[cw; implied after sex, subtle dom/sub dynamics, implied subspace, fingers in mouth. gn!reader.]
Your hearing is muffled, vision a little blurry—but you feel his fingers pressing down on your tongue gently. You suck on them, taking them down to the last knuckle, teeth gently scraping his skin. His fingers are big, filling your mouth nicely. Simon’s behind you, cuddling you from behind, legs tangled with yours.
You hum for a second, twitching. You feel heavy and hot all over, a little damp, too. Simon’s spent cock is sandwiched between your thighs, heavy and warm. His bare chest is curled against your back with one arm around your waist. “Shh,” Simon shushes you softly, his lips by your ear. He pulls his fingers back for a moment, making you whimper and chase them before he presses them back in.
You melt, tongue running over the pad of Simon’s fingers as his lips press hot kisses down your jaw, a quiet hum leaving you again, but less bratty. More satiated, especially as he slowly begins to fuck your mouth with his fingers to keep you occupied.
[cw; implied after sex, subtle dom/sub dynamics, implied subspace, fingers in mouth. gn!reader.]
Your hearing is muffled, vision a little blurry—but you feel his fingers pressing down on your tongue gently. You suck on them, taking them down to the last knuckle, teeth gently scraping his skin. His fingers are big, filling your mouth nicely. Simon’s behind you, cuddling you from behind, legs tangled with yours.
You hum for a second, twitching. You feel heavy and hot all over, a little damp, too. Simon’s spent cock is sandwiched between your thighs, heavy and warm. His bare chest is curled against your back with one arm around your waist. “Shh,” Simon shushes you softly, his lips by your ear. He pulls his fingers back for a moment, making you whimper and chase them before he presses them back in.
You melt, tongue running over the pad of Simon’s fingers as his lips press hot kisses down your jaw, a quiet hum leaving you again, but less bratty. More satiated, especially as he slowly begins to fuck your mouth with his fingers to keep you occupied.
guilt sex of always yummy. like simon hating ruts and the alpha omega dynamic but being useful gives him such a rush he feels dizzy. he needs so please, as much as he hates it. reader telling him what to do makes it a bit better, but he still feels like he is coercing them by his hormones alone. in short: simon as horny as can be, but treating it with guilt and disgust of the catholic proportions
mmnghhhhh I LOVE THIS. such good inspo.. this makes me wanna rewrite part of the intro of the fic.
alpha!simon hating that he needs to have his ruts (or else it could have really negative health effects). he hates how out of control he feels, how needy he gets. he hates the usual dynamics, so when you take charge, it makes him feel so fuzzy and dizzy. his skin is so warm and it's like you're balm to his burns.
however, he feels like his scent is somehow coercing you, despite the fact that you're very clearly coherent and you want it. he gets stuck in his head, his scent tinging to a sour one, guilt pouring from him in waves until you're able to convince him he's not making you do this. it helps that you are ordering him around, though. he can't talk with your permission, touch without your permission, nothing.
[cw; implied after sex, subtle dom/sub dynamics, implied subspace, fingers in mouth. gn!reader.]
Your hearing is muffled, vision a little blurry—but you feel his fingers pressing down on your tongue gently. You suck on them, taking them down to the last knuckle, teeth gently scraping his skin. His fingers are big, filling your mouth nicely. Simon’s behind you, cuddling you from behind, legs tangled with yours.
You hum for a second, twitching. You feel heavy and hot all over, a little damp, too. Simon’s spent cock is sandwiched between your thighs, heavy and warm. His bare chest is curled against your back with one arm around your waist. “Shh,” Simon shushes you softly, his lips by your ear. He pulls his fingers back for a moment, making you whimper and chase them before he presses them back in.
You melt, tongue running over the pad of Simon’s fingers as his lips press hot kisses down your jaw, a quiet hum leaving you again, but less bratty. More satiated, especially as he slowly begins to fuck your mouth with his fingers to keep you occupied.
what is the vibe of the alpah ghost fic so far? i dont want to throw something out there that just doesn’t fit it
its 6k words so far, but pretty much its sub!alpha!ghost not being into typical dynamics. society expects macho tough alphas who dominate (especially in bed) and he's just not like that. ofc hes protective and greedy, but not dominating. he also hates his rut, he hates how people smell, etc so he takes blockers and suppressants. you're his civilian fem!omega friend, been friends for years and suddenly you're the only thing that's been able to arouse him. and oops, you triggered his rut! how unfortunate............................. hehe.
i have the entire plot written (the world building part) but im struggling with the actual SMUT portion
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.
You’re 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 you’re 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. “Simon—”
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.
“What?”
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”
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 you’re 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 you’ve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t 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. “What happened?”
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t 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.
“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”
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.
“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”
Simon’s 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.
“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s 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.
“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“
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.
“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s 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.
“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone else’s blood.
Graves’s 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.
“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”
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. “How bad?”
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.
“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesn’t.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s 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. He’s 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.
“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”
“There she is.”
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. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
“You liked that.” He croons.
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
“N-no.”
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
“Liar.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t 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 Graves’s 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.
Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
“You should be pissed at me,” 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.
“You should be callin’ me reckless.”
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.
It’s 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.
“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. “You can’t—”
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.
Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
“I can’t what?” 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.
“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”
“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”
You can’t.
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.
“Too far gone to scold me now?”
You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.
And it didn’t 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.
“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.
“So am I.”
“Simon—”
“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”
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.
“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”
“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”
His eyes flash. “Mhm.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
“Try that again.”
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
“You’re—” 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. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”
“Probably.”
“Price is going to—”
“Already did.”
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
“Read me the riot act.”
Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”
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. “Because I had to see you.”
God. You think he’s lost his mind.
“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”
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.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”
You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”
“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
“And if he talks about you like that again?”
You barely manage the whisper. “What?”
Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”
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, Graves’s 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.
“Leave it.”
Your breath trembles. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s 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. “That’s what I thought.”
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.
You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.
SOUTHBOUND ↯ (Sub!Bottom!Ghost x Top!Dom!Fem!Reader)
masterlist — link to rq
authors note; IM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!!! i was very unhappy with this and kept rewriting it… i hope you guys enjoy!! let me know how you feel. i also am thinking about making this a lil series idk.. its yummy….
summary; simon broke a rule—it’s time to remind him who is in charge. 7.7k words.
[WARNINGS; heavy mommy kink, bondage, praise/degradation, nipple play, sex toy usage, anal sex, rough play (mentions of spanking), sub-space, dacryphilia, aftercare, established bdsm dynamic.]
Humor is subjective; what one person finds funny, the next person may not—and you don’t think Simon lying to his team about who is in control between you two is humorous at all.
It happened over drinks at a pub; loosened lips and buzzed brains, questions and mouths moving faster than their brains. You were with Simon, being the team’s designated driver for the night in order to allow everyone to have drinks. You’re not part of the team, but you’ve been around them long enough through Simon to realize that maybe Price shouldn’t be the designated driver each time. Let the guy let loose.
You notice it; the way Simon’s drinking is a little heavier than usual. He’s quite pliant tonight, even willingly taking a sip of your drink—something he doesn’t like and is non-alcoholic, but you offer it up anyway. He has a look in his eye, something only you can clock. You adore Simon’s eyes; a pretty dark shade of brown, alluring and accompanied by blonde lashes. He’s lucky he’s so gorgeous—gets him out of so much trouble with you—the stuff that’s worse, anyway. Not the spankings, however. You like it when those lashes get wet with his tears.
You can already tell Simon’s in a mood due to how he’s willingly answering questions for once. It shocks you, honestly; you don’t think you’ve seen him this receptive to anybody in a while. It amuses you, almost. It would be humorous if this didn’t mean he was going to act up tonight. You note the way his shoulders aren’t drawn in like usual, the way he’s letting himself relax and hunch over a little. Simon’s gruff and sharp like usual, but more… open.
You’re not sure how the conversation landed on the topic; it doesn’t matter in the end, not when you hear some snarky remark from Simon—you barely hear his exact words, some lie about how he’s dominant in the bedroom. Something said in his drunken stupor.
You slowly sip your drink; you don’t bother to retaliate as you know you’ll win in the end; he broke a rule you two established, anyway. Simon just lied, misrepresented you. Hm. You aren’t just his wife, you’re his domme. Someone who can put him in his place, someone who will take care of Simon and guide him. It’s taken a lot of trust and a large amount of trial and error to get to this point; for him to hand over control, the metaphorical (and sometimes physical) leash.
If only they knew how pretty you willingly sit for him. How Simon gladly bends over for you, getting teary eyed if you tease him for too long. How would they react if they knew what Simon needs from you? You let him have his fun for the night, all the while knowing he’s actively digging himself a bigger hole with every sentence. Simon’s a fucking dog for you, and they have nooo idea about what he’s willing to do to even just get you to run your fingers against his scalp. How Simon craves your dominance—how he needs it.
A couple days later, you decide it’s time. You gave him space to recognize what he did; maybe apologize, lessen the punishment. Simon doesn’t say anything.
As soon as Simon comes home, he knows he’s in for it—the reason unknown. The TV is off, the kitchen light is on, as well as your shared bedroom down the hall. No music, no talking, no greeting. “Fuck.” Simon mutters, swallowing hard. He’s in trouble for something; his brain begins to work, trying to remember anything that he did to piss you off, if he managed to break the rules. His heart dropped to his stomach the second he walked through that door, his metaphorical tail wagging nervously. Simon quickly removes his boots and leaves them by the door.
Simon can feel the tension in the air; thick and heavy. Anticipation makes his heart skip a beat as he steps forward, slowly heading down the hall, dropping his bag by the front of the hallway. His feet gently thump against the hardwood floor with every step as he approaches the bedroom door, which is half-way cracked, the light shining through.
Simon pauses with realization—Oh shit. He lied, he lied to everybody. You are not the one who takes it—he is. Simon lied, breaking one of your biggest rules.
You love to break him down, hold his soul in your hands. It’s exhilarating to get such a big, stoic man to burst into tears under you. The cycle is breaking him down, and putting him back together piece by piece in the way that you want. Simon can come back to you in whatever state, but he knows that you’ll set him right.
He didn’t realize for a long time he could ever be submissive, let alone bottom. In his past relationships and hookups, Simon has always been the stereotypical macho man, topping and dominating. It’s a societal expectation, especially of a man of his stature and profession.
Simon toyed with the idea of being a submissive top by himself; random scenarios his horny rotted brain could conjure. A lot of masturbation on deployments. It never.. hit in the way that he was expecting. He figured it wasn’t for him.
Then Simon met you. You were dominating in conversation the second he engaged with you; your eyes were almost piercing, like you knew something he didn’t. Maybe you did. You met in a pub; you spotted him, found his deliberate choice of wearing a balaclava indoors, in public intriguing. It made you want to dissect his brain.
A few messy make out sessions later, Simon learned very quickly that you didn’t sub—you could bottom, but you preferred to.. how did you put it.. “put pretty boys in their place” and “help big guys like you realize where they belong”.
Simon got dizzyingly hard from it. He remembers how you laughed at him for it; not with judgment, but laughing at him for being so confused on why that got him so worked up. You thought it was cute; this big guy, staring at you almost doe-eyed like with his balaclava pushed over the bridge of his nose, lips swollen from bites and kisses.
You showed Simon an entirely new world of pleasure, one that he didn’t consider, not before he met you. It was a slow learning process; starting out with more vanilla kinks, testing out what he liked and what he didn’t. Simon quickly learned as well that if he was going to fall, you would be there to catch him. If you two tried something and it wasn’t for him, you stopped. If Simon felt overwhelmed and couldn’t handle anything below the belt, you never forced it. If Simon had a sub drop—considering he just started all of this—you were right there, with kisses, back rub, water, and snacks. Everything to get him to calm down.
You went out of your way to notice his tells; for a man who hides behind a mask, you took the time to read him like a book, front to back. You know when he’s irritated, needing a harsher hand to get back in line. You know when Simon needs softer words, some sort of direction that only you can give him. This quickly began to extend outside of sex, you two naturally falling into a 24/7 dom and sub dynamic. Simon didn’t realize how much he needed it until you two had an official talk about it.
Simon can feel his heartbeat in his temples as he’s paused in front of the door. He swallows hard and raises his hand, knocking on the frame instead of the door itself so he wouldn’t accidentally push it open. A few seconds pass, and he nearly knocks again until he hears you call him in. He lets out a breath before pushing open the door. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the door with a red locked box next to you.
Simon swears internally—that’s the box that holds a lot of different things, specifically restraints and tools for punishment. Lightning zips to his belly in excitement before he looks down at the ground instead of you—you haven’t given him permission to look, and it’s clear that Simon understands that he fucked up. The corner of your mouth quirks upwards for a moment before relaxing back into a neutral expression.
Simon hears you shuffling around before he plops a familiar, dark red pillow onto the ground. He swallows; it’s the pillow you two use for him to kneel. It makes his cock ache for a moment, before you cut through his thoughts. “Kneel.” You utter firmly, straightening the pillow out with your foot before pulling your leg back next to your other one. Simon steps closer to the pillow and kneels down onto it, instincts making him sit up straight for you. He keeps his eyes downcast as he rolls his shoulders back.
“Look at me.”
Simon immediately picks his head up, his eyebrows furrowing a little, making eye contact with you. He can’t tell what you’re thinking and it’s killing him. He knows you’re mad, but he hates it when you’re mad. God, you make him feel so out of himself. You rewired his brain and he still doesn’t know how to handle it. You could look at him a certain way and he can feel his brain leaking out of his ears. “Do you know what you did?”
Simon swallows; he is quiet for a moment—you never push him to answer under a specific amount of time, even when he’s in trouble and he appreciates it. He thinks about what happened over the past two weeks before it hits him. His fingers twitch—when did his hands end up on thighs?---”I lied.” Simon murmurs quietly, his voice low and rumbly, almost out of place. You stare at him, which prompts him to twitch again and continue. “I told my mates that, I.. I’m the one who’s in control.”
You hum in response, barely blinking, barely moving. It makes his heart skip a beat again. “So what’s the truth, hm? Who’s in control?”
“You are, Mommy.” Simon breathes out without hesitation, feeling the familiar need to please you and be good creeping up on him. You tilt your head from his response. “Is that so?” You utter, causing his shoulders to square out and his head to shake back and forth. “No, no, I’m not, you are, you always have been.” Simon grunts out. He can feel the flush creeping down his neck to his chest, stemming from his cheeks. His face is obscured by the balaclava and Simon knows that you like to be able to see his face; it’s a vulnerability thing. He’s extremely aware that you love to look at his face. You always make a remark of how he looks like a rugged pup.
Very fitting. But, despite the fact that there’s the twitching urge in his fingertips to slide off the balaclava in order to appease you, you haven’t said he could move, nor take it off. Simon’s mind buzzes a little; he wants to be a good boy. You’re still looking at him, eyes piercing deep underneath his skin, his bones, right to his soul. “You lied, Simon,” You start, your voice remaining low and firm. “And you have been getting on my nerves for a few weeks now. That all builds up, does it not?”
Simon doesn’t physically respond, but he can feel his blood run a little cold. Your voice has such a specific tone that easily sends him to that fuzzy place in his brain where it’s all goop and slop, and you practically saying that you’re disappointed in him is fucking with him. Simon swallows, shifting just a tad on his knees. He just wants to be good for you, nothing else. He wants to press his face into your hip and beg for forgiveness. “It does, Mommy.” Simon replies quietly, his eyes scanning yours.
“Stand and strip, pup. Leave the balaclava.”
Simon immediately rises to his feet, his hands grasping the hem of his hoodie and tossing it aside, doing the same with his t-shirt that he’s wearing underneath. His fingers shake as he grabs his belt buckle, struggling to undo it. He glances at you then back to his belt. It’s a bit funny—a sniper’s hand trembling not from taking a life, but from the adrenaline rush of disappointing its owner. Simon’s about to just say fuck it and tug his pants down without undoing his belt, but your hand snaps a couple of times in order to catch his attention. His head flicks up to look at you, eye contact—you give him a look. “..I need help, Mommy.” Simon murmurs, relenting under your gaze. You give him a slight nod as you beckon him closer. Simon steps over the red pillow on the floor.
You reach forward and you easily undo his belt for him, pulling it out of the loops. “Thank you, Mommy.” Simon responds once you give his hip a reassuring squeeze; a silent check in. He nods before stepping back, unbuttoning his pants and sliding them off, then peeling off his boxers. After he takes off his socks and tosses everything aside, he’s naked aside from the balaclava that’s on his face. He watches the way your eyes rake over him, causing him to stand up straight.
“Because you lied to me, pup, that means I have to punish you. Do you want me to tell you what I have planned, or would you rather me just go ahead?” You murmur, one of your hands reaching for the locked box. Simon blinks a little; you take all control and only give him a little, just to keep his head afloat enough from the noise. Does he want to know?
Simon’s hands naturally slide behind his back, one hand clasping his wrist, his feet standing shoulder length apart. He wants to be good. He’s trying to read you; what do you want him to answer with, or more so are you looking for a specific answer from him? Simon debates for a second, eyelashes fluttering. “Whatever you’d like, Mommy.” He breathed out instead; quiet and low. You give nothing away with your expression as you tug the box onto your lap, using a key to open it.
Simon lets out a shaky breath, trying to calm his nerves. He’s.. excited, nervous. Scared and desperate. You make him feel so much by doing so little and that also scares him—how much control you have over him.
You take out a few things; bondage safe rope, a dildo gag, a second dildo with a harness, lube, and a vibrator. His heart starts thumping again at the sight of the toys—fuuuuuck, he’s in for a night. Simon fucked up badly.
His brain is pure mush; Simon’s arms ache, his hips do—he feels too full, drool smeared down his chin, his balaclava balled up and stuffed in his mouth. He hasn’t earned the dildo gag yet. Simon’s sprawled out on the bed on his stomach, arms tied together behind his back. The ropes are firm, unmoving—grounding for him. His ass and the back of his thighs hurt. You’ve spanked him to tears already, counting them and begging for forgiveness.
Simon can’t see, but he knows his ass and thighs are a “pretty shade of pink”, as you’ve described it. They feel like they’re on fire, but it melts with the pleasure in such an addicting way that Simon would probably let you hit him some more. Your fingers are buried in his hole—two fingers, to be exact. They’re nice and deep, curling and slowly pulling back before pushing back inside. Every press of your fingers has Simon’s legs twitching, his hole clenching. God, you’ve already edged him twice and you weren’t even inside of him at that point.
Simon shivers as your free hand is suddenly on the nape of his neck, your palm firmly pressing against his skin and smoothing down his shoulders and back, ending at the dips in his lower back. Your palm moves and pauses at his hip, squeezing before smoothing up to his waist, then moving back to his lower back. Simon moans, his eyelids fluttering as your fingers press deep again, digging his knees against the mattress so he can press his hips back up, dragging his neglected cock against the sheets.
You gently press down on his lower back, guiding him back down which Simon easily obeys. He shakily inhales, the side of his face pressed into the bed, eyes closing tightly as he feels so wound up and tense. His hands are in fists behind his back, clenching and relaxing over and over as he tries to get himself to relax. Simon knows he’s clenching up around your fingers, the muscles in his shoulders are hard. His skin feels too tight, too hot.
“Simon.”
Your voice cuts through the haze, digging deep into his brain. Simon makes a noise in response, a poor attempt in being coherent around the balaclava. You pull it from his mouth, letting him pant out openly. Simon then notices your fingers inside of his hole have paused and the hand on his lower back has raised to his tied arms, gently gripping the ropes—probably ready to pull the small part poking out as you tied them in a way that you can easily get him out of them if needed. Simon has a lot of trauma, so it isn’t unheard of him suddenly needing to get out of the ropes.
“I need a color, pup.” You murmur, closer—the bed dips. You must be leaning over him to reach his head. Simon’s lips are wet, they smack together in an attempt to gather some sort of response in his brain. A color—a simple check in, one of many systems set up to make sure both parties are okay to keep going. You haven’t been that harsh, honestly; you’ve been harder on Simon in the past but everyone has different limits each day.
Color, color… Simon takes a moment to calm his racing heart, to process what he’s feeling. Simon is sticky and wet from sweat, drool and precum—It hurts, he’s aching and it burns—but he also feels good. He feels so fucking good. There’s an addicting pleasure that runs just as deep as the ache from being spanked and manhandled. Simon loves this; he loves you and how you make him feel, however terrifying it is for his brain. It’s almost like a way of healing for Simon. Allowing someone power over him, the idea had utterly terrified him for years—still does, if he was honest with himself.
But you take care of him every time. You take Simon apart, make him feel so intensely and then gently put him back together. In a way, he’s also completely in control the entire time. Simon knows if he says so at this moment, if he utters the word red, everything will stop. You’ll untie him, you’ll pull your fingers from being inside of him, and you’ll wipe him down. You won't let Simon slip.
“Green, Mommy.” Simon breathes out, his voice unrecognizable to himself. It’s breathy, low and a little weak. His lips are dry, throat aching a little from the nonstop noises. You hum, brushing up his back with your palm. “Good boy.” You praise him softly, before leaning away. Simon’s eyes are closed as your fingers slip from his hole—emptyemptyempty—and you’re guiding him to sit up. Simon makes a confused noise as something is pressed to his lips, his eyes opening. It’s a bottle of water.
“Sips, baby. Your throat is dry.” You whisper in his ear. Simon eagerly takes some sips of the water, slow and steady, feeling the liquid cool his throat. After Simon turns his head a bit, you put the water bottle back on the side table. “Thank you for the water, Mommy.” Simon whispers back to you, afraid of breaking the comfortable intimate setting. You lean up and grab a pillow, helping Simon turn around and lay down, head on the pillow. Simon makes a face as the tender skin of his ass and thighs touches the sheets below, his eyes looking up at you.
Simon swears just looking at you takes his breath away. The overhead light in the room is off, the brightness too harsh for this setting, but a lamp behind you is turned on to illuminate the room. It’s almost framing you with a glowing halo behind you, like you’re an angel of some sort. Simon surely thinks that you are one. Between everything, you managed to already put on the strap on, the harness tight against your hips, the dildo heavy between your legs. Simon licks his lips at the sight—God, he wants you. He always does, especially when you’re looking at him the way you are right now.
Your eyes narrow playfully, catching the swipe of his tongue. “You want a taste?”
Simon shudders hard—his cock twitches between his legs. You treat the toy as an extension of yourself and he loves it. Yeah, maybe you don’t necessarily get any pleasure from him lapping at your dildo, but the sight makes you so fucking horny. You watch Simon’s eyebrows twitch together and furrow, his head nodding as you reach upwards and brush your fingers over his nipples. He shudders for a moment, lips parting as you gently pinch at them, humming as you tease them into hardness. Simon’s nipples aren’t terribly sensitive, but you like to watch him squirm anyway.
You eye his body for a moment before glancing up at his face. “Your arms are okay behind your back like this, pup?” You ask, brushing your thumbs over his hard nipples, watching his back arch into the touch. Simon nods; his weight is against his arms like this, but it’s evenly distributed, so his circulation isn’t being cut off. “I’m okay, Mommy.” Simon confirms quietly, his voice rough and low. A sentence that surely does not match his voice, nor a man of his character.
You nod and your hand drifts up to his neck, rubbing your thumb against his protruding Adam's apple. You try to hold back your pleased expression from how Simon bears his neck without hesitation. “You’re still in trouble, and we aren’t done. But..” You murmur, trailing off as your thumb brushes down to the notch between his collarbones. “If you’re good, you can have the gag.”
The gag being the dildo gag you grabbed earlier—Simon’s a bit embarrassed about it, but the dildo gag properly turns off his brain, just like how servicing your strap or your pussy does. It’s not the sexual act itself that helps quiet everything up in his head, it’s being given a simple task, and doing said task that you can’t really fuck up. It’s being given something to do that doesn’t warrant much mental effort, not like how his job does.
He nods in response, swallowing hard as your fingers smooth down his sternum. “I’ll be good.” Simon murmurs in response, nodding.
You climb up his body and you straddle his shoulders, knees on the side of his head. You lean back, sitting a bit on his chest. You reach down and run your fingers through his hair. Simon’s eyes flutter at the sensation, a quiet hum coming from him. His skin prickles a little from the gentleness from you and your hands; a difference from earlier when you spanked him to tears. “Your arms are tied, pup. What will you do if you need a break or if it’s too much?” You ask, gently scratching his scalp to ground him.
Simon leans into your hands on his scalp, eyes fluttering as your thumbs brush down against his cheekbones and then against his jawbones. “I’ll buck and turn my head, Mommy.”
As a reward for the correct answer, you reach between your legs and rest the length against his face, making him flush. Simon looks up at you through his pretty blonde eyelashes, lips parting. “Go on.” You encourage him—watching him. It makes Simon’s stomach a little tight, because that’s something he says. Using his phrases during a time like this.. God.
Simon’s jaw opens and his tongue comes out, pressing against the silicone base and tilting his head back to drag it upwards towards the tip. It tastes pretty much like nothing, but he doesn’t really care. Simon breathes out through his mouth as he repeats the motion on the other side, tilting his head to reach it. He feels the fake ridges and veins underneath his tongue. He can smell you from under here. Simon can smell how wet you are and it’s making his mouth water. Simon knows he fucked up too badly tonight to get a taste, so he’ll settle with the musk.
The visual of Simon licking at your dildo is extremely arousing; the reverent look in his brown eyes, the shaky breathing and the way he strains his neck from effort to lick every inch—Mm.
“I don’t know how you thought you could get away with what you said, especially because you’re so relaxed like this.” You taunt gently, rubbing the toy against his cheek, knocking against the crooked bridge of his nose. Simon flushes from your words, his pale cheeks tinting a light pink as he presses his tongue to the base of your dildo. “This is where you belong in bed and you know it, pup. Playing pretend.. So silly.”
Simon inhales shakily before his lips part. “Please, Mommy.” You hum and lean back a little, feeding the tip between his lips. “Good dog.”
You’re talking as Simon bobs his head a little, using his spit to wet the toy. He’s not hearing you much, focusing on the task at hand. You reach down and pet his hair. “There you go, you know what to do. Act like it’s real, baby.” You grunt, smiling as Simon is slowly sucking it down. Again, the toy is tasteless—but the weight and the girth is good. Real good. The fact that it’s attached to you is so fucking good.
Slowly but surely, inch by inch rubs down the length of his tongue and into his mouth. Simon’s eyes flutter a little as his head relaxes back against the plush pillow, your hand on his head to keep him still as you sink the toy into his throat. “There you go, Si. Relax your throat, swallow and breathe.” You utter assuringly, hearing him struggle to take the toy a little. He does his best to follow what you tell him to do; swallow and breathe, relax.
He looks so pretty like this. So vulnerable and soft—you love it. You love him. You love the trust he hands over to you. You don’t take the responsibility that Simon has given you lightly; the privilege of holding his trust and his mind so delicately in your hands, something you never want to take for granted. You always end up feeling so soft about it during sex because it’s the biggest reminder of said trust. Simon isn’t just trusting you with his body, he’s trusting you with the control over him in almost every aspect.
You love how easily he flushes from your words or a soft touch against him. In a way, you’re happy that Simon wears a face covering pretty much 24/7 because that means Simon isn’t used to holding back his expressions as well. Which means.. When you push his buttons the right way, he makes the most gorgeous faces. Simon is big and strong, a wall of iron—a protector. You’re glad you can be the welder, to patch him up and keep him going. Simon has admitted to you before he isn’t sure how he kept going without someone like you; “spite” is what he guessed.
“Breathe.” You utter, watching his eyes water and you sink deeper into his throat. You tilt your hips to give him some room to breathe, but not enough to let him move about. Simon’s chest stutters before he inhales and exhales through his nose. He’s nearly to the base, where he has the most trouble at first. “There you go, baby. Just think of it as a warm up, hm? For your gag.”
You take the pleasure in watching Simon’s eyebrows twitch desperately as his eyes close, tears falling down his cheeks. You bite your inner cheek at the sight because he’s such a pretty crier. You push your hips forward, slowly sliding home–until his nose brushes against your skin. You groan softly at the sight, hearing him greedily swallow and inhale. You stay like that for a moment, smiling down at him, watching Simon’s eyebrows gently relax a little. “Won’t you look at that,” You whisper, running your fingers through his hair. “Pup gets his treat and calms down, hm?”
You grab a handful of Simon’s hair to keep his head against the pillow and you pull the dildo out of his throat slowly, hips moving away. His eyes open as you do, thick strings of saliva connecting him to you. The tip pops out from his lips and Simon coughs a bit, looking at the dildo then back at you, waiting for your instruction. “You had a taste, yeah?” You utter as you move off of him. Simon nods, inhaling deeply and slowly exhaling as he watches you move near his legs. Your hands reach and knead his large thighs, thumbs pressing against the inner skin of them to part them.
Simon complies, giving you access to him once more. “You had fun, I’m gonna have more of mine.”
What— Oh.
You grabbed the vibrator, the one that’s vaguely shaped like an egg with a band. Oh no.
Simon’s breath hitches as you grab the base of his heavy cock, giving him a spine tingling stroke before you fit the vibrator right on the underside of his tip, the most sensitive part. Simon opens his mouth to say something, but you decide it’s the perfect time to turn it on with a little remote. Simon groans loudly as the device buzzes, sending delicious light pleasure up his spine, traveling to his toes.
“Fuck.” Simon spits quietly, his back arching a little. Your hand smooths over his thigh, to his hip to keep him steady. Pleasure washes over him in gentle waves as his head knocks to the side. You reach up to pinch and brush against his nipples again, making him twitch. God, you love how responsive he is. One of your hands tap his knee. “Spread them wider, pup. There ya go.”
You settle between his legs with the bottle of lube you used earlier to finger him open. The sight of the lube has his heart skipping a beat or two—the little horny voice in the back of his head gets waaaay too excited for his liking. You grab the underside of one of his thighs, pressing it closer to his chest to give yourself access to his puffy hole. Due to the thickness of Simon’s thigh, it springs up a bit but it just rests against part of your chest.
He can’t really see what you’re doing, but Simon licks his lips in preparation. He tells himself to relax, especially as he feels lubed fingers easily press back home into his hole, causing him to sigh. The gentle pleasure from the vibrator combined with your fingers makes everything tingle. Simon knows you’re gonna turn up the heat soon, but he chooses to bask in the gentle pleasure right now instead of focusing on what’s in store for him. The pleasure mixes nicely with the deep ache on his backside.
Once you slip your fingers back out of him, he relaxes his pelvis, eyes fluttering—and then you’re pushing in. Simon gasps quietly, a sensation he will never get used to. The tip splits him open, sliding in with a lewd squelch due to the amount of lube you have been using. “Oh fuck.” Simon grunts out intelligently, feeling every ridge and vein against his insides. He can’t help himself as he clenches around the dildo, his back slowly arching into the pressure inside of him. “Oh fUck!” He repeats as you turn up the vibrator that’s strapped to his fat dick.
“Oh, Mommy—” Simon calls out, his voice rough as you press all the way in. You let out a soft laugh, rubbing his lower belly. “You’re clenching so hard, pup. Can feel you gripping the harness.” You murmur, gently scratching the sensitive skin which earns you pearly droplets of precum from his tip. You know Simon likes to feel full from you. “Mh, take a breath, baby. Relax, hm?”
Simon tries; he does. He inhales, turning his head to the side with a shaky exhale. You being so deep doesn’t help him relax. It’s so so so fucking good, but God, it’s just a little too deep. Just how Simon likes it. It’s nearing the edges of “it’s too much” and “not enough”. When it comes to you specifically, Simon can never get enough. He’s fucking greedy and he’s not shy about it. He feels his dick throb, and Simon makes more of an effort to relax. Deep breaths, in and out. Slow and steady.
“Good dog.”
Simon groans, his eyes floating over to look at you–and fucking hell, look at you. You look like a fucking goddess in his fuck-drunk brain. Simon wishes he could burn this beautiful image of you into the inside of his eyelids so whenever he closed them, all he saw was you.
You move and he gasps; you’re pulling your hips back oh so slowly, his hole gripping your toy so tightly–greedily, hungrily. Simon’s head turns to the side again as if it’ll help him from the overwhelming sensations. You turn up the vibrations by one setting as you slowly sink back into him, your eyes glued to his face. “God, you’re so fucking sexy, Simon.” You breathe out, smile obvious in your tone. You can’t help it, the smile—nor your words. “Your body tells me things you won't tell me yourself. Y’know that, right?”
Simon does know. He knows how responsive he is to your words, your touch, your fuck.
“You’re so fucking pretty yet you’re such a brat, baby.” You hum, pulling your hips back just to watch Simon’s back arch. “You’re not out of the woods at all.”
Oh—right. Simon almost forgot this is meant to be a punishment. You’ll supply addictive pleasure, then deny him heaven. A low whine leaves him as you push back in just as slowly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry..” Simon breathes out, his wrists flexing underneath his back. He can feel the warm sweat forming on his back against his arms.
You keep a hand on the midst of his torso to keep him in place—in, out, in, out. Slow and steady, deep and so fucking good. Simon’s mumbling something that you don’t really catch, and you don’t really care to try to as you fuck him nice and deep. He always blabbers when he feels good. You can tell the tip and rubbing against his prostate with the way Simon just can’t stay still. You flash him a sweet smile and turn up the vibrations.
Your hips begin to plap against his ass with every thrust, making him get louder. Simon knows he sounds so lewd, he must look it, too—his eyes flutter as you fuck him just right, inhaling sharply as his cock leaks all over his belly, precum a milky white against his pale skin. His eyes shut as you focus on fucking him nice and deep, your dildo reaching places your fingers cant.
Simon licks his lips before they part; his moan is interrupted by you leaning over him, pressing way too deep. He gasps and his eyes fly open as the tip of the dildo gag presses against his bottom teeth. “Open up, pup.” You murmur, your tone sensual as you beckon his jaw to open back up.
Simon shudders hard, his eyes fall half lidded as he keeps eye contact as you slide the tip against his tongue. You tease him a little, sliding the tip back and forth against the curve of his tongue before whispering for him to relax his throat. Simon relaxes his throat, clenching around the base of your strap as you guide the dildo gag down his throat. You watch as his eyes grow hazy, filling his throat. His lips brush against the base of the toy. Simon exhales shakily through his nose as you feed the ending part through the buckle on the back of his head. You let Simon rest his head back down on the pillow, wiping your hand through his drool to his throat, smearing it.
You gently feel the column of his neck, gently squeezing. “Good?” You check in, scanning Simon’s face for any discomfort. He lazily nods, leaning into your palm where you ended up cupping his cheek. His stubble scratches your skin gently. You note to yourself that you should check in again soon. “You still remember that you can’t cum without my permission, pup?” You remind him as your palm rubs down his sternum, your fingers smearing his mess on his belly. His abdomen tightens under your fingertips as a desperate noise leaves him with a quick nod.
You lean back and properly grab the underside of his other leg, pressing it towards his chest. Simon’s eyes widen a bit as your fingers bite into the fat of his thighs, the muscles tensing a little under your grip. This position lets you go a little deeper and gives you more control overall—you watch as the pieces fall into place in Simon’s mind, a needy hum leaving him before he noisily swallows around the gag.
Okay, time for you to truly have your fun.
You pull your hips back and begin to fuck into him like you hate the man. It causes him to gasp and sputter around the gag, his hole clenching around your toy so hungrily as Simon’s head rolls back. It’s a symphony of plaps and muffled noises of pleasure. He can’t help but try to squirm away—your hips hitting the sore and sensitive skin of his ass from the spanking, his thighs sore underneath your harsh grip. Your tip is rubbing against his sweet spot so good, it makes Simon’s toes fucking curl.
He feels like a goddamn puddle. There’s this building pressure in his stomach, hooked deep into his hips and it alights on fire with every thrust of your hips. The vibrator isn’t doing Simon any favors; his cock hurts. He’s so fucking sensitive and his balls ache. He feels tears brim in his waterline as he opens his eyes to look at you again, messily swallowing around the gag. His belly is warm and tight, and fuck, oh no—
Simon thrashes a little, panicking as his dick twitches a little too hard. He can feel himself getting close, his eyes rolling a little as his cock continues to leak and twitch. The vibrator continues to fuck Simon over, driving him closer to that edge. Simon’s legs tremble in your hold, just a little more—
—You pause your hips, halfway inside of him, turning down the vibrations. Simon moans around the dildo, eyes fluttering as he tries his best to relax, the warmth in his belly slowly dissipating. He swallows around the toy, huffing through his nose in order to relax his hips. “Were you close, pup?” You ask, gently squeezing the backside of his raw thighs. Simon grunts and nods a little, getting ahold of himself from the edge. He tries to blink away the tears collecting in his lash line. The sight makes you want to open Simon’s ribs up and eat him from the inside out.
Simon swallows around the toy, struggling a little to stay in the present moment. He can’t help it, not when his mind unravels like the curling in his lower belly does when you edge him. He shakily exhales through his nose as he closes his eyes for a moment, feeling his cock bob and twitch as the feeling completely fades. It leaves Simon so fucking sensitive and needy. God, he needs it.
His eyes flutter back open as you pat his cheek, his gaze focusing on your face. You’re flushed, a little sweaty from exertion. Simon absentmindedly thinks about how good you look like this as you tap the end of the dildo gag, making him swallow around it again. Your hands rub his thighs, fingertips running over the raw skin, tracing the erythema. “Good dog, letting me know.” You murmur, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. The praise washes over him, settling nicely in his stomach like always. Yes, I’m a good dog, a good boy, a good toy—
Simon groans as you pinch and tug on his nipples a little with one hand, watching his eyebrows furrow. You can’t help yourself and pinch harder, making Simon jolt. You laugh, apologizing by kneading his pecs, the skin getting all rosy pink and sensitive. Cute.
He garbles around the dildo as you tug your hips back before sinking back in. You keep one leg up against his chest, your other hand teasing his chest. You just can’t help yourself—he does it to himself, really. In and out, in and out—you keep a good, deep rhythm. Every so often, you make sure to nudge a bit deeper, watching his eyes roll a little. You hum, panting a little. The strain in your hamstrings nudge you to be nice, maybe end this soon. Using one hand, you rearrange the egg vibrator, turning it around so it’s snug underneath his heavy balls. Simon moans, as his body is jostled, your hips slapping against his. The best pain in life, in his honest opinion.
Simon nearly chokes as you turn up the vibrations to a setting he can’t ignore and can feel through the plap of your hips. You smile as you reach down, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock. His hole clenches so tight around your strap, making you chuckle. “Loosen up, pup. Can’t fuck you the way that I want if you keep that up.” You tease, making Simon tear up a little. His chest convulses, the skin blooming a beautiful deep rouge—a little too purple for your liking. Concerns with him choking on his spit, you unclasp the dildo gag and slowly remove it from between his lips.
Simon inhales and coughs wetly, moans pouring out between whimpers and wheezes. You toss it aside and rub his chest a little. “Breathe, Simon.” You encourage, watching the color melt back into a much more desirable red. The blush on his chest is connected to his neck and face, his ears especially looking warm. It’s such a nice contrast against his facial scars and his blonde hair. You love the blonde eyelashes, tears and red face combo from him. When his eyebrows draw up together? God, you could fucking eat him for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“There you go. So fuckin’ pretty.” You coo, grabbing his cock again. You’re fucking into his pliant hole, keeping his leg folded up as you stroke Simon’s dick, your thumb swiping around the sensitive tip, pressing right underneath. Simon is losing his mind under you, panting as his hands flex where they’re behind his back, against the mattress. His head is so full yet so empty at the same time. His brain has melted into mush, malleable just your hands only. Shape his brain into what you want—he could never deny you.
Simon doesn’t really register the next few minutes—he knows he’s crying and pleading, babbling about you. Thanking you and asking to cum, that it hurts. You’re assuring him, and then he’s slammed with the hardest orgasm of his life. Simon swears he leaves the planet for however long it takes for it to be over. Once his vision comes back, he’s sobbing and shuddering, hearing muffled as you’re tugging the rope off of his wrists.
You’re guiding his arms from out behind his back, fingers massaging his meaty arms, working to get some good blood flow back into his veins, to ground him. Simon shudders and gasps, blinking languidly as you lean down and kiss his scalp, tugging him close.
Simon vaguely feels that he’s still full—he likes that. He likes it when you stay inside of him, it helps.
You allow him to put his leg down, the ache settling into the muscle as your hands rub up his pecs to cup his cheeks. He hears you showering him in praises; calling him pretty, that he took it so well. Every word washes over his mushy brain, relaxing him into the blankets. “Mommy.” He garbles out, his voice rough and low—breathy and vulnerable. It squeezes your heart in your chest, especially with the way his eyebrows are furrowed in such a worried way.
Your voice finally cuts through the post-orgasm haze. “I’m here, pup. You did so fucking good, baby.” You whisper, kissing over his face. “Take a deep breath, hm? You with me?” It takes him a moment, his arms lifting to feel your sides. Simon’s arms feel like there’s sandbags tied to them, but he needs to touch you. He needs to feel your skin, your sweat against his fingertips. Simon nods in response, his head lifting for a moment, vision coming into focus. There’s thick ropes of his creamy cum on his stomach. Simon winces once he realizes it actually reached his collarbone and chin, feeling it smear. It’s hot for a moment before he feels gross.
You focus on wiping him down, making sure he gets some water—some fruit snacks for some very needed sugar. You feed him piece by piece, showering him with love. It makes him feel so good—so fucking sleepy. God, he’s exhausted. You kiss his temple, tugging him closer as you massage his back. At one point, you had moved yourself and Simon on your sides, him facing you. Your fingertips dig into the solid tense muscle of his back.
And because Simon is greedy, his leg is hitched over your hip, your fat strap buried deep in his hole. Where it belongs, he thinks to himself.
are you good at character analysis? I wanna know what your analysis would be for Gaz, I’m trying to figure out his story since he’s my favorite out of TF 141
KYLE GAZ GARRICK
BASIC OVERVIEW — BIOGRAPHICAL INFORMATION
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick is a British Black man who enlisted into the British Army around 2008 or 2014 (unfortunately, the developers have inconsistencies). His operator biography states 2008 while the official activision website in a blog post about MW2019 states 2014, however it does make sense for him to enlist in 2008. He would have been at least sixteen years old which is the minimum age requirement to enlist. I would like to quickly throw in that Gaz is indeed older than Soap, as this is a misconception that I surprisingly see a lot! Gaz’s blood type is B- and he currently ranks as sergeant (which according to the official British Army website, it typically takes at least twelve years in the service, however it implies it also depends on the person’s abilities).
Gaz spent four years in the Queen’s Lancashire Regiment. During these four years going through a multitude of tests and challenges before passing selection for Special Air Service (SAS). The activision blog says during MW2019, it’s his sixth year serving as a sergeant. However, as Gaz had been selected for TF141, I believe their ranks have paused in time. Gaz has mostly spent his time in anti-terrorism in his military career. He’s an expert in demolitions, VIP escorting, weapons tactics, covert surveillance, and target elimination. He’s been awarded multiple medals, and earned his Parachute Wings whilst spending time at Camp Lejeune in the U.S. whilst collaborating with Navy SEALs. Kyle is a master of evasion and deception, being the only candidate in his entire class to escape capture from the facility and evade detection during resistance training.
When Gaz first meets Cpt. Price, Gaz is currently assigned to an SAS specific counter-terrorism program in the UK who collaborate with the police, which is another misconception that Gaz was a police sergeant at one point (he was not! I believe some people think this because at E3, Gaz was wearing a police baseball cap).
CHARACTER OVERVIEW
Like true to the original Gaz, he is Price’s protege, being his student. Gaz is overall a serious and hardworking man, loyal and unbreaking. He knows when to joke and he knows when to reload. However, Gaz is not perfect and he does lose his cool (we see subtle development with this later down the road). While being loyal, Gaz does not hesitate to question Price’s choices and actions. We see this multiple times during the series, the most prime example being in MW2019 when Price and Gaz are interrogating The Butcher with Yegor. The Butcher taunts Gaz, causing Gaz to lunge and Price to send him off to fetch.. “The package”. The package being, The Butcher’s family. The reboot games, you have choices, so I’ll give the very basic run down.
You have the option to opt into the interrogation or to opt out of it. If you opt out, Price bursts out of the room with the information (if you go near the door, you hear The Butcher’s family sobbing). If you opt in, you have so many options. At the end of the day, Gaz is mostly silent and follows orders from Price. In the police cruiser scene, Gaz questions Price in the car—he did not expect to be using women and children as bargaining chips and he makes that clear, and this is a big teaching moment between Gaz and Price. We have to remember that Gaz is young and considering everything, inexperienced to an extent. Price makes up for that inexperience, teaching him along the way. During the interrogation scene, Price makes a remark: “We’ve taken the gloves off.” This is because Gaz lashed out. Later in the car, Price says “When you take the gloves off, you get blood on your hands, Kyle. That’s how it works.” after Gaz questions him.
CONCLUSION
Overall, Gaz is a very complex character and I enjoyed watching his development during these games. I’ve seen people claim Gaz is boring or plain, but I genuinely do not believe that to be the case. Gaz, in my opinion, is also the most relatable character. He’s young, ambitious, and determined. He’s charismatic and efficient. I don’t believe a character has to be extremely traumatized, or look very very unique to be a well-crafted character and Gaz is a great example for this.
Gaz is just a man who enlisted; someone who is smart and well-rounded (as much as an SAS member can be), he’s quick on his feet and he molds into group work fantastically. He’s extremely versatile and is a quick learner—and wants to learn. He has his flaws that make him human. Gaz develops great self control, is level-minded and is able to think for himself. A great student questions their mentor in everything and you see this with Gaz.
You see Gaz struggle with morality in the series in a sea of characters who kill and do things without a second thought. We see him question things, we see his emotions and his extreme reluctance. We definitely see some development down the road as Gaz becomes more ruthless, but he never quite forgets his humanity in a way, compared to Price where he can easily disconnect humanity (ex. Calling The Butcher’s wife and son “the package/leverage”).
Along with this, we see him struggle with the rules in place. I also think this is why Gaz and Price’s dynamic is great. There are rules for a reason, and both Price and Gaz know when to break them—but Gaz learns that breaking some rules doesn’t always happen for the most heroic of actions (again, Price’s quote about bloodying your hands after taking the gloves off). Gaz wants to save people and keep the peace, we see this in Piccadilly during the terrorist attacks and the aftermath scene with Price where Gaz lets the Captain know that he and his unit had actionable intel on the terrorist cell who committed the act. Of course, we see later down the road that taking the gloves off removes all limits, not just some of them. We also see a glimpse of Gaz’s conflicting feelings when 141, Farah & Alex, as well as Laswell learn about Hadir and his plans, as well as when Farah’s forces are deemed a terrorist organization.
I think I rambled on a lot about him, hopefully this is understandable!
Sources: price & gaz activision blog intros (2019), inconsistency in enlistment date, cod fandom wiki, gaz scenes mwi & mwii, official british army website.
does anyone else get irrationally irritated when someone talks about their headcanons as if its fact about a game/show etc? and i dont mean like on tumblr/ao3, etc these websites are made for it. im talking about cod fans on tiktok and stuff lol, it just irritates me because they never explicitly state its their headcanon, their video goes viral, then they are spreading misinformationnnnn ngfkd its so stupid, but its a big reason why i stick to cod tumblr
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