𝐄𝐱𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐓𝐲𝐩𝐞 ┅ 𝖲𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗇 ‘𝖦𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍’ 𝖱𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗒 & 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋
𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘥, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘩𝘶𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘳.
WARNING: nsfw, explicit scenes
NOTE: I’ve never written anything this filthy help…
The bass from the pub’s speakers was vibrating straight through the soles of your heels, but honestly, after the semester you’d had, it felt like a lifeline. You and your girls were in your final year of university, drowning in dissertations, exams, and the collective dread of the real world.
Tonight’s objective was simple: get dressed to the nines, look entirely unapproachable yet wildly attractive, and see how many free drinks you could leverage out of the local blokes before you completely lost the ability to stand.
You were currently rocking a fit that made you feel unstoppable, but the sheer volume of the Manchester crowd had done its work. Somewhere between the bar and the jukebox, you and your closest mate had been separated from the rest of the pack.
"Right, where did they go?" your friend giggled, swaying slightly as she held her vodka-cranberry aloft like a torch.
You bounced off a solid wall of absolute muscle. You stumbled back a half-step, your hand instinctively reaching out to steady yourself, landing flat against a very broad, very warm chest clad in a dark jacket.
"Whoops, steady there, lass," a thick Scottish accent chimed in. You looked up to find a pair of bright, mischievous eyes crinkling at the corners, a short mohawk cutting through the dim pub lighting. Next to him stood another handsome man wearing a baseball cap backward, a smooth, easy grin plastered on his face.
It was Johnny "Soap" MacTavish and Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, though to a civilian like you, they were just two incredibly fit, incredibly good looking men who seemed far too fit to be standard Manchester pub-goers.
"Sorry about that," you laughed, smoothing down your outfit. "A bit hazardous out here."
"Oh, it’s no trouble at all," Gaz interjected, leaning against a pillar with a smooth smile. "In fact, I think it’s a stroke of luck. I’m Kyle, this is my pal Johnny. What are two lovely ladies like yourselves doing wandering the wilds on a Friday night?"
Within five minutes, the flirting was in full swing. Johnny was laying it on thick, his Scottish charm working like an absolute charm on your friend. He had her laughing up a storm, her hand already resting against his arm. Gaz turned his attention to you, and bless him, he was incredibly sweet and objectively gorgeous—but he just wasn't your type. You preferred a bit more edge, a bit more mystery.
"We’re actually heading over to the pool tables," Soap announced, flashing a brilliant grin. "We’ve got a table cornered. You two should join us. Teams of two?"
Your friend looked at you with pleading, intoxicated eyes. Looking back, you probably should have said no and gone to find the rest of your uni squad. Instead, you shrugged. "Sure. Lead the way."
By the time you reached the back of the pub, the dynamic had shifted. Another one of your girls had miraculously reappeared from the crowd, and Gaz, picking up on your polite but platonic vibes, seamlessly pivoted his attention to her. They hit it off instantly, leaving Johnny and your friend practically joined at the hip.
There was just one problem.
"Ah, bloody hell," Johnny muttered, counting heads. "We’re short one for proper doubles. Hold on." He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted over the din of the pub. "Oi! L.T.! Get over here!"
From the shadows near the back exit, a figure shifted.
Your breath caught in your throat. Jesus Christ.
He was a giant. A big, hulking mountain of a man clad entirely in dark clothing, a heavy hood pulled up. But the kicker? A black skull-patterned balaclava covered his face from the nose down, leaving only a pair of dark, intense, heavily lashed eyes visible. He looked dangerous, entirely out of place in a crowded pub, and absolutely, unequivocally exactly your type.
He walked over with heavy strides, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. Why was it so hot that he didn't look pleased?
The voice made all the inner parts of you quiver. Deep. Gravelly. A low, raspy baritone that vibrated straight down your spine and sent an instant, undeniable jolt of heat straight between your thighs. You actually had to cross your legs slightly, your eyes widening as you stared at him.
"We need a fourth for pool, Simon," Soap said, completely unfazed by the terrifying aura the man was radiating. "Don't be a misery guts. Play a round."
While Soap conversed with the giant—who you now knew was named Simon—your friend leaned into your shoulder, her breath hot and smelling of alcohol as she excitedly whispered in your ear.
"Oh my god, I’m definitely into the Scottish one," she hissed happily, watching Soap laugh. She nudged your ribs with her elbow. "What about you? The quiet one looks like he could snap a man in half."
You swallowed hard, your eyes locked onto the broad expanse of Simon's shoulders under his jacket, watching the way his dark eyes flicked over to you, assessing you from behind his hood.
"Yeah," you whispered back, your voice a little breathier than you intended. "I am definitely into his taller friend."
The pool cue felt heavy in your hands, but that was mostly because your brain was short-circuiting. The green felt of the table blurred into the background as Simon stepped up directly behind you.
"You're holding it like a damn club, love," he rumbled. That deep, gravelly voice was right at your ear, his warm breath ghosting over the column of your neck and sending a violent shiver down your spine.
"I'm doing my best," you teased, casting a smoky look over your shoulder. "Maybe I just need a proper teacher."
Simon didn't say a word. He just stepped closer, completely enveloping you in his shadow. He smelled of rain, leather, and a faint undertone of bourbon. Then, his hands covered yours. They were massive, and calloused drowning your smaller hands as he adjusted your grip on the wood. He leaned down, his broad chest pressing flat against your back, aligning his body perfectly with yours to show you the angle of the shot.
The contact was electric. With the pub's bass thumping through the floorboards, you couldn't help yourself. You shifted your weight, deliberately grinding your hips back against him just a fraction of an inch.
Above you, Simon froze. A low, dark grunt vibrated from deep within his chest.
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, feeling incredibly cheeky. Maybe it was the four vodka crans sloshing around in your system, or maybe it was just the intoxicating thrill of making a literal mountain of a man react to you. You glanced over at the other side of the table; Soap and your friend were entirely in their own world, trading sloppy kisses and whispering things that had them both giggling. They hadn't noticed a thing.
But Simon had. His grip on your hands tightened just a fraction, a silent command to stay still before he guided your arm forward. Clack. The cue ball struck true, sending the solid seven-ball straight into the corner pocket.
From there, the game was a blur of Simon’s clear pool skills. You contributed absolutely nothing but distraction, but thanks entirely to him, you won.
By the time the final ball dropped, the midnight hour had long passed. The rest of Simon and Johnny’s group was visibly, hilariously wrecked. Gaz was slumped in a booth trying to teach your other friend a tactical military handshake, and their ‘captain’ Price was at the bar aggressively debating football with the bartender. They were all clearly ready to crash hard at an unlucky blokes townhouse. (Simon)
Well, all except for one. Simon stood perfectly upright, he looked sober, his dark eyes tracking the room.
"Right, I’m taking this one home," Soap slurred, his arm slung heavily over your friend’s shoulders as she giggled, both of them already shuffling toward the exit into a waiting taxi. Just like that, your ride and your squad were gone, leaving you standing under the dim pub lights with the giant in the skull mask.
"Looks like it's just you and me, big guy," you murmured, stepping into his space. The alcohol lent you a massive wave of confidence. You reached out, your fingers daringly tracing the edge of his dark hoodie. "Your friends are all sloshed. Who's going to look after you?"
Simon stared down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily. "I don't need looking after, love."
"No?" You tilted your head up, leaning in just enough that he’d have to bend down to hear you over the ringing in your ears. "My flat is only a ten-minute walk from here. It's warm. Quiet. And I have a really, really comfortable bed." You let your eyes drop to his covered lips before looking back up into his intense gaze. "Are you going to let me walk home all by myself in the dark?"
A tense, heavy silence stretched between you. For a second, you thought he was going to refuse, to turn on his heel and drag what was left his drunken mates to wherever.
But then, Simon let out a rough, defeated sigh. He reached up, pulling his hood a little lower, but his large hand settled firmly on the small of your back, the heat of his palm burning through your clothes.
"Lead the way," he growled low in his throat. "Before I change my mind."
The ten-minute walk through the crisp night air felt like a blur of friction and heat. Every time your bare shoulder brushed against his heavy jacket, a jolt went straight to your core.
By the time you stumbled onto the porch of your flat, the tension snapped.
You fished blindly in your bag for your keys, your hands shaking slightly from a mix of the cold and pure adrenaline. You felt him step up behind you, blocking out the streetlights, trapping you between his massive frame and the heavy wooden door.
"Need some help with that, love?" he rumbled, his voice dangerously low against your ear.
"I’ve got it," you breathed, finally wrapping your fingers around the key ring. But as you turned around to face him, keys in hand, the look in his dark eyes made you completely forget how to use your hands.
You didn't wait. You reached up, your fingers catching the hem of his black balaclava and pulling it up. Simon didn't stop you. He helped, bunching the fabric up over his nose, exposing a strong, rugged jawline, a dusting of stubble, and full lips that were parted in a sharp intake of breath.
When your lips finally met, it was like an explosion.
It wasn't a gentle kiss, fuck—it was feverish, hungry, and so desperate. Simon let out a low, ragged groan into your mouth, his massive hands coming alive. One of his palms cupped the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling in your hair to angle your head perfectly, while his other hand gripped your hip, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the rigid, hard lines of his body pressing into yours, and a soft whimper escaped your throat.
"Inside," he muttered against your lips, his kiss tracking down to your jawline, biting lightly at the sensitive skin there and making your knees go weak. "Get the bloody door open."
"I'm trying," you gasped, your hands blindly fumbling behind your back. You were pinned against the wood, your hips grinding instinctively against his as his large hand slid down to the back of your thigh, lifting you slightly to bring you even closer.
The metal of the key scraped loudly against the lock, your fingers clumsy as Simon’s mouth returned to yours, devouring you, his tongue sliding past your lips in a deep, possessive stroke. You managed to guide the key into the slot, turning it until you heard the heavy thunk of the deadbolt sliding back.
The hand on your neck migrate towards the handle of the door, twisting it open. Your body, still pressed between the wood and his, hit the door with your back, tumbling inside into the dark warmth of your hallway—and dragging the giant right in after you.
You moan into the kiss, hands roaming desperately over his shoulders, feeling the hard ridges of muscle beneath his shirt as his palms slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. The size difference hits you instantly, his body engulfs yours completely. You arch your back as he presses forward, the thick, unmistakable bulge of his cock grinding against your belly through his jeans. It throbs with heat, promising an overwhelming stretch, and you feel your pussy clench in response, wetness already soaking your panties.
Simon doesn't ease up, one massive hand cupping the back of your head while the other roams lower, squeezing your ass to pull you tighter against that rigid length. Your breaths mingle in ragged gasps, the kiss turning sloppy and wet as his teeth nip at your lower lip, sending sparks straight to your core.
He tugs at your clothing, exposing more skin to the cool air, and the heat radiating from him envelops you completely. Simon sets you down just inside the door but keeps you pinned against the wall with his body, his hands already working at the hem of your top. He peels it upward in one smooth motion, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze before tossing the fabric aside, then hooks his fingers into your waistband and drags your skirt and panties down in a single, impatient tug that leaves you naked and trembling against him.
You reach for his shirt in turn, fingers fumbling with the shirt as your hands struggle against the broad expanse of his chest, but the fabric resists your frantic tugs and you end up clutching uselessly at his belt instead.
Simon chuckles low in his throat, the sound rich and teasing as his accent curls around the words. “Easy now, love—look at you, all eager. Let me handle it, hm?” He steps back just enough to strip his own shirt over his head, revealing the hard slabs of muscle, scars, and tattoos beneath, then unbuckles his belt and shoves his jeans and boxers down in one fluid movement. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, the substantial length curving upward and already glistening at the tip.
He crowds back against you immediately, the heat of his bare skin searing yours while one large palm cups your breast and the other slides between your thighs to find you slick and ready.
“There now, darling,” he murmurs against your ear, nipping at the lobe as his fingers part your folds and circle your clit with deliberate pressure.
“All wet aren’t we? Just the way I like. Gonna fill you proper soon.” His substantial endowment presses hot and insistent against your stomach again as he lifts you once more, your legs wrapping around him on instinct, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance while his attentive eyes search yours for every flicker of pleasure and surrender.
He carries you deeper into the apartment, his long strides eating up the distance to the bedroom while your legs tighten around his waist.
You’re wondering how he managed to find your bedroom so quick, but your thoughts are completely overtaken by the throbbing of your clit each time he grinds himself forward.
He puts you onto the bed with surprising care despite his size, he’s hovering over you as his lips close around one nipple, sucking hard enough to make your back arch.
He then lowers his head down to your stomach, and then between your legs, his tongue dragging hot and broad over your slick folds, lapping at the mixture of your arousal that leaks from your entrance.
Simons broad shoulders force your legs further apart, his tongue delving deep before circling your clit with relentless strokes that send jolts of pleasure racing through your core. Your hands fist in his short hair as he sucks gently on the swollen bud, one thick finger sliding inside you to curl against that sensitive spot while his free hand pins your hip down.
You arch off the bed, the orgasm building fast and sharp under his attentive mouth, your thighs trembling around his head as he hums in approval, the vibration pushing you over the edge. Your pussy clenches and floods his tongue with fresh wetness, the release easing the lingering ache of desire while he drinks you down greedily, eyes flicking up to watch every shudder that ripples across your.
He doesn't stop there, easing you through the aftershocks with softer licks until your breathing steadies, then rises to kiss you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips as his substantial cock—already hard and red—presses insistently against your belly.
He reckons you're ready now. your slick folds glistening, and your hips canting up in silent plea.
Simon lines up the blunt head of his cock with your cunny, pressing just enough to part your lips before inching inside with agonizing slowness. Inch by thick inch he sinks deeper, the stretch burning sweet and deep as your walls flutter around him, that delicious bulge in your belly rising under your skin with every deliberate push until he's fully seated, heavy balls pressed to your ass.
The sensation nearly undoes him; a low groan rips from his chest, his cock twitching hard inside you as if fighting the urge to flood you right then, but he relents with a shuddering breath, muscles straining as he holds still and lets the edge pass.
Yet the invasion sends you reeling, stars bursting behind your eyes as the pressure overwhelms every nerve, your body arching and clenching as pleasure crashes through you in white-hot waves. He begins to move then, slow and powerful thrusts that make the bulge shift and press outward with each stroke, his hands pinning your wrists to the mattress while he watches every gasp and tremor, savoring how completely you yield to the relentless fullness.
“Shh, just sit back and relax alright, love.” Even his voice was making you reel.
The slow pace is long gone as Simon starts to thrust faster and faster, the thick head of his cock slamming into that spongy spot deep inside, each powerful stroke making your eyes water and your vision blur as pleasure borders on overwhelming.
Your body jolts beneath him, the belly bulge shifting visibly with every drive of his hips, and the wet sounds of your slick pussy gripping him fill the room alongside your broken cries. He watches your face, his balaclava gone and discarded somewhere on the floor, his muscles flexing as he builds the rhythm higher, pushing you toward another shattering peak while his substantial girth stretches you to your limits again and again.
Without warning he pulls out, the sudden emptiness drawing a needy whimper from your throat, then flips you onto your hands and knees with effortless strength. He thrusts back in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one fluid motion that forces another visible bulge to rise in your belly, his left hand clamping onto your waist with a grip sure to leave bruises as he holds you steady. His right hand tangles in your hair, yanking your face upward toward his as he leans over your back, claiming your mouth in a bruising kiss that tasted like sweat and shared hunger, his tongue thrusting in time with the punishing snaps of his hips.
You moan into the kiss, body trembling from the intensity His attentive murmurs vibrate against your lips, praising how well you take him, how perfectly your pussy milks his cock, and the emotional tether of his touch keeps you grounded even as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes through your smaller frame.
Round after round blurs into one another as he claims you again and again, flipping you, lifting you, filling you until cum leaks in thick rivulets down your thighs and the ache in your core becomes a constant throb of bliss.
Every muscle in your body was aching in a way that felt both agonizing and utterly spectacular.
You slowly blinked your eyes open, squinting against the aggressive morning light piercing through your blinds. Your head was pounding a steady, rhythmic rhythm, the undeniable receipt of too many vodka-cranberries, and your throat felt like sandpaper. You looked like absolute hell, your hair a chaotic bird's nest and your makeup undoubtedly smeared across your face like a tragic watercolor painting.
But as you shifted (tried) under the duvet, a wicked, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of your lips. Jesus. No one had ever rocked your world like that. Multiple rounds that had left your headboard dented and your sheets tangled around your ankles. The man was built like a tank and moved with too much stamina.
You reached out a hand to the space beside you. The sheets were empty. The fabric was slightly cold to the touch, but not completely, meaning he hadn't been gone long. A sudden, familiar pang of morning-after anxiety flickered in your chest.
Did he slip out? Did a man like that even do morning-afters?
The answer came in the sudden, sharp click of your bathroom door opening.
You sat up, immediately regretting it as the soreness permeated throughout your body.
There he was. In all his absolute glory.
He didn't have a towel around his waist. In fact, he didn't have a single stitch of clothing on. The only towel in sight was the small white one gripped in his hands, which he was currently using to vigorously rub his damp, short blonde hair dry.
Your eyes wide, you drank in the sight of him. In the harsh daylight, he was an absolute masterpiece. His pale skin was a roadmap of stories, jagged silver scars cutting across the thick armor of his chest, heavy tattoos weaving down his massive arms, and powerful thighs that you vividly remembered gripping your waist just hours prior. And his face, completely bare, completely exposed, was ruggedly handsome.
Simon stopped rubbing his hair, dropping the towel around his shoulders. He looked down at you, completely unbothered by his own total nudity, a faint, rare smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he noticed your starstruck expression.
"Morning, love," he rumbled. Without the mask, his deep, gravelly voice sounded softer, intimate, and heavier in the quiet of your bedroom. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
You let out a raspy, sleep-deprived laugh, burying the lower half of your face in your blanket to hide your blush. "I think you legally count as a weapon, Simon. I can barely move."
Simon let out a low chuckle. He walked over to the side of the bed, the sheer size of him casting a shadow over you, and leaned down. He placed one massive, scarred hand on your thighs, stroking them up and down.
"Good," he murmured. "That means I did my job right."
You scoffed and lightly smacked his solid chest, the impact making your hand sting more than it bothered him. "Don't you dare," you groaned, pulling the duvet up to your chin like a shield. "My body literally cannot handle another round. If you touch me, I might dissolve into the mattress."
Simon let out another chuckle, completely unfazed by your swat. He stood up straight, his gaze raking over you with a look of satisfaction.
"What are you going to do now anyway?" you asked, leaning your head back against the pillows. You blinked up at him, your hangover finally catching up to you as a dull throb started behind your eyes. "Are you just going to vanish into thin air, or...?"
"First, I'm going to find where you keep the painkillers, get a glass of water, and make you some breakfast," Simon replied casually, as if standing stark naked in a uni student's bedroom was a completely standard Saturday morning routine. "Then, I suppose I have to go round up my mates."
You raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at your lips despite your headache. "Your mates? Right. The ones with you at the pub.”
Simon walked over to the pile of his discarded clothes on the floor, hooking his foot under his trousers to lift them up. He shook them out and started stepping into them.
"Aye, those idiots," he rumbled, fastening his belt. He looked back at you, a distinctly amused glint in his eyes. "They were meant to crash at my place. But I don’t really fancy spending my first night off in a month playing nursemaid to a bunch of loud, puking bastards."
He grabbed his black t-shirt, pulling it over his head and obscuring those magnificent chest scars from view. When his head popped through the collar, his eyes locked back onto yours.
"And then, suddenly," Simon murmured, his voice dropping into that deep register that made your stomach flip, "a lovely lady asked me to walk her home. So, naturally, I had to take her up on the offer. Far better company."
You couldn't help the massive smile that broke across your face, burying your burning cheeks into the blanket. "Oh, so you're saying I’m lovely?”
"Something like that, love," Simon said, finally pulling his iconic black mask out of his pocket—though he didn't put it on, just tossed it onto the bedside table. He walked toward the bedroom door, pausing at the threshold to look back at you one last time. "Don't move. I'll be back with the pills."
Before his footsteps could even fade down he suddenly reappeared in the doorframe. You blinked, startled by how quickly and silently he’d turned back around.
Without a word, Simon flipped his wrist. A heavy, black, smartphone sailed through the air and landed with a soft thud right on the duvet by your knee.
It was a brand you’ve never seen before. It had lots of bells and whistles on the outside too.
You stared at the phone, then looked up at him, utterly bewildered. "What's this?"
"Password is zero-four-one-zero," Simon rumbled, his eyes locked onto yours, completely deadpan. "Open it and put your number in. Don't give me a fake one, either."
You let out a stunned, breathy laugh, the sudden burst of adrenaline making you forget about your headache for a split second. "Are you ordering me?"
"Just making sure I don't have to hunt you down across Manchester when I want a repeat of last night," he countered smoothly. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Get to it, love."
Before you could even form a comeback, he vanished back into the hallway as he finally made his way toward your kitchen.
You sat there for a second, looking at the black brick of a phone, a massive, giddy smile breaking across your face. Sliding your hands out from under the covers, you picked it up, punched in 0410, and opened the contacts.
You quickly typed in your details, humming happily to yourself as the faint, heavenly scent of sizzling bacon began to waft into your bedroom.
