When Simon is too tired to fuck you or not in the mood to spend twenty-seven minutes getting your cunt loose and wet enough to take his monster cock but you're horny and practically humping his leg on the bed, he has you lay on your back and pull your legs up to present.
And then he kneels on the mattress, rubs your puffy slit and thumbs at your swollen clit until you're leaking slick down your ass crack.
"There we fuckin' go, bunny," he murmurs before spitting on your pussy to make a bigger mess; slick and saliva foaming on your skin.
Then he slowly plunges two long, thick fingers into your sopping hole, sometimes three if your pussy is greedy; feeling your inner muscles tighten around him.
And then he fingerfucks you properly until you're squeezing and squelching around his thrusting digits while your pretty whines and helpless moans make his own cock swell in his pants.
There's a rapidly forming damp patch on the front of his sweats; the smell of precum mixing with your musk. Because his cock didn't get the memo tonight, always aching for your pussy.
And when your back bows and you cry out his name, his free hand tightens on your knee to keep your legs apart, all while his tawny eyes stare at your greedy cunt as you come around his fingers, soaking his hand.
He groans shamelessly, easing his finger out before smacking your puffy, twitching cunt until you whine and shake.
"Si, s'too much," you mewl, pushing at his hand yet grinding your hips for more.
He chuckles, not cruel but arrogant, and leans down to place the sweetest kiss right on your clit.
Want Steven Grant to get on his knees and give my cock some love immediately pls.
Like please I need his throat around my dick so desperately you don't even know. His lips are so plush and beautiful I just need them around my tip :( He'd be so eager, suckling on the head and pressing kisses to my slit, lapping up whatever precum leaked out like it was the last thing he'd ever do.
I know damn well Steven would cum in his underwear sometimes. His cock all suffocated in his trousers as he takes mine down his throat. Suffocated so good that when he rolls his hips, he gets the most delicious friction just from his own trousers. And his pace, sucking as hard as he can and taking me as deep as he can, would quicken and become as sloppy as the movement of his hips as a wet patch starts to appear at the front of his jeans, cum seeping out into the thick denim as he groans and whines for more.
I wanna cum on his face so bad- I bet he'd look so pretty with thick white cum covering that beautiful face of his, big brown eyes looking up at me like I'm the only person in the world as I stroke myself in front of him, hips bucking into my grip, precum dripping and balls tightening as he sits on his knees with his tongue out, squeezing his eyes shut just before I cum and smiling when the first white ropes hit his skin just the way he begs for.
"Johnny—Johnny! S-stop, I have to—I need to pee, I'm serious!"
"Aye, I know."
He doesn't stop. If anything, his hips snap harder; one hand pressing flat against your lower belly where your bladder is full and aching, and the added pressure makes your eyes roll back and a broken whine tear out of your throat.
"Fuck, I can feel it!"
"Then stop!"
"Nah." He grins against the side of your neck, breathless and wrecked and absolutely feral, his cock driving into you at an angle that hits everything, including the spot that's making the pressure in your abdomen unbearable. "Y'feel too fuckin' good like this, hen. All tight an' squirmy—fuck—ye're squeezin' me so hard."
"Because I have to pee, you absolute—"
"Then pee." He says it like it's simple while his hand presses down a fraction harder on your belly and his mouth finds your ear, hot and panting. "Go on, baby. Piss on me. Let go. 'S just me."
You whimper, eyes squeezing shut. "I can't!"
"Ye can." Another devastating thrust that makes your vision blur and your thighs shake and the pressure crest to a point where you can't tell the difference between needing to come and needing to piss.
"Let go f'me. Wanna feel it. C'mon."
You break.
It happens simultaneously. The climax and your bladder letting go, and the sound that comes out of you isn't human, it's guttural and sobbing and mortified while you're gushing around his cock, hot and messy, soaking into the sheets and his thighs and everything between.
It's squirts up to your bodies while Johnny keeps pounding into you relentlessly.
"Oh fuck! Oh that's—Christ, tha's gorgeous—" Johnny groans like he's been punched square in the solar plexus, hips stuttering, rhythm gone, and he buries himself deep and cums with a shout, his fingers digging bruises into your hips while the light-golden mess pools warm beneath both of you.
He collapses on top, panting, and presses a grinning kiss to your jaw while his hips keep thrusting shallowly.
"See? Told ye it was alright."
"I hate you. You're cleaning up this time!"
Johnny cackles, licks a drop off your chin. "Aye aye. Ye're welcome."
I managed to move my ass to the gym today and I had thoughts the whole time 😵💫 Also, I'm exhausted now.
— cw: 18+; curvy!fem!reader; body dysmorphia; weight loss mentioned; rough sex; emotional hurt/comfort
You're fine until you walk past the wall of mirrors. That's how it always goes.
You're laughing at something Simon said, towelling off sweat, riding the post-workout high that makes you feel capable and strong and like the body you're living in is yours, and then you catch your reflection at the wrong angle and the whole thing collapses like a controlled demolition.
Your smile drops, your hand drifts to your hip, fingers pressing into the softness that's still there despite the months of hard work and calorie counting, and your eyes do that thing Simon knows too well. The bloody cataloguing, measuring, finding every part that doesn't match the version in your head.
He's familiar with that look; wears it himself sometimes after a cold shower at three a.m. when the bathroom mirror catches him without the mask and the scars are just ugly scars and not armour.
But he doesn't say anything at the gym, because he knows you'd deflect and rather start an argument than admit to your feelings. So, he drives you home in silence and lets you sit with it, because pushing too early makes you retreat further, and he's learned your patterns the way he has learned everything about you since you became his person, and therefore his to protect. Even from yourself.
He waits until you're in the bedroom, still in your gym clothes and avoiding the wardrobe mirror, and then he's behind you.
"Look."
Your brows furrow in confusion before you understand, sighing. "Simon, don't. Not now."
But he turns you anyway, manhandles you in front of the mirror and pins you there with his mass; one hand flat on your stomach, the part you hate most, and holds it.
"Look at ya," he murmurs against your ear, giving you a nudge when you don't. "Fuckin' look."
Then he's stripping your leggings off with his free hand, ever efficiently and impatient, and he's already hard; has been since the gym when he watched you deadlift with your jaw set in quiet determination and your thick thighs shaking.
And he grabs his fat, flushed cock at the base while bending you forward enough to drag his ruddy tip through your pretty pussy and inside of you right there; both of you still damp with sweat, skin tacky and warm, and the sound you make is raw and startled while your nails dig into his forearms.
"You were fuckin' perfect before," he grinds out between deep, sharp thrusts, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror, pale mammoth hand still pressed against your belly, holding you against him. "Perfect now. Only difference is—" a harder thrust that knocks the air out of you, "it's easier for me to throw y'round."
"Nghh, Simon—!"
"Get outta yer fuckin' head." His other hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up so you can't look away from the reflection of him, towering behind you, his scarred hand against your supple skin, his hips snapping into you with a rhythm that makes your plump ass ripple against his hips. "Stay here. With me. Look."
You look and you see his hand on your stomach, not avoiding but holding it. You see his bare face over your shoulder, wrecked, staring at your body like it's the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"There we go," he mutters when your eyes finally stay on the mirror. "There's my pretty bird."
You come on his cock watching yourself fall apart in his arms, and he follows with his teeth in the muscle of your shoulder and your name bitten into your skin, and afterwards he keeps you there, keeps his rough hand on your soft belly in front of the mirror until your breathing slows and the glass shows two very sweaty, fucked out people holding each other up.
"Better?" he grumbles.
You nod, exhaling shakily. "Y-Yeah."
"Good. Now shower. You smell terrible."
You gasp, your face twists into a fond frown before you smack his arm and feel his spent cock twitch inside you.
"You're such a prick sometimes."
Simon snorts, inhales your musk behind right your ear while you squeak with a long groan. "Aye. Welcome."
