So glad you're here!! ^_^ I am Cali, a fanfic writer (35, she/her, pansexual) who creates stories in the COD fandom and most of them are full of smut.
This entire blog is MDNI! No exceptions.
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Masterlists
All Works
Cali's Fic Collections
Cali's Collections
Cali's Price Fics
Cali's Soap Fics
Cali's Gaz Fics
Cali's Ghost Fics
Cali's Konig Fics
Cali's Long Fics - multi chapter; 10k+ words
Cali's Dark Fics - graphic violence; non-con; or character death
Cali's Gangbang Fics - TF141 gangbangs/group sex dynamics
Asks, reblogs, comments, and kudos are always welcome and appreciated, but I do not consent to any reposting, translations, or cross-platform re-uploading of any work (written or otherwise) that I produce, especially AI programs of any kind.
Been working on this masterlist for more than a year and would love to share these masterpieces with you all. NONE of the following fics are written by me, this is just my collection of some the most noteworthy fics I’ve read over the years that are forever on my mind and in my heart
Each author is credited and I recommend you check them out and give them a follow if you enjoy their work as well! Fics will continue to get added regularly, and link to this masterlist will be at the bottom of my own masterlist- M 🫶🏻
Tags/Warnings
☁️ Fluff
🌙 Mature / suggestive
🌕 Adults only / smut (18+ MDNI)
⭐️ Personal favourites
Up ahead: Call of Duty, The Last of Us, Star Wars, Narcos, The Pitt, Animal Kingdom, Superman
Call of Duty
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley
‘Indigo’ by @slater-baby ☁️ 🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “Ghost didn't like to dwell on the past. Whatever happened, happened. He left Manchester, covered his face, took a new name. To him, it was little more than moving on from the past, from all the blood and gore of his family life. But then on some bleary, Tuesday morning, you somehow stand before him: his ex from before he was Ghost.”
‘I Feel It In My Bones’ by De_caffeinated on ao3 ☁️ 🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “Bones is a quiet combat medic with a troubled past and enough knowledge to fill a library. As whispers of a new bioweapon begin to spread across Europe, she is assigned to Task Force 141. Still haunted from her previous deployment, she thinks she can only count on witnessing new horrors, spilled blood, and the sound of dogtags clinking against the ground. What she isn't expecting is finding a team to count on, or the way her heart quickens in the presence of a certain skull-faced man.”
‘Ghosts & Mirages’ by @stararch4ngelqueen ☁️ 🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “After a dangerous encounter leading towards your own capture and torture, you; Codename "Mirage", went from one of the best snipers on the task force with a bubbly sense of humor and strong wit, to a stone-cold demeanor woman who let her vendetta get the better of her, almost costing her the lives of her teammates. Ghost wasn't too happy about this, and based off experience, he refuses to let your mind head down that path any further.”
‘Mail Order Bride’ by @beebymoonlight ☁️🌙🌕
‘Squeeze Me, I Squeak’ by Charlie_M on ao3 ☁️ 🌙 🌕 “While your interactions with Lieutenant Riley started out cold and tense, he's been warming up to your secondary specialty. Apparently, you make for a great stress-toy.”
‘Heartless’ by @thevampiremarie ☁️ 🌙 🌕 “You need health insurance. Ghost is sick of sharing living quarters with the rest of the 141. Soap, your childhood friend, thinks the two of you can fix each other’s problems.”
‘Give you the gun (blow me away)’ by endymions on ao3 🌙 🌕 “In the back streets of Prague, you watch through the scope of your rifle as your target—one of Makarov’s inner circle men, the man you’ve been tailing for two and a half weeks—gets his throat viciously slit from behind.”
‘In The Walls’ by @theorist-fox ☁️ 🌙 🌕 “Simon fucks his Sergeant until he’s not sure whether it’s sex or love.”
‘In Limbo’ by @ilium-ilia 🌙🌕 “Joining the mafia is no different than selling a soul to the devil, and it’s something Simon Riley is all too willing to do if it means keeping his family safe. It isn’t until he meets you- the girl who runs from everything- that he realizes there are much worse things to get caught up in.”
‘You’re Drunk’ by @howyoulovelikeweaponskill 🌙🌕“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
‘Through Me (The Flood)’ by @peachesofteal ☁️🌙🌕
‘Splinter’ by @bitterrfruit 🌙🌕 “Your car breaks down in a snowstorm. A crude stranger takes you in from the cold.”
‘Houndtooth’ by @bitterrfruit 🌙🌕 “You're the pampered wife of a russian warlord. Ghost hunts you down and finds a use for you.”
Captain John Price
‘Squeak ‘Em If You Got ‘Em’ by Charlie_M on Ao3 ☁️ 🌙 “You belong to Task Force 141. Task Force 141 belongs to Captain Price. It's simple math - but math was never your strong suit.”
‘Landscape with honey’ by @ceilidho ☁️🌙🌕“You've been living in this town for almost six months; it's only now that John's picked up on your scent.”
‘Ursa Major’ by @the-californicationist ☁️ 🌙 🌕 “Lumberjack John Price, retired British Army captain, owns and operates 5,000 acres of selective harvesting land for his logging company. Unfortunately, you work for an environmental firm as a consultant, and it’s your job to tell him he has to stop logging at once since his harvest is encroaching on rare bear habitats. But, something’s not quite right about the bears, or about these lumberjacks, and you’re determined to get to the bottom of it.”
‘I Wonder How Many Days I’ll Bleed’ by thethingsthatimake on Ao3 “Captain John Price is forced to lay low, so Laswell sends him to a secluded home in Alaska - inhabited by you.”
TF141
‘Cherry Red, Crimson Blood’ by @soaps-mohawk ☁️ 🌙 🌕 “Task Force 141 operates successfully without an omega, at least that’s what Price has been saying since its formation. Two alphas and two betas balance the pack just fine, and they have the numbers to prove it. It works for a while, until the Omega Initiative is born and the 141 find themselves having to adjust to the sudden addition of an omega to their pack. Fresh out of an institute, you’re hardly fit for their secretive, dangerous world, or so Price thinks. As each member of the team gets closer to you, things begin to come to light, not only about you but about the decision to force you into their lives. Maybe, just maybe, Price was wrong and the 141 does need an omega after all.”
König
‘Trapper, Keeper’ by @tinypandacakes ☁️🌙 🌕 “A dark, hooded figure emerged from the dense snowstorm, growing far too tall as it approached. You shuffled back weakly in the bloodstained snow and winced as you jostled the trap clamped on your boot “What is this?” the man’s voice rumbled, muffled behind his mask. “You are…not what I expected to catch today.”
‘Obession’ by c4rp3_n0ctem on Ao3 “From the first second he saw you, König was completely and utterly obsessed with you. So when you ran into him late at night, tears streaming down your face, the universe served you to him on a silver platter. "Come in, we can sit down in my room and get you cleaned up, and then you can tell me what happened, ja?" he said quietly, a smirk hidden beneath his mask as he guided you into his room.”
‘Sworn Sword’ by @vivwritescrappythings “You go to a tourney, a knight you’ve never seen before wants your favor”
The Last Of Us
Joel Miller
‘A Stranger’s Heart Without A Home’ by @morning-star-joy ☁️🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “After leaving the Fireflies, you ended up in the settlement of Jackson with Tommy, unwilling to part with the only friend you had left. You were even able to carve somewhat of a life out for yourself after a few years. Until Tommy's older brother shows up. You think Joel Miller is gruff and rude, and you're pretty sure he doesn't have a fond opinion of you either. That doesn't stop the attraction you feel for each other, but he's gone in a day. You settle back into a routine, thinking you'll never see him again. Then Joel returns a few months later, and screws up everything about the comfortable life you had established in Jackson.”
‘Short Days, Long Nights’ by @frannyzooey ☁️🌙 🌕 “Part of a band of travelers, your party is slowly picked off one by one, until there are only two of you left. Finding an abandoned cabin in the woods, you decide to make camp there until you figure out your next move. As the seasons change, the nights get longer and longer…”
‘Fear of God’ by @netherfieldren ☁️🌙 🌕 “Big bad Joel Miller falls in love and doesn't know how to deal with it.”
‘So Much To Lose’ ☁️🌙 🌕 by @auteurdelabre “Newly settled into Jackson City, you’re assigned to patrol duty with Joel Miller; a man of rough edges and cool appraisals. His story is buried deep beneath scars of loss while you hide your own grief behind flour-dusted hands and the desperate hope of belonging. What begins as forced proximity slowly shifts into something fragile and all-consuming. But as the past creeps forward through old wounds and the ever-present threat of raiders, your feelings for one another become both a sanctuary and a liability. In a world already broken, where there is already so much to lose, can you let yourself love Joel Miller?”
‘One Thing I’m Missing’ by @pedropeach ☁️ 🌕 “You don't, under absolutely any circumstances, talk about it. Or… You and Joel accidentally end up falling asleep together, and what follows is the beginning of a quiet and tender relationship neither of you saw coming.”
‘Texas Sun’ ☁️🌙 🌕 by fromtheclouds on Ao3 “Joel doesn’t know how to describe what you were to him. You’d never made any promises to each other, but you loved his daughter like she was your own. Had he known what would happen, he wouldn't have let you go.”
‘Lavender’ ☁️🌙 🌕 by @justagalwhowrites “You're a college student in Austin, Texas, who gets a summer job nannying Sarah Miller. It's not long before her dad sees you as more than a babysitter - or more than a friend. But life - and an apocalypse - have other plans.”
‘Yearling’ ☁️🌙 🌕 by @justagalwhowrites “After years of surviving in the wilds of Wyoming after the cordyceps outbreak, you find yourself in Jackson. It's a town filled with friendly faces and the kind of world you hardly remember, let alone can connect with or understand. But one man - Joel Miller, another loner, like you - makes you think that trying to find your place in society again might be worth it.”
Narcos
Javier Peña
‘Siempre’ by @kiwisbell ☁️🌙🌕 “She’s a waitress in a little café. He’s a DEA agent who likes the coffee. Just the coffee. That’s all.”
‘It’s Never Too Late’ by @javierpena-inatacvest ☁️🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “You are an elementary school teacher who just moved to Texas for a fresh start when you meet a very handsome man from the Laredo Sheriff's Department coming to give your class a presentation. After your co-workers pull some strings for you to meet again, you and Javier Peña find yourselves falling head over heels for each other.”
‘The Third Wheel’ by songsformonkeys on ao3 ☁️🌙🌕"You had often wondered how you ended up here, the third wheel in the well-oiled, grumpy and semi-alcoholic DEA duo consisting of Steve Murphy and Javier Peña... Actually, that was a lie. You hadn't wondered at all. You knew exactly how you'd ended up here. The two male agents had never been particularly good with following orders, which had been a thorn in ambassador Noonan's side since day one. And as everyone who knew the old saying “if you can't beat 'em, join 'em” could tell you, you were the intended solution to that particular problem. And boy had you let everyone down.
‘Hermosa’ by keala on ao3 🌙🌕 “You shouldn't have gotten so drunk at that Christmas party. You shouldn't have worn that tight, little dress. You shouldn't have offered to take a certain drunk DEA agent home. You also shouldn't have answered that phone.”
Star Wars
Din Djarin
‘Rough Day’ by guardianangelcas on ao3 ☁️🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “Who knew that agreeing to babysit a bounty hunter’s weird, green little child would be so full of surprises.”
‘Beskar Doll’ by @justagalwhowrites ☁️🌙 🌕 “You have a knack for finding trouble, be it in the midst of Galactic Civil War or when trying to live the quiet life after getting out of the game. So when you're stuck fleeing your new home planet after pissing off the wrong people - again - there's only one person willing to take you: the Mandalorian. But after years of fighting faceless men, you're not the trusting type toward someone always wearing a helmet and the Mandalorian quickly suspects there's more to you than he knows.”
‘What Kind of Man’ by so_much_for_stardust on ao3 ☁️🌙 🌕 ⭐️ “The first time she caught sight of that silver armor, she just knew that the man would be trouble. She's just a girl who works in a bar, and he's just a guy who needs a job. They weren't looking for anything. It's funny how the galaxy sometimes gives you something you didn't know you needed at the time when you most needed it. They both just needed to scratch an itch. They weren't going to get into a relationship... they weren't...”
‘Something More’ by @amiedala ☁️🌙 🌕 “Meeting the Mandalorian was like colliding into the rest of your life at a moment’s notice.”
‘Elusive Quarry’ by @ninaloveshiddles ☁️🌙 🌕 “‘And what makes her so elusive?’ his tone bored, pushing Karga to get to the point. ‘I guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself, won’t you?’ Mando takes a job hunting down the reader, but bringing her in may be more of a challenge than he realized.”
‘The Space Between (your heart & mine)’☁️🌙 🌕 by dirty_holy_things on ao3 “The galaxy had dealt you a rough hand of sabacc in this life. A family who couldn’t comprehend or understand your connection to the Force; a wolf in sheep’s clothing, who used and abused you for your talents; and you had come to understand that the galaxy cared very little for its inhabitants. But an unexpected visit from a Mandalorian offered you the chance to leave it all behind, to reclaim your place as the author of your story.”
‘The Stowaway’ by ThroneoftheThorn on ao3 ☁️🌙 🌕 “You hadn't planned on fleeing for your life, jumping planet, and stowing away on a random vessel. Nor had you planned on being employed by a Mandalorian wanted by the empire for kidnapping a random baby, having an imperial bounty on your head, and tagging along on dangerous bounty hunter missions. Least of all, you REALLY hadn't planned on somehow integrating yourself into the tiny clan of two you found yourself in. The force moves in mysterious ways, you suppose.”
Poe Dameron
‘The Bet’ by guardianangelcas on ao3 ☁️🌙 🌕 “1. No sex. 2. No touching yourself. 3. No orgasms.”
Kylo Ren/Ben Solo
‘Velvet Nights’ by orphan_account on ao3 🌙🌕 “In which you and the Commander Kylo Ren navigate through shared unspoken tensions while recovering information from the wreckage of a First Order TIE fighter.”
’Reconditioned’ by Lionhearted_DragonEmpress on ao3 (deleted fic but it was 500k of the best writing that is forever ingrained in my mind and always deserves to be mentioned)
Superman
Clark Kent
’The Gravity Between Us’ by th3honored1 on ao3 ☁️🌙🌕⭐️ “You grew up beside Clark Kent, the quiet boy with kind, blue eyes and a secret heartbeat. From scraped knees to stolen glances, Smallville held your shared history— but time has a way of turning best friends into strangers. Now you’re a nurse in Metropolis, and he’s the city’s beacon of hope. Maybe you were meant to fall apart. Maybe you'll find your way back.”
‘Take Me Back to Smallville’ by fitbby14 on ao3 ☁️🌙🌕 “You've returned to your hometown of Smallville, here to finally get your life on track and figure out where it is you belong. But your childhood friend, Clark Kent is back too and that...complicates things.”
The Pitt
Dr. Jack Abbot
‘Diagnosis : Married?’ by @s-writing-s ☁️🌙⭐️ “One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career- but can your heart survive the side effects?”
‘Transatlantacism’ by @se7entyrell ☁️🌙 “Jack Abbot has had a terrible eighteen months. Truly one for the books. Losing his mother, and then you, sometimes he wonders what the point is. If things will ever look up. Until you turn up at the Pitt, with a little girl who looks exactly like him.”
Dr. Michael Robinavitch
‘All For Something’ by @theetherealbloom ☁️🌙 “It’s your birthday, but the Pitt doesn’t slow down for that. Between subway accidents, drownings, shootings, and the quiet heartbreak of patients who come back again and again, you do your best to keep your hands steady and your head clear. Somewhere in the blur of alarms and blood, you realize you’re holding onto something you shouldn’t- feelings for your quietly grieving chief attending. At the Pitt, you don’t just learn how to save lives. You learn how hard it is to ignore your own heart.”
‘My Heart Is On The Floor For You’ by @domesticblisss ☁️🌙 “She never thought she would beat Robby’s seven week itch, but almost a year later, she finds herself in a label-less relationship with him. They are happy, but several little things pile up, and when the arrival of her ex, John Carter, gets added to the mix, the recipe for chaos is served.”
Dr. Brendon Park
‘Vegas Baby’ by @lpmurphy ☁️🌙“A week-long medical conference in Vegas was exactly what you needed- a break from the Pennsylvania winter, a chance to network ass your fellowship wound down, maybe even an excuse to have a little fun. What you absolutely didn’t need was to spend that entire week with Brendon fucking Park; your arrogant, insufferable, asshole of a boss- much less in the same hotel room.”
Animal Kingdom
Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody
‘Redamancy’ by @softundermoonlight ☁️🌙🌕⭐️ “Andrew has survived his whole life by wanting nothing. Until Craig introduces one of his friends, and suddenly, Andrew wants everything and more.”
‘Three Years’ by @fru1t4fr0gs ☁️🌙🌕 “You and Pope have loved each other since you were teenagers. And then he went to prison, and cut you off. No apology, no explanation, nothing. Just a sledgehammer to your heart and utter radio silence.”
‘Before We Knew Better’ by @longlostx11 ☁️🌙🌕 “When Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody was taken into care Smurf pulled some strings and got him put in a place close to Oceanside. That place was with you and your parents. Something Smurf would later regret when she realized that the bond you and Andrew forged in the month he was there was never going away. The years went by and the older boy became your best friend. Your protector. Your person. Fast forward and when Andrew gets out of prison he finds out Smurf’s hatred for you has gone to a whole other level.”
‘Pope’s Girl’ by @evancelinewrites ☁️🌙🌕 “What starts as a mutually beneficial arrangement between you and Pope Cody slowly becomes something far more complicated once the lines between lust, comfort and attachment begin to blur. But the deeper you get pulled into the Cody family, the more you realize people like Pope were never really meant to belong to themselves.”
‘Love You Anyway’ by @rynwrites4fun ☁️🌙 “You’re best friends with Deran Cody, a surfer with big dreams. When he brings you to a party, you meet his brothers but don’t know about their criminal lifestyle. Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody soon realizes you don’t belong in their dangerous world.”
Art by Auberghyn
Foreword
Chapter 1: The Princess
Chapter 2: The Seeding
Chapter 3: The Assassin
Chapter 4: The Keeper
Chapter 5: The Prophecy
Chapter 6: The Trial
Chapter 7: The Suitor
Chapter 8: The Ritual
By the way, if you were wondering, Celestia is now fully posted. Plus-sized reader x Johnny sci-fi fic by one of the best CoD writers in the biz! Come taste some of this delicious mutual pining with a bossbitch reader who does NOT eff around when it comes to her Johnny.
TMI but while I truly, really, wholeheartedly hope you have a wank to my smutty fics, what I hope for even more is that people who struggle with low libido because of meds manage to get horny from them
I’m off duloxetine now, but I distinctly remember the fics that managed to get me going when I hadn’t felt anything even remotely close in ages.
God bless smut writers for making me feel some sort of control over my body again
I predict that Johnny didn’t wanna leave the hospital cause 1)he was scared 2)he was worried that would mean he couldn’t see reader anymore and once he realizes that he ended her last visit early he’s gonna have the 141 help look for her so he can apologize and get her number.
This is all a prediction and imma laugh/cry if I’m right
Just posted! You are 66% right, lol :) Thanks for reading, babe!
Notes: Another old bit. Been sitting in the drafts forever and I'm releasing it into the wild. Heavily inspired by @sentientcave's exploration of Price and his ex-wife and brought to the fore again because @anneofgreengabagool keeps reminding me of how much i love hating these men.
---
You've been up for almost 36 hours now, between living your own life, the call, and traveling back to England to sit at Kyle's bedside. The doctors say he's going to make a full recovery. All of the pieces of metal are accounted for, his lung is patched up. They hadn't told you over the phone quite what had happened, but now you've pieced together that a combination of bullets, an explosion, and a partially collapsed building chewed Kyle up and spit him out.
He wakes up slowly. His eyes are a bloodshot but clear as they flutter open. He groans, and you know his throat hurts; he was intubated until just a couple of hours ago. When you open the straw for his little glass of water, he turns to see you with a wince that turns into a tired grin.
"Hey," he rasps.
You press the straw between his lips. "Don't talk. Slow sips. When you're done with this, I'll get your captain."
He obediently, painstakingly, drinks. A third of the way done, he says, "Thank you for coming."
You clench your jaw and resist the urge to dump the rest of the water over his head. "Update your emergency contact." When he opens his mouth so say something else, you jab the straw into the top of his mouth, gentler than you would like. He winces, but starts drinking again. "Don't, Kyle."
The door opens, and in walks Captain John fucking Price, right on time. His beard fluffs up around his smile when he sees Kyle awake.
"Broken, Gaz?"
"You tell me, Cap," Kyle wheezes.
"Well, the building fell, and apparently you tried to catch it." He comes to a stop on the other side of the bed from you. He crosses his arms, you assume to keep from touching and also to be a little intimidating to you.
Now that Kyle is smiling up at him, you put the cup of water down and take a step back. "I'll let the nurses know he's awake."
"You don't have to go." Kyle's puppy dog eyes are both hindered and strengthened by the bruising around his right eye.
You turn your back to pick up your purse and book from the recliner in the corner. "I'm also going to grab something to eat."
"Grab me a sandwich, love."
If looks could kill, Price would be dead three times over. "Eat shit and die."
---
When you make your way back to the room, you find Lieutenant Riley and a man you vaguely recognize as another sergeant waiting for the elevator. You almost don’t clock him. The hood of Simon’s jacket is down, leaving his hair looking ruffled. His plain black surgical mask doesn’t stand out. And then he turns to you enough that you can see the scars on the other side of his face, his eyebrows popping up.
“You look exhausted,” he says as a greeting. His companion - the slightly overgrown mohawk is so familiar but you cannot remember his name - looks between the two of you curiously.
“I’m creeping up on forty hours without sleep,” you answer, taking a sip of your coffee and staring at the elevator door instead of looking at him.
“Look good, then,” is all he says.
“John MacTavish,” the other one introduces himself, extending a hand.
“Uh huh.” You give him a quick glance up and down as the elevator arrives. John “Soap” MacTavish. You’re not surprised he doesn’t remember meeting you once, a couple of years ago. He looks a bit startled when you step into the elevator instead of taking his hand, but follows Simon’s lead and doesn’t comment further.
You let them enter Kyle’s room while you linger in the hall, scrolling through your phone. There’s a seating area just a little further down the hall, that you’re seriously considering, but then the door opens and Soap pokes his head out.
“Kyle’s askin’ fer ye,” he says.
You step inside, and put your back to the wall on next to the door. They’ve obviously left the recliner open for you, but they’ve also rolled it closer to Kyle’s bedside, so you stay where you are. Price is right where you left him, standing over Kyle like a sentry. Ghost is across from the foot of Kyle’s bed, while Soap takes a seat on the window sill.
They’re all looking at you. You want to ask if they’re waiting for you to do a trick, but you’re trying not to start fights you’re too tired to finish. “You need me to call the nurse?”
“Just wondered where you were,” Kyle says. He sounds better, but that’s not saying much. “Simon said you rode up the elevator with them.”
Traitor. “I was just in the hall. Don’t need to overcrowd you.”
“You could never, lovie.”
“Don’t.” You were willing to be gentle earlier, but lovie is several steps too far. You look at Price. “Are we divvying up shifts, then?”
One of his eyebrows arches. “You need a break?”
From anyone else, that wouldn’t be an accusation. But Price is a master of pointed questions. Too bad for him, you stopped caring about his opinion of you about a year and a half ago. “Considering I’m the one listed for overnights and emergency decisions, I should probably sleep more than a couple of hours every three days.”
“We can get you a hotel,” Kyle rasps.
“I’m set,” you answer, without looking at him. You arch an eyebrow at Price. “Visiting hours end at six. I can be back at five.”
“We’re approved until eight.”
“Then I’ll be back at seven.”
“’Ll walk you out,” Simon says. “Left somethin’ in the car.”
“No you didn’t,” you correct. “Don’t lie for my benefit, Simon, I don’t appreciate it. If you’re walking with me, I can’t stop you.”
“Sorry,” he says, standing and putting his hands in his pockets. “Force of ‘abit.”
You don’t tell him he’s full of shit, because you’re not going to be drawn into a fight that Price can take advantage of. You step forward to pick up the larger bag off of the recliner and push the rolling table close enough that Kyle can reach the water on his own. “Stay hydrated. I’m telling the nursing staff to make sure you stay on top of your pain meds.”
He looks a bit cowed and a lot sad. But he only says, “Okay.”
It tugs at your heart, just a bit. You’d feel worse if you didn’t know those sad eyes were step one of his emotional warfare campaign. You exit the room with Simon on your heels.
He doesn’t say anything until you’re in the lobby, calling a car. “C’n drive you.”
“No.”
“A’righ’,” he says. “Don’t be too harsh on ‘im, eh? ‘E almost died.”
“You know the last time he talked to me? Six months ago.” You counter. “He called me, drunk. Asked for another chance. No apologies. No therapy. Just ‘please take me back, I know you still love me.’”
“You do,” Simon points out. “Or you wouldn’t be ‘ere.”
“And that’s what’s so fucking tragic,” you tell him, finally looking up into his eyes. Simon’s always been your favorite of Kyle’s coworkers, because he’s always been honest and respected your honesty back. “He keeps reeling me back in because I love him. But the whole time he’s insisting he wants us to work, he doesn’t say he loves me, once.”
“’E does.”
“It’s never going to be enough,” you sigh. Your phone buzzes to tell you the car is arriving soon. “Loving me is never going to be his priority. He demands that I make even more concessions, goes silent for months, and then calls me in to make medical decisions. After I've told him repeatedly to pick someone else, anyone else, for this.”
Chapter 5 of 'Feral Yield'
Part of The 'Eyes of Lilith' collaboration
Nikto x Afab!Reader || 2.2k
CW: This chapter contains depictions of coercive power dynamics, developing obsessive attachment between characters, sexual tension, intense observation, groping, voyeurism, male masturbation, smoking, forced proximity, hand-job, ejaculation, instructions, dom/sub vibes, mutual attraction, teasing.
At first, it's easy: noting the size, his breathing, the arrhythmic jerk of his cock in his own hand, as if this were a mere specimen display in the greenhouse or a time-lapse of root growth. But the protocol demands detail, and you give it, jabbing your observations into the margins with a mechanical thoroughness: length at rest, incremental hardness, the exact rhythm of his bones beneath tendons and skin.
But then something in you edges sideways and you find yourself watching not just the mechanics of this animal act, but the mood.
Nikto is not slick or desperate or theatrical about it, no. There is a laziness to how he strokes himself, one-handed while the other routinely pulls the cigarette to those chapped lips of his. He moves like a scribe or a craftsman, like the work is deliberate, the tempo regulated by need alone. And he watches you just as steadily as you watch him, and the eye contact is a challenge, or a dare, or maybe just a record of mutual complicity. You are allowed to look, and he is allowed to show, and the permission is a currency that neither of you can afford to waste.
But then you realize with a kind of horror - yes, horror - that it is not sterile at all. He turns the act into something protracted, patient, even respectful. At first, you jot a note about his focus, then realize he is not the only one hyper-attuned to the experiment. Your own pulse skips and you feel the flush up your neck, visible, you're sure. He tracks every minute change in your posture, the way your legs cross and uncross, the way your hands drift to your collar or up the line of your jaw and you catch yourself blinking too slowly, holding your breath too obviously, and you hate that you are letting the mask slip. You write down: 'Subject maintains deep eye contact throughout process. No visible signs of shame or discomfort. Possible exhibitionistic streak, or perhaps only transactional.' But then in the next line, your handwriting falters and you strike the pen so hard that the tip tugs the paper and rips it.
This does nothing to deter him.
He works himself in lazy, tireless pulls, not fast enough to finish, not slow enough to stall, and the head deepens in color then wanes, the shaft twitches under his thumb when he tells you to look closer, and you do, you do. "You wanted to see?" You feel the wild, humiliating urge to adjust your own posture, knees pressing together, blood everywhere at the surface as if you have been summoned for the humiliation rather than the observation. And for a full minute, neither of you say anything, and the air in the sanctum grows heavy, the plant trays sweating their oxygen into the heat, two animals locked in their tableau. The science of it is gone, the wet sound of his fist, the small grunts, the flat stare - these things are no longer data, but offerings.
You reach for the clipboard again and he shakes his head. "No more notes. Watch only." His voice is so certain, so at odds with the rough spectacle of his exposed body that you almost laugh in pure shock of it all. You are humiliated, yes, but more than that: you are split open, waiting, every cell alive with the thrilling terror of being observed in your own right. It is a study - no, an autopsy - of your composure. Yet you're not even sure who is performing it now.
He tips his chin, and the invitation is clear and unmistakable. You should break the tableau, regain the upper hand, reduce this to data again, but your body has already declared mutiny.
You don't reach for the pen. You don't look away.
Nikto's cigarette burns down between his fingers, ash collecting, unbroken, and all the while his hand keeps its rhythm, never ceasing the glide of fist along the thick length of him now slick (with what you can only assume to be pre or spit) and purposeful. He leans back so that his hips thrust forward on the edge of the chair, opening himself with something akin pride, and you realize you are standing as if summoned, not even sure when you'd pushed off from the table. And he likes that you're staring. He likes that you have abandoned the paper shield of your clipboard and the knowledge strikes you as violently as you'd expected it to.
"Idi syuda," he says, "Come here." It's the first overt order you have heard from him. His voice is fractured, sharp-edged and fragile, but it lands in you like a spike. You don't move, but you do not deny him either, and so he says it again, this time softer as if to a child or a pet: "Come here, Warden." The sound of your own title in his mouth makes something pool between your legs, thick and honey-dark.
You swallow back and walk to him, slow and defiant as if hoping to savor and kill the moment at once. But he captures your wrist in one swift movement, his still-slick hand curling around your forearm with a heat that nearly scorches the delicacy of your skin. He doesn't drag you, but he doesn't let go either. He pulls you forward, just enough so that you are standing between his knees, so close the heat of his skin radiates up your thighs and chest.
You expect a show, a push for dominance, or maybe a calculated retreat, but instead, Nikto fixes you in place with the weight of his stare and with an ease that makes your own breath feel borrowed, he yanks you forward by the wrist - hard enough to nearly pull you to your knees, hard enough to erase the buffer of air between his hunger and your uncertainty.
"Observe," he says, in that same deadpan way as before, mocking your use of the word, but with the tiniest fracture, an edge of need you recognize from the world outside these walls, the Wildes, the memory of hunger stretched so thin it became its own source of power. He forces your fingers closed, not roughly but with the unyielding pressure of a man who has spent his entire life in deficit and now will settle for surplus only, nothing less. And you let him - goddess, you do - because at this point it is the only honest thing left. There are seconds where you just hold, the body heat of him burning into your palm, the texture all wrong and all right, velvet and skin and slick, the insistent throb of circulation making him seem less a specimen and more a living, bleeding animal, which is to say: exactly as you.
Your mind fractures into the two observers: the one who wants to claw her hand back, to reassert the rules and slap him for his audacity, to have him chained again like the beast he is.. And the other one who is shuddering down to the arches of her feet, savoring the forbidden, wet-hot throb of the skin in your palm, the little flexes of flesh like small questions you'll never have the language to answer.
He offers nothing more for a moment, just holds you there in the bright, annihilating focus of his gaze. He's watching you, no longer a predator, but a creature sizing up a new terrain. You hear the ragged intake of his breath as you tighten your grip around him and a low, involuntary growl escapes him and you wonder if he's ever been handled this way, if any of the other Seedwardens had ever breached the membrane of their own professional armor. Or if you were the first to allow, to want.
"Observation is…for both," Nikto mutters, his voice clotted with smoke and you nod, or at least try, but the world narrows to the pulse you feel under your fingers and the sweat beading at the base of his throat. Everywhere else feels too heavy to observe. He then shifts, widening his legs and drawing you closer, so the heat between you collapses into something singular. His cock is flushed and veined and leaking at the tip, and you work it in your fist as if coaxing a specimen from a seed pod.
"Like this?" you ask, the words softer and less clinical than you had meant them to be, and he nods once, a wild animal’s nod, and his grip softens on your forearm, allowing you the illusion of control. "Faster," he says, the order clipped and absolute.
You obey.
He goes rigid under your touch, every muscle in his thighs and stomach rendered in high relief, so much so that you want to reach with your other hand and map the terrain of him, trace the conflict and violence knitted beneath the skin and claim it was simply part of observation. But instead you work him, and with each stroke you feel your own composure eroding in molecular increments, undermined by the slick velocity of his cock and the way his eyes, always, always on you, begin to squint with need.
You wait for him to lose composure, to snarl, to goad you into a contest of will - but instead, he turns the tables with a cocked half-smile and irreverence. "You want results?" he pants, his voice torn from the place violence is born. "You are close now." He laughs, smoke-laced and beautiful. "Fucking good at your job, Warden." The word is spat with the kind of admiration that cuts, that wounds. He's so smug about it, too Not greedy. Just certain, a bruised wolf with a kill in his jaw. "You could do this all day, da?" His lips curl at the edge, the scar there making the smile doubly obscene. "Guess you pass your test, too."
You should hate him for it, the way he weaponizes your title, how it sounds like a pet name and a curse at once. But what you feel is not anger but the raw, collapsing gravity of need - need to crush him, to tame him, to invent a method of domination that the High Mother herself could not have anticipated. So instead of speeding your hand, you change tactics. You measure out the distance between pleasure and discipline and claim it as your own: slowing the pace to a crawl, squeezing at the base until he hisses, denying him every wave of pleasure until you can see the muscles in his neck go rigid with the effort to not beg.
"This is the test," you say, your voice so dispassionate it almost hums. "Stamina, endurance. You want to impress the council, you can start by showing control." Your hand is a vise, remorseless, keeping him just shy of the edge. The thick shaft is impossible in your grip, pulsing with every heartbeat, slicked with a kind of purity that makes your mouth water and your legs tremble. You hold him in the liminal space, not letting him seize or soften, just letting him hang like a trapped animal, all threat and no release.
He shudders and you want to see what happens if you let him break, so you squeeze tighter, twist your wrist, and watch as he bares his teeth and looks away, refusing your gaze for the first time as if the intimacy were a knife at his throat. When you finally relent and stroke him with purpose, he groans, and so you stop again, pull your hand away, and stand back, your arms folded as if this were a puzzle you expect him to solve alone.
"Show me again," you say, "from the beginning." Your voice is slicked with the honey of command, and it's only when you see him obey - see him take himself in hand with perfect, mercenary discipline - you realize that at this moment you are not a scientist at all. You are merely a witness to some wild, ancient trial.
He mutters a string of curses - "Cyka blyad…" hard consonants and Slavic vowels sliding off his tongue with the weight of real injury - and then does exactly as told, the heel of his hand slamming with a new, brutal velocity up the length of him. His eyes are murder, locked on yours, but the flush that breaks across his throat and cheeks is submission. The labored, rhythmic slap of skin on skin is indecent, almost violent, and you have to press your own thighs together to keep from swaying forward, forehead blooming with sweat. You move to the table as if to mark something on the clipboard, but your legs wobble and the word you write, 'compliance,' is barely more than a scribble, your pen splitting the page once again.
He keeps going, his knuckles whitening, and you are overtaken by the urge to direct, to catalog with audible commands. "Slower." And he slows. "Stop." He stops, his breathing ragged. "Again." He obeys, faster this time, his fist sliding so wet and wicked you're certain he must have spat in his hand, except you want so badly for it to be just him, leaking and eager and extraordinarily alive. He groans low in his chest, the animal part finally showing, and you realize with a kind of awe that you've never made anyone this way, never orchestrated the tempo, never been the reason for such naked, abject need.
You hover at the table, taking notes you cannot ever submit: how his nostrils flare when you tell him to pause, how his thighs jump at the command to resume, how 'keep going' makes his eyes close as if in benediction. "Just like that," you mumble, but he hears, and his mouth splits into a bent, mad little smile that makes you ache somewhere old and extravagant inside. He doesn't ask if you want to touch again, doesn't even offer. The power is the show, the proof of life he lets you see, and that is enough for now.
Your knees go soft and you grab the edge of the table to center yourself, pretending you need to record the length and color and reaction time and not the inhuman throb between your own legs.
"Goddess," you whisper, and he laughs a short, delighted bark that turns into a grunt as he arches off the chair and spills over his own belly, the pulse of it as violent and beautiful as anything you've ever grown. And for a moment you are both just breathing, listening to the hum of the AC unit to the slow collapse of tension. Nikto slumps back, his legs wide, cock softening but still flushed, and wipes his hand on the waistband of the shorts, looking at you with the flat challenge of a man who has just won and lost in the same instant.
"Is finished?" he asks, his voice harsh and accompanied by panting. You nod, stunned and slack-jawed, "For now."
You write something useless on the sheet and realize your hands are trembling and the heat between your legs unmistakable. You let your pen fall to the desk and for a moment, you can't remember whether you're a warden or just a witness. You reach for the tin, flick the lid closed, and say, "Not bad for an opener, but I'm afraid they prefer a multi-trial average." Protocol, again, yes - but there is no air of protocol in the way you watch drops of spend cling along the ridge of his navel, or the way your own pulse shudders when Nikto leans back, arms splayed, taking up space meant for you both.
You touch a napkin to the mess as if it were a swab, but he moves fast and closes a hand around your wrist, holding you there, his grip no longer bruising but poised - delicate, even. The briefest squeeze says, thank you for the cigarette, but the longer, quieter pressure is somewhere between gratitude and demand. He's testing you, and you know the game, and your body is already answering for you.
You just hope the way your pulse hammers against his grip, the way your breath catches in your throat, the way heat pools low in your belly - that all of it is worth the dangerous, exquisite results you're hoping for…
cw: afab+f!reader, virginity loss (a/n virginity is a social construct). 4k words.
simon knows you haven't had sex before.
it wasn't a big secret. you'd told him early on in your relationship, when things got a little too heated on the couch and you'd panicked when his hand slid under your shirt and his fingertips grazed your bare stomach.
you'd sat there and twisted the hem of your shirt between your fingers, eyes firmly on the hardwood floor of simon's flat, quietly telling him that it wasn't because you didn't want to, you just hadn't found anyone that you trusted not to make it a… thing. a conquest. an oh look i fucked a virgin story that gets told to mates at the pub. that the older you got the harder it was to find someone who… understood. and the longer you left it? well. the more the anxiety about it built, until the idea of sex became an almost impossible landscape to traverse.
he'd watched the way you fidgeted. listened as you spoke but wouldn't meet his eye.
then shrugged.
"love, i like spendin' time with you. i like kissin' you like we're fuckin' teenagers. not gonna stop seein' you just cause you 'aven't got laid before." he'd paused, considered his words, "ball's in yer court now sweetheart. you want t' fuck? tell me. an' i'll do what i can to make it right for you."
and the ball… stayed in your court. for months. no pressure. no wandering hands where you didn't want them. just dates and kisses and the one time you were ovulating and overwhelmingly horny and asked him to go down on you on the sofa. and even then, with your thighs trembling around his head and your fingers tight in his hair and the taste of you on his tongue he hadn't pushed, just pulled you into his lap after you'd come down and held you like he realised just how overwhelming it was for you to be close to someone in that way.
he was… surprisingly sweet about it all for a man who looked like he might kill someone for breathing wrong in his company.
sweet enough that the idea of having sex with him stopped feeling like something insurmountable and started feeling more like excitement curling through your veins instead of terror.
so you told him. over dinner one evening. all casual.
he'd looked up from his pasta, nodded. "want me to… book a hotel? or a cabin? you wanted to go away for the weekend, anyway." a pause and then, "or is that too much pressure?"
you'd blinked. once. twice. like the idea of making an occasion of it hadn't even crossed your mind. you'd swallowed softly and then nodded. "yeah. that would be… nice actually." but then you'd pulled a face - eyebrows knitted together, lips purses. "…what if i bleed on their sheets?" like the idea of inconveniencing hotel or air b&b staff was more concerning to you than the fact you might bleed at all.
then it was simon's turn to blink. "… i'll bring some blankets. if yer that worried love." he'd offered back - not mocking. just cataloguing all the things he can do to make this less stressful for you. there's a pause, "might not bleed. not everyone does."
you'd stared at him.
he'd shrugged.
"been doin' some… recon. about how to make it easier for you." he'd admitted quietly. "not… done this with someone who ain't before. don't want to… traumatise you or some shite. want you to enjoy it. not suffer though it."
your heart had flared warm in your chest.
you'd smiled softly down into your pasta.
"cabin would be nice."
the drive was quiet, just the low sound of what you teasingly called simon's dad rock coming from the car speakers. his right hand was on the wheel; left resting on your knee whenever he didn't need to change gears, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb on the side of your knee.
"love, i want t' talk before we get there."
you spine stiffens automatically at the words, eyes flaring wide as your head snaps around to look at him.
the corners of his lips twitch.
"not like that love. you don't need t' act like i'm sendin' you to the headteachers office."
you can't help but laugh - a soft little huff of air as your shoulder relax.
"sorry, habit." you murmur back, slumping back into the seat. "so, if i'm not in trouble, what do you want to talk about, si?"
he rolls his eyes. "in trouble? when th' fuck 'ave you ever been in trouble with me love?" he grumbles back, but the crinkles in the corners of his eyes give away that he's nowhere near mad. there's a moment of silence - not heavy, but there - before he continues carefully, "i just want to talk about… expectations. or a lack of 'em really."
you open your mouth to interject. he squeezes your knee to stop you.
"jus' let me talk a minute love." he says softly, glancing across at you for just a split second. "i jus' want to be clear with you. we're goin' away for the weekend. that's all. i know we've said we'd… y'know. but if you don't want to? if you change yer mind? at any time? that's fine love. i just want t' 'ave a nice weekend with you. that's all."
you're quiet for a moment, warmth flaring in your chest. that feeling that's so close to love you can almost reach out and grab it. for a moment you don't know what to say, how to shape a sentence that conveys how much you appreciate that - or how sure you actually are about this weekend. and when you open your mouth? nothing eloquent comes out.
"i bought fancy knickers."
simon's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, but he doesn't take his eyes off the road. he clears his throat slightly, absolutely shoving the image of you in whatever you mean by fancy knickers somewhere deep in the back of his brain so he doesn't drive you both into a ditch.
you bite your lip, suppress a laugh that threatens to bubble out of your throat. "i just mean… i went out and bought special pants for the occasion. i've been uh, looking forward to it. but… thank you. for being so sweet about it."
he glances sidelong at you, eyebrows pinched into a frown "it's not sweet. it's basic consent, love." he says quietly, squeezing your knee again and for a moment you think he's got more serious talk to get out of his system before you get to your destination; but then his mouth twitches in the corners, "but i am lookin' forward to seein' these fancy knickers, in that case."
simon has outdone himself with his choice of weekend getaway destination.
a cabin nestled in the clearing of a forest. log burner. claw foot bathtub on the deck.
no neighbours for miles; unless you count the owls currently hooting from the trees.
it's perfect.
he presses a kiss to the side of your head, "go unpack. i'll put th' kettle on."
forty minutes later you're curled into simon's side on the back deck, mug clutched in both hands, both just staring at the night sky with quiet awe; the stars visible here in a way they aren't back home.
your new fancy knickers and matching bra have already been slipped on under your sweatpants and hoodie. simon looks down at you, at how soft and open your face looks; the way your jaw hangs slightly loose with amazement as you look up at the sky. his chest flares warm, unable to stop the way his entire expression softens.
"i've been under a lot of nice skies, all over the world." he says quietly. "but this one might be my favourite."
he doesn't need to say it's because you're there. you can tell from the way his arm tightens around your shoulders, the way he leans his weight into you slightly.
you melt inside. like butter left on the counter on a hot day. that same warm feeling from the car flaring in your chest as you tilt your face to his.
then you're kissing him. mug discarded on the deck. half crawled into his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist to steady you.
for the first time in the months you've been together you're not holding anything back. you're not trying to leash yourself to stop this going further than you're ready for. you're all in.
simon can feel the difference. the way you're letting the energy you usually keep simmering under your skin out into the air around you; the way you kiss him deeper, let your hands wander over his chest and biceps.
he's instantly, painfully hard in his sweatpants.
and acutely aware of the fact that you can tell. that the fabric of his sweats does nothing to hide the way he's hardened underneath you, that he's thick and heavy against your inner thigh where you're now practically straddling him. he tenses slightly underneath you; not able to control his reaction but hesitant to be the one to take the next step.
but then you groan into his mouth.
the sound goes straight to his core.
he scoops you up in his arms without hesitation, carrying you through the cabin and kicking the bedroom door shut behind him.
"christ, love. those really are fancy knickers."
you don't think you've ever seen an expression on simon's face quite like the one he wearing now, staring down at you sprawled out beneath him, clothes removed with enough care it made your heart ache.
reverent. that's the only word for it.
"yer really… jesus. yer fuckin' beautiful dove, you know that, right?"
your cheeks heat automatically at the compliment, "it's the underwear. it's doing a lot of the heavy lifting." you reply, mock serious - deflecting.
simon rolls his eyes. "shut up. daft bint. s'all you."
before you can retort he pulls his sweatshirt off over his head, and the only word you're left capable of is "fuck."
you reach out; trace your fingers over the scars that criss cross his torso like a roadmap of everything he's survived. the muscle of his chest and stomach is solid; but there's a soft layer of fat over his abdomen that he gets between deployments - the layer that makes him feel warm and soft and human; not just the soldier everyone else sees.
simon's breath hitches when your nails graze lower, but he catches your wrist, bringing your open palm to his lips to press a kiss against the centre of it.
"lay back for me, love." he murmurs, "i'm takin' care of you first."
you nod, heart slamming in your chest so hard you're sure he can hear it.
your bra comes off first; carefully unhooked and pulled away from your body, placed carefully on the side next to you.
your underwear comes next, the soft black lace you knew was perfect the moment you picked it out in the store. cool air hits your skin as he tugs them down your calves and you fight the instinct to close your legs.
simon looks down at you from below his lashes. "yeah. it's not the fancy knickers love. yer just fuckin' beautiful."
simon settles between your legs, lips pressing a trail down your stomach to where your thighs part; and for a moment he hovers above your bare cunt, nose flaring as the warm scent of you hits him.
he groans.
your ears go hot.
he looks up at you, "gonna go down on you now love, alright?"
you manage a short jerk of your head, pupils blown wide as you stare back down at him.
then his mouth is on you.
the last time he did this - that one night on the couch - is burned into simon’s memory. and he remembers, in beautiful high definition, what each little gasp and groan you made sounded like, and what he did to drag them out of you.
the first slow lick from your slit to your clit pulls a shaky sound from your throat, fingers tightening in the sheets next to you.
he doesn’t rush.
has no intention of skipping steps.
he’s treating this like the main event. like if he could just stay between your spread thighs for the rest of the weekend and the two of you didn’t go any further than that he’d be fine with it, happy about it even.
he explores every inch of you with his tongue; licking broad stripes across your entire cunt, before flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit - little patterns that make your thighs tremble.
“si…” you breathe, feeling yourself relax into the mattress with every touch.
simon pulls away to press a kiss against your inner thigh, “okay up there, sweetheart?”
you nod.
vigorously.
then reach to tangle your fingers in his short hair and tug his mouth back towards you with a desperation that surprises even yourself, like now he’s started you really, really don’t want him to stop.
his lips twitch in the corners, his shoulders relaxing a fraction, like you’ve just convinced him you really are okay.
he seals his lips around your clit and hums softly; the vibration shooting straight up your spine and sparking white behind your eyes. you hips jerk, hard; immediately one of his hands comes to rest on your lower belly, pressing down gently - reassuring rather than controlling - whilst he continues to work you with his mouth. he sucks softly, then harder, alternating rhythms until your fingers are twisted tightly in his hair and your breathing comes in short, ragged gasps.
it’s messy.
the wet sounds of his mouth fill the quiet of the room - slick, obscene noises that you think should mortify you but actually only turn you on more. he pulls back just to groan softly, eyes flicking up to yours. “yer fuckin’ perfect love. can i open you up proper?”
one finger circles your entrance, spreading slickness - but he waits until he sees your chin jerk in confirmation before pushing in achingly slow. it’s an unfamiliar stretch; his finger thicker than your own, but it’s not unwelcome, not unpleasant. he sinks that first finger to the knuckle before curling it upwards, searching for the soft, spongy part inside you that makes your back arch sharply off the mattress.
“there you are.” he murmurs, a soft kind of satisfaction threaded through his voice.
he doesn’t stop, just keeps working you in a steady rhythm while his mouth finds your clit again.
your eyes flutter shut. body slowly melting into something that feels like syrup and not flesh against the sheets as pleasure crawls through you.
after a few minutes he carefully adds a second finger - immediately slowing when he sees you wince at the slight burn low down in your pelvis, only continuing when he feels your body go soft again. “easy sweetheart.” he murmurs against your folds, the slight pain mixing with pleasure as as he works his fingers in and out, scissoring gently to open you up. your thighs tremble around his ears; you’re gripping his hair too tight, probably hurting him, but he doesn’t complain - if anything he groans against you at the sensation.
you’re right on the edge. stomach tensing, muscles tightening when he pulls back. his mouth and jaw are slick and shiny with you and his eyes are so, so soft when he gazes up at you.
“not yet.” he murmurs, moving so his body covers yours, wiping his face with the back of his hand, leaning down to kiss you. “want t’ see if i can get you there with me inside ya.”
he shifts, stands, tugs his sweatpants and boxers off in one motion.
you swallow. hard. watching his cock spring free - thick, heavy. flushed dark at the tip and already leaking.
you have no idea how the fuck he’s meant to fit inside you.
he sees your pinched expression, the nervous flicker in your eyes, and he leans down, crawling back over you, resting his forehead against yours. “we go as slow as you need. you say stop, we stop. you say you need a break, we take a break.” he promises, voice thick with want but edged with control.
he reaches across into the bedside drawer, grabs a bottle of lube he’d clearly tucked away there earlier.
he really did do his research.
your pupils blow wide as he squeezes a generous dollop onto his cock. he wraps a calloused hand around his length and strokes it slowly, spreading the slick shine from base to tip, lower lip sucked between your teeth as he starts to guide himself to your entrance.
the blunt head nudges against you, slipping a little because everything is so wet.
he pushes forwards.
the first inch stings. sharply. you hiss through your teeth, nails digging into his shoulders.
simon freezes immediately. “too much?” he asks, voice strained.
“just… a lot.” you manage, trying to breathe through the burn. “give me a minute.”
he stays perfectly still, barely inside you, dropping soft kisses on your face - your eyelids, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. he reaches between you, pad of his thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow, soothing circles until the edge of pain dulls into an aching fullness. you nod, shaky, but firm.
he sinks in another inch. the stretch is intense - you feel every ridge, every vein as he works himself in deeper; your walls slowly opening up and moulding around him.
then he slips. just a little.
simon is tall - broad and long limbed - and the angle he’s curved himself into is awkward. shoulders hunched, one arm braced at an odd angle so he doesn’t crush you.
his cock slips out completely on the next shallow rock of his hips.
“fuck.” he mutters - frustrated with himself. “sorry love. ‘ang on.”
he tucks a hand under your knee, lifting your leg higher and hooking it over his hip.
the new position makes it easier; opens you up more. so this time when he pushes back in, he slides a little deeper in one smooth glide.
you both groan.
the fullness is overwhelming, foreign, bordering on too much.
but it also feels right in a way that makes your chest ache.
simon’s breathing is ragged against your neck. sweat already coating his skin under your palms. “christ, you feel like fuckin’ heaven. you alright?”
you nod, nails digging into his skin. “move… please.”
he starts rocking into you - slow, shallow thrusts at first. the wet, obscene sound of him moving inside you fills the quiet cabin.
it’s messier than you expected.
your bodies don’t slot together like puzzle pieces; there’s sweat, the awkward shift of limbs, your leg keeps slipping off his hip until he grabs it again.
every thrust drags against that perfect spot inside you, but there’s still a sharp little spark of pain when he finally bottoms out completely. you whimper. simon freezes again. “talk to me dove.”
“it hurts. a bit.” you admit, voice small. “but… don’t stop. please.”
he curses softly and adjusts again, reaching for a pillow and sliding it under the small of your back.
the new angle… changes things. the next thrust makes your toes curl for a reason that isn’t pain. pleasure starts overtaking discomfort -and on the next snap of his hips you rock up to meet him, chasing the sensation. his fingers press firmer against the sensitive little bundle of nerves just above where he's buried inside you.
you feel your cunt flutter around him.
he lets out a completely wrecked sound.
"that's it." simon hisses through his teeth. "yer doin' so fuckin' well love."
the praise goes straight to your head, to your core, setting alight nerves you didn't know could be affected by words.
both your movements grow less coordinated, more desperate. sweat gathers in the space between your bodies. his hips snap a little harder, still careful but less restrained; the slap of skin on skin louder now. his hand that's not still slowly stroking your clit between your bodies finds yours, lacing your fingers together beside your head.
the tenderness of the movement makes your eyes sting.
you come suddenly - a sharp, peak that makes you clamp down around him. it's an unfamiliar wave of pleasure, coming with him inside you like that, and you let out a long, low moan that he feels in his bones, that he feels burning its way into his brain as a new core memory.
simon groans, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it. the overstimulation makes you whine, but you can tell from the way he's tensing that he’s close too.
“gonna come inside you.” he bites out, voice wrecked. “that okay?”
you nod frantically, legs tightening around him. a few more deep, messy thrusts and he buries himself inside you with a broken groan, hips jerking as his own orgasm hits. thick pulses of heat flood you, his cock twitching, face dropped into the curve of your shoulder as he presses his mouth against where your pulse is hammering in your throat.
neither of you move. you just stay wrapped in a little bubble of oh fuck that just happened. simon's collapsed half on top of you, propped up on one elbow so he doesn't smother you completely with his body. his breath is warm on your neck, heart slamming in his chest against your arm.
“you okay love?”
simon's voice is gentler than you've ever heard it, cautious in a way that you know he only ever is with you.
“yeah.” you breathe back. “i’m good.” you shift slightly underneath him, wincing as you unhook your legs from his waist.
he notices. immediately shifts so you can untangle yourselves properly, sliding out of you with a soft, slick noise.
you wince again, glance down, see a faint smear on your thigh; cum, slick - both tinged faintly with pink - and stare down in fascination at the physical evidence of what you've both done lingering on your skin like a brand.
he follows your gaze, jaw tensing when he sees the faint pink mixed into your shared fluids. “you sure you're okay?”
you pull him down next to you, curl into his chest, tucking your face into the curve of his neck. “i'm good. i promise. i’m… i’m happy, si.” there's a brief pause and then you add, almost awkwardly, “...was that okay for you?”
simon leans down and kisses you slowly, before pulling back just far enough to rest his forehead on yours. “you were perfect.” he murmurs. “that was perfect.”
you laugh weakly. “that was not perfect. we were like… tangled giraffes at one point.”
he huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth. “yeah, well. still got there in th’ end. still perfect.” he drags his knuckles down your cheekbone, eyes soft in the low lamplight. “no regrets?”
“none.” you whisper fiercely - and you mean it. you ache in the best and worst ways, but the warmth in your chest is brighter than any discomfort. “thank you. for not rushing me. for… that.” simon kisses you again, slower this time, then carefully climbs off the bed. “stay there, dove. i’ll get a cloth and run th’ bath. i reckon that fuckin’ clawfoot thing outside looked big enough for both of us.”
you watch him pad naked across the room - huge, scarred, relaxed in a way you rarely ever see him - and feel a rush of affection so strong it almost hurts.
you get that same pang when he wipes down your thighs with a warm, damp cloth and again when he deposits you in the bathtub on the deck, climbing in behind you without a second thought.
simon settles you both into the warm water, your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around you, the night breeze ghosting over both of your skin. one of his hands strokes lazily up and down your arm without thought.
“next time we’ll try you on top,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss behind your ear. “see if we can avoid the giraffe shite.”
you laugh, loud and free in the quiet night, and tilt your head back to kiss him again properly.
yeah, you're already looking forward to the next time.
2026 Art x Fic Collaboration (The Grand Library F.K.A. 141 RECON Server) | Junepiter — Celestia (AO3 | Tumblr) (Galactic Knight!Johnny x AFAB! Reader) by @the-californicationist | Drawn on Procreate, Animated on Photoshop (No Process Video Because I am still working on it!)
This is the black and white version of the collab as I got hella swamped with freelance and won't be able to colour it until I fly back from my vacation in August ;w;. For now, here's a b&w GIF of Galactic Knight Johnny o vo)/
