it's rainin' fuckin' hard

mwii / cod / r6 rotting sorry not sorry lots of gay shit 18+ follows from: @afarcry5fromstraight

[mala--draws]

HURAYYY !! featuring all the coolest artists ever !!

in order: me (hi), @glasskittyyyyy, @witherfide, @givem3thegun, @scourgie and @fishiechippies ! genuiney some of my fave people in this fandom, glad we could do this <333

[scourgie]

YEAAAHHHHHHHH EVERYONE LOOK AT OUR COOL COLLAB

[sheepispink]

beta!reader x ghost snippet because i realised it’s been a hot minute. I really want this last part to be more than only revenge

[wyvern-whiskey]

Scratching some kink itches with my favorite writers 🤭

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[lincccc233]

[phantomsuds]

Scallywags

Collab with @ravaniacrescentia ! I did the line art and she provided the color. 🌚🌝

[pyr0nie]

what's his problem

[wyvern-whiskey]

Scratching some kink itches with my favorite writers 🤭

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[skelly-den]

Pairing: John Price x Fem!OC

Summary: After the events of MW3, Rory and Price finally tie the knot. It's not pretty, it's not perfect. Especially since he's going on the run.

Word count: 3.6k

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, Wedding, Morally dubious characters, dubious consent to marriage, Elopement, War Criminals in love, John Price being questionable as always

A/N: just a little one shot to fill in for the wedding before MW4 is released. This stays as canon unless that game changes anything, i'm going with John being on the run unless that's a red herring or something. Anyway, toxically codependent war criminals getting hitched. Enjoy!

Playlist

February 14, 2024 - St. Petersburg, Russia

Valentine's Day.

If it was possible to choose a more cliche day for them to have a rushed, impromptu elopement, Rory couldn't conceive of one.

Two days ago, John had appeared in her home after three weeks of silence, after she had kicked him out, after he had lied to her once too many, and now, here they were, exchanging rings and their vows in a situation that was anything but the romantic endeavor she had imagined. There's no flowing white gown and veil, no tuxedos, no family, bridesmaids, or groomsmen, she doesn't even get the first dance to INXS' "Never Tear Us Apart" or the gourmet tiered cake. It's just them, a Russian orthodox priest, and Nik and Kate as their legal witnesses to this entire questionable affair, flanked on either side of her — insurance if she chooses to run, or so she can only assume.

The sudden trip is covered by the logical excuse that they are on the hunt for Makarov in his own backyard after evading capture in England. It's certainly not the flight of a man who is already planning to go on the lam after the act of killing another without the benefit of government approval. It's so practical it leaves no room for confusion about any ulterior motives possibly being attached to it.

Classically Price.

He stands across from her, all smiles. Smug. Arrogant. The epitome of the cat who got the cream. He's won the lottery, finally receiving exactly what he's always wanted, and he's gloating over it— A terrible winner, an even worse loser. Holding her hands in his, swallowing them whole, she is made infinitesimal in his plans. A useful asset shifted into a position that keeps her "safe" by his decree and then offers him the legal protection of ensuring the one person who knows all of his dirty secrets can never be asked a single question.

It takes the mind of an evil genius to arrive at a solution such as this, and Rory is tying the knot with him, eyes wide open.

His thumb brushes over her knuckles as if he's trying to work out the nervous tension that survives beneath the skin, easing her into this — it serves little use after sitting through the flight over listening to him explain the logic to her with the same comfort he has during a briefing on mission parameters. The cold, calculating arithmetic that's put them in this scenario — belying all the love this moment is meant to be a symbol of — is something she tries not to spend much time thinking on. For once, she wishes she would have been given the gift of blissful ignorance, it would be easier than seeing just how far her husband is willing to fall to feel like he's winning, reminding the world how he believes the rules don't apply to him.

When she fails to respond quick enough to the priest's command for her to repeat after him, John clears his throat, the rumbling gravel echoing around the domed ceiling and drawing her to the present. Meeting his gaze, she huffs and rolls her eyes, a minor rebellion, the only one she can put up when they are more than halfway through the ceremony and Nik's already poised with the rings in hand for the 'I do's'. She completes the vows, all of it tasting of ash when she gets to the part about promising to honor and obey. Temptation to cross her fingers behind her back as she mutters them with a disapproving glare in his direction crashes over her in a wave, a heated argument brewing in her head that she's looking forward to ripping into him with.

John's turn runs as smooth as silk, pronunciation isn't flubbed as he echoes the priest without hesitation. He doesn't question or concede to his own conscience, any chance of that happening ever again died along with Shepherd and the decision to upend the entire life they were building on a whim. The events of the last year only seemed to cement the belief that everything he does is correct, the best choice for all involved. Somehow, John Price has become more of a megalomaniac. A frightening thought, really, but not surprising either. Her way of handling trauma is shouldering the burden of guilt, eating away at herself until there is nothing left but a broken shell, he chooses to bolster himself until his opinions are bullet proof and he refuses to listen to any other point of view.

A match created in hell.

Her father will be overjoyed.

I do. The two words catch on the tip of her tongue when it's her turn to speak them, clutching to the muscle in an attempt to be choked down and forgotten. Glancing down at her hand held in John's calloused paw, it's easy to see how he chomps at the bit to slide the golden band around her finger, the metal already hovering, nudging against the manicured tip of her nail. She hates how much her hand trembles in his grip.

Four sets of eyes burn into her, holding her accountable for everything that comes next— it's too late to turn away from it now.

That damnable lopsided grin of his, the one that makes him look approachable, spreads across his face and wrinkles every sunbaked-in line after a life hard lived. He shifts his weight, the old floorboards creaking with the movement, and the sound is made exponentially louder with the emptiness of the church as the walls crush in around her. He adjusts his collar, a brief showing of nerves, before his warm touch embraces her cold skin once again and he gives her hands a squeeze, gaze boring into her.

She approaches the situation with the same stoicism she embodies in the moments before she takes a shot — the held breath as she listens to the steady thrum of her own heart, the swell of her lungs expanding in her chest serving as the countdown clock. The moment can only dangle for so long before she either follows through without remorse or gives into the failure of indecision.

It's now or never and she goes with her gut.

"I do." She says it not with the joy of a newlywed bride but with the acceptance that this is a shield for when the world starts crumbling down around her. This isn't the beginning of something beautiful, its the forgiveness for an apology that will never come when he leaves her without a word and she is left wondering where he is and whether he's even breathing.

John barely takes a breath between slipping the ring on her finger and completing his own "I do". He doesn't waste a beat, there is no hesitation in pulling the trigger, especially when it comes to committing himself to her. Looking into his eyes, she sees that small twinkle of the man he would become when war wasn't on the horizon and they were in the safe enclave of their townhouse, the reason she said yes to begin with, agreeing to spend her life cultivating that small parcel of humanity that still resides inside him yet to be snuffed out entirely by the military machine, and she clings to it with teeth and by claw.

The rings are swapped and there is only one thing left to do.

With the priest's consent and the command given, one strong arm wraps around her, hand pressing to her lower back — the same spot he has claimed as his own dozens of times both in private and in public, that little possessive touch — and she is absorbed into him, breath shared, as his mouth lands upon her own, lips slotting over hers, finding their way home.

Time stops, a ripple in the rush headlong into hell, and her hand buries into the short hairs at his nape — her own collar clasping around him with a sharp tug, the chain between them they would both be pulling on either end of for the foreseeable. She shrouds herself in him, wrapped in the heady aroma of earthy tobacco and spicier cologne, trapping herself in his arms without any escape. A part of her given that she will never have returned.

When they finally part to catch their breath, she stares up at him, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. The Cure's Lovesong echoes in her head — one of the songs she had queued on their wedding playlist —However far away, I will always love you. However long I stay, I will always love you. Whatever words I say, I will always love you. Sappy ballad shit John would have rolled his eyes at, but the lyrics were hard to ignore in their current situation.

His brow furrows looking down at her, catching the wet gleam that clings to her lashes, and he combs his fingers through her hair, twisting the strands around them. They both know this is the last moment they will have together that remains their own before the world will mercilessly hound them until the clock runs out.

“The ink's not even bloody dry yet.”

The cramped room of a bachelor's flat above a tobacconists in St. Petersburg is their last detour on the road paved for them as John packs up all the contents of what will be the rest of his life in a duffel bag on the bed. It's the furthest thing from a honeymoon suite. The window barely lets the daylight in through the cloudy streaks of water stains on the glass leaving the room wrapped in a soft-filtered gray haze. Water leaks from a rusty faucet in the kitchenette, the inconsistent plinking drip on the metal basin counting them down.

Rory has watched him pack countless times before, heading out for another mission of world-ending potential where he stands as the only bulwark against it, but there's no timeline for his return on this occasion. This is where they part ways. Where she will be dogged by government agencies for information leading to his arrest, and he will be hunted as a wanted man, an outlaw with a warrant over his head.

Lifting the marriage license, she inspects it — hardly any ticket to freedom, that's for certain — little more than a scrap of paper that's meant to serve as insurance, but she doubts the credibility of that claim. It may hold up in a court of law that she will be saved from the onslaught of questions about the whereabouts of Price or to have her act as witness against him, but they are both Special Forces soldiers and have a distinct awareness that military intelligence doesn't much care for legal protections if it bars them from information they are invested in.

“This is absolute bollocks," she mutters, letting the license drop to the bed in a slow flutter downwards. Heaving out a sigh, she stands there, unsure of what to do with herself, her hands already begging to be made busy and so she buries them against her chest as she crosses her arms.

“I know, my girl.”

The resignation in his voice is almost her undoing, the quiet way it is clear that he's already considered how a conversation like this will look, preparing himself for her reactions, accepting that the best he can hope for is a bittersweet goodbye as he leaves her on the doorstep of a place that still carries the hint of the scent of their intermingled bodies only to be aired out and have them disappear on the wind — just like he will.

“Don't act like you're not the one responsible for it.” She paces, brushing a hand through her hair. “How the hell am I supposed to just go back to England, a married woman, knowing I'm likely never going to see my husband again?”

“We'll see each other, Ror. I promise.” The command is final, one he will not be swayed on, and any opposition to it will be summarily dealt with. His tone leaves no room for her to question the validity of it. One way or another, he will make it happen — if anyone can, it's him.

He's given thought to all of this, the chain of events, the sequence and how it will all play out. If he's the one directing then she will let him take the lead, allowing herself to follow even when it puts her in the position of not knowing what to expect next. Marriage is a partnership, and she's willing to give some slack on the chain binding them. Ceding control, she sits on the edge of the bed beside him, staring up with soft, pleading eyes. “What am I supposed to do?”

Fingers fidget in her lap, traveling up and down her thighs as they pick at the hangnails clinging to the edges of her thumb, left raw and sore and red. Focus locking on, John stops, full pause right in the middle of the process of folding one of several gray tee shirts, and he holds the eye contact. A moment passes, just a beat, a plan formulating in real time as he regards her. “Act the innocent. Be my li'l lamb, yeah?” Cupping her cheek, his thumb strokes along the warm, rosy skin.

Rory leans into his touch, nuzzling into it, chasing the sensation before he has to take it away from her for a period longer than she can bear to think on. A weak smile that doesn't reach her eyes flickers on her face and she tries to ease the tension with a breathy chuckle that takes more effort than she's willing to admit. “My father's never going to forgive you for this.”

“Your dad was never gonna forgive me any’ow. This jus' gives 'im more ammunition. And I don't much care what he thinks, he's not my priority.”

A huffed scoff brushes past her and dances across his palm as he continues to caress her face. “No, running off into danger is.”

Leaning down, he presses his forehead to hers, his voice lowering to a smoky husk, “Y'know tha's not true.”

Her eyes close and she rests against his weight, pushing back against the demands that will be made of her just to bask in him a little while longer. "This isn't the way I pictured our wedding, John," she murmurs.

"I know you're not happy. Went about it the wrong way, went too far this time." His lower lip juts out as if he's contemplating something. "Might still get a proper weddin' someday, just like we planned, eh?"

She blinks, taking a long, slow breath, but doesn't bother replying. A proper wedding is a pipe dream and she's not stupid enough to believe that chance will ever happen. "This was our special day, and all it amounted to was another decision, made by you. Again. You made your case, I understand the logic of it — I do." It's as if she's already swearing on oath. "But it doesn't make the reality of it easier to swallow. Marrying you was supposed to be something that kept us together, and now it's there as armor while we have to spend god knows how long separated." A sad laugh spills forward. "Can't even use my big, scary husband as a way out of things since you won't be around to back me up anymore. Going to have to deal with all the plonkers of the world without you by my side."

He chuckles, shaking his head, and she welcomes the shaft of light that breaks through the darkness. "Don't need me for all tha'. Without me, you won't have to spend so much time tryin' to convince everyone that you're smarter than they are, they'll already see it because you won't be bickerin' with me about it instead."

"Stop it," she insists, smacking him on the shoulder in retort as she laughs. "I'm going to miss having you as a pain in my arse."

"Gonna miss havin' you as a pain in mine as well, sweetheart."

Cradling his face in her palms, the scruff of his beard scrapes gently as her nails scratch through the coarse whiskers. Pulling back, she gazes into those frozen blue eyes of his, steely — and for the moment — placid. "I know we don't say it before a mission, that it's become a bit of a superstition with us not to, but I can't just watch you leave without saying it this time." She worries her lip, teeth dimpling the plump flesh. "I love you, John. I always will."

Quiet for a moment, he lingers there in the soft patch of vulnerability she has planted, and stares at her. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse, raw with the visible sliver of just how difficult this truly is for him to do. To do to her. "Love you too, my girl. Nothin's changin' tha', not ever."

Wrapping her arms around the broad bulk of his shoulders, she buries his face in the curve of her neck. "Be safe," she whispers against his ear, barely audible as she tries to still the quiver in her words.

"I will."

Gripping her waist, his fingers circle the narrow span of it, and for a moment she imagines a version where he refuses to let go, where he doesn't walk away in the end. She knows it's a fantasy, one that is impossible to exist, but it's the one warm thing that will get her through the night now that the bed they share will be cold on his half, leaving her with too much space to ever fill.

Arriving back home in London, her footsteps are louder on the polished floors when they remain solitary. There isn't a set that follows in her wake, coming up on her rear. No shadow that moves at her six, eyes on her back to keep the threats away, no intrinsic gravitational pull that keeps her at his side. That first cool breeze against her lower back as she drops her lone bag on the floor and the hem of her shirt lifts — pale skin touching the air — is like ice. An inescapable reminder that there's no heavy hand resting there to remind her she's not alone.

She is. They both are now.

Moving through her home like a ghost, she goes through the motions in some semblance of personhood that feels like it hangs from her like loose skin waiting to be removed. The leash dragging behind her as she wanders the hall, a dog waiting for its master to return, lost without them. She rages against it internally, but still acts out the part in a trained response to his absence. The house is empty without his energy, she fails to fill it with her own. There will always be an empty hole in this enclosed universe of theirs, something necessary for the creation of life removed from the equation. She must evolve or die, even if it takes everything out of her.

Rory stands in the kitchen once more, staring blankly at the corner table, picturing that first bit of fear in John's eyes breaching the surface as he sat there — a leviathan of a thing in the grand scheme for a man who is reticent with whatever emotion might fleetingly grace him before it's forcibly crushed back down into the depths. The counters are clean, the floor mopped, the groceries in the fridge still fresh — it is the facade of normality, of control that she portrays. If the outward appearance is put together than she must be as well, even when she's struggling.

John always knew better than to believe what he saw at first glance with her, pity so few else seem to.

In a week's time she will return to work, wear her brave face, and be the leader she is expected to be. She will hunt Makarov down and all the while do what she can from her side of things to keep the authorities off of John's tail, to give him enough distance to hunker down and vanish from sight, gaining the upper hand. She will become the wolf in sheep's clothing all over again, playing his game as the queen on the board, proving her devotion. Not to the cause, but to him. Passing his test with flying colors.

The kettle squeals, she pours her tea — a splash of milk and a spoon of honey in a cup of Earl Grey — and she takes up watch at the window, observing the world as it passes by. It is none the wiser. It escapes calamity regularly, and the person who has been its defense for years has finally left it behind to follow his own rules of which there are both many and none. Unquantifiable. There is no knowing what is in store for her now, chaos has been unleashed by a man who is enamored with control, and she can only hope for the best, even when optimism runs in short supply these days.

Liquid passes over her tongue as she takes a sip, warming her mouth. The heat radiates into her fingers as she cradles the cup in her hands, it doesn't spread much further than that. A small comfort that unfortunately has come to ring hollow. Another veneer she wears — put the kettle on, ignore what settles on the horizon.

She turns from the window. There is no point in looking in reflections for what she is missing, she won't find it, not anymore.

Just how he wanted.

tagging: @taciturntraveller

[ravaniacrescentia]

Devotion

Fanart for the lovely @phantomsuds ❤️❤️

[wyvern-whiskey]

I love drawing these two kissing🥰

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[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[wyvern-whiskey]

Simon

[mockerycrow]

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.  

🏷️; @identity2212 @clancycatears @dumb-fawkin-bitch @ghestielong @Missborntodiex @indefenseofkara @snoowply @thisuserloveshalloween @spacelia @Ghostindeath @kivino @nyushkawritesstuff @bi-witch-bxtch @babyqueen17

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[delamainnn]

His helmet looks like cat ears

[valiants]

Courting

[ozllio]

lads

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Simon doesn't really go for the whole… Pride Month… thing. It's not offensive. He doesn't begrudge anyone else their celebrations, but he leaves the rainbows and parades to the younger generations.

As he smokes on a bench in the park, watching young men holding hands and laughing and bouncing around, he can't help but smile a bit. His back aches just watching some of the baby lesbians carrying each other this way and that, and he scrubs a hand over Toaster Strudel's head on his knee.

"This seat taken?"

Simon chuckles as Kyle drops to sit next to him. "Savin' it for my 'usband, ain't I?"

"Husband?" Kyle chuckles and drapes his arm over the back of the bench. "Sounds serious."

"e's my world," Simon answers, too sincere. He drops his hand on Kyle's knee and tips his head to whisper, "Great cock."

The laugh that gets him is so beautiful that he can't help but lean in for a kiss.