no one else ever had. He had stripped you bare. Of your clothes, of your composure, of every carefully constructed part of yourself that you wore like armor. And you had let him. You had loved it. Because for once, you werenât the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect bride-to-be.
You were just his.
And now, lying beside the man you were supposed to spend your life with, you couldnât stop thinking about the one you had left behind.
The illusion of a picture-perfect marriage was easy to maintain.
You had stepped into the role seamlessly. Graceful, poised, the ever-dutiful wife draped in luxury. The townhome was pristine, the social obligations fulfilled without fault, the smiles exchanged between you and your husband warm enough to never invite suspicion.
And yet, beneath the surface, something gnawed at you. A restlessness. A quiet, lingering hunger.
It wasnât love that was missing; it was something far more visceral, far more ruinous. The kind of fire you had known in secret, in sin, in the hands of a man who had no place in your world but had left his mark so deeply that even months of distance hadnât erased him.
You werenât supposed to see him again.
It happened at a gala. A refined, exclusive event, the kind your husband thrived in. Champagne flutes clinked, laughter hummed through the room, and you played your part to perfection, offering effortless smiles, exchanging pleasantries, standing at your husbandâs side like a perfectly placed accessory.
And then you saw him.
Toji.
He didnât belong in a place like this, and yet, there he was, leaning against the bar, broad and imposing in a tailored black suit that fit him too well, the collar slightly loosened as if he refused to be fully tamed. The same lazy smirk, the same sharp green eyes raking over you with a knowing amusement, as if he had been expecting this moment.
He looked the same as he did the last time he held you in his arms all those months ago.
Your breath hitched. Heat coiled low in your stomach, unbidden, unwanted. Your steps slowed to a stop, your left hand clenching around the stem of the perspiring champagne flute.
"Look at you," he drawled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before setting it down. His eyes dragged to the glittering diamond on your left hand. "All wifed up and still starin' like you want me to bend you over this table."
Your throat went dry.
You should walk away. You should say something dismissive, feign indifference, remind himâand most importantly, yourselfâthat you had moved on. But the words didnât come, and Toji stepped closer, his presence cutting through the air like a knife, his scent filling your lungs, something deep and masculine and maddeningly familiar.
Your husband was still in the room, but far enough, engrossed in conversation, unaware. You werenât in his direct line of sight, only a corner of the grand ballroom, tucked away just enough for shadows to swallow what should never happen.
Tojiâs fingers brushed your wrist, barely a touch, and yet your body reacted, betraying you. His hand took your drink from you, setting it down on a nearby end table, his calloused fingers stroking your fingers, the hardness of your wedding ring. His smirk deepened at the way your breath hitched, at the way your lashes fluttered.
"Bet he donât fuck you the way I did, huh?" His voice was low, rough, dripping with sin. "Bet you still think about it. How I stretched this tight little cunt. How you took it like you were made for me."
A shaky breath escaped you. The world around you blurred, the weight of your choices pressing in from all sides.
You really shouldnât do this. Shouldnât even be entertaining those thoughts in your head. But then again, had he really left your head in the first place?
During the nights your husband kissed you, tried to fuck you, you found that there was much left to desire. Sometimes, you had to close your eyes and pretend it was a scarred lip kissing you sloppily, that it was the same embrace that reminded you more of a furnace wrapping around your frame, and that it was a pair of smoldering, dark green eyes boring into your own to even bring you close to cumming.
His knuckles grazed your jaw, thumb dragging along your lower lip, teasing, testing. Your lips parted slightly, betraying you, and Toji hummed, gaze flicking down.
"Still got that pretty little mouth, too," he murmured, voice thick with something darker, heavier. "Miss havin' it all fucked dumb for me."
You swallowed hard, pulse hammering against your ribs.
And then he leaned in, lips barely grazing your ear, his breath warm and deliberate. "Be honest, sweetheart. You miss me?"
SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY â MASTERLIST (nsfw content: potential dark themes!)
click on the links, and it will take you to all the posts with that respective tag!
âgeneral simon riley
âroommate simon riley
âneighbor simon riley
âboyfriend simon riley
âolder boyfriend simon riley
âhusband simon riley
âbest friend's brother/brother's best friend simon riley
âbiker simon riley
âgym bro simon riley
âstalker simon riley
âserial killer simon riley
âkidnapper simon riley
âbutcher simon riley
âloser simon riley
âtattoo artist simon riley
âpiercer simon riley
âmechanic simon riley
âpriest simon riley
âblue collar/cowboy simon riley
âprofessor simon riley
âwrestler simon riley
virgin!choso, handjob, premature ejaculation, established relationship âŚ
youâve been dating choso for almost five months now, taking things as slow as possible. in fact, the most intimacy youâve had with your boyfriend is making out.
you taught him how to, of course.
choso got hard often â even if all you did was touch his thigh, or kiss his cheek, you always notice how he scrambles to cover the tent in his pants.
you knew all this was new to him. relationships, sex⌠you werenât surprised he became embarrassed when his body reacted in the way it did.
tonight, you had a plan. you wanted to rid him of embarrassment, show him its normal to become aroused when heâs around the woman he loves.
only you didnât know that technically wasnât what heâs embarrassed aboutâŚ
âŚ
"can i⌠go lower?" you ask, kissing down chosoâs solid abs, reaching his v-line, ogling the prevalent tent in his pants that he tries to cover with his hand.
choso scratches at the nape of his neck, nervously. "you mean⌠down my pants?" he asks, breathing beginning to quicken.
you nod, toying with the waistband of his pants, making his dick twitch excitedly. "i donât have to if you donât want me to, cho. i want you to be comfortable," you add.
choso pauses for a second before responding. "i donât feel uncomfortable, angel. i just- what if you donât like it?"
you smile sweetly, pressing another tender kiss just below his belly button. "i promise i like all of you. i want to make you feel good."
choso blushes a little, a faint smile appearing on his face. he helps you take down his pants along with his boxers, thick, veiny cock springing free.
you canât help the way your mouth gapes open. you had absolutely no idea your sweet, docile boyfriend was hung.
itâs not like you expected his dick to be small â youâve briefly seen him hard through his pants. but this? you almost couldnât find the words.
"iâm sorry- maybe i should put my pants back on-" choso says nervously, almost humiliated by your reaction as he assumed you didnât like what you saw.
you stop his hand as he begins to grab the hem of his boxers. it all began to make sense. "cho⌠are you embarrassed about how big you are?" you ask gently.
your boyfriend blushes more with every passing second. "yes⌠isnât it a bad thing? i donât want to hurt you," he responds, reaching down to play with a strand of your hair.
you felt your heart throb for him, and your pussy.
it was never about you. never that he didnât want to go there with you.
"baby, itâs not a bad thing at all," you smile, eyes flickering between your boyfriend and his massive dick. âcan i touch it?"
feeling reassured, choso nods, giving you the green light to wrap your hand around his length.
when you do, he almost instantly moans, entire body shivering at the contact. you were barely touching him and he was already breaking. "that feels â ahh â" he struggles.
the way you could barely wrap your hand around his girth made your clit throb desperately â youâve could only imagine how deliciously wide heâd stretch your cunt.
"do you want me to move my hand, cho?" you ask, almost certain you already knew the answer to that question.
chosoâs pupils dilate at the suggestion. "yesâ please, iâd like that, angel."
you begin stroking him from base to tip, slow at first, then setting a steady rhythm that already had him bucking his hips for more friction. sticky pre beads at his tip, thick veins pulsing against your palm.
"haah â is it supposed to feel," he pauses to let out a long whine, "t-this good?"
you begin to twist your wrist a little, then brush your thumb over his leaky slit. "youâre probably just more sensitive because itâs your first time. doing so well, cho," you reassure.
your soft praise has him whimpering louder, every stroke of his dick making him grip the couch beneath him tighter.
to add to your boyfriends pleasure, you lean in, wetting his dick with your saliva before beginning to work him faster. "ahhhâ" he mewls, feeling a familiar sensation build.
"i think iâm g-going to â mnn â cum, choso whines, unable to last any longer. "you should m-move away. i donât want to â haaahh â get it on you."
you chuckle, leaning in closer, swirling your tongue around his flushed, leaky tip. "want it in my mouth. please?"
he came as soon as your lips touched his tip.
"o-ohhh god â angel," choso moans breathily, watching you dart your tongue out to catch the spurts of cum erupting from him.
the filthy sight ignited something within him. embarrassment now long gone.
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
Youâre boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe youâre imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. âSimonââ
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
âWhat?â
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. âYouâre bleeding.â
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. âSânot mine.â
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But youâre too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space youâve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
Theyâre clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You canât shake the feeling that theyâre different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These arenât the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. âWhat happened?â
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isnât pressed into you to the hilt - like he isnât the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didnât come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
âWhat happened was,â he pauses. âGraves opened his fuckinâ mouth.â
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
âWhatââ you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. âWhat did he say?â
Simonâs hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
âHe said heâd wondered what you sounded like when you begged.â
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you canât reconcile the sentence with the room youâre in. With Simon above you. With Gravesâs name in Simonâs mouth and blood under Simonâs jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
âHe said,â Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, âthat a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.â
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
âI-Iââ you whimper. âSiââ
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
âThat Price needs to put you in your place,â he hisses through his teeth. âThat heâd have had you on your knees by now.â
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you donât even know what youâre denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simonâs voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
âThen he looked at me,â he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, âand asked if Iâd taught you to take orders.â
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simonâs eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone elseâs blood.
Gravesâs blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
âOh God.â You force the words out. âWhat did you do?â
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. âI hit him.â
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. âHow bad?â
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
âHowââ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. âBad enough Price had to pull me off him.â
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesnât.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if heâs lost his fucking mind. Tell him he canât do that, canât put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Canât turn command into a blood sport. Canât risk his place, his rank, Priceâs trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. Heâs pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
âNo,â you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. âOh.â
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. âSimonââ
âThere she is.â
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. Itâs a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
âYou liked that.â He croons.
You shake your head, but itâs weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
âN-no.â
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
âLiar.â
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You canât find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Gravesâs blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simonâs eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
âYou should be pissed at me,â he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
âYou should be callinâ me reckless.â
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
Itâs all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
âYou should be asking what the fuck I was thinkinâ,â he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. âYou canâtââ
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simonâs eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
âI canât what?â He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
âYou canât justââ your breath catches on a thrust. âYou canât hit him because heââ
âBecause he talked about fucking you?â Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. âIf thatâs what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckinâ believe it.â
You canât.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
âToo far gone to scold me now?â
You glare at him, or try to. It doesnât land.
And it didnât stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
âIâm, mmffâserious,â you whisper.
âSo am I.â
âSimonââ
âNo.â His voice cuts low through the room. âYou donât get to say my name like that while youâre grippinâ me tighter for it.â
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
âMhm. Yeah.â His voice drops into something rougher. âFuckinâ problem, you are.â
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him heâs wrong. Tell him itâs just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But itâs useless because Simon would know itâs a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âNothing clever now?â
âMmff.â Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. âShut up.â
His eyes flash. âMhm.â
âI mean it.â
âNo, you donât.â
âI do.â
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
âTry that again.â
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
âYouâreââ you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. âYouâre going to get yourself benched.â
âProbably.â
âPrice is going toââ
âAlready did.â
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. âWhat?â
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
âRead me the riot act.â
Your nerves jump at that. âAnd you came here?â
âYes.â
Something in your chest tightens. âWhy?â
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. âBecause I had to see you.â
God. You think heâs lost his mind.
âSimonââ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. âThatâs notâthis isnâtââ
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
âYou think I lost it because he insulted you?â You donât answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. âNo, sweetâeart.â
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
âI lost it because he thought about touching whatâs mine.â
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âThatâs what you like, yeah?â
You squirm under him, helpless. âSimonââ
âHe said your name like he had a right to it.â His voice roughens. âLike heâd survive putting his hands on you.â The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. âI had to let him know what mine felt like first.â
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. âLook at me.â
You do.
âAnother man touches you like this,â he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, âand Iâll break every finger he owns.â
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
âAnd if he talks about you like that again?â
You barely manage the whisper. âWhat?â
Simon presses his forehead to yours. âI wonât stop at his face.â
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Gravesâs blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
âLeave it.â
Your breath trembles. âWhy?â
His eyes darken. âBecause I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.â
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you donât belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that heâs going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. âThatâs what I thought.â
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
Youâre Simonâs for as long as youâre both breathing.
Synopsis: In which Lieutenant Ghost shows you exactly what in his pants. Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Private reader
Content: 18+ MDNI, Oral (M! Receiving), Boot humping, pupplay ig??, Afab Ghost, Transmasc Ghost, check tags. Lmk if I missed any
It was the end of a tough mission, you were all exhausted, cramped into the exfill chopper together, Lieutenant Riley sat across from you, legs spread wide. Your eyes dragged over his body, lingering between his thick thighs before you could stop yourself, your own thighs shifting in the seat to lessen the heat between your legs, imagining what he was packing under all that gear, how heavy he would feel in your hands, in your mouth... When you finally dragged your eyes back up to his mask, he was already watching you. Heat shot through your face. You looked away like nothing happened.
Once the bird touched down, you followed the squad straight into debrief. Then it was off to your rooms to wash the dirt and grime from the mission off your skin. With your hair washed and body clean you head to the mess hall, after grabbing some food you head over to your mates. Placing your plate down you sit down, groaning as your muscles throb in protest.Â
"Yo, Y/n, how'd it go?" You look over at Luke, who asked the question.
"Yeah it was alright, it got pretty rough, but we all made it out alive." You answer, making sure not to mention any details. He pressed for more, but you only grinned and shook your head. He moved on quickly, rambling about two privates getting smoked for fraternising.You stirred your food without eating. Appetite gone.
Something prickled at the back of your neck. You looked up. Ghost was walking past your table. He wasnât sitting. Just passing through, heading towards the doors. But his gaze locked with yours in that split-second. Head tilted. Brow raised from behind the mask, that much you could tell, it felt weird, like he was watching you, testing you almost.Â
Your throat went dry.Â
You looked back down before you could embarrass yourself, but not fast enough to miss the subtle huff of amusement he let out as he kept walking out of the mess.
A few minutes later, a hand settled lightly on your shoulder. You flinched, looking up.
The Corporal leaned close, voice low."The lieutenant wants you in his office."
You swallowed hard before nodding, watching as he stood back to let you climb out of your seat. "Ouuh, you're in trouble" Luke teases before getting an elbow to the side, you look over to the door, your stomach flipping.
Once you reach the door to his office, you knock, softly, hearing Ghost answer from inside.
âCome in.â
Opening the door you lock eyes with your lieutenant, after a moment he gestures you over with his fingers.Â
Walking over you stand straight and salute âHello Lieutenant, you called for me, what can I do for you?â.
âSit.â He says, and you drop your salute, moving stiffly towards the seats on the other side of his desk, afraid you were in trouble.
âNot there,â he chides. You look over at him, furrow your eyebrows in confusion, tilting your head. He nods towards the floor right next to the desk and him, tapping his foot where he wanted you to sit. Â
Your eyes widen and you flush, âuhh, sir?â You question.Â
He taps his foot again, clicking his teeth impatiently.Â
You hesitate, walking over next to his desk before softly plopping down on the floor. He hums, pleased.Â
âSaw your little looks in the chopper today, private, youâre not slick.â He says, leaning on the desk to look down at you. The position admittedly makes you a bit hot, before you process what he said.Â
âSir! I-I am so sorr-!â You scramble to apologise, not ready to lose your job over being a perv.
âSâlright,â he interrupts you, waving his hand as if dismissing the situation.Â
He looks down at you again, tilting his head. âI wonât write you up for it.. If you tell me what was going on in that head of yoursâ He says, and your whole body burns up.Â
âNo way sir, I-I couldnât possibly- Itâs-!â You ramble, shaking your head side to side, your hands trembling as you hold them out in front of you.Â
âSâeither that or I write you up. Your choice kid.â He states, interrupting you again.Â
You whine softly, shifting in your spot anxiously.Â
Under his mask, Simon grins, he knows he got you now.Â
âU-umm, I was thinking about⌠howbigyourdickis.â You explain, quickly.Â
âHm? You gotta talk slower kid, ndâspeak up,â He says, leaning forward to hear you better. You groan stuffing your head in your hands.
â... I was thinking about how big your dick isâŚâ You explain voice cracking from the embarrassment.Â
âOh yeah? What else?â he asks, amusement leaking from his tone.Â
Gripping the sides of your pants you continue, âI was thinking about how you would fit in my hands⌠And how big your thighs were⌠And how well you'd feel in my mouthâŚâ.Â
Simon leans back, he can feel himself leaking in his pants, his hand moving down to palm himself.Â
âGet up.â He says, and you jump up immediately, worried youâre in trouble.Â
âGo ând lock the door,â he orders, your pulse jumps as you turn and walk over to the door. switching the lock on, you lean your head against the door, sighing softly to compose yourself.Â
Turning around you freeze, your eyes wide as you stare at the unexpected sight before you.
Ghostâs legs were spread wide open, pants off, but instead of seeing a full, fat, leaky dick, you see his full, fat, leaky cunt on display, all for you.Â
You hear his voice but it sounds distant, muffled. You hear him sigh and mutter something to himself.
You quickly figure out what he wants as he gestures you over again, slapping his thighs twice with his hands, as if you were a shy dog he was coaxing out of a corner.Â
âCome here private, sâalrighâ donât be shy,â You walk over slowly, your legs shaky. Your mouth practically salivating as you stare at his cunt.
He grips your forearm, pulling you over to stand in between him and his desk.Â
âSit down.â He orders and you listen, quickly getting down on your knees between his legs.Â
His hand meets your head, petting softly. âGood pup,â he praises, and your chest warms.Â
âBet this wasnât what you were expecting,â he says, and you nod your head, biting your lip before swallowing the drool about to leak out of your mouth.
Ghostâs whole body is lit with heat, warmth running through his head, arms, and legs. Watching you in between his legs, desire written in your eyes, drooling like itâs common sense to want your superior officers cunt in your mouth makes his hole leak more.Â
Looking up into his eyes, you slide your fingers softly up his shins, begging for permission to continue. He nods and your hands slide all the way up to his thighs.
You spend a couple minutes groping and massaging his thick juicy thighs before moving up and over his hips to his stomach. You glide your hands over his happy trail and down to the bush on his pussy. Running your hands through the thick and course yet soft blonde hair, pulling them softly between your fingers. He groans, soft and low. His hand continuing to pat your head and play with short strands of your hair.Â
You can see the light hitting the shiny slick on his hair from his juicy pussy. Humming you move your hands lower about to slide them between his pussy lips to feel how wet he really was but his hand gripped your and pulled them back off of his body, and you whined upset that you weren't allowed to touch anymore.Â
âNot so fast, Private,â he says, you were about to be upset until his hand moved down to his pussy, putting two fingers down his slit, you hear his breath stutter, as he spreaadss his fat pussy lips open, his pink pussy on display for your hungry eyes to feast on. You can see his pretty dick jumping for attention as his hole leaks more clear fluid.Â
You watch eagerly as two of his fingers get wet, dipping in and out of his hole, the sound music to your ears. You look up at him and whine, frowning with tears in your eyes.Â
âPlease sir⌠â You plead, your hands sliding up from the inside of his thighs.Â
âPlease what, runt?â He grunts, still fingering himself, his eyes half lidded watching your expression.
âMay I please taste you, sir, please,â You beg, huffing onto his pussy, your head inching closer just to get more of the smell, and catch the little gushes of juice coming out when he thrusts his fingers.Â
Ghost hums taking his hand away from his pussy, you grin happily. Reaching under his thighs you pull him up his legs lifting off the floor, âoi!â he exclaims roughly, as you hook them over your shoulders.Â
âFinallyâ you thought, surging forward, fast, eager. Only to be stopped by a rough gloved hand gripping your hair.Â
"Go slower, pup." He warned, still gripping your hair, he guided you to his hairy cunt, from closer he smelled like musk and sweat, with a tangy hint that you felt in the back of your mouth before even touching his cunt.Â
Ghost finally let go of your hair, but you hesitated to start until he nodded in confirmation, you leaned forward burying your nose in his pubes, sniffing deeply. You groaned before sticking your tongue out, dragging in over his slit, tasting his wetness.Â
Stopping at his clit and rubbing it with your tongue you felt his thighs squeeze together softly whenever you did anything right. He grunted, more slick leaking from his hole. Your tongue circled his clit, swiping up twice before darting down into his hole, his shaky breaths reaching your ears.
You hand went down to rub yourself through your pants but Ghost notices, kicking your hand away. âAht aht, none of that pup, you can grind yourself on my boot, but no touching yourself.â He says, gruffly.Â
You plant yourself on his boot moving back and forward whining as you continue to lick and suck at his sweet slick pussy.Â
He hums in approval, eyes closing and head leaning back, relaxing at the pleasurable feeling.Â
Your hands needing the fleshy muscle of his thigh as you spread him wider so you could press deeper into his pussy, slurping up his juices, he just hums, humping his cunt onto your face.
Ghost sighs, moving forward over the desk to continue his report. Your eyes narrow, a burning feeling igniting in your chest. Youâre a little upset that Ghost was working on a report as you basically made out with his fat cunt.Â
You lock your lips around his pretty little button, sucking hard, before biting down on it softly but enough to feel it. He grunts, âWatch it, pup,â his hips jolting. You grin, grinding his pumping dick between your teeth whilst suctioning, before darting your tongue down into his hole feeling around his gooey walls.Â
You pull back watching his hole twitch and he shifts towards you as if to say come back. You move your left hand from his thigh running it through his pussy lips over his happy little cock, and back down before pressing two into his hole, moving back down you start sucking on his dick as you finger his pussy, pressing on G-spot.
His grunts turn into groans, and you grab his thighs and pull him towards you more, sliding him down his chair and he grunts in surprise, his big hands gripping the arms of his chair and he looks down at you, your eyes are heavy and lidded as you eat his cunt, begging for his attention and praise, his hard clit jumps and he feels a whimper get stuck in his throat.Â
His legs clench around your head as you suck his lips into your mouth, letting go with a wet âpop!â, watching as his pussy lips juggle back into place before reattaching your mouth to his cunt, sucking and licking.
His head dips back as you continue to pleasure him making sure to suck on his clit occasionally whilst fucking your fingers into his hole. You can feel him getting close, his legs clenching tighter around your ears and his cunt squeezing down on your tongue and fingers.Â
His thick fingers tangle in your hair yanking you deeper into his cunt as he whines and grinds his thick folds on your face.Â
You let him use you to get off licking and sucking his sex as his legs tighten around your head. His whimpers and groans fuel your movement as you stick your tongue out further. Grinding yourself down onto his boot at the same pace heâs pulling your face up and down his cunt.Â
Your whole face is covered in his slick from the bridge of your nose to the bottom of your chin, your cheeks wet, and red.Â
Simon looks down at you, only to see you staring up at him with hearts in your eyes, his eyes widen in shock as his hand stutters when pulling your head back up.Â
Suddenly, an onslaught of fluid floods your mouth and sprays your face, you're forced to swallow as Simonâs hand keeps you attached to his throbbing cunt by your hair, and his legs wrap around your neck squeezing you more into him as his back arches further and further. His whines and whimpers fill the room as he rides his high out on your face. Your body trembles and jerks as you come with him.Â
Ghostâs body slumps back on the chair, his chest rising heavily as he huffs, his legs unwrap from your head and you lean back, breathing heavily. He lifts his mask over his mouth before grabbing you by the back of your neck pulling your head up to lock you in a kiss, his tongue licking up his own release from your mouth before pulling away and licking the rest off your face, your clit jumps in your pants as your knees almost buckle and collapse.
He pulls away, still gripping your hair, and you glance down to his lips, finding his own cum shining on them like a pretty lipgloss as he grins. "Good job, kid."
This is my second post ever and my first time writing smut, and I'm actually kinda proud of how it ended up! đ
I'm a woman, but I actually wrote this with gn reader or transmale reader with short hair and female genitalia in mind.
I'm thinking of making it multiple parts, but if I've written something wrong or like awkward please tell me and ill try to change it! :)
Also guys lmk if the bold font is too much and you'd rather the normal one :)
Pup play kinda made a bit of an appearance like halfway through and decided to stay for the show lol
Banners by @friarslantern
____________________________
This work has been made by @Lavenderloss plagiarism or AI training is not permitted!
sparring with ghost and he rubs his bulge all over your face and mouth send tweet https://x.com/VincentRokk/status/2051134972250235075/video/1?s=46
-đ
Simon Riley x afab!reader, sparring, forced oral, non/dubcon, deepthroating, degradation, reader is referred to as "princess" as an insult, scent/musk kink, choking, breath play, passing out, reference to pissing while passed out (not explicit)
twitter link here
You grunt in dismay as you're pinned again, arms twisted behind your back and face pressed to the grubby sparring mat. He's just too fucking big, massive thighs and biceps and shoulders all bending you down into the floor like nothing, and your grunt turns into a squeak as Ghost's knee digs into your spine.
"Ugh- yield, fine, yield, sir!" You manage, and he chuckles low and mean in his chest.
"Tapping out so soon? Come on soldier, show me a good time," and you groan as he shifts his weight, moving off your spine (bliss!) to instead straddle your back, arms bent like a pretzel, and lower his weight down (ugh, horrible).
Then, to your horror, he leans forward, and something not his thigh drags thick and hot over your cheek, the side of your head, and Ghost makes a low pleased sound.
"Fucking- get! Off!" You snap, wriggling, but your shoulders scream and you stop, panting, your throat clenching as his cock rubs against you again. It's thick and hot and musky, sweaty, gross and dragging and he's not even got anything on under his pants, just fabric worn thin by time and a heavy cock.
He rubs again, this time angling his hips so that the tip of his cock ruts under your cheekbone, forcing your jaw to drop down. You blink past the haze over your eyes, tracking desperately for someone else to come help, see that he's going too far, but the few people also working out look away. No one wants to piss off the Ghost when he's enjoying himself.
Ghost keeps grinding, his cockhead pulsing against your cheek, and for a moment his grip relaxes- you push up hard, ignoring the burning pain in your shoulder, and manage to twist around enough to get a knee under you, kick up, come on get up get up-
Slam goes Ghost onto your ribs, thighs bracketing your neck and head, rolling you into your back, and you shriek when his cock and balls settle fully over your face, a hot sweaty suffocation that sends you into a panic immediately.
"Nice try,' he praises, muffled, and you feel him shift around. He's kneeling over your head, hips canted as he lifts them to let you gasp, each massive hand pinning your wrists at your sides, before dropping down and smothering you under his cock again. "Do it again, go on. Really struggle for me."
Sick humiliation burns in your belly as he laughs. You kick, shove up with your hips, pull with your arms, wriggle and thrash and through it all his cock just throbs across your cheek, growing heavier and fatter. Ghost uses his thighs to move your head back and forth, grinding where he wants, now and then a little mocking tease filtering into your ears through the slabs of muscle squeezing them.
"Is that all you got?"
"You were so determined, where'd that fire go, eh?"
"Aw, is princess getting tired?"
You pant under his weight, chest heaving, slick with sweat and ready to cry. You just want him off. You want his big stupid cock off your face and his hands off your wrists and his sneering mocking eyes off your body.
Then the tip of his cock drags slow over your lips, the stretched-thin fabric damp and musky and you taste it, just a little, a droplet smearing and you instinctively lick it off, and your hips buck up, sealing your doom.
Ghost pauses, and you clench and shiver and pray he brushes it off, but that's not who he is, and his cock pulses another drop onto your lips. You refuse to lick at it this time, nose full of the hot smell, the rich sex musk that's got to be all over your skin now, in your hair, and then find yourself gasping when the two big thighs shift back and you're suddenly freed, splayed on the floor staring up as Ghost stands, grinning under his mask down at you.
"Stand up, princess," he says. "Another round and I might give that cunt a reward."
You snarl up at him, burning up with the ache and heat of it, the humiliation of being pinned and used to rub off, the humiliation of liking it, and jolt to your feet, throwing yourself at Ghost with every screaming cell of your body.
It doesn't work.
He pins you again, too easily, his time rolling you with his legs crossed behind your neck, shoving you face first into his groin, hands scratching and pulling at his thighs, and you gasp and shudder when he flexes so his cock jumps, straining the fabric of his pants, your mouth buried in the hot, airless pocket between cock and balls. Your lungs ache, you kick at the mat and pound your fists on his thighs, and the low groan he makes when you struggle slides down your spine and settles between your thighs in a pounding ache.
"There you go, princess, get a nice long sniff," he says, and squeezes his thighs. Your head spins. "I see that cunt leaking from here. Fucking pathetic."
Your body is burning up, lungs and belly and cunt all together, eyes stinging with tears, and you sag limply as you give in, yield it up, let Ghost drag his cock over your cheek and his balls over your lips, the fluttering pulse in your throat choked off. The little bits of air you have are thick with his scent. You whine and whimper and beg like a useless little rag, blinking wetly as your eyes roll, and Ghost groans and grips your head in both hands, hauling you up for a moment before dropping your open mouth down on the head of his cock.
You suckle at it, clumsy with the lack of air, with the pleasure moving syrup-slow in your veins, and taste the thicker hot spurts of precome leaking through cotton, fat round cock throbbing as your lips and tongue move over it, and Ghost bobs you up and down, cursing. You suck in a breath when he releases the grip of his thighs, and a thick thumb wedges between your teeth, pushing back and stretching your cheek, jaw aching.
His other thumb wipes the tears from under your eye, then presses in, making you wince as your eye is squished in. It hurts, a sharp pain that only grows until you whimper past his thumb, and he smirks down at you and spits.
It's hot and wet and gross, and your whole cunt throbs. Slick and pathetic and leaking into your shorts.
Ghost takes his thumb off your eye, and pops the waistband of his sweats down, his cock dropping out. Heavy and fat and long, too big in your mouth, your tongue curling under as you struggle to take what he gives you.
"You bite me," he warns, "and I'll choke you out and piss down your throat." You moan, he laughs, and then he locks his thighs in again and takes his thumb from your teeth, and you're swallowing his cock into your throat by force, choking, gagging with it, your arms and legs pushing back and your belly convulsing, you're going to puke and there's no where for it to go-
Ghost opens his legs and you moan out a stuttering, broken noise as you come off his cock, tongue drooling out, throat clenching and aching- and then you're back down again, nose buried in the thick blond hair at his base, grinding into it, and one of his hands comes around under you to feel the way your throat bulges out.
"That's what you need huh, just a nice fat cock to, to choke on," he pants, and bobs you up and down, not leaving your mouth this time, the mess of pre and drool soaking his pants. "Hold it in, princess, you can't fight me- too weak for that," and you choke out a desperate little noise as he drives into your throat faster, speed over depth. You cling to his legs, either to pull him off or keep him close, you don't know anymore. Your head is spinning, the lights are flashing. You think you're passing out. You might throw up still. You want to come.
There's a coil winding tighter and tighter inside you. Ghost grunts above you, his belly flexing, the smooth curves of his muscles arcing over you, sleek with sweat, his shirt stained dark in his pits and around his neck. He pulls his cock out and pumps it over your cheek, rubbing the swollen head against your nose, precum spurting into your nostrils. His eyes are dark and hot and mean, using you, and his crossed ankles push into your back, forcing your spine into an unforgiving arch, and his hands grab your wrists again and pull your arms out straight as his cock sinks fully into your throat again, sealing it up.
Your jaw aches, your hips roll, the pressure of throating Ghost's cock makes your head pound. He groans and his cock throbs in your mouth, the smallest grind ensuring your throat is continually clenching around it. A breathless shudder rolls up your spine. A bubble of precum pops at your nose, the last iota of breath escaping. There's a twist in your stomach, a convulsing spasm, and Ghost grunts over you, the bones of your wrists creaking in his hands.
"Aw, princess, did you piss yourself or squirt?" He says, his voice warbling like he's underwater, the grey-black of his mask and clothes and eyes spreading like smoke across your vision. "Not that I fucking care..."
-
You wake up in a puddle, slick and cum and piss, semen clogging your throat as you cough, wheezing, raw and burning from throat to cunt. There's more cum streaking over your cheeks, sticking to your hair, the globs of it dripping off your tongue and splashing into the mess you'd made.
You're alone, even Ghost gone, just your aching, shuddering body and the mess on the mat, a throbbing ache in your chest and throat. A matching one in your cunt, clenching in your soaked shorts, an orgasm you can't remember. You wince and slowly crawl off the mat, use a bench to sit up, grabbing one of the folded gym towels to hold across your face.
There's a note next to it, pinned to the wooden bench with a sharp, narrow folsing knife.
Clean up after yourself. 0500 tomorrow, here.
You crumple the note in your fist and flick the knife shut with shaking fingers, and breathe into the towel, soaking in the hot damp mix of sweat and cum and tears, a sharp little clench in your cunt, and stagger up to wipe down the mat, another towel down your legs for the worst of that, and fling them into the laundry bin on your way out.
welcome, here you can see a selection of all my works related to call of duty and divided into different writing categories so you could pick what interests you.
character's that i recently written for â simon ghost riley, kĂśnig, john price, johnny mactavish, kyle garrick, phillip graves, nikto.
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
â pairing: Task Force 141 Ă fem!141!Reader
â 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 đ 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 Captainâall 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 directionâdifferent-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 thatâwhatever 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 closerâtwo strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, Johnâ" 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 limbsâlike they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too longâand 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.
"Fuckinâ 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 deeplyâmusk 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, wellâabout 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 menâ"
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 uncomfortableâGhost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like thatâa bioweaponâon soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Waitâwhat? 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 amusedâthe 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 tinglingâfrom 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 andâto your horrorâthey 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 teamâGhost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassuranceâare 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.
"KateâKate," 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'sâit'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 stillâ" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "âbad."
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 himâit'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, "ânot 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 crotchâby accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagineâand 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 foodâwhether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his placeâyou 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 andâ"
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, pleaseâ"
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 ifâ"
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.
"ShitâBabygirl, no, d-don'tâ" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shouldersâand hates himself for how reluctant he is at itâand 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 meâ" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "ItâIt fuckinâ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, yeâre fuckinâ 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, takeâ" 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 sirâ"
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 doâthey trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlockedâjust in case you faint and he needs helpâand 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 stepâthe 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 needâ"
"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 underwearâplain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexyâand 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. Triggerâ
"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 finallyâfinallyâlets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yesâyesâyesâ" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuckâfuckâfuckâfuck.
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 againâclear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your cornersâanything 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'dâ
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 placeâsomething 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 doesnât want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurtingârepeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yoursâthe young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"KyleâKyle, I need more, I need you toâpleaseâFuck, 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."
"Pleaseâ"
"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 onceâyour hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your bodyâand 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 thisâyou're not choosing himâand 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 needâ" 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 openâ
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 drenchedâhis 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 onâ" 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 needsâ" 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 nodâthe 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. "Ahâve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverentâone hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shouldersâand 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, heâd 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 MacTavishâhe 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.
"Fuckâtha'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 awayâoverstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same timeâhe 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 lipsâJohnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnnyâhe 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 underneathâthe toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slickâand 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.
"Godâfuckâlass, ye taste so fuckin' goodâ"
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. Heâs 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.
"Pleaseâplease, Johnny, I needâI can'tâ"
"I know, hen, I knowâ" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "âjus' 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 meanâhe 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 isnât. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"SimonâŚ"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first nameânone of them doâand 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 wantâ"
"Wasn't bloody askinâ."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistakeâthe critical, tactical, unforgivable mistakeâis 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 lustânot the way you looked at Gaz and Soapâbut 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 headâjust his palm, just enough to support your neckâand 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 longâhis thumb brushing once against the nape of your neckâbefore 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'tâDon't go."
"'M not goinâ 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 slightlyâa fraction more weight, a fraction more warmthâand 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 saidâwhat Price saidâand 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 keepsâ" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying sheâs 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 turnâGaz, then Soapâand 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 mouthâprobably to say something spectacularly unhelpfulâand 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 recognitionâCaptainâbefore 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 stillâ"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and itâs 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 nightstandâGaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthoughtâand 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 expressionârecognition, maybe awareness, youâand finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, yâtell 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 hatesâChrist, he hatesâhow 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 nameânot his rank, not Captain, but Johnâand 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. "JohnâJohnâoh godâ"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulderânot 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 wayâGaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of commandâthis 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 gentleâcan'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, harderâbut 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 itâfuck, yer soâfuckâ"
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 faceâthe quiet oh, shitâwould 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 itâs 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.
"Shitâshit, I'm sorry, Iâfuckâ"
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 medicinalâthe toxin, working its way out of your pores at lastâand 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 whiskyâthree fingers this timeâand 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 needâall 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 upâvehicles, 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.
synopsis: You move to the countryside looking for peace, space, and a life that finally feels like your own. Instead, you find routine, watchful silence, and a neighbor who's always there before you ask.
Wc: 15.8k
CW: fem!reader, artist!reader, butcher!simon, lowkey stalker!simon if you rily squint, kinda mean!simon ( he calls you stupid but in a sexy way), slight slow burn, mention of blood, praise, rough sex, fem! masturbation, mention of breeding, unprotected sex, choking, throat-fucking, spit play, spanking, cunnilingus, analingus, brief mention phlegm, brief aftercare.
a/n: this is a reupload bc the og got labeled and i refuse to be silenced so if you read this already no you didnâtđŤľđź. Jk ily<3
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
â â˘â â°âââ˝ŕźâžâââąâ â˘â
ââ .⌠The devil's in the details
A life that felt like your own.
It's all you've wanted for as long as you can remember.
Growing up meant learning the rules of the real world far too earlyâwaking up every morning just to drag yourself to a grueling job, putting up with nagging customers and insufferable bosses who never seemed to respect boundaries.
Work. Pay the bills. Tend to responsibilities.
It disturbed your soul in a way you couldn't explain to anyone elseâthis idea that life was just endurance, not living.
Yet you always looked ahead. You never confined yourself to the standard everyone else seemed content withâand that refusal was why you were never taken as seriously as you wanted to be.
You learned early that dreaming meant working harder than everyone else.
I wanna make things with my hands!!
You used to squeal as a child whenever someone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up. The laughter that followed always left you quietly confused.
What a cutie.
Wait till she grows up.
As if you weren't standing right there. As if it really was unattainable.
As you got older, that desire only split open and spilled into everything elseâinto baking, painting, shaping.
Anything that lets your hands create something beautiful. Something meaningful.
Over time, you realized it wasn't just about making things. It was about the space to make themâto exist without being watched, corrected, rushed. To live somewhere quiet enough that your thoughts could finally settle.
It wasn't that you were a complete introvert. You loved peopleâyou loved the ones who mattered. But there was always that persistent pull, that quiet urge to disappear for a while. To exist in a world that belonged only to you. You would spend days on end just imagining.
And lately, that wasn't enough anymore.
You didn't just want escape. You wanted peace. Quiet.
Which was why you took the first opportunity to leave everything behindâa small farming town in rural England, offering work in exchange for relocation. Painting homes. Restoring old businesses. Fixing what had been forgotten.
Everyone had something to say about it. Your family. Your friends. Even your professors warned you against it.
But you didn't hesitate.
You've technically been here for a week already. Long enough to learn the unfamiliar quiet by heart, to wait while the cottage was cleared and signed off and made official. This is the first time you're really standing in front of it.
Ideas crowd your mind faster than you can catch theâpaint, repairs, small changes that would make it yours. Your chest tightens, heart swelling, a quiet certainty settling in.
The place is neglected. Weathered. Clearly left behind.
And yet, all you can see is possibility.
For the first time in a long while, it feels like everything is falling into place.
"Excuse me?"
You're pulled from your thoughts by the soft voice beside you. You blink, realizing the man has been standing there the entire time.
He smiles, polite but tentative. "I just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking. It's an older cottage, so...lt isn't exactly our best."
"No," you say quickly, unable to stop yourself from smiling. "It's perfect."
Something about your response seems to catch him off guard. He clears his throat.
"Right. Then there are just a few things we should go over before we-"
A sound cuts him off.
An animalistic, sharp, distant squeal loud enough to make you flinch, the noise carrying unnaturally through the trees. You turn instinctively, scanning the hillside.
Up the slope, partially hidden by the trees, stands a barn. One you hadn't noticed before. The doors open with a loud thud.
For a split second, you don't register what you're seeingâonly that something too big has stepped into the light.
Then your stomach drops.
The man fills the doorway, massive shoulders nearly scraping the frame, his silhouette swallowing what little light spills out behind him. He's enormous-not just tall, but wide, built thick and heavy like he was carved for brute force rather than grace.
He's covered in blood everywhere. Dark, soaked into his clothes, smeared across his arms, clinging in thick, ugly patches that glisten wetly in the sunlight. There's a faint metallic smell that drifts through the air, making you scrunch your nose.
To top it off, he had a skullâpatterned balaclava covering the lower half of his face.
The printed grin feels out of place against the quiet countryside, against the green fields and open sky. You can't see his mouth. Can't read his expression. Just the size of him, the way he carries himself like nothing around here surprises him anymore.
Your shoulders tense on instinct.
It was straight out of a horror movie.
"Um," you let out a small laugh, more nerves than humor honestly. "Is that... normal?"
"Ohâyeah." The man beside you clears his throat.
"Yeah, that'll be Simon. Local butcher." He gives a small, awkward laugh. "Looks worse than it is."
Suddenly, you remember everything they warned you about.
A woman alone in the woods.
Right.
You watched cautiously as the man walked toward the cottage right next to the barn, slightly more hidden in the woods than yours, slightly smaller as well.
His steps are steady, boots pressing into the dirt with an easy familiarity, like he's walked this path a thousand times.
Halfway there, he slows and glances over.
Just a look - brief, assessingâthe kind of look anyone might give when they notice someone new standing where no one usually does. You tell yourself that immediately.
Still, your chest tightens in an unsettling way.
Even from this distance, his attention feels heavier than it should. He doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just takes you in for a moment longer than you're comfortable with.
"Don't mind him. He's a private blokeâwon't be any bother."
You nod slowly as you turn, stepping back toward the cottage, the normal sounds of the countryside slowly filtering back inâthough the image of him, bloodstained and broad-shouldered against the barn, stays longer than you'd like.
His view of you was completely different.
All he saw was a small figure standing out in the open.
Too small for this place.
You were dressed simply, soft neutral colors that didn't draw any immediate attentionâyet somehow, you managed to draw it anyway. A long skirt brushing your ankles. A fitted tube top clinging in all the right places, bare skin catching the last of the daylight. Gold glinting faintly at your throat and wrists.
He has been watching you since the moment you arrived.
Could see you almost too clearly.
The thought settled heavy in his chest. The cottage next to his. Empty for years.
And now occupied.
His hand tightened around the handle of the front door as he went inside, the knowledge of you settling somewhere in the back of his mind.
â â˘â â°âââ˝ŕźâžâââąâ â˘â
You wake up before the sun does.
The room is still dark, the cold from the night before still lingers stubbornly around the corners. The smell of wood and damp earth seeps into your space as you lie still beneath the covers, listening to the sound of your breathing and distant chirping of birds.
The nerves you thought you left behind start to stir low in your stomach. You barely slept, drifting in and out of shallow rest. It's funny how the waiting -the planning and the packing was easier than actually waking up inside this new life. A whole week spent imagining, filling the gaps with maybes and what-ifs, had felt gentler than this moment.
But now, lying in your own bed, on the edge of your first real day here, the anxiety creeps back into you like it never really left.
You force yourself up, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to shield against the morning cold. The wooden floor bites at your bare feet as you cross the room.
You move through your room on autopilot. Pushing aside clutter and digging through your box filled with your things to wash up. You pull on a simple black crop top and black leggingsâeasy and practical, something you don't mind making a mess out of. You fix your hair the way you always do before big jobs, muscle memory taking over as you gather your tools, hand steady despite the tight, resistant pull in your chest.
Your first job is a simple mural for a little flower shop in town.
You'd already been introduced earlier in the week.
Names, faces, smiles. Florence, the owner, had shown you the wall, fingers dusted with soil, excitement bright in her eyes. They'd given you free rein over the design, only asking that you keep to a preferred color palette.
"Okay," you mutter to yourself, crouching by your supplies. "One, two, three-"
You line the cans up on the floor. Reds. Yellows. Whites. Count them twice. Then again.
"Four."
You tap each lid as you go, checking them off in your head like that'll keep your nerves in place. Everything's been ready since last night. Packed. Repacked. Adjusted.
You're stalling. You know you are.
Keys cold in your palm, you stand by the door longer than necessary. Your hand rests on the handle. You inhale once before stepping out.
A loud, wet huff greets you immediately.
You freeze.
Right behind youâway too closeâis a dog. If you could actually call it that.
He doesn't look very friendly. Honestly, you can't even process whether or not he is friendly by the way he stands there.
He's massiveâthick-chested, broad, and you're pretty sure you saw veins popping out of his shoulders, only reinforcing how strong this dog could be. His paws dig heavy into the dirt at the bottom of your porch. Drool clings to the sides of its mouth, slipping free as it stares at you.
And for a fleeting second, the image of yesterday resurfaced. Barn doors, and a blood covered man standing in the middle of the field.
Your heart jumps straight into your throat.
You lift your hand instinctively, bending just slightly at the knees before you can stop yourself.
"Oh-okay," you breathe. "This is... fine."
"Hi," you try, softer. "Hey, puppy."
The dog doesn't move, just tilts his head to the side.
You glance around, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is. No neighbors. No cars. Just you and the beast blocking your path.
The distant sound of a truck came before you could react, stopping abruptly in front of you.
"Oi," the voice is rough and hoarsed.
"Mate. What'd I tell you?" He reaches over and pushes the door open from the inside.
The dog perking up instantly before running toward him obediently, tail wagging like nothing just happened.
It's only then you realized who it is. Who's standing in front of your door.
The butcher straight out of a slasher movie.
"You botherin' this bunny?" he asks the dog while scratching the back of his ears, happily wiggling his short tail.
Bunny?
"No bunny, just me," you laugh awkwardly before you step down off the porch, forcing yourself to stand straight even though your grip tightens on your bags.
He huffs, something close to a chuckle. "Right."
"Sorry about him," he adds.
"He likes to wander."
"You sure about that?" you ask, looking at the dog.
"Because he looked like he wasn't planning on leaving."
His lips twitches, eyes glinting with amusement.
"Saw you movin' your things yesterday," he says. "The place's been empty for a long time."
"Yeah," you reply quickly. "Feels a little weird, but I'll make it a home."
"Takes time," he shrugs, watching you for a second longer than necessary.
"You heading into town?" he asks, pointing at your bags in hand.
You blink. "Yeah. I was justâ"
"Hop in," he says, nodding toward the passenger seat.
"I'll take you."
You hesitate, words catching. "You don't have toâ"
"Already going," he replies simply.
You pause for a moment, eyes lingering down the road, wondering whether or not you should climb into this stranger's truck. The bark of the dog breaks your thoughts, deciding to climb in anyway. The smell hits you all at onceâraw meat, metallic and heavy, softened slightly by the clean interior and a faint pine-scented freshener.
Large freezers are secured in the back.
The dog squeezes itself between the two of you, panting proudly. Still massive. Just... not focused on you anymore.
cute, you think.
"Simon,"' he introduces himself.
âY/n."
The car ride is silent, tires crunching over gravel as the hills roll out around you. Fields stretch wide and open, cows grazing lazily, sheep dotting the landscape like pale stones. Trees sway gently in the breeze.
You watch it all pass, mesmerized. Though your thoughts are running wild, thoughts going back to the sellers words.
Private bloke
Not private enough clearly.
Your gaze shifts from outside to his truck, trying to catch a glimpse at the man.
Simon drives easily, his hand on the wheel completely scarred, you wondered if he got it from his line of work or something else, the other holds a cigarette out the window. He looks different like thisâclean, relaxed, almost ordinary. He looks handsome. In a rough, rugged way.
"Need somethin'?" he asks, eyes still on the road.
"Sorry," you say quickly, eyes snapping away "Justâ thinking."
"Didnt scare you too much yesterday, did i?" he asks, looking at you briefly. "You seem slightly jumpy,"
Your neck snaps almost instantly toward his hard face.
"No of course not!" You reply hurriedly,
He hums in understanding.
The truck slows outside the shop, gravel crunching under the tires.
"This good?" he asks.
You nod, already reaching for the door. "Yeah. Thank you."
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then gives a short nod.
"I'll be back," he states.
You hesitate, but smile anyway. Shutting the door with a loud thud.
You can feel his eyes on you until the bell above the shop door rings and the world shifts back into place.
â â˘â â°âââ˝ŕźâžâââąâ â˘â
The day goes by quicker than you expect.
One moment you're unpacking your things, the next you're moving on instinct alone. You work mindlesslyâ sketching, painting, letting your hands take over where your thoughts would only get in the way. People drift past on the sidewalk, slowing as they pass, curious eyes gazing at your art. A few linger. Most keep walking. You trade small smiles, nods of acknowledgement.
"Lovely," some say as they walk past.
It brings you back to before, when this was only just a distant dream.
At some point, you stop paying attention to the time.
By the time the sun begins to sink, warm light stretching long across the street, you finally step back.
The mural sits before youâunfinished, but already alive.
You begin packing up your supplies. Brushes rinsed.
Papers stacked. Movements slow, trying everything to not break the spell of the day just yet.
"Alright, Miss Florence," you call out as you step inside, setting your things down on the shop's counter.
"I'll be back around the same time tomorrow."
"Of course, love," she says easily, looking up from where she's standing. "The mural's coming along quite nicely. I'm impressed."
You smile at that, a quiet swell of pride warming your chest.
As you turn to say your goodbyes, her hand comes to rest gently on your shoulder.
"Is everything alright, love?" she asks, concern written plainly across her face.
You pause, staring at her, head tilting slightly in confusion. "Of course," you say. "Why?"
She doesn't answer right away-just nods toward the door, past the front window.
You follow her gaze.
A small sound of surprise slips from you at the sight of the red pickup truck parked outside. The big dog hangs halfway out the open window, tongue lolling as he pants happily. And leaning back against the hood is the man himselfâsomehow larger than he'd been in your memory. Smoke curls lazily around him, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
"He's been waiting out there a while," she says, careful.
"Oh, we live on the same road. He's just doing me a favor." You smile reassuringly.
That doesn't ease her expression the way you expect it to.
"Why?" you ask, lowering your voice without thinking.
"What about him?"
"Ohânothing," she says. "He's just a private man, is all.
We were a bit surprised seeing you come out of his truck... and now."
"That's all?" you press, eyes flickering towards the truck.
She pauses long enough that you lift your brows.
"Not much to him, really," she says finally.
"He's been up there longer than most people remember. Bought that land years back. Kept it when no one else wanted it."
"He's the butcher, though, right?" you ask, still trying to understand the wariness.
"He is. But it's odd," she admits. "He doesn't hire out.
Doesn't expand. Doesn't sell beyond what he needs to." She presses her lips together.
"Most folks around here like things that grow, y'know? But he stays exactly the same."
You wait for more. It doesn't come - and the lack of it frustrates you more than anything she's said.
Someone near the counter clears their throat. Another voice adds, quieter, "Never missed a delivery, though."
Florence nods in agreement. "Meat's always clean. Always fresh."
You let out a small, incredulous laugh. "So... he's just serious about his work?"
She clicks her tongue.
"He's particular," she says. "About his space. His time."
"And people?"
She doesn't answer right away.
"He doesn't come into town unless there's a reason," she says instead.
"And he doesn't wait around for nothing."
You glance back toward the window, toward where the truck had been.
"Oh," you say softly.
Florence squeezes your arm once before letting go.
"Just... take care, love."
â â˘â â°âââ˝ŕźâžâââąâ â˘â
On the laptop by the counter, your mom watches you with that same careful look she's had since you told her where you were moving.
"So," she says, folding her hands together. "How was your first real day?"
You laugh a little. "Good. Actually... really good."
"The shop was busy enough to keep me distracted. People came in and out all day. A lot of staring at first, but not in a bad way." You popped a grape into your mouth.
"More curious than anything."
She hums, unconvinced but listening.
"They let me set up like we talked about," you continue. "People stopped to talk. Asked where I moved from. What I do. It felt nice." You glance toward the window. "Normal."
"Were you nervous?" she asks, giving you that look you know so well.
"I was," you admit. "But once I started working, it faded. I kind of forgot about everything else."
Her eyes soften at that, just a little.
"You didn't sleep much last night, though," she says. Not a question.
You pause, then shrug.
"Not really. New place. New sounds."
You smile like it's nothing. "I'm sure l'll get used to it."
She presses her lips together. "That's what worries me. You out there by yourself, in the woods."
"Momâ"
"I know," she sighs. "You're an adult. I just don't love the idea."
"I get that," you say gently. "But it's fine. Really. It's hidden, yeahâbut not in a scary way."
There's a beat of silence before you add, almost offhand, "Although... people in town do talk."
Her gaze sharpens immediately.
"About?"
"About my neighbor," you say, a small laugh slipping out. "Apparently he's been up there forever. Everyone has an opinion, but no one says much."
"That doesn't make you uneasy?"
You pause, just for a second. "Not really. I mean, I met him yesterday. He was... normal. A little intense, maybe.
She doesn't look convinced.
"He even gave me a ride into town this morning," you add quickly, like it's no big deal. " ...and back
"A ride?" she repeats.
You stop to look up at the screen, finally aware of how that must sound.
"Mom, it was fine," you say. "We live on the same road. It was convenient, trulyâ
She exhales slowly. "I just don't like you being so isolated. Especially with people you don't know."
"I know," you say softly. "But today was good. I promise."
She studies your face through the screen, searching for something you're not even sure you could name.
"Just be careful," she says. "That's all I'm asking."
You nod.
"I will."
â â˘â â°âââ˝ŕźâžâââąâ â˘â
You're not sure when it became a routine.
At first, it was just convenience. You'd step outside and Simon would already be there, his red truck waiting at the end of the driveway.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Waking up. Getting ready. Eating breakfast standing by the counter because you never quite sit down anymore. Stepping outside into the cool air and the familiar sight of Simon and his dog waiting patiently for you.
Somewhere along the way, you started bringing him breakfast.
You didn't plan it. It just... happened. A plastic cup balanced carefully in your hand, still too hot to hold properly. And a sandwich wrapped in foil. You remember the first time you handed it to him-how he paused, just for a second, fingers hovering before taking it. His eyes flicked down to the cup, then back up to you.
"Didn't have to," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.
You shrugged it off, like it was nothing.
You did it again the next morning.
And the one after that.
Soon, it felt strange not to. Like something was missing when you stepped outside empty-handed.
Simon never commented on it again. He just took what you gave him every morning. Always made sure the dog stayed put while you climbed in. Always waited until you were settled before pulling away from the driveway.
"Hi baby," you'd coo, rubbing the happy dog's ear as you settle into the familiar leather of his car. Shadow-you'd come to learn the scary dog's name.
You don't remember when that became part of your normal either.
By the sixth day you stopped questioning it.
Simon always said he had business in town. Always said it like it was obvious. Like it explained everything.
And maybe it didâexcept some mornings, when you glanced toward the back of the truck, the bed was completely empty.
No freezers. No crates. Nothing.
You noticed it once.
Twice.
Then you stopped looking.
It was true what everyone said about himâhe was private. Didn't speak unless necessary. Most of your rides passed in silence, broken only by the sound of tires on rocks and dirt and your small comments about whatever you saw outside.
He was intense in ways that was hard to ignore.
On the way he watched the road, eyes steady, barely blinking. The way his jaw tightened when he smoked, like he was holding something back even when he was alone with you.
But there was softness there too-and that was the part that caught you off guard.
It slipped in when he spoke to Shadow, voice dropping low, careful, like the dog was something fragile instead of built like a tank. The way his scarred hand reached down without him even looking, fingers rubbing the dog's belly in slow, absent strokes, like muscle memory.
Even the way he asked about the radio. Not choosing for you. Just a quiet, "What d'you want to listen to?"
You didn't know when you'd started noticing these things. Only that once you did, you couldn't stop. The intensity didn't scare youâit made the softness feel deliberate.
It was.... pleasant.
Comforting even.
Two weeks had passed before someone finally said something.
"Sure looks like Simons has a sweet spot for the new girl in town," a voice from behind the counter says, making you instantly perk up.
"Hm?" You look up, paintbrush still in hand.
They nod toward the window.
Outside, the red truck waits.
"Hes my neighbor," you shrug.
the comment lingers, even after the conversation ends.
â â˘â â°âââ˝ŕźâžâââąâ â˘â
"You should speak more to everyone," you murmur later that night, leaning your head against the window, tired and worn out from the day.
"You eaten yet?" He asks without glancing over, completely ignoring your comment.
"You really do need to learn how to have a conversation Simon," you roll your eyes, shifting your position to where your knees are facing his side, careful not to bother the sleeping pup in the middle.
"Don't know what you mean," he hums.
You smile to yourself, eyes on the road ahead. After a bit, you add, the interaction from later that day crossing your mind, "Someone mentioned you've been acting... different lately."
He glances over for half a second. "Different?"
"Mmhm." You nod.
He doesn't say anything after that, just nods once and keeps driving.
"Have you eaten?"
You click your tongue.
"No."
The car slowly comes to a stop in front of you home, and so does the engine.
This wasn't part of the routine.
You look at him confused, head tilted to the side.
"Worked on a fresh cut today." He says, reaching forward to take the keys out. "Wanted you to have it,"
You blink, caught off guard. Before you can decide what to say, the truck door opens and he's already stepping out, calling Shadow after him with a short sound.
You watch him circle the hood, a flicker of something tightening in your chest when he reaches for your door.
It opens before you can protest. You hesitate before swinging your legs out anyway, letting him guide you without quite remembering when you agreed to it.
He doesn't crowd you. Just walks ahead, like he expects you to follow.
And you do.
When you stop at the door, keys cool in your palm, he stays a step behind you. Close enough that you're aware of his presence, the quiet weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades as you unlock the door.
You glance back once. He meets your eyes, unreadable.
Inside, you barely get the chance to say anything before he turns to the dog.
"Stay," he saysâlow and firm by the door.
"Simonâhe doesn't have to" you say, too soft to be much of a protest.
Shadow listens anyway.
Your house oozes warmth. Simon thinks.
Not just heatâthe kind of warmth that settles in your chest comfortably. It's nothing like his place. His is all cold surfaces and silence, everything where it's supposed to be, like no one's meant to linger too long.
Yours doesn't try to hide you.
There's stuff everywhere. Half-finished things. A stack of sketchbooks by the couch, paint-stained rags shoved into a corner, a couple of framed pieces leaning against the wall because you haven't decided where they go yet. It looks like someone keeps starting things and coming back to them.
It smells like you.
Not perfume. Not candles. Just you - soap, clean fabric, something faintly warm. Simon notices it as soon as he steps inside. It's different from his place.
His house never really smells like anything at all. It's just... neutral.
The kitchen's small. He isn't.
He fills the space without trying, shoulders close to the cabinets as he reaches for your drawers to find what you need. Most of them are empty. Just spices. The basics. He sets the steak down, still wrapped in paper.
You begin fixing things that don't need fixing to distract yourself. Sliding a notebook out of the way. Moving a mug. Your chest stays tight. It's the first time he's been inside your house, and the thought sits heavier than it should.
This is definitely not how you pictured your night ending.
The butcher up the road, in your kitchen. Talking about a fresh cut like it's nothing. Like this isn't strange. Like he hasn't just stepped into your space and started moving through it with quiet ease. The shift from how the night should've gone to how it's unfolding now hits you all at once, sharp enough to leave you reeling.
You reach for the remote, turning the TV on just to break it. The sound. The stillness. Anything. You crack a window open too, breeze slipping in as you step back, giving yourself something else to focus on.
"Do you need help?" you ask finally, mostly to fill the space.
"Mmm," he hums, "Where do you keep your pans?"
"Oh." You move on instinct, opening drawers, pulling things out. A pan. A cutting board. Knives. Setting them down beside him without thinking twice.
He works quietly. Salt first. Pepper. The sound of it hitting the meat sharp in the small kitchen. He heats the pan, waits for it, tests it with a flick of water that hisses and disappears.
You lean back against the counter, watching.
The steak hits the pan and the sound fills the room - loud, immediate. He doesn't rush it. Just let's it sit, pressing it down once with the tongs, then leaves it alone. The smell starts slow, then builds. Rich. Savory.
It crawls through the air until your stomach reacts before you can stop it.
You laugh under your breath, hand pressing briefly to your middle.
"That smells amazing," you beam.
He flips the steak once. Cuts into it to check. Juice beads along the surface, catching on his fingers as he pulls a small piece free.
He lifts his hand without comment, holding it out toward you.
You swear you short-circuit for a second before leaning in, taking the bite he's offering, your lips lightly grazing his finger.
He stares at youâopenly this time. Long enough that it makes you shift, a shiver running through you before you look away with a quiet, breathy laugh.
"Wow," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you chew, letting the taste settle properly this time.
You swallow, then glance back at him, still leaning against the counter. "That's... fucking incredible, Simon."
It slips out softer than you mean it.
For a second, you forget about everything else-the tightness from earlier, the fact that he's here, in your kitchen. There's only the warmth on your tongue and the way the moment hangs between you.
"How long have you been in this business?" you ask after a pause, watching his face like you're checking for a reaction. Questions aren't usually part of your routine. Neither is this.
"Long time," he answers simply as he fixes the plates.
"Old man ran the business. Guess I kind of inherited it."
You hum, thinking it over. "Must keep you busy.
Between the shop and... everything else."
"Enough," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Mostly keeps me close to home."
That's when he adds, almost as an afterthought,
"Don't like going into town much."
You snort softly. "Could've fooled me."
You meant it as a joke-only half truth.
He exhales through his nose, something like a huff, and shakes his head once before turning back to the plate.
The conversation ends there, easy and unspoken.
â â˘â â°âââ˝ŕźâžâââąâ â˘â
The better part of your day had been spent exploring and wandering the area. Something you haven't gotten to properly do since you got here.
Bare feet planted right on the grass as you wandered into the field behind your backyard, the earth cool and uneven beneath you. You kept breathing in deep without really thinking about itâgrass, dirt, something clean in the air. Birds flew low overhead, noisy and playful.
The trees out here were huge. Like, old old. Thick trunks, branches stretching everywhere. You caught yourself staring up at them, wondering how long they'd been standing there, what they'd seen before any of this existed.
You kept walking, pencil moving absentmindedly as you added loose doodles to the sketchbook tucked tightly under your arm. Shapes. Lines. Little half-ideas you'd probably forget later.
You explored every area you could think of, picking rocks and flowers as you went.
Every area except one.
You didn't mean to head that way at first. It just... happened. Your steps slowed as the land subtly shifted, the trees thinning just enough for a familiar structure to come into view.
The closer you got, the clearer it became.
Simon's barn sat just beyond the tree line-close enough that if you turned around, you could still see your cottage. The roof peeked through the branches, almost reassuring. Close enough that you told yourself it didn't really count as trespassing.
The barn itself was a faded, rusty red, the paint chipped and sun-worn, like it hadn't been touched in years. It clearly needed a new coat. You filed that thought away automatically, like you did with everything else.
You slowed your steps, circling wider instead of heading straight toward it.
For some reason, your mind kept dragging you back to the first day you'd seen him there. Bloody. Intimidating.
Almost unreal. The unease returned now, settling low in your stomach as uou get closer.
You'd been sneaking glances at the place ever since, careful not to get too close. Careful to remember that conversation.
"So will I ever get to see your workplace?" you'd asked once, half-teasing.
All he'd given you was that small, almost-missed smile.
"S'not meant for a bunny like you to see."
Today, though?
Today, you wanted that angle.
Simon be damned.
You huffed softly to yourself, shaking your head as you settled into the grass and opened your sketchbook. He really did have a way with words.
You started with the barn first-loose lines, quick strokes-then added his cottage beside it. It stood only a few feet away, smaller than yours, but somehow cozier. It looked like him. Minimal. No decorations. No unnecessary clutter. Just a single chair on the lawn, a small table beside it, an ashtray resting on top.
You shaded, erased and worked until the world narrowed down to paper and graphite.
You looked like a lost bunny.
The thought crossed Simon's mind as he watched you move along the upper slope behind the barn. Delicate sundress, sketchbook tucked under your arm, hair pulled back out of your face. Careful steps, like you weren't sure you were meant to be there.
He paused what he was doing and just stared.
You'd been out since early. He remembered you mentioning you had a few days free from work, maybe more, before someone else found something for you to fix or soften or make pretty. You didn't seem like the type who sat still for long. Always moving. Always making.
Simon hadn't meant to care. He usually didn't.
Years of work had trained that out of him. Grind. Routine. Blood when there had to be blood. He liked his life simple, contained, predictable. The land. The barn. The quiet. When he heard the house down the hill was being rented, it pissed him off. Change always did. New noise. New eyes.
Then you showed up.
He didn't know when exactly he started noticing the warmthâyour laughter carrying up the hill, music bleeding out of your windows, sound settling into places that had been empty for too long. It didn't belong here. Neither did you.
And yet.
You stopped near the side of the barn, turning slowly, taking it in. He watched you look around like you were measuring the space, committing it to memory. You could still see your cottage from there - close enough that you were probably telling yourself it didn't count as trespassing.
He wiped his hands, stripped the gloves off, and stepped outside.
By the time he rounded the corner, you were already sitting, sketchbook open on your lap. Pencil moving.
Focused enough that you didn't notice him right away.
You were so in deep you didn't even notice the shadow towering over you at first.
He stopped a few feet in front of you-close enough to notice the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers smudged charcoal without you realizing it.
"Can I help you."
You startledânot badly, but enough that he knew you'd forgotten the rest of the world existed.
You looked up at him, your eyes flicking briefly over the apron, the stains, the evidence of the day's work.
Your pulse jumpedâhe could see itâbut you held his gaze anyway.
"JustâŚ.. scoping the area," you say easily, like you hadn't been caught at all, even though your heart was pounding. "Gaining inspiration."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Told you," he said. "This place ain't meant for a bunny like you."
He meant it.
Your cheeks warmed. You didn't deny it.
"I didn't walk in, though, did I."
Silence settled between you âthick, but not uncomfortable. Your pencil resumed its quiet movement against the page. He stayed where he was. Didn't tell you to pack up. Didn't step back either. You took it as a good sign.
He watched you for another moment, then shifted-just slightly. Half a turn. Enough to give you a better angle.
He didn't comment on it, but you noticed anyway.
He stayed like thatâhalf-turned, broad shoulders cutting against the quiet of the field.
The contrast caught you off guard.
He didn't belong in a place this calm, you thought. Not with the way he was built-all sharp lines and restrained violence, hands stained from work that wasn't meant to be pretty. And yet the grass bent easily around his boots. Wildflowers pushed up near the barn wall, soft and careless, brushing against wood that had seen such degeneracy.
Sunlight filtered unevenly through the trees, catching the edge of his jaw, the scar across his face, the quiet tension in the way he held himself like he was always braced for impact.
Your pencil hovered uselessly above the page.
Thisâthisâwas the angle you hadn't known you were looking for. The way he looked out of place and perfectly rooted all at once. Feral, yesâbut framed by something gentle. Something alive.
The thought settled before you could talk yourself out of it.
"Let me draw you," you said suddenly, not even pausing to think.
"Now?"
"Like this?" he asked, glancing down at his clothes.
Your cheeks warmed, suddenly aware of how dirty he must feel.
"Right-sorry, that was a weird ask," you laughed it off.
"I'll just draw your house." You shrugged, getting up from the grown and walking past him.
"Fine,â he said. "I'll do it."
You stopped short and turned back to him.
"You sure? I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I'm not the fastest-,"
He started walking before you could say anything else, already heading toward the cottage like the decision had been made the moment you asked.
You look around for half a second furrowing your brows before following.
The ground changed under your feet as you left the grass, dirt packed firmer near the house. Up close, his place felt even smaller than it had from afar. The door stood open just enough for the smell of him to drift outâwood, smoke, something iron-sharp beneath it.
He stopped at the steps and sat, elbows resting loosely on his knees, forearms bare. The position looked natural on him.
You looked at him properly then.
The daylight caught his face in a way that made you pause.
You noticed things you hadn't before.
The tattoo peeking from his neck and rolled sleeves. The way his jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, every few moments.
He looked. feral. You weren't sure that was the right word. Beastly, maybe. Grounded. Dangerous in a way that made your thoughts take a turn you didn't want to examine too closely.
You tightened your grip on the pencil, your eyes drifting despite yourself.
Brutal. Masculine.
Your heartbeat picked up as unholy thoughts flashed through your mind.
"You alright, bunny?" he asked.
You froze-caught, like a deer in headlights. Heat rushed to your face.
"Yeah," you laughed softly, shaking your head as you forced your gaze back to his face.
"Here" you say, already leaning closer before he could answer. You reached into your bag for one of the flowers you picked earlier. Small and delicate.
As you lifted your hand toward him, he tensed and leaned back slightly.
You were about to apologize when he spoke.
"Careful. Don't want you getting all dirty."
You blinked-then laughed again.
"Can I?" you asked again.
This time, he stayed still.
You tucked the small white flower behind his ear, fingers brushing skin warmed by the sun. He watched you closely, eyes tracking every movement.
The contrastâhim and the delicate bloom resting thereâfelt almost cinematic.
"You have soft hands, bunny." he says, dead serious.
"Thanks." You breathed out, not realizing you were holding it in.
"Why do you call me that?" You ask after a few minutes.
He shrugged, like it had never needed explaining.
"Because you look like one."
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your headâbut you stayed. Kept drawing. Like the answer was enough.
You went back to his face. Really focused. Honey-brown eyes. Thick brows. Plump, chapped lips. The scar cutting across him, running from one eye, down his nose, into his cheek like a map of where he'd been.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip on the pencil as you leaned closer, angling the page to catch the light.
Your knee brushed the step without you noticing.
"You got a boyfriend?"
Your hand stilled mid-line.
"Why the sudden question?"
"Well," he said evenly, "you asked one. Now it's my turn."
You laughed at that.
"No," you said. "I don't."
He hummed in acknowledgement.
Silence settled again, filled only by the pleasant sound of trees moving with the wind. You wanted to keep talking. Wanted to know him. But you weren't sure where the line was.
"You," you started. "How long have you been up here?"
"Mmm. Couple years."
You click your tongue.
"Couple years? I didn't know vague answers were allowed."
He shrugged.
"You can allow whatever you want."
You smile at that, soft and a little crooked, and let your pencil move again.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The sounds around you settle into something easyâ the wind threading through the trees, the faint creak of the barn in the distance, the quiet scratch of charcoal against paper. Simon stays still on the steps, only shifting when his knee starts to ache, careful not to disturb your line of sight.
He glances down at the page after a minute, curiosity getting the better of him.
"So," he says, casual, like it just occurred to him. "You always draw scenery?"
You hum thoughtfully, eyes never leaving the sketch.
"Sometimes. Helps me understand how things fit together."
"People included?"
"Especially people," you admit.
He watches the way your mouth curves around the words, the focus in your eyes. There's something intimate about being studied like thisânot in the way people usually look at him, measuring or wary.
"You any good?" he asks.
You laugh quietly. "Guess that depends who you ask."
"Hm." A beat. "You don't look like you're guessing."
You glance up at him then, catching the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. Not quite a smile. Something warmer than indifference.
You go back to drawing.
Time slips by without either of you noticing.
The light shifts gradually, the sun lowering behind the trees, turning the field gold and then amber. Shadows stretch across the ground, softening the sharp edges of everything around you. The flower behind his ear wilts a little, petals curling inward, but you leave it there.
Simon moves once when his leg goes numb, rolling his shoulders, flexing his hands. Letting out a low groan of discomfort. You adjust without thinking, tracking the movement, adapting your lines.
"You don't have to stay still," you say after a moment of watching him.
"I know," he replies. Then, quieter, "I don't mind."
You chuckle to yourself, heat creeping up your neck as you look back down at the page.
"You're a good model," you say, a little too quickly.
The breeze cools as evening creeps in, brushing over your bare arms and drawing a light shiver from you.
You shift your weight, knees stiff, and finally lean back, lowering the sketchbook into your lap.
"I think that's enough," you say softly.
Simon straightens a little. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You hesitate before standing, brushing grass from your dress. There's a strange reluctance in the air now, like neither of you wants to be the one to end it.
You step closer, tearing the page free and holding it up beside his face. The distance shrinks without you meaning it to.
You tilt your head, eyes flicking between him and the sketch, comparing angles and the way the light catches him in real time versus graphite.
"Here."
He grabs it without question. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything.
That usual uneasy feeling in your stomach creeps up slowly, the one that shows up every time you finish a piece. Like you did something a little too personal and now it's just... out there.
Then, quietly, "You see a lot."
"O-oh," you say, eyes wide in surprise. "Only what's there." You lift a hand, brushing the comment off like it's nothing.
He nods once.
"Thank you," he says.
The words hang steady.
"Of course!" You smile softly.
The sun has dipped low now, the sky washed in muted pinks and purples. You step back, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
"I should probably head back," you say. "Before it gets dark."
"Yeah." He stands as well. Drawing still in hand.
"You can keep that, if you want," You call out.
"I owe you a better one, though." you laugh lightly-but the sound fades as soon as it leaves you, suddenly aware of how that might've come out.
Before you can overthink it, you give a quick wave and head down the slope, not waiting for his reaction.
His eyes linger a bit longer till you fully disappear from his view, gaze dropping to the piece of paper then back at you, breathing out slow.
â â˘â â°âââ˝ŕźâžâââąâ â˘â
It's been a month now since you've settled into your new life. A month of building and creating and slowly disappearing into your little cottage, filling it with your things until it felt like a place you'd lived in for years instead of weeks.
A month, too, of growing closer to the local butcher.
The one who had a reputation for keeping to himself. For not interacting with anyone. Somehow, that rule never applied to you.
You were almost inseparable now. Him showing up unannounced to fix small thingsâa loose lightbulb, a squeaky door-like he'd been waiting for an excuse.
Any time you needed something from town or had a job lined up, he'd already be outside your door, keys in hand.
Sometimes he'd bring uncooked steak even when you'd try to refuse. Fresh cuts wrapped in paper, held out with a casual shrug. He'd say it didn't fit in his fridge. Leftover. No big deal.
A stupid white lie. One that worked every single time.
He'd gotten softer, too. Softer than you suspected anyone else had ever seen him. Letting you borrow his thick coatsâor leaving them behind and claiming he'd forgotten them. When you tried to give them back, he'd just shake his head, lips pressed into that tight little smile, like the conversation was already over.
"It's cold, bunny. Shouldn't be wearing that outside," he says immediately, voice stern and low, eyes cutting straight through you.
You swallow, feigning innocence as you shrug one shoulder.
"I thought it was just gonna be a light storm,"
you reply plainlyâignoring the warning as you lean back on your hands, legs crossed, chest subtly pushed forward while you look up at him.
He scoffs and drops down beside you with an exaggerated huff, his damp shoulder bumping into yours. He's closeâclose enough that you can feel his heat, the steady pull of his breath. It makes your head spin.
His forearms rest on his knees as he settles in, but his eyes never leave you. Those same hungry eyes that have been plaguing your thoughts every night.
"It's gonna get really cold," he repeats, quieter now, looking straight at you.
You swallow thickly before standing, deliberately slow, giving him a full view.
"I can handle a little cold," you tease.
You barely make it inside before you're running, laughter spilling out as you hear his heavy footsteps thudding after you.
Now you're stuck inside, alone, heavy rain hammering against the roof and rattling the windows. Moisture beads along the glass near the heater, the room dim and warm. You sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your body and hair, picking at a bowl of cut fruit balanced on your thigh.
It's one of those nights.
The kind where loneliness creeps in quietly, twisting into something darker. Where your mind betrays you with memories of every interaction you've had with him.
You'd wanted to relax. Wash the day off, eat fruit and watch tv.
But moments like this don't let you.
They turn that restlessness into something else entirely.
It makes your cunt ache.
Your thoughts drift back to the time when he showed up unannounced, claiming your grass was too high. Brought his own tools, mowed the lawn like it was nothing. Sweat clung to his skin as the sun hit him, shirt damp and sticking in all the wrong places.
You'd worn an incredibly short sundress. The kind that shows off every inch of your curves.
You remember the way he wiped sweat from his forehead with the thin fabric, lifting it just enough to give you a glimpse of his hard bulging stomach. The sight had made something low in your belly twitch.
The way his hand rested at the small of your back when you brought him cold lemonade. How close he stood. The smell of him-clean and earthy. The way his Adam's apple bobbed with every swallow.
Fuck.
Your left hand drifts down without thinkingâfirst over your chest, then higher, barely grazing your nipple. A quiet sound slips from your lips.
Your body feels overly sensitive. Needy.
You picture his hands on youâlarge, roughâteasing your skin, gripping your waist, your ass. Your free hand slides between your thighs and you gasp when your fingers brush against your slick heat.
You barely touch yourself at first. Just graze your clit. Then down your folds. A soft hiss escapes you.
You're already a mess. You have been since you stepped out of the shower.
His image won't leave your mind. Everything he'd do to you. Everything you'd let him do. You saw him differently today, and it did something to you. It was something you feared from the moment you started becoming close. But you pushed that thought down.
Your fingers begin to move in slow circles, the other hand latching onto your hardening nipple as your thoughts spiral. His hands. His weight. Him bending you over, tugging your hair.
Your thighs squeeze together.
You wonder what he'd smell like fresh from a shower. What he'd look like with water clinging to his skin, a towel slung low on his hips. The thought makes your toes curl.
Your breathing picks up as pleasure builds, slick heat spreading with every movement of your fingers.
A moan slips free.
"Simon," you breathe, barely above a whisper, like saying it out loud makes it too real.
Your hand moves from your nipple to your breast, groping desperately, trying to recreate the way his scarred hand would feel. Would he pinch you? Roll it between his fingers? Replace his hand with his mouth?
Your breaths turn uneven. Your hand between your thighs moves faster.
The image of today is burned into your mind-him rough and bloodied from work, yet speaking to you so softly. It's overwhelming. He consumes your thoughts until you nearly forget why you're even here.
"F-fuck," you moan, eyes falling open as you look down at yourselfânaked, wet, undone. Your hips lift, chasing the sensation.
"Si-"
Boom.
The crack of thunder is immediate, violent, followed by sudden darkness that steals the air from your lungs.
You jolt upright with a gasp, heart slamming against your ribs as if it's trying to escape. For a second you just sit there, frozen, the rain pounding against the roof like it's trying to cave it in.
"Oh-fuck," you whisper, the word shaky.
Your body catches up a second later. Awareness hits all at once and sends a fresh wave of panic through you. You scramble, grabbing the towel from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around yourself clumsily, hands trembling as you try to ground yourself. The room feels too quiet without the hum of electricity, the shadows stretching and shifting with every flash of lightning outside.
"Y/N!"
The sound of his voice cuts through the rain.
You fumble for your phone, fingers slick as you swipe the flashlight on, the harsh beam making you squint.
You don't stop to thinkâjust move. Sweats and a tshirt. You tug them on hastily, heart still racing as you rush down the hallway, the floor cold under your bare feet.
The power's out.
When you pull the door open, rain mist clings to the air immediately. Simon stands on your porch, shoulders damp, flashlight in hand, Shadow pressed close to his leg. His face shifts the moment he sees you-concern sharpening, eyes flicking over you like he's checking for injuries.
"Hey," he says, firm but low. "You okay?"
âIâyeahâ you nod too quickly, suddenly very aware of how warm your face feels, how close he is. "The power justâŚwent out."
"Yeah." His gaze lifts briefly to the dark windows behind you before settling back on you. "You're coming with me."
"What?" You blink. "Simon, it's really not-"
"Not up for discussion," he cuts in, already stepping past you like he owns the place. He moves with practiced ease, flashlight sweeping through the room as he heads for your bedroom. "Storm's getting worse.
This place isn't insulated well enough for it."
You trail after him, flustered, hugging yourself as you watch him grab a few essentialsâyour charger, a hoodie, shoesâmoving through your space with unsettling familiarity.
"I'll be fine," you insist, even though your voice lacks conviction. "It's just for the night, plus my things are here. I need to make sure everything's in order."
"Y/n," he replies, glancing back at you. His tone softens, just slightly. "Humor me."
You don't argue after that.
The rain blurs everything on the drive over. The road glistens under the headlights, water streaking across the windshield in uneven patterns as the wipers struggle to keep up. The cab of the truck is warm, quiet except for the storm and the low hum of the engine.
Every now and then, lightning flashes bright enough to turn the inside of the truck white, and you catch him glancing over at you like he's checking you're still there.
When you finally pull up to his place, your nerves spike all over again.
You swallow as you step out, rain speckling your skin, heart pounding harder with each step toward his door. This would be your first time inside. After everything. After all this time.
He unlocks it and nudges the door open, motioning you in first.
The warmth hits you immediately.
The house smells like himâburnt wood, something clean and sharp, iron underneath it all. It's quiet, small, almost stark. The living space is simple: couch, TV, dining table pushed close to the kitchen. No decorations. No clutter.
And then you see it. Your drawing. The same one you drew of him months ago.
It sits on the side table framed neatly. It surprised you. Your steps slow without you meaning to, something tightening in your chest as you stare at it. It's not really a big deal but, seeing your drawing thereâframed, dusted, given a placeâfeels strangely intimate. Like walking into someone's thoughts and realizing you've been there longer than you thought.
"Oh my god," you laugh softly, reaching for it. "I can't believe you kept this."
"Hm?" He glances over, distracted at first. Then he sees what you're holding. "Oh. Yeah." He shrugs, like it's obvious. "You make beautiful art."
The words hit harder than they should.
Your face warms instantly as you duck your head, pretending to inspect the frame. "This was so long ago. I thought you'd thrown it away."
"I would never," he says, without hesitation.
Something short-circuits in your brain at that. You clear your throat, setting the drawing back where it belongs before you can overthink it.
"That's... sweet," you say, lighter than you feel.
You move toward the couch, perching on the edge at first before letting yourself sink back. It's smaller than yours, but comfortable.
Simon disappears into the kitchen for a moment, and you hear the faint clink of a kettle being set down. You sit on the couch, hugging the mug when he hands it to you, grateful for something warm to hold onto.
"Wait," you frown slightly, glancing toward the dark kitchen. "How'd you even make tea if the power's out?"
He pauses for a second before answering. "Backup electric stove,"
"Keep it around for storms." He adds
You blink. "Of course you do."
He almost smiles.
The silence that follows is comfortable, not awkward. Just the storm outside and the low crackle of the fire starting to catch as he moves to the hearth. You watch him from the couch as he kneels, stacking logs with practiced ease, striking the match. The flames take quickly, casting a soft orange glow across the room.
"There," he says, standing again. "That'll help."
He grabs his coat from the back of a chair as he passes, hesitating only a second before draping it over your shoulders. The weight of it makes you exhale.
"You don't have toâ"
"I know," he says quietly. "Drink your tea."
You do, pulling the coat tighter around yourself. It smells like him. When he sits down beside you, it's close but not pressing. His knee brushes yours. Just once. Neither of you move away.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah," you nod. "Just... settling."
"Mm." He leans back slightly, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. Not touching you. Not yet. But there, like an open invitation you don't acknowledge out loud.
You shift a little closer anyway, more instinct than decision. The fire pops softly. The storm fades into background noise. For a moment, it almost feels like you've done this beforeâlike this is normal.
"You're quiet," he says after a while.
"Oh my god," you scoff softly. "Are you calling me annoying?"
He looks at you, eyebrows furrowed, and then his shoulders shake with that quiet laugh you've come to love.
"No," he says. "Just noticing."
You smile into your mug, cheeks warm.
"Y'know, i never really liked tea till i met you," you mention out of nowhere.
And he looks at you with an almost blank expression, it would've made you nervous if it was for the twitch to the side of his lips.
"Tea's good for you,"
The fire crackles. The coat stays around your shoulders. This is definitely not how you imagined your night going, but you couldn't really complain.
The quiet stretches again, but it's different now. He's closer than before-not just beside you, but aware of you in a way that makes your skin prickle. When you shift, he shifts too. When you breathe, he seems to notice.
"You're shaking," he says softly.
"I'm not," you lie automatically.
He doesn't call you on it. He just reaches out, tentative at first, resting a hand on your arm. It's warm, and it has you spiraling. Just a minute ago you were talking normally to each other, but the air shifted.
"Come here," he murmurs.
It's not an order. Not this time. Just an invitation.
You hesitate for half a second before leaning into him, your temple brushing his shoulder. His arms come around you slowly, careful, like he's giving you time to change your mind. When you don't, he tightens his hold just a little.
This is new for the both of you.
Your heart starts to race, loud in your ears, the warmth of him seeping into places you weren't prepared for.
His hand moves absently, rubbing small circles into your back. Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking. This isn't just friendly anymore.
You pull back slightly, laughing under your breath as if that might diffuse the moment. "Okay," you say, voice a little breathless. "Iâ I need a second."
He releases you immediately, hands dropping, but his eyes stay on you.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly, already stepping away.
You turn toward the kitchen, more to put space between you than because you actually need anything.
The counter is cool under your palms when you brace yourself against it, breathing in slowly, trying to stop your heart from beating out of your chest.
You're raking your brain trying to put yourself back together, breathing in the cool air when you hear his footsteps behind you.
"You don't have to run," he says gently.
You glance over your shoulderâand that's when you realize how close he is again. Not pressing. Not touching. Just close enough that the room suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.
You straighten without thinking, taking a step back.
The space behind you disappears faster than you expect, the counter cold against your lower back. You didn't mean to corner yourself, but Simon always had a way of filing a room without ever touching you.
He's only a hair away from you. You could feel his warm breath with a hint of black tea.
Your hand comes up on instinctâflat against his chest.
He stops immediately.
"Simon," you say, quieter than you meant to.
His eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. He waits.
"If we do this," you say, swallowing, "I don't want to pretend it's nothing."
A beat passes.
Then he nods once. Slow and certain. It's crazy how quickly your nerves and fears ease.
"It's not," he says.
His hands settle on your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him. The contact knocks the air from your lungs, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.
His mouth finds yours slowly this time-testing, deliberate. Like he's giving you a chance to pull away.
You don't.
The kiss deepens, unhurried but heavy, his lips moving against yours with a pressure that makes your knees soften. He kisses you again. And again. Each one lingering longer than the last.
His hands stay at your waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you he's there, holding you in place.
You breathe him in-cigarettes, beer, heat-and it makes your head spin. Your fingers curl around his neck, tugging him closer when he pulls back, chasing his mouth without thinking.
"Taste so fucking good," He exhales against your lips, a low sound, before kissing you againârougher now.
Hungrier.
As the kiss deepens and your thoughts start to slip, you barely register his hand moving-gliding over your chest, your stomachâuntil it slides into your shorts with ease. You're already wet.
"Fuck, bunnyâyou're fucking soaked," he grunts, hands gripping you, making you gasp in surprise. He doesn't pull away, just uses the moment to kiss you again, shoving his warm tongue into your mouth.
He sucks and licks, messy and unrestrained, saliva slipping down your chin as he keeps you close, like he can't get enough.
You feel your knees buckle as he begins rubbing your clothes core with the palm of his hands, his lips trailing down your neck.
"Ah-" you squeal in surprise, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it.
"Hump on me, bunny," he murmurs, low and steady, stilling his hand just enough to make the words land harder.
"W-what?" You blink, pulled back into yourself by his voice, trying to make sense of it as you look up at him.
His expression doesn't change.
"Want you to grind this wet cunt on me bunny," he pressed his hand harder into you.
"Oh myâŚ.. god," you breathe, the words barely there as you roll your hips down, tentative at first, trying to find your rhythm. You gasp when the pressure shifts, when his hand flexes and your body lights up in response.
Your thighs start to tremble, weak and unsteady, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself as your movement grows more desperate.
"Thaaat's it," he encourages, his voice rough, threaded with something that sends a fresh wave of heat down your spine. "Just like that. Feel good for me."
Your hips move on their own now, chasing the sensation without thought. One hand grips the back of his neck, fingers digging in as you struggle to stay upright. You're acutely aware of yourself-too warm, too sensitive, skin slick with sweat, the contrast of cool air and burning need making everything sharper, more overwhelming. The pleasure is dizzying, addictive, pulling you further out of yourself with every movement.
You can't imagine what you must look like right now.
You're sure you wouldn't recognize yourselfâmessy, unfocused, clinging to him as your body reacts faster than your mind can follow. Every shift makes your breath hitch, every second stretching thinner than the last.
The pressure suddenly increases, firmer now, more insistent. A broken moan spills from you before you can stop it, your hand flying to your mouth to stop the embarrassing sounds coming from you.
"No," he mutters, catching your wrist and pulling it away, pinning it above your head with one strong grip.
His other hand doesn't slow. If anything, it moves with more purpose, stealing the strength right out of your legs. Your head tips back against the wall as you let him take over completely, your body yielding without protest.
Your vision blurs. Everything goes white at the edges, your mouth falling open on a silent gasp as you cling to him, holding on like he's the only solid thing left. The sensation rolls through you in waves, too big to process all at once, leaving you breathless and shaking.
He keeps you close, holding you steady as it passes, murmuring praise against your skinâsoft words, grounding wordsâuntil your breathing slowly evens out again. Your chest feels tight, full in a way you don't quite understand yet.
"I-" you try to speak, but the thought slips away before you can finish it.
Without warning, his arms hook behind your knees and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled, hands flying to his shoulders as you cling to him, eyes wide, your body leaning into his instinctively despite the shock.
"What are you doing?" you ask, breathless.
"M'gonna take care of you properly, bunny."
His room is simple. A bed. A chair. A small desk. No TV.
No pictures. Exactly what you expected.
He lays you down carefully before gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Moonlight spills through the open window, tracing every scar and mark along his skin, the faint trail of hair leading up his chest. It makes you press your legs together, biting your lip.
"Like what you see?" he teases.
"Shut up," you mutter-cut off when his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is hard, wet, unrelenting. He doesn't hesitate, tugging the flimsy top over your head and tossing it aside, leaving you bare beneath him.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you catch the strain in his pants, dark and obvious. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.
His hands slide up your stomach, stopping at the hem of your panties. He doesn't pull them down. Just hooks his fingers there, eyes roaming over you like he's taking inventory. It almost makes you self-conscious.
The hunger in his gaze burns through you, settles low in your belly, makes you feel exposed in a way that's almost empowering.
Your hands fall uselessly to your sides as you whine softly, body arching. Back arching as you expose yourself more to him. You want his weight back on youâhis warmth. You need it.
"Look at you, bunny," he murmurs, hands coming back to grip your stomach before leaning up to cup your breasts. "So fuckin perfect."
Your head tips back at the sensation, a soft, surprised sound slipping from your throat. Heat coils tight in your lower belly, dampness clinging to the fabric between your legs. The cool night air brushing over your skin only makes it sharper.
His eyes rake over you, eyes shining as he takes you in.
Your chest rises and falls unevenly, skin flushed, lips swollen from biting and kissing. He leans down, mouth trailing from your neck to your chest before closing around your nipple.
You moan, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue circles, sucking hard. His other hand grips your opposite breast, kneading, rough enough to make your breath stutter. Dark marks bloom in his wake.
"Si-" you swallow hard, hands clutching his shoulders as his mouth drags lower, down your stomach, lingering before pressing against your soaked panties.
He inhales deeply.
You're so sensitive it makes you shake, his touch warm and overwhelming, like he knows exactly how to pull every reaction from you.
His lips brush your thighs, soft at first, teasing. His tongue slips out, tasting you through the fabric, biting and nibbling while his hands draw slow circles along your legs. Your thighs tremble, the sensation sharp enough to sting your eyes.
"Smell so fucking good," he mutters.
"Please," you whisper, lifting your head to look at him.
"Need you."
Your body burns with want, embarrassment mixing with it until you don't know which is worse.
"Be patient," he groans, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
"I'm gonna take my time with this sweet cunt."
You whine, defeated, frustration curling tight in your chest.
True to his word, he doesn't rush. He kisses, licks, bitesâtaking his time, savoring every sound you make. You can hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his grip tightens.
Your hands fly everywhere, unsure where to land as his mouth traces every freckle, every curve, every soft stretch of skin.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, thick and rough, pausing there. The thought of how easily he could tear them away makes your breath hitch.
"Don't zone out on me," he murmurs, tapping your hip before hooking his fingers properly into the fabric. He looks at you, waiting.
"Please."
He kisses your stomach once before tugging them down, tapping your ass so you lift for him. He slides them off with practiced ease, tucks them into his back pocket without a word.
You instinctively try to close your legs, face burningâ but he grips your thighs, forcing them apart. His stare is slow, intense as he takes you in, swollen and slick, clit peeking out, folds glistening in the moonlight.
"Prettiest fuckin' pussy l've ever seen," he groans, hands rubbing up and down your thighs, gaze burning into you until you tremble under it.
"Stop messing around," you reply, tummy filled with butterflies as he continues to watch you with mindful eyes. You lift your hips up, wanting any sort of friction from the man.
He smirks, leaning down without breaking eye contact.
His tongue slips out, presses flat against youâcovering you fully, dragging over your hole and your clit before he seals his mouth around you.
The contact steals the breath right out of your lungs.
You throw your head back instantly, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouthâwarm, wet-slick with his saliva and your own juices. It's too much all at once, your body reacting before you can even think.
He takes his time with it. Licking. Sucking. Lapping at every sensitive spot, tongue tracing your folds with intention. A low moan leaves his throat, vibrating straight through you, sending a sharp jolt up your spine.
He grunts into you, fully focused now, like nothing else exists. His tongue doesn't stop, doesn't rushâjust works you steadily while his cock strains hard and aching beneath him. Every sound you make matters.
Every moan, every broken whine, every shaky plea. You feel it in the way he presses closer, the way his breath stutters.
You were a weakness he learned to accept the moment he met you.
He pulls back just long enough to make you shiver before pressing a finger against you. Your mouth snaps shut as you watch, breath caught. His fingers are thick. Calloused. The stretch alone makes you slicker.
One finger pushes in. Slow. Then a second, following behind it, filling you deeper.
"Oh my god, Simonâ"
They're big. So big it takes a second for him to settle, fingers stopping fully buried inside you before his mouth drops back to your clit, sucking it in again like he's been waiting for it.
Your thighs start to shake. Your end is nearing embarrassingly quick. But you didn't care, only focusing on the immense pleasure he was giving you.
"C'mon, give it to me," he groaned against your cunt, fingers rubbing inside you faster, harder. Your thighs shook, and the room filled with the sound of your squelching. "Gimme your cum."
It hits you in wavesâfast, blinding, overwhelming. You cry out, tears slipping free as your body tightens around his fingers, pleasure tearing through you in a way that leaves you sobbing. You've never felt anything like this. Never been this far gone.
The world narrows to sensation. Sound. Heat.
He laps it up like an animal, only adding to the sensitivity of your core. He doesn't let you come down.
"Si-" you whine, hands pushing at his head just enough to make him look at you.
"Hmm?" he hums, lips brushing a soft kiss where he just had you before standing up off the bed.
Your ears are still ringing from the mind-numbing orgasm, head fuzzy, body slow to catch up. Your eyes are wide as you stare at him, at the way his cock twitches between his thick thighs like it's got a mind of its own. You didn't even notice when he had fully undressed himself.
It's huge.
So thick it barely holds itself upright.
Your brain scrambles, a thousand thoughts crashing at once. There's no way. That can't possibly-
Would this even fit inside you?
But your body doesn't care what your mind thinks.
Your heart kicks up again, anticipation curling low in your stomach, your stillâsensitive, drooling mess aching for more even after everything it's just been through. The sting is still there. The fullness lingers. And somehow, you want it again anyway.
The tip of his shaft catches the light, a thick vein running along it, pulsing. His balls hang heavy and full beneath it. Trimmed hair. Thick, solid thighs flexing when he shifts his weight.
You're pretty sure you're drooling when you're ripped out of your thoughts when he speaks.
"You think you can take it, bunny?"
Your body burns, but you nod nonetheless. The arousal you felt was almost too much to bare.
"Let me see that pretty cunt," he lifts your knees up, exposing both of your holes.
Your arms hook beneath your knees, making it easier for him to position himself, lining his cock right at your greedy hole. Your heart pounds in anticipation, lip caught between your teeth hard enough you're sure you might draw blood.
He drags the head along your clit first, smearing you with his precumâthen taps it there. Hard.
"Hurry-" you whine, brows furrowed in frustration.
"Just the tip, baby," he breathes, more to himself than you. "Just the tip."
For a split second, you think you understand what he means. Then he pushes in.
"Fuck-" you cry out, sharp and startled, your body locking up on instinct as your walls convulse around him, struggling to take his size. The sensation borders on too much immediatelyâtoo full, too sudden. It pulls a low grunt from his chest as he freezes, every muscle in his body going taut.
No. He can't do that. Can't hurt you.
"Shhh," he soothes quickly, voice dropping, steadying.
His hand moves where you need it most, rubbing slow, gentle circles, grounding you while your body panics around him.
Your head feels fuzzy. Like everything is happening underwater.
"Si-ah-too-" you babble, words falling apart as your eyes roll back, fingers digging into his shoulders. You can feel him inching deeper, barely moving, and every fraction of an inch feels like your body is being asked to do something impossible.
Too big. Too thick. There's no way this should fit.
He's not even halfway there, and you already feel stretched past anything you've known. Your mind flickers in and outâwhines and broken cries are the only sounds you can make as he keeps going slowly, carefully.
Your hands slide down to his, gripping tight like you're anchoring yourself.
"Hey," he whispers. "Breathe for me."
You try. A shaky inhale. Then another. Tears slip down your temples as you force your body to listen.
He looks nothing like you feel.
He's calm. Focused. Completely present. Sweat beads along his forehead, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths, eyes locked on where you're taking him in.
Then warmthâunexpected.
You jolt lightly as he spits, the heat of it hitting your clit before spreading where you're connected, slicking things enough to take the edge off.
"Too big," you cry, lifting your head to look.
You almost wish you hadn't.
It looks unreal. Wrong. Your body stretched wide around him, doing something you don't understand how it's doing. You swear you can feel him everywherâhigh, deep, overwhelming.
He hasn't looked away once.
"Almost in, baby," he tells you.
Then he stops. All the way in.
You lose your breath completely. You've never felt this fullâlike there's no space left inside you at all. His body presses close, skin slick with sweat and your heat, and you can't tell where you end and he begins anymore.
Everything inside you feels pulled tight, stretched to its limit. He's so deep you swear you feel him kiss your cervix.
Your eyes squeeze shut as you cling to his shoulder, focusing on the slow movement of his hands as they slide up your sides, steady, reassuring. You breathe again slowly . Letting your body adjust inch by inch.
Letting the shock fade.
"Tell me when to move," he says quietly.
You don't answer right away. Just a quick nod after a while of feeling his body pressed to yours.
When he finally does move-just barely-the discomfort softens into something else entirely.
Something deep and rolling and unfamiliar. Pleasure replaces the sting in waves, so intense it makes your toes curl.
He moves at a languid pace, dragging himself out of you just a bit before pushing back in. Slowly. Making you feel everything.
You're growing desperate. All the pentâup tension you've been carrying for months finally spilling over, burning hot and restless.
You want him. So bad.
"You can be rougher-ah,"
"Rougher?" he chuckles, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it makes you purr. "You don't want me to be rougher, baby."
His hips snap forward sharply, pulling a surprised gasp from your throat.
"I do!" you say breathless.
You see it then-the veins standing out along his arms, the way his jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth. He's losing it. Barely holding on anymore.
And you don't want him to.
"Please," you whisper, voice low, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan.
His hands fly to your hips, pinning them hard against the bed.
"You don't know what you're asking for."
The smile on your face disappears just as quickly as it came when he snaps his hips forward againâharder this time. The movement is rough and powerful, stealing the air from your lungs.
"You ever had your neck squeezed before, bunny?" His large hand comes up loose at first, fingers barely resting against your throat, and your breath already hitches. Then he squeezes harder, thumb pressing into the side of your neck.
Your vision blurs around the edges, pleasure shooting straight through you. You don't hear a word he says after that, though the soft smile that creeps on your face doesn't go unnoticed.
Something flips inside him.
He's not the caring giant anymore-the one coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you, softly rubbing your side and clit to ease the stretch of his cock. No. This version of him is different. Rougher. Bolder. It makes your toes curl in the best possible way.
All you hear is ringing and the sound of his hips hitting your ass.
Your mouth hangs open in a perfect O, no sound coming out except the faintest whimper dragged from you with every thrust. Your eyes cross as you let him do whatever he wants with your body.
You're a drooling mess. Nothing but babbles and broken cries spill from your lips as your eyes roll back, nails clawing at the messy, wet sheets that smell like nothing but you and him.
"Stupid thrust fucking thrust bunny thrust."
The sound sends a warm, overwhelming rush through your stomach, like the drop of a roller coaster. His hips don't falter, and neither does his grip.
With every movement, he rolls his hips in slow circles, making sure you feel every inch, every vein dragging against your sensitive, gummy walls. His hand loosens at your throat only to slide down and grab your tits hard.
"Simiiimon-ahâah-ah," you cry, voice breaking with each powerful snap of his hips. Short, deep thrusts. His pubic bone slamming into your swollen clit every time.
"So fuckin' tight," he growls. "You feel so fuckin' goodä¸fuck.â
He lets go of your neck, hands moving down your body as his hips slow, grinding into you instead. "I'm gonna rip you in half," he mutters to himself, the rumble in his chest deep and dark.
You don't hear him.
You're too busy gripping the sheets for dear life as the sinful sounds of skin slapping, cunt squelching, and your broken moans fill the room.
The sounds you make only fuel the heavy throbbing of his cock. "Feel good, baby?" he breathes, chest heaving as he looks down at your fucked-out expression, a small smile pulling at his lips.
"Yesyesyes," you babble, drool slipping from your mouth, eyes fluttering as you struggle to keep them open.
"Please-" Your cheeks are wet with tears, hair a mess, body buzzing with heat and pleasure. "Please go faster."
You lift your hips, digging your heels into the mattress, grinding back into him with everything you have left.
He lets out a deep grunt-surprised, pleased.
"Yeah, baby," he teases, thumb sliding down to rub your clit. "You want me to go faster?"
"Please, need it," you sob pathetically. The only thing you care about is pleasureâcoming apart on him and letting him ruin you again.
"Work for it, then," he pants, chest rising and falling as he watches your blissedâout face. Beautiful. Fucking wrecked.
Your hips jerk erratically now, calves trembling, sweat slicking your skin as he lets you use him to get yourself off.
"You're-ah-beingâmean," you sniff, your legs giving out slowly.
The familiar pressure coils tight in your stomach. Your clit is red and angry with every twist of his thumb, his free hand coming up to squeeze and play with your tit.
Before you can stop it, another orgasm washes through your whole body.
"Fuck," he he throws his head back when you clamp around him, tight and desperate, refusing to let go.
It takes everything in him not to come right then and there, buried deep inside your hot, gummy walls.
You're left gasping, clutching the sheets to your chest like you need something solid as you come apart on his cock.
As you come down, he slowly pulls out of you.
"Ahâ" you yelp, the sudden emptiness uncomfortable, almost cold without him.
"Bend over."
His eyes are completely dark as he steps back, cock twitching and leaking. Before you can even lift your head, he's gripping your thighs, dragging you forward and flipping you onto your stomach, then onto your knees. The sheets beneath you are soaked.
"C'mon, bunny," he says, slapping your ass impatiently. "Bend over."
"M'gonna breed this fuckin' cunt," he mutters.
His hands grip your waist, putting you exactly where he wants youâon your knees, tits pressed into the bed, ass up just like he's imagined too many times before.
And you. You're just a cock-drunk, drooling mess. You can't even form words. Just cries and whines spilling out of you.
Music to his ears.
Fuel to his aching cock.
He positions himself behind you, a heavy hand coming down on your ass. The sharp sound echoes through the room, followed by your broken cry.
"Sii-"
His thrusts are messyâmessier than before.
Desperate. His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he pounds into you harder, deeper. You chant his name like it's the only word you know.
Your body starts to betray you first. Your legs tremble, knees threatening to give out as the rhythm stutters, breaks, turns reckless. You can't keep up anymoreâcan't tell where one movement ends and the next begins. Every nerve feels lit, stretched thin, buzzing too loud inside your skin. Your breath comes apart in your chest, sharp little gasps you can't control, like your body already knows what's coming before your mind does.
You're right thereâso close it hurts. The need swells until it feels unbearable, like pressure behind your ribs, behind your eyes. Your grip tightens, fingers clawing uselessly at his pillow.
"Fuuuuck, baby!" he nearly yells, hips snapping animalistically, your whole body jolting with every thrust.
"Fuckfuckfuck-" you scream, loud and unfiltered, grateful there aren't neighbors close enough to hear.
The pressure builds again-and just before you can release, he pulls out.
You sob at the emptiness, looking back at him. "No! â please.
He smirks, gripping his cock, a white ring of your slick at the base before he leans down, spreading your ass. Both holes are on display. You can't stop him even if you wanted to.
He spits directly on your asshole before burying his tongue there, licking and slurping like a man starved.
From your clit to your ass, messy and obscene. His hand pumps his cock as he eats you, smacking and pinching your ass, tongue pushing deep enough to make you cry into the pillow.
"Pleaseâwant your cock, Simon," you beg, pushing back into his mouth without thinking.
âYeah, baby,â he mocks, voice pitched higher. âYou want this fat cock in your tummy?â
His fist tangles in your hair, jerking your head back until your neck strains, eyes lifting to meet him looming over you.
"Yes, please," your voice is horsed, neck straining with veins popping out. Chin wet and you're panting like a dog.
It made Simons cock impossibly harder.
He sinks into you again-no pause, no waiting. He bottoms out and immediately starts fucking you without restraint, the bed squeaking so loud you're sure it'll break. He slaps your ass, pulls your hair harder, forcing your back into an uncomfortable arch.
"This is what you wanted huh baby," he pants, hips never faltering, yet they get sloppy. His end is nearing.
He knows it by the way his balls tighten. Still dripping a sticky mess of both of you.
Then everything disappears.
Your vision blurs as you cum all over his cock againâno warning, no buildup.
You don't even know how many orgasms you've had.
This last one knocks you out completely.
You collapse onto the bed when he finally lets go, lying there motionless, drool slipping from your mouth as he uses your body for his pleasure.
"Fuck, bunny," he laughs. "Came so fast."
He doesn't give you time to recover.
He hauls you back up onto your hands and knees, positioning himself at the edge of the bed-your face level with his throbbing cock. Every twitch sends a bead of precum sliding down the angry red tip, already mixed with your cum.
"Make me cum, bunny."
"Wha-?" you mumble, still coming down from your high, vision spotting as you look up at him.
"C'mon, bunny," he groans. "You can't just leave me high and dry."
His hand comes down to grip his thick cock, the other cupping his balls. Your mouth waters instantly.
And then his earlier words echo in your head.
M'gonna breed you.
You whine softly and reach up, nudging his hands away so you can replace them with yours. You shuffle forward on your knees, settling in as you lean closer, both hands moving slowly up and down his shaft.
You tilt your head, staring up at him as you muster the best face you can manage, cheek brushing against the warm weight of him. You love the sounds he's makingâragged moans as he loses control.
"Want it inside," you beg.
Simon's eye twitches.
His breathing turns rough, uneven, gaze hardening as they lock onto you. For a split second, you almost wonder if you've crossed a line.
His grip snaps tight in your hair, the burn sharp enough to steal your breath. You barely have time to yelp before he's shoving his cock into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat hard.
It's sudden. Too sudden.
You choke, gagging around him as he thrusts shallow and rough, spit bubbling at your lips and dripping down onto him.
Your head rocks back and forth as you grip his thighs to steady yourself, fingers digging in.
His grip doesn't falter, using it as leverage to drive you deeper. It's brutal. Too much. The sounds you're making would make you blush under any other circumstance.
Your throat burns, gag reflex overwhelmed as you choke around him, fluids spilling from your mouth every time he pushes deeper. Your cunt gushes as he uses your throat for his own pleasure.
"Yeeeeah gimmie thatâgurg, gurgâbaby."
He grips the baseâwhat you can't fully take-along with his balls, forcing it down. Your eyes widen as you physically feel the stretch of your throat around him.
You tap at his thighs hard and fast, panic spiking just before he finally releases you.
You pull back immediately, coughing, gagging as phlegm spills from your mouth. Your face is a complete mess when he grips your hair again, jerking himself fast and hard. His expression twists with pleasure and desperation, lips caught between his teeth.
Your hand slips down between your legs, rubbing at yourself as he works his cock over your face.
"M'close," he breathes, chest red and heaving, focus razor-sharp.
"Fuuuck, bunny."
Before you can say anything, you feel itâsticky ropes splashing across your face, catching in your hair, your lashes, your brows, your lips. Everywhere. It lasts longer than you expect, enough to leave you stunned.
He grips the tip, giving a final stroke before tapping your cheek and pulling away.
You look up at him as he backs off, dragging your fingers through the mess on your face and bringing them to your mouth, licking them clean.
"Don't do this to me, bunny," he groans.
You giggle softly, the sound weak and breathless, before collapsing back onto the bed. The exhaustion finally catching up on you. Every muscle feels loose, heavy, like your body forgot how to work all at once.
The mattress dips as he moves closer again, slower now.
"Easy," he murmurs, hand settling at your side to keep you from rolling awkwardly. He grabs something off the nightstandâa cloth, a shirt, whatever's closestâand gently wipes at your face, patient, thorough.
Your eyes flutter half-closed as he works, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing finally evening out. The tension from before disappearing and turning into something soft, and peaceful.
"There you go," he says softly, brushing your hair back from your forehead. His thumb lingers there for a second longer than necessary.
You hum in response, too spent to form real words.
He shifts again, sliding into the bed beside you and tugging the covers up around you, making sure you're warm. When he settles beside you, he pulls you in without asking, arm firm and grounding around your shoulders.
You melt into him easily.
For a while, neither of you says anything. You just lie there, your head on his chest, his breathing steady beneath your ear. His hand traces slow, absent lines along your arm.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
You nod against him, eyes closed. "M'good,"
His arm tightens just a little.
"Good."
You smile to yourself, fingers drifting over the scars and dips along his chest. "Thought you said you were gonna breed me," you joke softly.
He lets out a low laugh, warm and deep, the sound vibrating through you.
"That was heat talk, bunny," he says easily. His hand slides to your waist, fingers trailing along your stretch marks.
You tilt your head, listening.
"When i do cum in your pretty pussy," he pauses, other hand reaching to drag a finger along your cheek. "It's gonna be for a reason.
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Š all content belongs to httpxyeager 2026. do not modify or repost.
Ghost is controlling. He likes to set things at his own pace, and that includes your orgasms.
It's something you learned early on in your arangement. If he wants you to do something, you better make it happen or face punishment.
"Ah! Siâ please, please I can'tâ it won'tâ" which is how you end up here, grinding desperately against ghosts boot because he told you to cum nearly five minutes ago and you know his patience is running out.
"No, Pet." Ghost grunts, shifting his position in the armchair and grabbing your chin to stop your drool from getting on his gear. "You beg and whine to get off, and now you're not even trying."
The dissapointment in hid voice nearly makes you sob. You grind harder, but the friction is hardly enough through your underwear. You know you can do it, you've done it before. But that was with ghost helping you and now he's just sitting there "pleaseeâ simonâ I wanna i promise! I justâ I can'tâ"
You know you hardly make sense right now, but everything is so overwhelming. Ghost scoffs above you and you fear he'll take his boot away, but he simply grabs you by the back of your neck and angles his foot. "I have to do everything for you, don't I pup?"
He sighs like he's going above and beyond for you, but you can hear fondness in your voice. He secretly likes how poorly trained you are.
His boot nudges against you and oh that feels good. With his hand on your scruff, and the new friction, it's shockingly easy to reach your peak. Babbling "thank youâ thank you, simon! Ahhâ"
But even after you settle down into a soft afterglow, ghost doesn't let you go. Instead, he grabs a better hold of your neck and grabs something out of sight.
The familiar buzz of ghosts favourite vibrator makes your stomach drop, and when you look up with wide eyes he chuckles "you didn't do it on yer own, pet. Since you wanted it so bad, you're gonna keep going until I'm happy."
With that, he hands you the vibrator, knowing you'll do what he says. Fuck. This is going to be a long night.
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