No thoughts just alpha!ghost who grew learning to control his scent and omega!reader who very much...didn't.
Ghost had always been told that spilling your scent everywhere was poor manners, that only children couldn't control their scent. Meanwhile you were taught that having an open scent was essential for communication and perfectly normal.
Which means the first time ghost meets you, his instincts have no idea what to do with such strong happy omega scents suddenly in his space. Ghost grew up with scent blockers at home, and in most public spaces people wear some sort of blocker. You barely have a chance to purr a greeting before he's grabbing you by the shoulders and shoving his face into your neck.
"Mghhggh— omega. Sweet. Good." He rumbles, low and muffled into skin, almost as if he doesn't register it's happening. You can only stand in shocked confusion. Gaze slipping to the still open door of his office and wondering if you should call for help, because you have no idea why he's acting like this and—
"Fuck— you smell good— christ—" ghost holds you tighter, crowding you against the desk. You tentatively lean in to sniff around his scent blockers and get the faintest scent of arousal.
Which is instantly confirmed by his hips rutting forward, his hard cock rubbing against you while he whines "sorry— I don't— fuck that's good—"
Oh. Oh shit. The peices slowly click into place, and you realize exactly what your scent is doing to him, though you always thought this sort of aphrodisiac like reaction was a myth.
You try to soften your scent, knowing it will stress him out if your own scent fluctuates too much, one hand sneaking up to massage the back of his neck "hey. Hey, it's okay. I get it, do what you need to do."
Ghost makes a sound caught between a growl and a keen, pressing the entire length of his body against you. "Fuck— sorry— hold still— omega. Smell good. Mhhh—!"
You've never seen an alpha react like this.
You've also never seen an alpha pop a dry knot in his trousers, and yet thats exactly what ghost just did.
....you. probably shouldn't leave him alone in such a vulnerable state, right? You should stick around in his office, close the door and makes sure he's okay.
You're just being a considerate coworker....or thats what you'll tell yourself later.
Can’t stop thinking about Trucker!Simon who’s been rolling for four straight days without a real shower, big frame crammed behind the wheel of his rig, the sleeper cab behind him smelling like diesel, old sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and faint grease of last week’s truck stop burgers.
Trucker!Simon who’s got you- the pretty little bird he picked up on the side of the interstate at 2am, thumb stuck out in your pretty little sundress, soft tits spilling heavier over the neckline every time you breathe, panicked, after you’d quietly explained through the open window that someone had ditched you out there, hundreds of miles from home with nothing but your bag and you just needed a ride to the next town, anywhere, please- in his sleeper, curled up on sheets stiff with old sweat and cum, stained more than clean.
Soft thighs pressed together, pretty mouth parted, eyes wide and already glassy in the low light from the dash. He’s too big for the space, has to duck his head, shoulders brushing the sides, and he fills it completely when he crawls in after you.
Shirt half unbuttoned and stuck to his chest with sweat, jeans open and shoved down, freeing that heavy cock that you’ve seen the outline of under his oil stained pants when he’d palm at it, bulging against his thigh when he drove under street lamps to this trucker stop.
It hangs thick and flushed between his thighs now, heavy balls drawn up tight, the skin at the base dark with dried sweat and the pre he’s been leaking into his boxers since he got a whiff of your sweet floral perfume as you climbed into his rig.
Kneels on the mattress, one big hand braced on the low ceiling, the other reaching down to fist his cock slow and lazy, eyes dragging over you, your soft curves, the way your pretty clothes are already rumpled from being in his rig, the little tremble in your thighs that only gets worse when he leans in closer.
Mattress dipping under his weight, until his chest is right in front of your face, heat rolling off him intense. You wrinkle your nose hard, trying to turn your face away, shoulders curling in like you can escape the stench.
He shifts his weight anyway, knees forcing between your thighs, spreading them wider, one nicotine stained hand wrapping around yours, yanking it down to wrap around his cock. It’s hot, heavy, the skin at the base tacky. Your fingers don’t quite meet around it.
You flinch violently, trying to yank your hand back with a soft disgusted sound, but he just wraps his bigger one over yours and makes you stroke him once, twice, slow, firm drags that smear fresh precum down the shaft while your lower lip wobbles and your breath comes in tiny, hiccuping gasps. He groans at the skin of your hand around his cock which is all too used to the feeling of his calloused hands and scratchy sheets and not at all used to soft and warm.
His fingers thread into your hair, digging into the base of your skull, and he forces your face down the trail of coarse hair on his stomach until your pretty mouth is pressed right against the root of his cock.
The smell is strongest here, musky and sharp, the faint bitter trace of old piss where he’s been too lazy to stop properly. You squeeze your eyes shut and try harder to twist away, soft disgusted whimpers catching in your throat, hands pushing weakly at his stomach, nose wrinkling as you gag at the smell of him. He holds you there until your lips brush the tacky skin.
Rocks his hips forward, the fat head of his cock smearing across your soft cheek, leaving a shiny streak. “Open up.”
When your lips part and you take him in, he grunts low, the wet heat of your mouth making his balls draw up tighter. He pushes the taste of road and sweat across your tongue, then deeper.
You choke immediately, a wet, panicked sound bubbling up as your hands fly to his hips, pushing hard. Tears bead in your lashes and spill down your temples, nose wrinkling hard at the stench, but he doesn’t let you pull back. Both big hands sink into your hair, fingers twisting tight at the roots, dragging you down, groaning when he pushes into your throat, feels it convulse around the fat head of his cock.
“Fuck,” he rasps, barely a word, more a punched out sound of satisfaction.
Then he shoves you down the rest of the way, using his grip on your hair to force your pretty mouth lower, inch by inch, until your nose is pressed flush against the sweaty, crusty hair at the base of his cock.
Your throat spasms hard around him, fluttering and squeezing, and he groans again, deeper this time, hips twitching forward. Saliva floods your mouth instantly, thick and messy, spilling out around your stretched lips and dripping down his balls in shiny strings.
He holds you there, nose buried in the damp, crusted pubes that smell like days of sweat and road grime, cock buried to the hilt in your spasming throat.
One thumb slides forward, pressing against the outside of your neck, feeling the obscene bulge of his cock stretching your throat. He rubs it slowly, while your eyes water and more tears track down your face.
Then he starts to rut, grinding his cock deeper into your throat while saliva pours out of you. Every time he pulls back just enough for you to gasp a wet, choked breath, thick strings of spit stretch between your lips and his cock before he shoves you back down again.
Your hands keep pushing at his thighs, manicured nails scraping over sweat slick skin, but he just tightens his grip in your hair and fucks your throat harder, deeper.
The wet, gurgling sounds are obscene in the cramped sleeper. Your mascara is running, pretty face a mess of tears and spit, nose still wrinkled in disgust even as your throat keeps fluttering and milking him. He groans every time you gag, the sound low and satisfied, hips rolling in steady, filthy ruts that smear more of your saliva into his pubes and down his balls until they’re shiny and dripping with it.
He doesn’t let up until your vision starts to blur at the edges and your hands go slack against his thighs. Only then does he pull you off with a wet, obscene pop, cock shiny and flushed dark, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the head. You cough and gasp, chest heaving, tears and saliva dripping from your chin onto the stained sheets while he fists his cock once, twice, smearing the mess you made all over himself.
Then his hands fall to your hips, manhandles you between his highs, one big hand under your soft legs. The sundress gets shoved higher, bunched under your tits, grips your panties and pulls, ripping them off, forcing your legs wide even as your thighs tremble and try to close.
You’re crying harder now, soft hiccuping sobs, hands pushing frantically at his stomach and chest as he lines up, eyes wide and pleading up at him.
“Please- wait” your voice cracks, small and teary, “- condom? Do you have a condom?”
He pauses for half a second, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. Then he answers, low and rough, “Ain’t got one.”
The stretch of his cock is immediate and overwhelming, feels like he’s splitting you in half. Your back arches hard, a broken whimper slipping out as your hands beat harder at his chest, trying to push him off, soft thighs shaking uncontrollably.
He’s too big for the cab and he’s too big for you, hips grinding forward, heavy balls pressing tight against your ass, coarse hair at his base rubbing against your soft skin while fresh tears spill down your temples.
You keep pushing at him, palms flat against his sweaty chest, trying to create space, soft disgusted sounds mixing with the first helpless little moans that start slipping out every time he bottoms out.
The mattress creaks. The sheets stick to your back, stiff and filthy. Every thrust makes the cab rock slightly on its suspension. Sweat rolls off his chest in fat drops, splattering onto your soft belly and the swell of your tits while he fucks you in deep, heavy strokes that grind right up against your cervix. The wet slap of his heavy, pendulous balls is loud in the cramped space, scent getting thicker the harder he works, mixing with the new smell of sex and your own unwanted arousal until the whole sleeper reeks of it.
He breathes heavy, low grunts punched out of him every time your cunt flutters and squeezes around the thick drag of his cock. One hand stays braced on the ceiling, the other gripping the back of your soft thigh hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open while he uses you.
Your hands are still on his chest, pushing weakly, fingers slipping through the thick sweat coating his skin, but the resistance is turning sloppy. Your pretty face is scrunched, eyes going glassy, mouth falling open on broken little moans.
He fucks you through an orgasm like that, grinding rolls that drag the fat head of his cock inside you until your soft body locks up and you sob out a high, whiny sound, cunt pulsing and gushing around him.
He doesn’t stop. Just keeps using you, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your collarbone, the wet slap of his balls getting filthier as your slick and his precum mix into a messy froth at the base of his cock.
You’re babbling now, soft and fucked stupid, little “ah- ah- plea- ” sounds that don’t quite form real words. Your thighs are shaking so hard they can’t stay wrapped around him. He catches one and folds it higher, nearly bending you in half on the narrow mattress, and the new angle makes you wail, eyes rolling back as he grinds right up against your cervix with every thrust.
When he gets close he drops forward heavier, chest crushing your soft tits, the full weight of him pinning you down into the stiff sheets.
You panic the second you realize what’s about to happen, hands shoving harder at his sweaty chest, legs kicking weakly, soft sobs turning frantic. “Nono, pull out, I’m not on birth control- please-”
He doesn’t even grunt in response, just wraps his arms around your body, shoves you down on his cock throbing deep inside you, and then he’s cumming thick, hot spurts pumping straight into your womb, flooding your uterus with days’ worth of heavy, pungent load. It’s so much it forces its way out around his cock in messy rivulets, smearing down your ass onto the already ruined mattress.
Empties every last drop deep inside you, flooding you until your lower belly feels warm and full. Only when the last spurt finishes does he pull out, thick strings of cum stretching between his cock and your messy cunt.
Before you can scramble away he grabs tou, big hands flipping your soft, trembling body onto your stomach, then hauling your hips up so your face is shoved down into the filthy mattress. One heavy palm plants between your shoulder blades and stays there, pinning your face into the stiff, sweat-and-cum-stained sheets. Your sundress is rucked up around your waist, soft ass presented, and he’s already lining up again, the fat head of his cock nudging through the mess leaking out of you.
You try to twist, try to push up on your arms, panicked little sounds muffled into the mattress. “Wait- wait, you can’t- ”
He pushes in anyway.
“Haven’ fucked anyone in months,” he mutters, hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt your whole body and your mouth opens on a moan, drool pooling onto the mattress beneath your head. “Balls been so heavy they ache. Ain’t wastin’ it on these fuckin’ sheets again when I got a pretty little hole right here to fill over and over.”
Maybe you should have just walked to the next town.
— cw: established & unestablished relationships; smut and fluff; light dom/sub; domesticity; wc: 5.1 k
you might also want to read ⤷ SHAVING.
— S. RILEY:
It starts as a punishment.
Simon's been gone for three weeks—classified, no contact, the usual—and he comes home expecting the hero's welcome he'll never admit he wants. What he gets is you, cross-legged on the sofa in one of his shirts and nothing else, not even looking up from your phone.
"Hey," he greets, dropping his bag.
"Mm."
He knows that mm. That mm means trouble. That mm means he did something—or specifically didn't do something—and now he's going to pay for it in ways that make waterboarding look straightforward.
He showers and changes; comes back to find you in the same spot, still on your phone, legs stretched out now so the shirt rides up just enough to show the curve where your thigh meets your arse. Calculated. Everything about you is calculated when you're angry.
"You gonna tell me what I did?" He sits beside you, arm over the back of the sofa.
His hand nearly touches you and you shift away deliberately. "Nothing."
"Right." His eyes flash as he watches you for a moment. Then his brawny hand lands on your knee—warm and heavy. "C’mere."
"No."
He clicks his tongue. "Wasn't askin’."
You put your phone down and look at him—finally—and there it is. Not anger. Worse. That look that says I missed you so much it scared me and I'd rather die than admit it. He knows it because he fucking invented it.
"Three weeks," you say, swallowing. "Not a word."
"Couldn't—"
"I know you couldn't." You shrug his hand off, pouting. "Doesn't mean I'm not pissed off."
Fair enough. He can work with pissed off.
He sighs, then pulls you onto his lap—or tries to. You resist like a cat going liquid, then give in, but on your terms, straddling him with your hands on his shoulders and a look that says he’s not forgiven yet.
"What do y’want?" he asks roughly. Quiet and direct.
You’re still pouting. "I want you to suffer."
His mouth twitches, he huffs half a laugh through his crooked nose. "Dramatic."
"Three. Weeks." You poke his chest and it flexes under your touch.
"I heard you the first time."
You shift in his lap—deliberate, rolling your hips once—and his jaw tightens. You're bare under the shirt. He can feel the heat of you through his joggers, and his hands move to your hips on instinct.
"No," you hiss, lifting his hands off and pinning them to the back of the sofa. "You don't get to touch."
His eyes darken. "That so?"
"That's so."
You roll your hips again—slower this time, grinding down against the hardening length of him through the thin fabric. His cock twitches against you and you feel it, the thick ridge of him pressing right between your folds, and the friction sends a jolt through you that you must fight to keep off your face.
"You're playin’ a dangerous game," he growls, voice low.
"I know."
And you set a rhythm—slow and torturous rolls of your hips, dragging your bare cunt along the length of him through his joggers. The fabric's already damp. You can feel yourself getting wetter with every pass, coating the outline of his cock through the cotton, and his breathing is getting heavier even though his expression hasn't changed.
Almost hasn't changed. His jaw is clenched tight enough to cut glass.
"Pull them down," you demand breathlessly.
He lifts his hips without a word and shoves his joggers down just enough for his cock to spring free—thick and hard, flushed dark at the head when his foreskin slides back. You resettle over him, and when your bare cunt meets bare skin you both hiss.
"Still no touching," you remind him.
"You're goin’ to fuckin’ kill me, bunny."
"That's the idea."
You slide forward, letting his cock drag through your folds; hot and slick, the head catching against your clit on every pass. Your wetness coats him in seconds, making the glide obscene. Wet sounds fill the living room, and Simon's hands are white-knuckling the sofa cushions, veins standing out in his forearms, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of not grabbing you.
"Fuck," he breathes. Barely audible. "You're soakin’ me."
"Mm-hm." You press down harder, trapping his cock between his stomach and your cunt, and grind. The underside of his shaft drags against your clit and your thighs clench around him. "Three weeks' worth."
"I can feel it." His head drops back against the sofa, eyes half-closed, watching you from under his lashes. "You're fuckin’ drippin’ all over my cock and you won't even let me inside."
"No."
"Cruel woman."
"Learned from the best."
He huffs another short laugh while you pick up the pace—faster, wetter, chasing the friction against your clit while his cock slides through your folds in long, slick strokes. He's leaking too, pre-come mixing with your slick, and the sound of it—the obscene, wet sound of skin on skin—is filthy enough to make heat coil tight in your belly.
"Can I touch you," he says, and it's not quite a question. Not quite begging. Simon Riley doesn't beg. But it's close. Closer than you've ever heard him.
"No."
"Please." Gritted through his teeth. His hips jerk up involuntarily, his cock pressing harder against your clit, and you gasp.
"Hands on the sofa, Si."
He swears low and vicious under his breath, but he obeys. His strong fingers dig into the cushions hard enough to tear fabric while you use him, sliding your pussy along his cock in tight, deliberate rolls, chasing the pressure building between your legs.
"'M close," he warns, teeth gritting. "If y’don't stop—"
"Don't stop what?" You grind down hard, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance without slipping in, and he makes a sound you've never heard before. Broken and raw. "This?"
"Fuckin’—Christ—"
You come first—barely, by seconds—your swollen clit twitches against the underside of his shaft as your whole body goes rigid and shakes. He follows you over the edge with a rough groan, cock jerking between your folds, cum spilling hot and thick over his own taut stomach and your cunt in messy pulses.
You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard, and his arms finally come up—wrapping around you, pulling you in tight, hands spread wide across your back.
"Punishment's over," you mumble against his neck, nipping the pale skin there.
"Good." His voice is wrecked. His hand slides into your hair, holding you against him. "Because if you ever do that to me again, 'm goin’ to lose my fuckin’ mind."
"Promise?"
He doesn't answer. Just holds you tighter, inhaling your scent shamelessly.
— K. GARRICK:
It's your first night together.
Properly together, not the almost-kisses in the corridor or the loaded looks across the briefing room, and of course, of course, neither of you has a condom.
"I can go! There's a shop on the corner—" Kyle's already reaching for his jeans.
"Kyle." You catch his hand. "It's two in the morning."
"I'll be five minutes—"
"Kyle. Stay."
Kyle looks at you—all soft brown eyes and swollen mouth and his shirt already on the floor—and the fight goes out of him. He climbs back onto the bed, kneeling between your legs, and his hands settle on your thighs with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.
"I want to do this right," he says quietly. "For you."
"We don't need—" You sit up, pull your top over your head, and his eyes drop to your bare chest. His throat bobs. "There are other things we can do."
"Yeah?"
You guide him down, flat on his back, and straddle his hips. He's hard. You can feel him through his boxers. The thick shape of him pressing up against you, and when you roll your hips experimentally, his hands fly to your waist.
"Like this," you breathe, tugging at his waistband. He lifts his hips and you pull his boxers down, and his cock springs up against his belly—flushed, hard, a bead of clear pre-come already gathered at the tip. You shimmy out of your underwear and resettle over him, and when your bare cunt meets the length of him, he makes a sound like you've knocked the air out of his lungs.
"Oh fuck," he whispers.
"Good?"
"You have—You have no idea." His voice is strained, his long fingers flexing on your hips. "You're so warm. Shit."
You start to move—slow, lazy rolls, letting your folds part around his throbbing shaft. He's thick enough that you can feel every inch, the ridge of his uncut head catching against your clit on every forward slide. You brace your hands on his chest, and he watches you with an expression caught somewhere between reverence and total ruin.
"Tell me what feels good," he murmurs, because he's Kyle and even with his cock sliding through your pussy he's still thinking about you first.
"This. Just—this." You press down harder, grinding, and the wet sound makes his eyes flutter shut. "You feel so good between my legs."
"You can't just—say things like that—" His buff chest heaves.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm trying really hard not to embarrass myself and you're making it—" You shift your angle and his cock slides through a particularly slick patch and his whole body tenses. "Difficult! You're making it difficult!"
You grin down at him. He catches it and groans, covering his face with one hand.
"Don't bloody laugh at me—"
"I'm not laughing. I think it's sweet."
"I don't want to be sweet right now! I want to be—" He cuts himself off with a sharp breath as you grind forward again. His hand drops from his face, and both palms grip your thighs, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. "You're so wet. Fucking hell, you're dripping."
"That's what you do to me."
"Stop." But he's grinning now, that devastating Kyle Garrick grin, even as his hips start canting up to meet your rhythm. "You're going to make me—"
"That's the point."
His composure is fraying; his head tips back against the pillow. You can see it—the way his jaw clenches, the way his stomach muscles flutter under your hands, the way his breathing goes ragged when the head of his cock nudges against your clit and slides through slick heat. His thumbs have found the crease of your thighs and he's pressing in, holding you open, making the contact tighter.
"Can I—" He swallows hard. "Can I hold it against you? I want to feel—"
"Yeah. Whatever you want."
He wraps a hand around himself, pressing his cock flat against his stomach so you're grinding directly against the underside—root to tip, your clit dragging along the thick vein, and the new angle makes both of you moan. He's staring at where your bodies meet, almost in a daze, watching your pussy slide over his cock, and his expression is gone. Completely gone.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever—" His voice cracks. "Baby, I'm not gonna last."
"Then don't."
"Not without you." He reaches between you with his free hand, finds your clit with his thumb, and starts rubbing in quick, tight circles while you grind against his shaft. The dual sensation—his cock against your folds, his thumb on your clit—makes your rhythm falter and your thighs shake.
"Kyle—God—!"
"That's it. Come on. Come with me, yeah?" His voice is wrecked, desperate, his hips thrusting up to meet you, cock sliding through your soaked pussy while his thumb works your clit. "Wanna feel you. Please."
You shatter with a broken cry; cunt pulsing against his cock, and he follows seconds later—groaning your name, long and low, as he spills in hot streaks across his own stomach and the underside of your thighs. His hips stutter through it, cock and balls twitching between your folds, and his thumb doesn't stop until you're whimpering and pushing his hand away.
Silence. Heavy breathing. The sound of the city outside.
"So," he says eventually, chest heaving. "That was…"
"Yeah."
"First thing tomorrow. I'm buying a box of condoms."
One eyebrow quirks. "One box?"
He laughs. bright and breathless, and pulls you down against his chest, not caring about the mess between you. His arms wrap around you, his lips find your forehead, and you can feel his heart hammering under your cheek.
"You're right," he murmurs against your hair. "Gonna make it two."
— J. PRICE:
He tells you to lie down.
Not asks. Not suggests. He tells you the same way he tells his men to hold position or his bartender to pour another. That low, gravel-and-whiskey voice that doesn't leave room for negotiation.
"On your back. Legs apart. Hands above your head."
You're already naked. He made sure of that twenty minutes ago, undressing you piece by piece in the bedroom with the patience of a man disarming ordnance. Now you're spread out on the bed like something he's laid out for his own inspection, and he's standing at the foot of it, still fully dressed from the waist up.
His belt is already undone. Trousers open. Fat cock in his hand—thick, heavy, half-hard and getting harder as he looks at you—and he strokes himself with a slow, idle grip. Like he's got nowhere to be, and the sight of you spread open and waiting is something he wants to savour before he touches it.
"John," you mewl.
"Quiet."
His thumb rolls over the head of his cock, pulling the foreskin forward and back, exposing the flushed, ruddy tip. Pre-come beads at the slit, and he catches it with his thumb, smearing it in slow circles. Unhurried. Almost meditative.
"Look at you," he says, voice low. His eyes move over your body the way they move over terrain—systematic, thorough, missing nothing. They settle between your legs and stay there. "Already wet and I haven't even touched you yet."
"Because you're staring—" you whine.
"I'm appreciating." He kneels on the end of the bed. Doesn't climb up. Just kneels there, cock in hand, and reaches forward with his free hand to press your thighs wider apart. "There's a difference."
He shuffles closer on his knees until he's between your legs, and you feel the heat of him. Close but not touching. He keeps stroking himself, that same measured rhythm, his foreskin sliding over the head in a way that makes your mouth go dry.
"Please," you whisper.
"Please what?"
"Touch me, John."
"I will." John leans forward and drags the head of his cock along your slit—one slow, devastating pass from entrance to clit. Your back arches off the bed and he watches with dark, steady eyes. "When I'm ready."
He does it again.
And again.
Long, lazy drags through your folds, using the head of his cock like a tool—nudging your clit, sliding through the slick, pressing against your entrance just enough for you to feel it before pulling back. His hand keeps working his shaft in that slow grip, the other fondling his heavy balls; foreskin rolling over the head between every stroke, and the combination—the wet slide of his tip through your pussy, the obscene sound of his hand on himself—has you digging your nails into the pillow above your head.
"Stay still," he orders, the same way he'd say hold position. His cock drags through your folds and catches on your clit, and he presses—holds—watching your thighs tremble. "Good girl."
"John, I need—"
"I know what you need." He angles himself lower, lets the head press against your entrance, and your body opens for him instinctively—slick and ready and aching. But he doesn't push in. Just rests there, thick mushroom tip nudging your opening, and strokes himself with a patience that borders on cruelty.
"You want it?" he asks, and there's something almost conversational about it. Like he's offering you tea.
"Yes—"
"Not tonight." He pulls back, drags himself through your folds again, and the wet sound echoes in the quiet bedroom. "Tonight I want to see you like this. Wanting. Pretty cunt all swollen and open for me and nothing inside it."
The filth of it—coming from him, from that composed, authoritative mouth—makes your pussy clench around nothing. He sees it. Of course he does.
"Greedy," he murmurs, almost fond.
He picks up the pace—still controlled, still deliberate, but faster now. The head of his cock slides through your folds in tight, focused strokes, dragging over your clit on every pass. His fist works his shaft in a rhythm that matches, foreskin pulling back on the downstroke so the bare, swollen head meets your clit with nothing between them.
"Getting close," he mutters, and his voice has roughened. Just slightly. Just enough for you to know the composure is costing him. "Where do you want it?"
"On me. Right there—on my—"
"Say it properly."
"On my pussy. Please, John."
"That's better." His breathing fractures. His strokes shorten, his cock jerking in his fist, the head pressed against your clit now—rubbing, grinding, slick with your wetness and his pre-come. "Going to make a mess of you."
He comes with a low groan that he bites back behind clenched teeth—controlled even now, even at the end—and you feel it land hot and thick on your cunt. He strokes himself through it, painting you with it, smearing his come through your folds with the head of his cock in slow, deliberate passes. Mixing his mess with yours until you're dripping with it—slick and filthy and his. Always his.
He sits back. Studies his work. Tucks himself away with steady hands, does up his belt, and looks at you like a man satisfied with a job well done.
"Don't clean up," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. Tender. Almost chaste. A stark contrast to the filthy mess between your thighs. "I want you like that when I come back to bed."
"You're a bastard, John Price."
"Mm." He straightens his collar. "I'll put the kettle on, love."
— J. MACTAVISH:
"Don't move."
Johnny stares at you. Blue eyes wide, pupils blown, a vein ticking in his jaw beneath the stubble.
He's kneeling between your legs on your bed—shirtless, dog tags hanging, joggers shoved halfway down his meaty thighs—and his cock is in his hand, hard and leaking, and he looks like a man who has been told he can look at the sun but not blink.
"Are ye serious?" His voice cracks.
"Dead serious." You settle back against the pillows, legs spread wide, and click the clit vibrator on. Low setting. The hum fills the room, and his eyes drop between your legs like they're magnetised. "You can touch. Just the tip. Nothing else."
He makes a pathetic sound in the back of his throat. "That's fuckin' cruel, hen—"
"And?" Your eyebrow quirks arrogantly.
He swallows. Hard. His throat works and his cock twitches in his hand and he's already wrecked—has been since you answered the door in a towel and told him you'd been thinking about him. Which is the truth.
You've been thinking about him. For months. Through every loaded joke and every lingering touch and every time he's looked at you like you're the answer to a question he hasn't worked up the nerve to ask.
Tonight you got tired of waiting.
"Just the tip," he repeats, strangled.
"Just the tip."
He shuffles forward on his knees, and you press the vibrator to your clit. The first buzz making your thighs twitch. And he watches, transfixed, as you start working yourself in slow, lazy circles. His cock is so close to your pussy you can feel the heat radiating off it.
"Go on then," you coo. "Touch."
He guides himself forward with a shaking hand—actually shaking, Johnny MacTavish, steadiest hands on the task force—and drags the tip of his cock through your folds. Just the head. Just the fat, flushed head sliding through slick, bumping against where the vibrator sits on your clit, and the sound he makes is wrecked.
"Oh, Jesus fuckin' Christ—" His head drops forward, chin to chest, dog tags swinging. "Ye're so wet. Fuck. Fuck, ye're so fuckin’ wet."
"Mm-hm." You press the vibrator harder against your clit and let your eyes fall half-closed. "Keep going, MacTavish."
He drags himself through your folds again, agonisingly slow; the head of his cock parting your lips and sliding through the slick. He gets to your entrance and stops, the tip just barely pressing in, and you see his whole body tense with the effort of not pushing forward.
"Can I—"
"No."
"Just the tip—the actual tip—jus’ lemme—"
"I said no, Johnny."
He swears—a string of Glaswegian filth that would make his mother weep—and pulls back. His cock is shining wet, coated in your syrupy arousal, and his fist squeezes the base like he's trying to keep himself from blowing his load too quickly.
"You're pathetic," you snicker, and you don't mean it—not really—but his cock jumps and his breath stutters and oh. Oh. "You like that?"
"Shut up—"
"Look at you. Shaking. Can't even handle a little bit of my pussy without falling apart." You circle your clit with the vibrator, letting him watch, and roll your hips up so his cock slides through your folds again. "Big, tough soldier. On his knees. Begging."
He shudders, balls twitching. "I'm no' beggin’—"
"You will be." You reach down and wrap your free hand around his shaft—just for a second, guiding him—and drag his tip from your clit to your entrance and back again. Slow. Deliberate. He whimpers. Whimpers. "There. Like that. Stay right there."
"Ye're gonna fuckin' kill me, lass—"
"Don't be dramatic. Just keep rubbing." You click the vibrator up a setting and your breath catches. "And don't you dare come until I say."
He obeys—barely. His hips move in short, desperate thrusts, the head of his cock sliding through your pussy in a rhythm that's falling apart at the edges, foreskin pulled back taut. His abs are clenched under the hair, his thighs are shaking, and there's a flush creeping up his chest and throat that makes him look almost feverish. Pre-come leaks from the tip in a steady dribble, mixing with your slick, and every pass through your folds produces a sound so obscene it makes your cunt clench.
"Feels so good," he gasps, head still dropped forward. "Yer pussy—Christ—feels like fuckin' heaven and I'm no' even inside ye—"
"And you won't be." You press the vibrator directly against your clit and your back arches. "Not tonight. Tonight you just get this."
"Please—"
"There it is." You're getting close—the vibrator and the wet slide of his cock working you toward something bright and sharp. "There's the begging."
"Aye, fine, am beggin'—" His voice is raw. Desperate. Completely undone. "Please let me come. Please. I cannae—I'm no' gonna—fuck—please, hen, I need to—"
"Come on my pussy," you tell him, and your own voice is breathless now, the vibrator pushing you right to the edge, legs flexing and trembling. "Right on my clit. Now."
He breaks with a shattered groan—his cock jerking in his hand as he aims the tip right where you told him, cum pulsing hot and thick onto your clit, your folds, mixing with the vibration and the slick and your own orgasm that crashes into you half a second later. It’s a lot.
Your legs clamp around his hips and you shake through it, the vibrator still buzzing, his come dripping down your cunt, and Johnny's gasping above you like he's just run a marathon in full kit.
He collapses. Just crumples forward, catching himself on his corded forearms, forehead pressed to your collarbone. His dog tags are cold against your sternum, and his breathing is ragged and he's shaking all over.
"Ye," he pants, "are the most terrifying woman I've ever met."
You click the vibrator off and card your fingers through his mohawk. "You loved it."
"Aye." He turns his head, presses his mouth to your throat. "Ah did. Do it again."
— C. REED [ OC ]:
Morning light through thin curtains.
The mattress dips and you open one eye to find Callum propped on his elbow beside you, already awake, watching you with that quiet half-smile that makes his eyes crinkle.
"Morning," he says. Soft. Like he's trying not to spook you.
Last night was the first time. Dinner that turned into drinks that turned into his mouth on yours in the cab that turned into stumbling up the stairs with his hands under your shirt and his laugh in your ear. And then—slow, careful, both of you learning each other's sounds in the dark.
"Morning," you murmur back. Your voice is sleep-rough, your hair is a disaster, and the sheets are tangled around your waist. You should feel self-conscious. You don't.
"Been up a while," he admits His fingers trace the line of your shoulder, feather-light. "Didn't want to wake ya."
"So you just… watched me sleep?"
"Bit creepy, innit?" That grin—the devastating one, crooked and warm—and you feel something shift in your chest. Like a key turning. "Couldn't help it. You looked peaceful. Beautiful."
He leans in and kisses you. Morning breath and all, unhurried and warm, his hand coming up to cup your jaw with a tenderness that makes your throat tight. This isn't a man in a rush. This is a man who showed up last night and is still here this morning and doesn't seem remotely interested in leaving.
The kiss deepens. His hand slides from your jaw to your neck to your collarbone, slow and mapping, and when your leg hooks over his hip he makes a low sound against your mouth.
"Cal," you whisper.
"Mm."
"Again?"
He pulls back just enough to look at you. Those hazel eyes—warm amber in the morning light, still heavy with sleep—searching your face for something. He must find it, because his expression softens into something that makes your ribs ache.
"Yeah," he answers. "Again."
He rolls onto his back and pulls you with him, settling you on top, and the duvet falls away from both of you. He's hard—not urgently, not desperately, just the easy morning hardness of a man waking up next to someone he wants—and you can feel him against your inner thigh, warm skin on warm skin.
"We used the last condom," you remember.
"I know." His hands rest on your hips, thumbs drawing circles on your hip bones. "Don't care. Come here."
You lower yourself over him, and his cock settles between your folds like it belongs there. No guiding, no adjustment—just the easy slide of warm skin against warm skin, your wetness from the night before mixing with fresh slick as you shift your hips.
His eyes close. His head presses back into the pillow and he exhales—long, slow, like he's releasing something he's been carrying.
"Fuck, that's nice," he murmurs. Not performative. Not filthy. Just honest. "You feel incredible."
You start to move. Slow, lazy rocks of your hips, letting him slide through your folds in long, unhurried strokes. There's no urgency to it. No punishment, no desperation, no power play. Just the quiet, warm friction of two bodies that found each other last night and aren't ready to stop touching.
His hands explore while you move—running up your thighs, your waist, your ribs. Mapping you in the daylight the way he mapped you in the dark. He cups your breasts, thumbs your nipples gently, and smiles when your rhythm falters.
"Sensitive," he notes.
"You figured that out last night."
"Wanted to make sure it wasn't a fluke." He sits up—still inside the cradle of your hips, still sliding between your folds—and wraps his arms around you. His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, the space behind your ear. Slow, warm, open-mouthed kisses that make you shiver.
"You're really good at this," you say, and you don't just mean the sex. You mean the morning. The staying. The way he holds you like this is exactly where he's supposed to be.
"At what?" he murmurs against your throat.
"Being here."
He pulls back. Looks at you. And there's something in his face—not surprise, but recognition. Like he knows what it cost you to say that. Like he knows you're not used to men who stay.
"I'm not going anywhere," he tells you, simple and steady. The way the tide doesn't explain itself.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, and his hips start moving with yours—rolling up to meet you, his cock sliding through your folds in a rhythm that builds slowly. His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with a gentle precision that makes your breath catch.
"There?" he asks against your mouth.
You arch into his touch, lashes fluttering shut. "Yeah—right there—"
"I've got you, love."
It builds like the morning itself—gradually, gently, warmth spreading through you in slow waves. He rubs your clit in patient circles while his cock slides between your lips, and his mouth never leaves yours. You come quietly—a long, rolling shudder that he holds you through, his arms tight around you, his own hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge.
He spills between your bodies; warm, messy, neither of you caring, and buries his face in your neck with a soft groan that's half-laugh, half-relief. Like he wasn't sure this morning would happen, and he's glad it did.
You stay like that for a while. Tangled together, sticky, his heartbeat under your palm.
"So," he says eventually, voice muffled against your shoulder. "Breakfast?"
"You cook?"
"Full English. My one talent." He lifts his head, and that grin is back—warm, easy, the one that crinkles his whole face. "Well. One of two talents. As of last night."
You shove his chest, laughing, and he catches your hand and kisses your knuckles.
"Come on," he chuckles, pulling you out of bed with him. "Bacon's not going to fry itself." And he doesn't let go of your hand the whole way to the kitchen.
summary: simon takes some precautions when he learns mantises have cannibalistic tendencies
cw: mdni, smut, piv, many liberties taken and likely inaccuracies about the female praying mantis (1.7k)
Simon first saw you at a handover briefing, half the base packed into a room that smelled like instant coffee and damp boots, and you were three seats down with your chin propped on one hand, listening. That was all. But he’s spent his entire adult life reading rooms for the thing that's wrong, and his eye snagged on you and would not come loose, and he couldn't for the life of him say why. Big eyes. Too big, maybe, though he didn't let himself ruminate on it. Arms a touch too long where they folded on the table, the line of them not adding up quite right against the rest of you.
He did not look away like he should’ve. A normal man sees a pretty stranger and has the decency to glance off; Simon’s known for quite some time he was not a normal man – and he fixed on you through the whole briefing… and out into the corridor… and across the next nine days, with the forbearing, unblinking attention of a lion in tall grass. He learned your shift pattern before he learned your name. He could have told you, by the end of that first week, the exact rhythm of your walk from sound alone. He knew which mug was yours, and what the base note of your perfume was: myrrh.
He didn’t find any of this strange – Simon's baseline is strange. The wanting came in effortless and stupid, the way it does for everyone else in the world — he simply routed it through the only instincts he's got, which are a predator's.
It was Soap who ruined him.
Soap caught him at it in the mess — Simon parked against the far wall with a coffee going cold in his fist, focused on watching you eat. Soap followed the line of his stare, found you at the end of it, and grinned like the cheshire cat. "Oh, her," he said, delighted. "Aye, she's one of the hybrids. Mantis." He said it the way you'd mention someone supported the wrong football team. Then, because Soap cannot leave fuck-all alone, he leaned in and cheerfully added, "You'll want to be careful there, big man. Mantis females, ehh— they eat the fella after. During, sometimes. Bite the head clean off and finish the job. Read it somewhere once." He clapped Simon on the shoulder. "Best of luck."
And then he left. Wandered off to find some grub, whistling.
Simon stood very still against the wall, then. Felt the information go into him like a splinter you can't find to pull.
Bite the head clean off?
He looked back at you across the room — you'd tilted your head to listen to the person beside you, smooth and too far round, big dark eyes catching the strip-lights — and the want did not go anywhere, that was the horror of it, the want stayed exactly where it was and the new knowledge simply moved in alongside it and started rearranging some things.
He wanted you.
And being Simon, he did not do the sensible thing and walk away. He did the research.
The thing about dating Simon, you would learn, is that you have never in your life been so well fed.
You understood it maybe six weeks in, when you opened his fridge expecting the usual bachelor wasteland and found it stocked like he was provisioning for a siege. Yogurt. Three kinds of cheese. A bowl of cut fruit under cling film. A tin labeled ‘FROG LEGS’.
It was risk management dressed up as romance, which in fairness is mostly what romance is… Isn’t it?
He'd taken Soap's splinter and built a guideline out of it. He knows — he has read, in studies he will deny owning — that the trouble starts when you're hungry. Or stressed. Or both, which is the cocktail that turns a nice evening into something a coroner writes up.
He has constructed an entire relationship on the single principle of never ever letting you get to that point.
You'll be reaching for him on the sofa, hand sliding up under his shirt, mouth at the hot pulse in his throat, and he'll go rigid and say, in that flat rumble of his, "When d’you last eat?"
"Simon," you sigh,
"Tha’ s’not an answer, love."
"I'm not hungry–,"
"I saw you skipped lunch."
He watches a lot. He watches you eat with open, naked satisfaction, the way other men watch football, and the first time you caught him at it you'd put your fork down and said ‘did you want some?’ and he'd said ‘no, you have it,’ and meant it with his whole strange heart.
The man can produce a plate of food out of thin air, and there's no point arguing, because he'll simply outlast you, planted there immovable as a boulder until you've eaten enough that his shoulders come down from around his ears.
He's never once said the word out loud. Cannibalism. He skirts it like a tripwire. Early on you'd tilted your head at him a degree too sharp while he was shaving — honestly just affection — and caught his eye in the mirror, and he'd nicked his own jaw and not flinched at the blood at all, only at you. Razor frozen halfway up his neck. The muscle in his cheek jumped and his pupils shrank to pinpricks and you'd thought: Oh. He's frightened. Big, terrible Ghost, who garrotes men in their sleep, scared witless by the tilt of your head.
You felt bad for almost a full minute.
You have, in fairness, never confirmed or denied a thing. When he goes still and careful you let him. It's the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for you, this grim devout terror, and you're not about to spoil it with reassurance.
Soap, for the record, has really no idea what he started. He'll see the two of you in the canteen, Simon angling the better-fed plate toward you and think, good lad, taking my advice.
Simon had you down — the eyes that hold on him no matter where he moves, that dark point in each one that stays, tracking, while the rest of your face goes soft and human; the too-far head-turn; the way your hands fold up against your chest when you go truly still, wrists tucked, prayer-shaped.
He did not account for the wings.
You hadn't told him because you genuinely forget they're there — folded flat along your spine, a faint seam under the skin, a sheen across your shoulder blades he'd assumed was an old scar. You can't really fly. You never thought to mention them. Plus, it seemed like he knew plenty.
But now he's got you under him with your shirt long gone and his mouth working at the junction of your neck and collar, and there's none of the careful bracing tonight — he fed you an hour ago, he made sure, he watched you finish — and now there's just his weight and his hands and the husky sounds he makes against your skin. One big palm splays flat on your stomach and slides lower, fingers finding you already slick, stroking slow over your clit until your hips chase it on their own. "So soft, love," he murmurs, like he's not shaking. He gets two fingers inside you, curls them, and your whole spine bows off the mattress.
That's when they snap open.
In the dark it's monstrous; a sudden unfolding of something unknown and far too wide for the room, fanning from your back in a wash of color he can't quite name in the half-light. A deep iridescent purple shot through with flares of red, eyespots blooming towards the tips. One instant flat girl, the next a thing twice your size.
Simon goes to stone, shuts down, every system offline. This is it, he thinks — this is the bit where she takes the head. His fingers still inside you. He holds his breath, bracing.
You make a small strangled noise and pull them back down.
They fold away almost as fast as they came, gone into brackets around your spine, and you throw an arm over your face and refuse to look at him. Your ears are hot. He can feel it where his jaw rests on your cheek.
"Sorry," you whisper. "That just— happens sometimes. It– it doesn't mean anything bad, I swear… just… you… just feels good, is all.”
The single most dangerous woman he's ever shared a bed with has flashed her startle display because he got two fingers knuckle deep inside of her, and now she's mortified, hiding her face like a kid. Four months of Soap's splinter works its way loose, pushing out of his muscle, and falls out somewhere in the dark, and Simon — who has never in his life felt safe and certainly never expected to find it here, of all the deranged places — starts to come softly apart with relief. He pulls himself back to look at you.
"Le’me see you," he says, and peels your arm off your face, and when you do his eyes are doing something you've never seen on him: wet at the edges, wide open, not afraid of you at all.
Worse than not afraid. Pleased with himself.
He leans back down and kisses you hard, pushing his fingers deeper and says it against your mouth because he’s got nothing left to lose: "Do it again. Want to watch."
So you do.
And Simon fucks you slow and then not slow at all, and every time he tips you over they snap wide behind you and fill the room with color, and by the third time he's stopped flinching and started hunting it, smug, learning the exact angle that does it. When he finally comes it's with his forehead pressed to yours and your wings open around the both of you like something out of a church window, and he's saying something into your jaw, rough and ruined, that takes you a second to parse as all mine, there she is, there's my good girl.
Afterward you bite him. Just a little on the shoulder, just to be a menace, licking the taste of iron from your canine.
He doesn't even twitch. "Knew it," he says into your hair, wrecked and grinning where you can't see. "Tellin’ Soap he was right."
18+ ! Virgin!reader...(not for long lol) x Older man!Simon
The team had been giving him shit for weeks.
Price, with that knowing smirk, muttering about “midlife crises” under his breath during briefings. Gaz, less subtle, whistling low whenever Simon’s phone buzzed with a notification. Soap, the bastard, had gone so far as to draw a crude cartoon on the whiteboard in the rec room—a hulking figure with a skull mask holding hands with a stick figure in a miniskirt.
Simon Riley let them talk.
Fucking let them.
Because every joke, every elbow to the ribs, every envious glance was a trophy.
He was forty-seven. Scarred from temple to jaw, built like a brick shithouse, and his girlfriend was twenty-four, with eyes that could stop a man’s heart and a body that made his cock ache just thinking about it. The age gap wasn't a gap. It was a canyon. And every time one of the lads saw her waiting for him outside the base gates—all curves and soft smiles and that sundress that made his mouth go dry—Simon felt a surge of pure, possessive pride.
She was his.
Tonight, she was on his couch, curled against his chest in a thin tank top and cotton shorts. The flat around them was quiet. Dark, save for the glow of the telly playing some film neither of them was watching.
Her hand was tracing a scar on his forearm, feather-light.
“Simon?”
“Yeah, love?” His voice was gravel, rough from a lifetime of shouting orders and breathing smoke.
She shifted, tilting her head to look up at him. Those wide brown eyes—Christ, they undid him. “I want to. Tonight. I want all of it.”
He knew what she meant. They'd danced around it for months, this line neither had crossed. Heavy petting through clothes. His fingers knuckle-deep while she gasped his name. Her mouth—fuck, that perfect, inexperienced mouth—wrapping around his cock until he had to pull her off before he painted her tonsils white. But never the full act. She’d been shy about it, nervous.
Now, she watched him with a steadiness that made his throat tight.
“You sure?” He cupped her jaw, thumb sliding over her lower lip.
A nod. “I’m sure.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I haven't— I mean, you’re the first. I’ve never…”
Simon’s eyes flared. The possessive beast in his chest roared. A twenty-four-year-old virgin. Looking at him like that. Wanting him to be the first. His cock surged against the denim of his jeans, a thick, demanding pulse.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
“Is that okay?” Her voice wavered.
“Okay?” He shifted, turning her body so she was under him on the leather couch, his bulk caging her in. One thick thigh nudged between her legs. “Sweetheart. It’s fucking perfect. But we go slow. You understand?”
She bit her lip and nodded again.
He started with her mouth. A kiss that wasn’t gentle...Simon Riley didn’t do gentle, not truly...but it was controlled. His tongue pressed past her lips, slick and hot, and she whimpered into it, neck arching. His hand slid from her jaw to her tit, palming the full weight through the thin cotton. No bra. Her nipple was a hard point against his palm, and he rolled it between thumb and forefinger until her hips bucked up against his thigh.
“That feel good?” he grunted, mouth moving to her throat.
“Yeah. Simon, yeah.”
He dragged the tank top up and off. Her tits were perfect. Full and pale, topped with dusky-pink nipples that tightened further under his gaze. Simon’s mouth latched onto one, sucking hard, and she cried out, back bowing. His other hand found the waistband of her shorts, dipping inside, and holy fuck, she was drenched. The cotton was soaked through, clinging to the plump swell of her cunt.
“God, listen to you.” He dragged his fingers through the slick, smearing it over her inner lips. “This pussy’s been waiting for me, hasn’t it?”
She turned crimson, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “I...”
“Say it.” He pressed one thick finger against her entrance, not pushing in, just letting her feel the pressure. “Tell me this soaked little cunt’s been wanting my cock.”
“It has.” The words were broken, choked. “Wanted you. Wanted this. For months.”
That was enough. Simon kissed her again, deep and filthy, while his finger pushed inside. One digit, slow and steady. Her cunt clenched around it—Christ, so fucking tight it made his head swim. He could feel every ridge, every hot, clinging inch. Her hymen was there, a delicate resistance at the tips of his senses, and he withdrew before he could break it. Not yet.
He worked her open with one finger, then two, scissoring gently. Her slick coated his knuckles, leaking down his palm. A wet, obscene sound filled the room every time he pushed back in.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
Her eyes, glazed and desperate, met his.
“You’re going to come on my fingers first. Then we’ll take the rest. Need you relaxed.” His thumb found her clit—a swollen, eager bud peeking from its hood...and circled it in slow, grinding strokes. “Fuck, that’s a pretty clit. Swollen up nice and plump for me.”
She bucked. Gasped. Her thighs tried to clench shut, but his own legs kept them spread wide. The sounds she made...high-pitched, keening, entirely involuntary—went straight to his dick.
“Simon... Simon, I’m going to...”
“Let it go. Now.”
She shattered. Her cunt clamped down on his fingers in rhythmic, fluttering pulses, a gush of slick soaking his hand. He watched her face: mouth open on a silent scream, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks flushed a violent pink. The scent of her sex flooded the air, musky and sweet, and Simon groaned, grinding his erection against the couch cushion.
As her breathing steadied, he lifted his glistening fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean. She watched, transfixed, a fresh bloom of colour racing down her chest.
“Taste that?” He licked his lips. “That’s what I’ve been missing. Now. We move to the bedroom. No more waiting.”
He stood, hauling her into his arms as if she weighed nothing, and carried her down the hall. The sheets were cool against her bare back when he laid her down. He stripped with brutal efficiency—shirt, jeans, boxers—until he was naked, and her eyes dropped to his cock.
Her breath left her in a rush.
Simon’s cock was… a lot. A fat, ruddy trunk of meat, curving slightly upward from a dense thicket of dark blond curls. Veins ran along the shaft like rivers on a topographical map. The head was a deep, swollen mushroom, already glossed with a bead of pre-cum. His balls hung heavy below, tightly furred, drawn up in anticipation.
“That’s… that’s going inside me?” Her voice was tiny.
“It is.” He settled between her legs, the broad purple tip nudging against her sodden slit. “And you’re going to fucking take it. Every inch. But first—” He leaned down, mouth hovering over hers. “...you tell me this is what you want. Use my name.”
“Simon. Simon, I want you to fuck me.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders. “Please.”
The head caught her entrance.
He pushed.
The resistance was immediate...a tight, elastic clutch that had him gritting his teeth against the urge to drive home in one brutal thrust. Her cunt stretched around the invasion of his cockhead, the puffy inner lips parting wide, slick smearing down his shaft. She whimpered, nails biting into his skin.
“Easy. Easy, sweetheart. Breathe through it.” His voice was strained. “Fuck, you’re gripping my cock so good. Feel that? That’s just the tip.”
Her face was a warzone of sensation...pleasure and pain and overwhelming fullness.
Another inch.
The hymen tore. A sharp cry. A single spot of blood, tiny, mixing with the glisten of her arousal on his shaft. Simon froze, letting her adjust, murmuring filthy encouragements against her ear.
“Good girl. Taking this fat cock so well. This pussy’s mine now. First one ever in here. Understand?” He pulled back a fraction, then sank another inch deeper. “Made for me.”
“More.” Her legs wrapped around his hips, heels digging into his arse. “Simon, please. Fuck me. Properly.”
He gave her what she wanted.
A slow withdrawal until only the tip remained, her cunt clinging desperately, reluctant to let him go. Then a long, deliberate plunge back in. Her slick squelched around him, a wet chorus that grew louder as he found a rhythm. Her tits bounced with every thrust, rippling in hypnotic circles, the flesh shimmering under the dim bedroom light.
Simon propped himself on one forearm, the other hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. He watched where their bodies joined—the way her cunt stretched, impossibly, around his girth. The plump lips gripping him, the swollen clit peeking out and begging for attention. He brought his thumb to it again, pressing down.
She screamed.
A proper, full-throated scream that he had to muffle with his mouth.
“That’s it. Take it. Every fucking inch.” His hips snapped harder, a wet slap of skin on skin. His heavy balls thumped against her perineum with each thrust, her slick coating them, threads of it stringing between their bodies. “This cunt is drenched for me. Doused. Fucking made to be split open on my cock.”
Her eyes rolled back. She was cresting again, a babbling, incoherent mess, and Simon felt his own orgasm building—a pressure at the base of his spine, a tightening below his balls.
Simon's cock was throbbing. All day he had been desperate for you, itching to get his meaty paws on you and fuck you into the mattress.
You had worn that pretty summer dress again. The one he got you last year with the pretty yellow flowers and hugged your breasts just right. It was his favorite and you knew it. You purposefully stuck your ass out higher as you bent over to pick some fresh flowers from your garden.
You knew what it did to him. You could feel his eyes locked onto your figure, practically drooling at the sight.
“Lovie,” he called out “c’m ‘ere.” He beckoned you closer with two thick fingers.
You smiled innocently and patted on over to him. “You okay, Si?”
His hands are quick as he grabs your waist. “Fuckin’ teasin’ me? On purpose, Birdie?” His hands waist no time slipping under your skirt, pulling at your panties. He nearly rips them in his haste. “Gotta get these off, Pretty.”
“Simon!” You squeal and twist, giggling as he hauls you onto his lap. “Let me do my gardening, you brute.”
He scoffs coyly. “Brute? You said yes to marryin’ me. Don’t go switchin’ up now.” He presses your back against his chest, pulling your legs apart so your slick pussy is out for him to see. He slips two meaty fingers to your clit, rubbing slow circles.
“Oh fuck,” you whine, head tipping back to his shoulder. “Feels good, Si.” Your hips buck into his hand, chasing the pleasure.
He chuckles almost cruelly, the corner of his mouth turning up into a smug smirk. “Awww so sweet, Birdie. Knew ya needed this.”
You moan, mouth opening in pleasure. “You needed this,” you correct him, but there’s no real heat behind it. You just need him to keep rubbing you like that.
He buries his face in your neck, inhaling your perfume. The scent of it only makes him harder. “Fair play, Love. Fair play.”
His fingers slip lower, dipping into your eager pussy. He curls his fingers just the way you like, making you cry out in pleasure. “Simon! Yes yes yes- fuck!” Simon had always been so skilled with his fingers, knowing exactly what you liked. He was generous with it too. Always so focused on your pleasure.
You whine pathetically. Simon had a knack for pulling the most needy and pathetic sounds out of you. If it didn’t feel so good, you would be embarrassed. “Si, please.. Mmmhhh fuck. Please make me come.”
He curls his fingers deeper into your desperate cunt. “Come on, Baby. Wanna see you come all over my fingers.”
With that he has you coming, pussy clenching around his fingers, legs shaking and back arching desperately. You could feel the hardness of his cock under your ass. You grind against him as you come, already needing more.
“Want me to fuck you, Birdie?” He asks as he adjusts you on his lap, ready to pull out his rock hard cock the second you nod yes.
Your eyes are glassy as you nod with growing need. “Mmmm yes yes”
He smirks again, rubbing his still clothed cock against your bare ass. “Say it, Pretty.”
“Please fuck me, Simon,” you plead, wet pussy leaving a wet mark on his jeans.
Simon always loved the sight of your slick, knowing he was the one making you feel so good, making you so needy. He always knew he was in for a good night.
It shows in the way he present for everything important in your life. It shows in the way he brags about you to everyone. It doesn’t matter how ordinary or how much of a disaster you may seem to others; as far as he gives a fuck, you’d probably hung the moon. It shows in the way encourages you even when you don’t believe in yourself. It shows in the way he’ll hold you close in those firm arms of his when you’re breaking down, because he’s there to be strong for you till you can hold yourself together.
It also shows in the way he praises you in bed. He believes in you, which means he ability believes you can make his huge, heavy cock fit. “You can do it, beautiful girl. Just relax and allow me all the way in”— as he gently but relentlessly pushes into your pussy.
“So big!” You slur, clutching his fingers that are intertwined with yours.
“Mm, yeah?” He laughs, endeared at you. He brushes your hair back with his other hand. “But you’re all wet and stretched out just for me.”
When you’re between his legs sucking his cock, he threads his fingers through your hair and helps you deepthroat him. “There you go. God, that mouth of yours! I knew you could take all of me.” Your throat constricts around him; but his eyes are gleaming with pride at how well you’re doing and you can feel his dick pulsing with the need to bust. “Fuck! Such a good girl!”
When he’s overstimulating you: “Just one more baby— maybe a few more. You just look so beautiful cumming for me. I love making you feel good. You can’t blame me for wanting more, right, love? Just a few more. You can do it…”
