Simp

You noticed the shift in him later — not in words, of course, but in how his hand came to rest at the small of your back. How he guided you through the crowd with a little more pressure than usual. How he didn't quite smile when the man shook your hand in farewell.

Zayne said nothing until much later, until the house had gone quiet and the fire in the living room had burned low. You stood in the middle of his room in the glow of moonlight, slipping off your gown when he finally spoke from behind you, voice even but unmistakably edged.

“He seemed very taken with you,” he murmured, fingers brushing yours as he helped you slip on a robe— his touch too gentle to be casual. “Charming. In a practiced sort of way.”

You turned to face him, finding that composed expression — calm, always — but his eyes were darker tonight. Sharper. As if weighing something unspoken.

“Were you jealous?” you asked, half a tease.

“No,” he said softly, stepping in close. “Just... reminded.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Of what?”

“That others may admire you.” His hand settled at your waist, warm and grounding. “But none of them know how to touch you.”

His lips brushed your cheek, then lower, to your jaw. His voice was velvet when it returned.

“None of them know how you tremble when you’re about to fall apart. How you like to be kissed here—” a soft graze behind your ear, “—or how your breath catches when I hold you like this.”

He drew you closer, lifting your chin with two fingers, his tone still gentle. Almost reverent.

And then, the unmistakable warmth of his palm on your hip. The way he leaned in close and said, with deceptive calm, “How beautiful you sound when you scream my name,”

You smiled faintly, not answering, letting your hand drift over the buttons of his shirt. “You’re so jealous.”

“Am not,” he murmured, drawing you into his lap.

You settled there, straddling his thighs, the fabric of your robe slipping open just enough for him to slide his hands along your bare skin. He held you like something precious—like you might vanish if he didn’t. His thumbs stroked absent circles into your waist, his gaze fixed on you with quiet purpose.

The kiss was inevitable. Slow at first—almost tentative. But then deeper, drawn out, his lips moving over yours with the careful deliberation of a man who knows exactly what he wants and isn’t afraid to take his time claiming it.

Your hands buried in his hair as he pulled you closer, tongue sliding past your lips with measured ease. His grip firmed on your hips as he guided your weight into him, coaxing the smallest gasp from your throat.

He caught the sound—of course he did—and his mouth curled faintly against yours. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

Your head tipped back slightly as he kissed along your jaw, his breath warming the curve of your throat. “You always know exactly what to do to me,” you breathed.

Zayne hummed low in his chest, mouth dragging against your pulse. “I study you,” he said softly. “Every sigh, every shiver. I could draw you from memory.”

There was a note in his voice then—something more than reverence. It sounded almost like a question he wasn’t quite asking.

You shifted against him, body arching subtly as his hands skimmed beneath your robe and slipped it off your shoulders. “No one else knows me like you do,” you said quietly.

He stilled, just for a moment, his hands pausing as he took you in.

Then, “Good,” he said. Not smug, not possessive in the traditional sense—just certain. A simple truth, spoken like a vow.

You kissed again, deeper this time, your bare skin pressed flush against the crisp cotton of his shirt. He eased you forward, holding you steady with one arm while the other slipped between your thighs. His fingers stroked you slowly, parting you with a patient, practiced touch. He worked you open in silence, save for the hitch of your breath, the soft wet sounds of his fingers circling your entrance.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly, brushing his knuckles along your inner thigh. “Already?”

“You’re too good at this.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “Only for you.”

You let your head rest against his shoulder as he slid two fingers inside, slow and careful. He knew exactly where to angle them, how to curl them just so, until your hips were rolling in time with his movements and your breath came out in stuttered gasps.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “No one else could ever make you feel this way.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement—and a challenge.

You whispered his name against his neck, voice breaking as he twisted his fingers just right. He exhaled through his nose, satisfied, and withdrew only to guide you onto him with practiced ease, the head of his cock catching against your entrance.

His hands held your waist, steadying you as he slid in, inch by aching inch. You buried your face in his collar, clutching at his shirt as the stretch overwhelmed you—so slow, so deep it nearly bordered on pain.

Zayne groaned softly, low and tight in his throat. “You’re always so warm for me.”

You whimpered, sinking fully down into his lap, the feeling of him rooted inside you sending shivers up your spine.

He didn’t move at first—just let you feel it. The way he filled you so completely. The way your body fluttered around him as if trying to draw him deeper still.

Then his hands moved again. One slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine. The other cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he leaned in to kiss you—slow, reverent, utterly consuming.

And then he began to move.

Measured thrusts, hips rolling beneath you with perfect control. He kissed your temple, your cheek, your lips—again and again—like he couldn’t get enough of your taste. Each press of his hips had your breath hitching, your body tightening, your hands clutching his shoulders as the slow build wound tighter inside you.

“Who else could possibly understand you like I do?” he asked quietly, lips brushing your ear. “Who else would know how to love you like this?”

“No one,” you gasped.

He picked up pace slightly, hips grinding up into yours with exquisite precision, dragging your pleasure out, teasing you with the edge of release until your thighs trembled around him.

“I don’t need to be told I’m the only one,” he whispered, “but it’s nice to hear it.”

You cried out when he hit that perfect spot again and again, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

“Say it,” he breathed.

“You’re the only one, Zayne,” you whispered, falling apart for him.

He followed soon after, clutching you to him as he spilled inside, burying his face in your neck with a soft, unsteady exhale.

And then he stilled, holding you there as the aftershocks trembled between you.

A long silence. Just the sound of your heartbeats, your breath slowing.

Then, as you traced a hand over the back of his neck, he murmured against your shoulder:

“I want to spend my whole life learning you.”

His voice was soft, measured—almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

You didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his chin up, pressed a kiss to his lips, and smiled.

“I hope you do.”

xavier. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁

You hadn’t even noticed Xavier at first.

You were in the hallway, still holding your mail, chatting with the neighbor from two doors down—the one who always seemed to be around when you got back from a mission. He’d asked about your latest patrol, complimented your boots in passing, made some offhand comment about how quiet your apartment had been lately.

It was all friendly. Harmless.

But Xavier stood just out of view, leaned in the doorway of his own apartment, watching.

His arms were crossed. His expression unreadable.

By the time you stepped back inside, the conversation already forgotten, you felt it—the tension. The presence. He was there, leaning in your doorway now, one shoulder propped against the frame.

“How long were you going to stand out there?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked. “What? I was only out there a minute.”

A pause. Then, calmly: “He’s interested in you.”

You laughed, but he didn’t. “He’s just a neighbor.”

“I’m not blind.” He stepped forward, slow and fluid, until the air between you tensed like a wire. “He smiles at you like he thinks you might invite him in one day.”

“He was just being polite, Xavi” you said, voice softening. But Xavier’s gaze didn’t waver.

“No,” he murmured. “I’m polite. He was imagining what your skin might taste like.”

You swallowed. Hard.

And Xavier’s smile—the one he wore only when he was angry in that particular, possessive way—made an appearance. It was faint. Crooked. Dangerous.

“You like being seen, don’t you?” he asked, stepping in closer. “All gentle eyes and soft smiles. So good. So kind. Makes men forget themselves.”

“Xavier—”

“Do you forget?” he asked quietly, hands finding your waist. “Who you belong to?”

You gasped as he pushed you back gently until your spine met the nearest wall. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like a caress. He leaned in, voice velvet-dark.

“Let me remind you.”

You were still catching your breath when he kissed you—deep, slow, unrelenting. Not angry. Not rushed. Just intentional. His mouth slanted over yours again and again until your knees weakened and your arms curled around his shoulders.

He carried you to the bedroom without a word. Lit only by the pale blue spill of Linkon moonlight, the room felt colder than usual. Or maybe that was just his restraint. He laid you down gently. Methodically. As though he was still trying to decide how best to ruin you.

He undressed you in near silence, his hands lingering longer than necessary. Touching places he already knew by heart, rediscovering them with maddening slowness. “He doesn’t know what you sound like when you beg,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over your ribs, “or how your voice breaks when I go deeper.”

You reached for him—too impatient—but he caught your wrists and pinned them gently to the mattress above your head.

“No rushing,” he said, his voice almost sweet. “You had time to smile at him. You’ll make time for this.”

His mouth followed his hands—kisses dragged across your collarbone, tongue teasing the underside of your breast, lips sealing around your nipple as his fingers drifted lower.

And lower.

Until they found you, already slick and twitching for him.

“Of course,” he whispered against your skin. “Always so wet for me, even when you pretend to be innocent.”

Two fingers slid in, slow and curling, hitting a spot that had you bucking beneath him—but he held you down, pinning you with nothing more than a look.

“Do you think he could make you feel like this?” he asked. “Does he even know where to touch you?”

You whimpered, arching into him. “Xavier, please—”

“Oh,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear, “I love when you beg, little star.”

He worked you open with patient cruelty, bringing you to the edge with agonizing precision—only to stop.

Again and again.

By the third time, you were trembling, nails scraping at the sheets, voice hoarse from whimpering his name.

“Just say it,” he whispered. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, without hesitation.

He rewarded you with his mouth then—hot, wet, relentless between your thighs. Your back arched off the mattress at the first flick of his tongue. He took his time, lapping and sucking with languid control until your vision blurred and your thighs threatened to close around him.

But he held you open. Watched you come undone.

Only once you were gasping his name like a prayer did he finally undress, movements slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours.

When he sank into you, it wasn’t fast. It was deep. He held your gaze the entire time, watching your mouth fall open as he filled you, inch by slow inch, until you couldn’t breathe around it.

“There,” he whispered. “No one else gets this. Just me.”

He dragged it out, every roll of his hips designed to torture. His hands never stopped moving—stroking your waist, brushing your hair back, pinning your wrists when you reached to speed him up.

“You’ll take it like this,” he murmured, “until you forget every other name but mine.”

You did.

When you came again, it was with your legs wrapped around him, voice broken and high, clinging to him like you’d fall apart without his body tethering yours.

Only then—only then—did he let go, fucking you through your climax with enough force to shake the bed. He spilled inside you with a groan, head buried against your neck, breathing ragged and voice thick when he spoke again.

“No one gets to see this part of you,” he said softly, his hand stroking your stomach. “Just me. Only me.”

He looked at you then, hair mussed, eyes dark and hungry even after everything. “I don’t mind others seeing you smile,” he murmured, “but don’t let them forget who owns the rest.”

You pulled him in again, lips brushing his, breath still shaky.

“They couldn’t forget if they tried.”

sylus. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

You didn’t mean to steal the spotlight.

The auction had simply unfolded that way — the room full of powerful people in fine suits and darker intentions, all turning to look when you walked in. Their gazes followed you like tides pulled by gravity, lingering too long. Some approached under the pretense of polite interest: asking for your thoughts on the collection, inquiring who you were with. You’d smiled, demure and polite, but it didn’t stop the way their eyes slid over you — speculative, appreciative, hungry.

You caught Sylus watching once from across the room — a glass of dark wine suspended in his hand, half-raised, half-forgotten. He didn’t look angry. Not even annoyed. Just still. Perfectly still. His crimson eyes held you like a blade pressed flat to your throat — silent and unmoving, but keen.

On the way home, he hadn’t said much. His hand rested on your thigh in the car. A murmur about the art. Something vague about the way the auctioneer’s accent curled. Polite, as always. But you felt it: the tension beneath his calm, like a storm pressed behind glass.

It’s only once the door closes behind you — the quiet of his penthouse folding around you, city lights flickering low — that he shows it.

He doesn’t let you get far.

His arm wraps around your waist and draws you back into his chest. You feel the heat of him before you hear the low hum of his voice near your ear.

“Still carrying all that attention with you, sweetie?”

You blink, about to ask what he means — but he’s already sliding your coat from your shoulders. Gentle. Reverent. His fingers ghost down the line of your back as he slips the fabric away, letting it fall to the floor.

You turn in his arms.

His gaze drinks you in — the line of your gown, the soft flush of your skin from the wine, the delicate rise and fall of your breath beneath silk.

“You looked…” His eyes drop lower. “…dangerous tonight.”

You raise a brow, lips tilting. “Dangerous?”

“Mmh.” His mouth brushes your jaw. Just a ghost of contact. “Pretty little thing like you — standing there with a thousand eyes on you, smiling like that.” His voice thickens, slow as honey. “Of course they wanted you.”

You laugh, soft and teasing — but he doesn’t. His hands slide lower, curve over your hips with more pressure. One lifts the back of your thigh, coaxing your leg around his waist. You let him. He carries you with no effort, steps sure and silent as he takes you to the bedroom.

“You’re being awfully sweet,” you murmur, hands brushing his chest.

He smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“Aren’t I always, kitten?”

He lays you down like you’re the most delicate thing in the world — not because you are, but because tonight he wants you to feel that way. Kept. Claimed. Cherished.

His jacket slips off. His shirt, undone with aching precision. As each button comes loose, you watch the careful reveal of his chest, the sharp cut of his abdomen, the faint line of a scar you’ve traced before. He watches you, too. Watches your hunger, quiet and reverent, like he needs to see it written across your face.

He kisses you with the same slow worship.

Not frantic. Not forceful. Just… knowing. Like he’s trying to wipe away every gaze that touched you, every word that wasn’t his, every breath you gave someone else.

His mouth trails from your lips to your neck, then down — lower, tasting the soft skin at your collarbone, the hollow between your breasts. When his fingers slide the gown off your shoulders, he moves like he’s unwrapping something sacred. Each inch of skin he reveals is met with his mouth, warm and lingering.

He doesn’t speak, but you feel the tension under his touch. The possessiveness coiled tight beneath the surface. It shows in how slowly he parts your thighs. How long he lingers at your knees. How his eyes lift and lock to yours before he kisses the inside of your thigh like a confession.

“I want to take care of you tonight,” he says, voice so low you barely catch it. “Will you let me?”

You nod, breath already caught in your throat.

His mouth lowers — and when he finally touches you with his tongue, it’s like silk drawn over a flame.

He takes his time.

Every flick, every slow circle of his tongue feels intentional. He doesn’t chase your pleasure — he builds it, patient and precise. His fingers curl against your thigh, anchoring you as his mouth works you open, lavishing you with long, unhurried strokes. When your hips twitch, he murmurs quiet praise against your skin.

“That’s it, sweetie… Just like that.”

He knows your body too well. Every tremble. Every soft sound. He listens for them like cues, adjusts with barely a shift, lips sealing over your clit just right, just long enough to make you sob out his name.

When the orgasm hits, it’s slow and shattering. Not sudden — inevitable. He pulls it from you like a string being drawn taut, then snapped, and when your body arches and your thighs quake, he doesn’t let go. He keeps you grounded with his mouth, one hand firm on your waist, the other stroking soft down your thigh.

When he finally rises, his lips are slick, his eyes molten.

He kisses up your stomach, your ribs, your sternum. Every inch of you loved, mapped, and claimed.

And when he finally pushes inside — slow, deep, deliberate — it feels like coming home.

“You feel that?” he whispers, voice frayed. “How perfect you fit me?”

You gasp his name, legs wrapping tighter around him. His hips roll slow, careful, each thrust brushing deep and smooth. He keeps you close — chest to chest, skin to skin — every movement drawing you tighter, closer.

“You’re mine…” he breathes against your jaw. Then quieter, almost too soft to hear — “Aren’t you?”

You freeze — just for a second. Not in fear. In knowing.

“…Sylus?” you whisper.

He lifts his head. Something flickers there. A softness cracking. A need barely hidden beneath all his polish.

You smile, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Are you jealous?”

His eyes narrow. Not angry. Just… caught.

“Tch. Don’t be absurd.”

But then he thrusts deeper. Slower. Possessive without force — just depth. Just heat. Your body responds instantly, moaning into his neck.

He leans down, voice low.

“Let me remind you.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re breathless. Until your fingers cramp from clinging to him, until your throat is hoarse from moaning his name like a prayer. His control never slips — but his need is written into every touch. Every inch of him buried deep in you, every whispered word brushed against your skin like a claim carved from silk.

And even when you’re both spent, your bodies tangled in the sheets, his hand never stops moving. Thumb brushing your hip. Knuckles tracing the curve of your waist.

He doesn’t say the word.

But in the way he presses a kiss to your temple. In how his eyes stay on you even after sleep begins to pull you under—

You know.

He needed this.

He needed you.

caleb. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁

You noticed it the moment his eyes cut across the room.

A too-familiar glance from a Fleet lieutenant. A compliment disguised as professional praise. A hand that lingered just a beat too long at the small of your back.

You brushed it off — but Caleb didn’t.

He didn’t say a word on the way back. No cold expression, no clipped tone — just silence, taut and simmering. And that was worse. That meant he was thinking. Feeling. Holding it in.

When the front door clicked shut behind you, the silence broke — not with words, but weight.

The air pressed down. Subtle, at first. Then heavier. Your breath caught.

“Caleb—”

“Stay there.”

His voice was calm. Too calm. He didn’t even look at you yet, just shrugged off his uniform jacket and let it hit the floor. “You always let them get close like that, honey?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?” He turned finally, eyes darker than usual — not glowing, not angry. Just hurt. Like he’d seen a glimpse of something he wasn’t supposed to witness. “Pips… he touched you.”

“Caleb—”

“He touched you, and you smiled.” A step closer. “You let him.”

“I smiled because I was being polite. That’s all.”

His Evol pressed in tighter around your wrists, then your hips — firm, invisible hands holding you still. His voice didn’t rise. It dipped, lower, like it ached to stay steady.

“I’m not mad,” he murmured. “I just need—” Another step. Closer now. “I need you to remember whose you are.”

Then he kissed you — hard and deep, desperate, like he was trying to drown the memory of someone else’s touch with his own. He tasted like tension and guilt and need, his hands finally real where the gravity had only suggested — one cradling your jaw, the other gripping your waist tight enough to bruise.

He backed you to his bed without breaking the kiss, and you fell into the sheets with him following. His body covered yours like he couldn’t risk even the air touching you before he could reclaim it.

“Look at you,” he breathed, voice rough. “You’re always so sweet when you want something. But tonight…” His teeth grazed your neck. “I think you want to be reminded.”

You whimpered as he pushed your legs apart and settled between them, dragging your underwear down like it offended him. He slid his fingers through your slick folds with a sharp inhale, his restraint fraying at the edges.

“Fuck. Already this wet?” His voice cracked. “God, baby, tell me it’s not for him.”

“It’s not,” you gasped. “It’s you—only you.”

He exhaled hard, like he didn’t quite believe it, even if he wanted to. Even as he lined himself up and pressed in deep — one long, thick stretch that made your toes curl — his expression didn’t fully settle.

His rhythm started rough. Fast. Desperate. His hands held your thighs open, and every thrust hit deeper, firmer, like he was trying to bury himself so far inside you nothing could ever take you from him.

But even as he claimed you, his voice cracked again. This time not with anger — with fear.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

You looked up, startled — but he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. His hips kept rolling, skin slapping yours, sweat beading along his temple.

“Pips,” he breathed, and this time it sounded like a confession, a prayer. “I try so hard— I try to be everything—” His forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing. “But I’m not like I used to be. I know that. I’m not good enough for you.”

“Caleb—”

His thrusts stuttered just a little — not in weakness, but like the words hurt more than anything.

“But I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so fucking much it hurts. And I can’t— I won’t watch you slip away. I need you to want me like this.”

You whimpered as his grip on your hips tightened, dragging you into each thrust, his eyes fluttering shut like the sensation grounded him.

“Say it,” he begged. Not ordered. Begged. “Tell me I’m enough. Please, baby—just say it.”

“You’re enough. You’re more than enough—Caleb, please—”

You came hard, the wave crashing over you with a sob of his name. But he didn’t stop.

He leaned over you, still thrusting through the aftershocks, his voice unraveling completely now — soft, whiny, broken. Almost angry at himself.

“I don’t care if it hurts, just let me stay like this—let me feel you, baby, please—”

You kissed him, trembling, and he kissed you back like he needed your mouth to breathe. His pace grew erratic, choked sounds escaping him as his hips lost rhythm.

“I’m yours,” he groaned, spilling deep inside you. “Yours, Pips. No one else. Just—just yours.”

He stayed inside you, still moving gently, too raw to stop.

And then he collapsed into you, arms pulling you close like if he let go for even a second, you might disappear. Voice barely audible, breath hot against your skin:

“I don’t know what I’d be if I lost you.” A pause. “Whatever you want me to be— I’ll be that. Just please stay.”

rafayel. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁

The gallery was full — too full — but Rafayel didn’t complain. Not out loud.

He watched from across the room, champagne glass untouched, as you laughed at something some man in a velvet blazer whispered near your ear. The man gestured vaguely at one of Rafayel’s paintings — a piece in pink and carmine tones, intimate, unmistakably you — and smiled like he thought he had a chance.

Rafayel’s jaw flexed. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t make a scene.

But oh, he watched.

And when the evening ended and the man dared to kiss your knuckles, Rafayel’s fingers were already curling around your wrist before the door even shut behind him.

He didn’t say a word as he tugged you down the path to his studio. Just smiled — a little too wide, a little too perfect — and pressed the buttons on the keypad with a single flick of his gloved hand.

“You’re quiet,” you said.

“Mhm,” he hummed. “Just thinking. About how pretty you looked tonight. Especially when you were giggling at his jokes. I didn’t know I had competition.”

Your heart fluttered. “You don’t.”

He smiled wider, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, cutie. I know that. Now.”

The moment the studio door shut behind you, his mask cracked.

Rafayel was on you in an instant — hands in your hair, lips at your neck, hot and breathless. “Do you like making me suffer?” he murmured, tongue sliding along your pulse. “Because I was suffering. All evening.”

You barely had time to speak before he swept you up — literally — into his arms and carried you straight through the studio. Paintings lined the walls, moonlight casting shadows across the hardwood, and he sat you down on the edge of a velvet chaise like you were a centerpiece.

“I was good tonight,” he said, dragging off his jacket with a sharp flick. “So good. I didn’t even interrupt. I let him talk to you. Let him look at you like he had any right. And you—” He knelt between your legs, gripping your thighs possessively. “You just smiled so sweetly, like you didn’t know how insane that was driving me.”

You opened your mouth, but his fingers were already slipping under your dress, dragging your underwear down with a wickedly slow pull.

“Don’t you dare apologize, cutie,” he whispered, mouth brushing your inner thigh. “I don’t want ‘sorry.’ I want to hear how much you missed me.”

“Rafayel—” your breath hitched as his lips pressed hot and slow where you were already aching.

“Say it,” he murmured, eyes flicking up — those vibrant blues with their soft pink glowing in the dark. “Say you missed me.”

“I missed you— I always do—”

“Good,” he cooed, grinning. “Then stay still for me.”

And then his mouth was on you — lush and relentless, tongue flicking, curling, sucking until you were gasping. He held your thighs open with an iron grip, moaning against your heat like he was starved for it.

He didn’t let up when you bucked. Didn’t stop when you cried out his name. He just kept going — murmuring sweet, devastating things between licks.

“This is mine, cutie. All mine. You can let them look—but they don’t get this, do they?”

“No—nngh—only you—”

“That’s right,” he purred, slipping his fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right. “Only me. Because I’d burn the world if anyone else touched you like this.”

Your orgasm came fast, nearly shocking — and still he didn’t stop.

You tried to pull away, thighs trembling, but he only made a soft sound and pulled you back in.

“Raf— I can’t—”

“You can,” he said sweetly. “You will. That was just for the exhibition. Now this one’s for the way he looked at you. And the next? That’s for smiling at him like he was interesting.”

“Rafayel—!”

He grinned against your overstimulated clit. “Aw. Are you gonna cry for me, cutie? Look so pretty when you do.”

Your vision blurred. The pleasure, the heat, the shameful delight in how needy he sounded — it all tangled into something delirious.

He finally pulled away, face wet, lips red and glistening. He kissed your thigh with a little sigh, like he was soothing the wound he caused.

Then he stripped — both of your clothes disappearing in an instant — until you were both bare and golden in the moonlight, muscles tense and hungry with restraint.

“Lie back,” he said. “Let me inside. I need to feel you. Need to ruin you a little, so you don’t forget who you come home to.”

You reached for him — dazed, aching — and he slid into you with a sound that was halfway to a whimper.

“Oh, fuck— you’re perfect,” he moaned, dropping his head against your shoulder. “Tighter than I remember. Were you teasing me on purpose, cutie? You wanted to see me like this, didn’t you?”

You couldn’t speak. Could only cling as he rolled his hips in deep, smooth thrusts — dragging out every sound from your throat, chasing every tremble in your body.

“Say it,” he gasped, breath hot against your collarbone. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours— always—”

“And you love me?”

“I love you.”

He groaned — long and low, thrusting deeper. “Again.”

“I love you—!”

He came with a choked breath, hips grinding as he spilled inside you, his body trembling against yours like the tension had finally snapped. But he didn’t stop holding you. Didn’t even pull out. He just wrapped his arms around you, still buried deep, and nuzzled into your neck with a pout.

“…I hate being jealous,” he whispered. “Makes me dramatic.”

You huffed a laugh, boneless and warm. “You’re always dramatic.”

He smiled, kissing your temple. “Yeah, but this time I was right, wasn’t I? You’re mine, cutie. And I’m never letting go.”

you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.

“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

fuck sakes.

you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.

and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.

“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.

his dog tags.

you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.

a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.

you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.

spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.

it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?

fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.

and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.

finally, you knock.

it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.

you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.

you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”

he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.

you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.

you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”

his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.

“did i?” he doesn’t move.

you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.

“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”

he still doesn’t take them.

“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”

your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”

he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.

“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.

“i-“

you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.

simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.

you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”

“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”

and there it is. here it comes.

“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”

“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.

you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.

when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”

your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.

“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”

“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”

oh god.

“shame?”

“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”

“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“

he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”

“walk me-“

earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”

“you don’t-you don’t have to-“

he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.

“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”

you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.

part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.

“look, simon-“

he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”

you blink, holding your breath.

“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”

fucking hell.

“yes.” you exhale.

“what was it.”

your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.

“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”

“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”

your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.

“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.

and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

he doesn’t buy it.

“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”

christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.

this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.

“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”

“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”

you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”

“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”

“simon-“

he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”

it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.

clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.

“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”

it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.

“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”

his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.

his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—

“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”

your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”

you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.

“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”

“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”

something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.

“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”

his mouth is barely a breath from yours.

“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”

he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.

“fuckin hell.”

and then he’s kissing you.

no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.

“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.

you blink, dazed. “i-what?”

his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.

“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”

“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“

that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.

“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”

you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.

“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”

you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”

he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.

you fucking moan at the sight.

and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.

he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.

“oh, fuck-“

he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”

his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.

“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”

you’re panting now. shaking.

“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“

“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”

you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.

“tell me.”

“no-n-never like this—”

he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”

your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.

“simon-“ you whinge.

he cuts you off. “look at me.”

you do. barely.

“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”

you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.

it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”

you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”

you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.

when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.

“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”

you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.

the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“

he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”

you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.

you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.

“y’remember what else y’said last night?”

you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.

“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”

you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.

“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”

and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.

“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.

“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”

he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.

“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“

“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”

he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.

“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”

“fuck simon-“

“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”

it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.

it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.

he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.

“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”

he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.

you shriek, squirming with no where to go.

“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”

your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.

“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”

“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“

you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.

“mhm. messy little thing.”

he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.

“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”

you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.

“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”

“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“

“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”

you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.

“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”

another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“

“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”

a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—

“fuck—fuck.”

he lets go.

he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.

and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.

he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.

“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”

———————————-

“Wait—” Simon started.

Too late.

Your foot went through, then your leg, then the whole world cracked and swallowed you.

The water was so cold it didn’t feel like anything at first—just shock, like your lungs forgot how to work, like your heart stopped, just for a second. And then it hit. The pain. The sharp, vicious cold that tore through every layer you had on and sank straight into your skin. You thrashed, gasped—then your head went under.

For a second, everything was just dark.

And then—

Strong hands gripped you, arms rough and steady as they pulled you from the ice, breaking through the cold to drag you to safety. Your mouth broke the surface, and air came back with a choking, desperate sob. You clung to him without thinking—his jacket soaked, his mask above you, his voice cutting through the wind.

“Got you,” Simon said, low and harsh. “Fuckin’ hell—got you.”

You couldn’t stop shaking. Your teeth were chattering, your body trembling uncontrollably. Every breath felt sharp, the cold sinking deeper, making it impossible to speak or even think clearly.

He lifted you like you weighed nothing. Scooped you against his chest, one arm around your back, the other under your knees, and started walking. You didn’t have the strength to argue or even find the words.

The safe house wasn’t far. Just a cabin tucked into the woods, barely more than four walls and a fireplace. But right now, it was everything.

He kicked the door open, slammed it shut behind you, and carried you straight to the cot in the corner. Your eyes were wide, lips blue. You were shivering violently.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re goin’ under. We need to get these off.”

You blinked. “Wh–what?”

“Your clothes. Off. Now.” His tone left no room for argument. “They’re soaked. You stay in ‘em, you’re done for.”

He pulled off your jacket, your vest, your shirt—fingers cold and clumsy but moving fast, driven by urgency. He didn’t look at you, didn’t crack a smile. He just focused on getting you out of the wet clothes as quickly as possible.

When you were down to your underwear, he didn’t hesitate—just pulled off his own gear, crawled in beside you, and yanked the heavy blanket over both of you. His body, warm and full of heat, pressed against you, chest to chest, your legs tangled, arms locked tight around your back.

He pressed his face into your hair. His breath was warm against your ear.

“Jesus, you scared the shit outta me.”

You couldn’t answer. You didn’t have the strength to.

“You always gotta talk back. Always gotta be difficult,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Couldn’t just listen, could you?”

His hand moved gently up and down your spine, trying to rub warmth into you.

“Don’t go quiet on me now,” he whispered. “Talk shit like you always do. C’mon.”

You tried to breathe, but your body was still trembling too hard.

“Hey,” he said softly, “you’re alright. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

You wanted to say something—anything—but all that came out was a broken whisper.

“I’m so cold.”

His grip tightened.

“I know, baby. I know,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re alright.”

You curled in closer, chasing his warmth, your fingers weak against his chest. And still, he kept whispering. Soft, careful words that didn’t match the man you thought you knew.

“I can’t lose you,” he said quietly, like it hurt to admit. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?”

You gave a shaky laugh, almost a breath. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned.”

He kept going. “I act like I don’t care. Like it wouldn’t matter if something happened to you. But it would. It would ruin me.”

You looked up at him. His mask was gone, his jaw clenched tight, lips pale from the cold.

He met your eyes. “I mean it.”

You blinked slowly, heart stuttering in your chest. “You don’t have to say that just because—”

“I’m not sayin’ it because of this,” he said, firm but gentle. “I’m sayin’ it because I’ve been a fuckin’ coward about it. And I almost didn’t get the chance to tell you.”

His hand slid up to cup the back of your head. “You make me feel something I didn’t think I could anymore.”

Your throat felt tight.

He let out a slow breath. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

You barely had enough strength to move, but you leaned into him, burying your face against his chest again, letting his words settle into your bones like warmth.

And he didn’t stop holding you.

Didn’t stop murmuring.

Didn’t stop calling you baby.

Half an hour later, the blanket felt heavy, the air warm now from the fire Simon had started after he got you stable, and the silence in the safe house was comfortable, for once.

Your shaking had started to ease, replaced by exhaustion and this strange, tight feeling in your chest every time you looked at him.

He hadn’t moved.

Still lying beside you, pressed chest-to-chest, his arms around you like he didn’t trust the world not to try and take you again.

You were quiet for a while.

Then you whispered, “I’m okay now.”

“I know,” he said, voice low. “Still not lettin’ go.”

You swallowed. “You don’t have to.”

He looked at you, really looked, like he was checking again—like part of him still didn’t believe you were here, safe in his arms. “You scared the hell outta me.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” His hand came up slowly, brushing your hair back from your face, fingertips soft, careful. “Not your fault. Just… couldn’t stand it.”

You were quiet again, taking in the way his voice had changed. It was softer now, stripped of the usual edge, raw in a way that felt like he was letting his guard down. He wasn’t trying to hide anything.

“You’ve got no idea,” he murmured, “how much space you take up in my fuckin’ head.”

Your heart kicked hard in your chest. “You’ve got a weird way of showing it.”

He gave a half-smile. “Yeah. I know. I’m shit at this.”

You shook your head. “You’re not.”

His fingers moved slowly along your jaw, your cheek. “You’re always so mouthy. Always get under my skin. But I’d take that over silence any day.”

You blinked up at him, your face close enough to his that you could feel the warmth of his breath. “Kiss me, Simon.”

He hesitated—but only for a second.

Then he leaned in, slow and unhurried, kissing you with a gentleness that felt different. Not rough, not desperate—just soft. Like he was taking his time, like he wanted to remember every second of it.

When you kissed him back, he made a quiet sound in his chest, something low and strained, like relief.

“You sure?” he asked against your mouth, one hand sliding to your waist, thumb brushing your skin.

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

He was careful, his movements soft and slow, as if afraid that even the slightest wrong move would hurt you, like you meant more to him than anything.

The way he touched you was different now. No teasing, no games—just warmth, just purpose. Every kiss along your shoulder, your collarbone, your throat, spoke louder than words ever could, like he was showing you how much he needed you.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered, breath hot against your skin. “You don’t even know.”

You let out a soft sound when he ran his hand down your side, fingers skimming your ribs. He paused, checking your face.

“Still warm enough?”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Just… nervous.”

He kissed your cheek. “Don’t be. I’ve got you.”

You moved together under the blanket, the world outside fading until it was just him, just the way he held you, the way his hands roamed without rush, the way he kissed you like it was a promise.

When he slid into you, slow and careful, he cursed softly into your skin.

“Fuck… you feel like heaven.”

You wrapped your arms around him, held him close, every part of you full of him.

He didn’t go fast. He didn’t try to make it something it wasn’t.

He just moved with you, forehead pressed to yours, hands cradling your face like you were something fragile.

“You’re alright,” he whispered, over and over. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you. Gonna keep you warm, gonna take care of you…”

You could feel it in the way he touched you—how much he meant it. How scared he’d been. How close he’d come to losing you.

And when you came, soft and trembling under him, he kissed you through it, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

After, he stayed on top of you, weight resting heavy but grounding you, his face tucked into your neck.

“Didn’t think I’d ever get this,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. “You. Here. Like this.”

You were quiet for a beat, your hand resting over his heart. “Thought you hated me.”

He snorted. “Still might. Jury’s out.”

You tilted your head to look at him. “Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

“Hey,” he said, eyes soft but mouth twitching, “I let you steal my blanket. That’s love, innit?”

You rolled your eyes. “You dragged me into this blanket. I nearly died.”

“Details,” he muttered. “You look warm now, don’t you?”

You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips. “So this is your version of a confession? Freezing me half to death and then climbing into bed with me?”

He leaned in, nuzzling the tip of his nose against yours. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You breathed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. It did.”

He looked at you for a moment, gaze flicking over your face like he was memorizing it, then said, softer, “You’re not gettin’ rid of me now. You know that, right?”

You raised a brow. “Already regretting it.”

He grinned. “Too late.”

Then he kissed you again—slow, easy, like he had all the time in the world, as if nothing else existed but the moment between you two.

He pulled you closer, tucking you into his arms, like you were something he’d finally stopped pretending he didn’t need, something he could finally admit he wanted without hesitation.

---------------------------------------------

i actually don't like how this turned out but oh well...

You're in his shirt. Oversized. Threadbare. Dull and rough. Too teared. Too weared. The material too coarse for your skin.

You're barefoot. Bored. Sulking.

Telly droning in the background -- monotonous. static. a subliminal at this point. forgettable.

A pot simmers on the stove. a half-assed recipe you don't even remember brewing. fuck that. you weren't hungry anyway. you just needed to do something.

you bite your lip before you do it. palming your phone by your side and grasping the hunky and blinking metal in your hands before sliding the lockscreen open. tapping away through apps you keep to feel occupied. Useful. Hopeful. Almost as if your very existence wasn't solely based on him.

Fuck. You were done for, weren't you?

But of course. Every scroll. Swipe. Post. Somehow circles back to Simon.

You catch yourself lingering too long on some shitty video. A military edit. Some faceless bloke moving across their living room just like he usually did when he took over your apartment. Calm. Brooding. Silent. Space and breadth too big to accommodate the mass of him in your tiny living space. Suffocating and claiming. But you never did complain. Never could. Never wanted too.

And suddenly. The kitchen's too quiet. The air is too still. The pot on the stupid stove bubbles like another warning and fuck fuck fuck do you feel it. Sharp. Restless. Tugging. Gnawing. An ache between your ribs and chest.

"only be gone for a couple o'days birdie. don't worry yeah?", he'd said -- like that ever meant anything. Like your body hadn't memorize the precise ache only his presence and absence fills you.

"i know that. doesn't make it hurt any less", you whisper back softly. the breath of your voice tickling his bare chest as you lay there in his arms. Spent. Sated. A few moments of solitude between the two of you after he practically made you boneless and aching after several rounds of trying to make up for what would be lost time again.

Simon scoffed at your words. Hands calloused. Careful. Grip tightening slightly at your hip. He didn't answer. Just lets out another quiet hum like he usually does when he wants to bare something but doesn't quite know how. Emotionally constipated arse of your boyfriend

The memory stings you like a scalding poker through and through. Ache. Ached. Aching. You don't bother stirring anymore after. Letting your phone shut itself off as you stare mindlessly at your reflection in the dark screen. Eyes rimmed red. Fuck were you crying?

And then --

Like summoned --

The door clicks.

Not slams. Doesn't burst open like some grand declaration of returned war. Just... clicks.

Soft.

Deliberate.

Heavy.

Your breathe catches

There's a beat. Two even.

The door creaks open and familiar boots. Muddy. Slow. Tattered and torn. The shoes you constantly made fun of him for moves across the space. Calculating. Hulking. A sigh you'd recognize in the dark. And that scent -- gunpowder. Sweat. Leather. And the faint ghost of whatever godforsaken soap his military base supplies.

You don't move. Don't need to. Never do with him because he was already there. In the doorway to the kitchen. Leaning. Watching with you an almost predatory stupor.

Masked gone. Hair overgrown and messy. Beard thicker. Face almost gaunt. Shoulders tense like he was still carrying the war on his back. But his eyes -- Eyes are only on you. Always was. Always will be.

You blink. Breathless. Drowning

"Thought you said a couple of days", you manage. Voice small. Slightly shaky in what you can't exactly comprehend. Relief. Excitement. Longing? Anticipation?

His lips twitch. Not exactly a smile. Not quite not.

"Couldn't stay away from you birdie"

And then he's striding forward. No warning. No permission. No words.

Tattered fingers and rough hands cupping your jaw. Thumb rough and harsh against your soft cheek. The kiss he drags you in is all teeth and desperation. Hot. Claiming. Not giving you another moment to breath as he slips his tongue in and dominates your mouth. Taking advantage of your gasp and the slight hitch in your breath to devour every bit of your taste and sounds. A promise and an apology all at once.

Only pulling back when he deems it sufficient enough to speak. Not wanting to hear his voice either. Not wanting to show how fucking vulnerable he suddenly feels as he get to quench the initial thirst and ache his mind and body felt for you in weeks.

Breath ragged. Eyes dark.

"Missed you birdie"

Your hand fists in the front of his vest. Grounding yourself. Lip wobbling a bit at that

"You look like hell"

He laughs. Low. Frayed. But... genuine. Something real. Something authentic. Something only ever meant for the sweet little bird he has at home. For you.

"You should see the other guy"

And suddenly -- your kitchen isn't a kitchen anymore.

The floors that he installed, now just tiles and marble beneath your feet. And his hands on your waist. Grip tight. Anticipating. Waiting. Gnawing at you to give him permission. Wraps around you like an unbearable anchor. Pulling, Taut. Reminding you of the need that's been building since the second he left.

You whisper it before you can stop yourself. A plea.

A challenge.

A confession.

Madonna at the edge.

"Use me. I can take it"

You needn't say anything more as the words slip from your tongue. Simon, immediately hoisting you on the counter at that. Wood biting into your skin. Dropping you unceremoniously as the weight of your body rattles the table and makes bits of cutlery and dining ware shake and fall to the ground. Porcelain and glass breaking as he presses into you without another warning.

Nose brushing against yours. Voice dark and raw:

"Came all this way to ruin you. Came all this way to come back to this cunt"

He grinds into you. Once. Hard. A start. A promise of things to come. The pace between the heavy material of his cargos brushing at the soft fabric of your sleep shorts enough to knock the air from your lungs. Core pulsing. Core tightening. Wet between your thighs at that. Pooling. Drawing in. The scent, breath, and touch of him instinctively making you docile and warm. Trained. Invited. Saved for him and him alone.

But then... he stills

A low breath leaves him. Long and ragged. Reining something in. Like he might break you if he doesn't. The pause making you tense up in surprise and confusion as well. Looking up at him in shock and awe. Wondering. Silent. Waiting. The sight of Simon so... vulnerable feels so foreign and obtuse.

His forehead presses to yours as you blink up at him. Doe-eyed. Glossy but coherent. Mouth slightly parted in worry. Grounding. But you can feel it. His pulse thudding under his jaw. The tremble in his hands where they grip your thighs. Legs parting as his hands move to you thighs and then to your waist. Bordering on control. Aching. Tightening but holding back. Wanting to be gentle. But too loose to ever be cruel to his little bird.

"You sure?" he rasps. Voice cracked and wrecked. Almost like he needs to hear it from you again. Starving and parched and you're the only thing keeping him from mauling into a meal like a prayer.

A saint taunting and toying. God birdie just give him the words

"Simon", you whisper. Thighs only tightening around his hips further. Nails finding the meat of his shoulders. "You already knew the answer"

He exhales hard through his nose. A bitter little laugh that tastes like disbelief. Then he kisses you again. Slower this time. Deeper. Tongue sliding past your lips with reverence now. Less like a claim -- more like communion. A way to ground himself. To remember you.

Map you all over again.

You whimper into his mouth, the heat between your legs already too much. His pace, his patience, it’s killing you. Every inch of contact feels deliberate. Worshipful. The drag of his rough fingers under his shirt, up your ribcage, over every bit of skin he missed while he was gone.

Like he’s starving.

Like he’s trying not to inhale you all at once.

And then he’s sinking to his knees.

Wordless.

Controlled.

You barely have time to breathe before he’s mouthing at your inner thigh, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips twitch forward. You gasp, hand fisting in his hair, feeling how damp it is from sweat. He groans like that did something to him. Like he’s the one being touched.

His tongue -- slow, thorough, reverent -- starts to toy through your panties. The fabric dampening in both arousal and his saliva. The hint of his tongue. Moist. Controlled. Slides through your folds. Teasing. Taunting.

His dessert on legs and he's savoring every fucking bite

You choke on a soft whine when his nose nudges against your clothed clit. The friction maddening -- too soft to satisfy, too pointed to ignore.

His palms slide up the backs of your thighs, rough thumbs digging into your flesh just enough to keep you open for him, spread for him, vulnerable. Owned.

"Fuckin’ hell," he mutters, voice half-muffled against the soaked fabric. “You always this sweet when I’m gone, birdie huh?”

You don’t get the chance to answer. He presses a long, open-mouthed kiss directly over your cunt -- wet and unrelenting -- and you jerk, gasping. Eyes wide and glazed, a high-pitched whine crawling out of your throat.

"Didn’t think so," he breathes.

Then he’s hooking his fingers into the hem of your underwear and rips, dragging the ruined and drenched scrap of cotton to the floor. Torn and done for. Just like you will be. The exposure makes you twitch. His eyes flash up to meet yours -- dark, unreadable, devout. And then he’s feasting.

No more teasing. No more mercy.

The first lick is obscene. Broad and slow, flat of his tongue from base to tip, dragging a cry out of you that echoes off the kitchen walls.

He moans into you -- guttural, filthy, like you’ve just given him salvation. Like your taste is the only thing anchoring him back to earth.

And then he does it again. And again. And again.

Your head falls back against the table, eyes rolling, lips parted in a silent plea. Thighs trembling as he works you open, tongue curling and flicking over your clit with clinical precision. He’s not rushing. He’s dismantling. Unmaking you like muscle memory.

“Simon -- nghh oh my god -- Si,” you gasp, fingers digging harder into his scalp.

He groans in response, then sucks -- hard -- right over your clit, and your body jolts like it’s been struck by lightning.

“Fuck please -- don’t stop -- please don’t stop,” you’re babbling now, frantic and breathless.

He doesn't.

He never does.

He flattens his tongue, lets it glide over you like worship, like he’s praying at the altar of your pleasure. His grip tightens on your thighs when you start to shake, hips stuttering as the coil in your gut winds tighter and tighter, on the cusp of snapping --

And then he speaks. Low. Gravelled. The sound inside you as much as it is outside.

“Come on, birdie. Let me taste it. Let me have it all.”

The words shatter something in you.

You come with a cry at that, body seizing, legs clamping around his head. He holds you through it, relentless in his rhythm, sucking and licking until your orgasm crests and crashes, and you're left wrecked on your dining table -- gasping, twitching, drenched.

But he doesn't stop.

He wants the overstimulation. Wants the twitch in your thighs and the desperate tremble in your voice when you try to push him away, only for his hands to clutch you closer. Holding. Clawing. Unrelenting and mean.

"Too much -- too much, Si -- "

"You said you could take it."

His voice is calm. Dangerous. Almost tender.

And then -- he starts again.

Latching onto your pulsing and engorged clit like he’s got all the time in the world to make you come undone again and again. No teasing again this time though. No preamble. Just Simon -- your Simon -- devouring you like he needs the taste to keep going. Doesn't care if fat tears fall from your cheeks and you try to squirm away from his grip.

Doesn’t care that your thighs tremble violently around his ears, or that your fingernails rake through his scalp in desperate protest -- your body a livewire, every nerve screaming -- but he just groans, deep and filthy, like you’re the best thing he’s ever had in his mouth. Like he’d live here if you let him.

“Stay still,” he growls against your soaked cunt. A warning. Tongue never missing a beat, and it’s so mean, so commanding that your hips jerk toward him instead of away. Obeying. Because of course you do. Because there’s no version of you that doesn’t listen when he speaks like that.

His hands tighten like iron around your thighs, pinning you open like you’re something sacred, something feral. The burn of it all -- the scrape of stubble, the relentless drag of his tongue, the pressure building again despite the ache -- you can't breathe, can’t think, can’t be.

You sob his name.

Not even a plea this time. Just raw sound. A broken thing.

“Simon -- ”

He lifts his eyes then, dark and molten, lashes damp, lips slick and glistening with you.

"You’ll give me another," he rasps, voice so low it rumbles through your bones. “Won’t stop till you're fuckin' ruined for anyone else.”

And then he moans -- like he’s the one overwhelmed -- burying his face between your legs again, tongue stroking, flicking, curling until you feel yourself spiraling.

The edge hits harder this time.

It’s brutal.

Unforgiving.

It doesn’t creep up on you, it slams -- crashing into you like a wave made of heat and white light, and you scream scream scream, legs trembling violently, body writhing in his grip as he holds you down and makes you feel it.

Orgasm tears through you like punishment. Or mercy. Or both.

You’re sobbing now, barely able to breathe, wrecked and open and shaking -- and still he doesn’t stop. His mouth only gentles slightly, dragging your climax out till it feels like it’ll never end.

It’s not until your whole body slumps, twitching and boneless, that he finally pulls back.

Breathless.

Lips red. Chin soaked.

He stands slowly, towering, looming, and you feel small under the weight of him. He leans down, brushing his forehead to yours, voice ragged and reverent.

“Good girl,” he breathes, so soft it barely exists -- just a puff of air against your skin, but it lands like a brand. “Took it all, didn’t you? Gave me everything.”

Your eyes flutter, half-lidded and glazed, mouth parted in a silent moan. You can’t even nod. Your body’s gone -- wrecked and pliant, molded to the heat of his touch, the weight of his words.

His fingers trail down your jaw, calloused pads tracing the trembling line of your throat, your collarbone, until they settle -- possessive -- against your pulse point. He watches it beat. Watches you breathe. Like he’s making sure you’re still here. Still his.

Then, slowly -- almost reverently -- he gathers you into his arms. Lifts you off the table like you’re weightless. Precious.

You sag into him, limp and slick and dazed. Your face pressed against his neck, where sweat and salt and Simon all live. You breathe him in like medicine. Like air.

He murmurs something you can’t quite catch. Something low. Fragile. A confession meant for no one but the shell of your ear. But the way his grip tightens around you -- how his whole body clenches like he's the one barely holding on -- tells you everything you need to know.

You’re not the only one ruined.

But he wears it differently.

Masks it in control.

The shift is sudden.

Your back hits the wall with a thud -- not painful, but jarring. He pins you there, rough hands beneath your thighs, holding you up like it’s nothing. Like you’re nothing but weight for him to wield and use. The air is knocked from your lungs, more from the look in his eyes than the impact.

Dark. Possessive. Starved.

He cages you in -- arms locked, hips pressing flush to yours, the hard line of him undeniable through his gear. Still dressed. Still in uniform. You gasp, the cool of the wall behind you clashing with the heat of his body in front.

“Look at you,” he growls, low and biting, nose brushing your cheek as he presses in closer. “You let me ruin you on the fuckin’ table and now you’re trembling like a good little thing. You like that? Letting me use you like this?”

You can’t speak. Just moan, nodding weakly, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist like your body’s made to be held here. By him. Only him.

His hands slide under your thighs, rough and firm, hoisting you higher against the wall until your back arches, chest pressing into his. You feel every inch of him, steel and heat, rigid through the fabric that separates you -- and he hasn’t even bothered to take anything off. Not yet.

“You don’t even know what you look like right now,” he mutters, voice thick, almost reverent. “Drunk on it. On me.”

He rolls his hips up once -- slow, brutal -- and it knocks a cry out of you. The friction, the pressure, the weight of him. So so sensitive that the coarse fabric of his cargos meeting your overstimulated cunt ache ache ache … it’s maddening.

You whimper -- high and broken -- head falling forward against his shoulder. Fuck he was relentless. Grinding into you like he knows exactly where it hurts the most, where it makes you come alive again despite the wreckage.

"That’s it, birdie,” he snarls into your hair, breath hot. “Cry for it. I want those sweet little noises every time I move.”

Your fingers claw at the thick collar of his gear, desperate for something to anchor you, to remind you this is real -- this impossible friction, this overstimulation that’s bordering on unbearable.

And still, he doesn’t stop. He likes it like this. Likes the ache. The stretch. The mess.

“You feel that?” he grits, as he pushes his shirt higher above you to reveal your sopping and dripping cunt. Hole pulsing open and close on instinct as the tip of his fingers slowly inches there way in.

His breath shudders out when he looks down and sees it. Pupils dilating at the ravenous and erotic scene at the tip of his fingertips -- the way your cunt clenches around nothing, fluttering and desperate just for the teasing brush of his fingers.

“Fuckin’ hell baby,” he growls, almost to himself. “Look at you. Beggin' without even saying a word.”

He drags the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit -- slow, brutal -- and you jerk, another soft sob ripping out of you.

"Sensitive, yeah?" he mocks, but it’s low, almost affectionate. One thick finger presses in, breaching you just enough to feel the molten heat inside -- and you mewl, thighs trembling around his waist.

“Christ, birdie, you’re fuckin’ dripping,” he mutters, sounding wrecked, sinking the finger in deeper, to the knuckle. You squeeze around him so tight it punches a groan out of his chest.

"You’re gonna take me so good," he rasps, eyes locked to the sight of his finger fucking into you, your slick gushing around him. He adds another without warning -- a thick stretch, a sharp delicious ache -- and your head bangs softly back against the wall as you keen.

“That’s it," he hisses, scissoring them open, slow and punishing. "Stretching you nice and wide for my cock."

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. His fingers fill you, fuck into you with devastating precision, finding that gooey spot inside that makes your whole body seize and buck against him.

"Simon — fuck hic nghhh— I—" you cry, incoherent, and he smiles — cruel and sweet.

"You’ll take it, yeah?," he says, voice a razor across silk. "Every last fuckin' inch baby."

And then -- he pulls his fingers out, slow and filthy, strings of slick clinging to them. He smears it over the head of his cock as he finally frees it from his cargos -- thick, heavy, angry red -- and you sob at the sight, hips chasing him mindlessly.

"Yeah," he grunts, lining himself up. "You’re ready."

He doesn’t push in right away. Just holds you there -- suspended between the wall and the full, raw weight of him. The head of his cock resting against your entrance, twitching, aching.

His gaze stays locked on yours, as if trying to memorize this exact moment. Your blown-out pupils. The flush of your cheeks. The way you tremble even as your arms wrap tighter around his shoulders. Fuck look at that. What a sight you were. All the more reason his fingers ache with the need to kill.

To be brutal. To be mean. To tarnish and maul at his skin with the blood of a fresh kill.

All that. All this. All everything just for the taste and sight of you.

“Ready,” you repeat his words, voice barely there. A confession more than a word. A surrender.

Simon exhales, sharp through his nose like it hurts to hold back. His hands flex on your thighs, grounding himself.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, forehead pressing to yours. “I know baby. I know.”

Then, slowly -- so slowly you feel it in every breath, every nerve ending -- he begins to push forward. Not just his body, but everything. The distance. The ache. The time. All of it crashes into you in that single, intimate act of him coming home to you.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. You feel the tremor in him. Hear the way his breath shudders out as he starts to bury himself inside you. The girth and familiar width making you softly whine again at the stretch. Rarely ever used to it. To him. To his cock pushing inside of your tiny little cunt like its where it belongs. Where it has always belonged. Where it will always belong.

It’s overwhelming. Not just the stretch or the pressure -- but the intimacy of it. The gravity of being held like this. Claimed like this.

Every inch is a promise: I missed you. I’m back. I’m yours.

When he’s finally seated deep, buried to the hilt, he doesn’t move. Just holds you there, wrapped around him, trembling and gasping, your forehead still pressed together like he’s anchoring the both of you with it.

His thumb brushes under your eye, catching the silent tear that had slipped out from the overwhelming feeling.

"Shhh shhh I know baby. I know", he coos. Mocking. Soft. But with fervor and just as desperate. Jaw clenching as you involuntarily clench again as he subtly shifts to hold you closer against him.

He cradles your face like it’s something sacred, like the salt of your tears means more to him than anything he’s ever earned in blood or bone. His other arm tightens around your waist, steady and unyielding, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“I’ve got you, birdie. Got you yeah?,” he whispers, voice thick and breaking at the edges. “Not going anywhere.”

You nod, or try to. It’s more like a quiver. Because he’s right -- it’s too much. Not just the fullness of him, not just the way your body’s stretched and shaking around him, but him. The weight of what he’s giving you, of what he’s asking without words.

Stay. Hold me. Let me stay.

He pulls back just a little, hips rolling slow, testing, and you shudder as he grits his teeth and whispers a soft fuck -- gasps tangled in each other's mouths. He watches your face, like he’s chasing every shift, every stutter of breath, every half-sob. You feel bare like this -- not naked, but seen. All of you. The need, the ache, the softness you save just for him.

You wrap your arms tighter around his neck and whisper it against his jaw, breath catching:

“I missed you. So much, Si -- ”

He groans like it rips something open inside him, burying his face into the curve of your neck. You feel the heat of his breath, the way his body trembles with restraint -- and then he starts to quicken the pace. Trying to stay slow. Still reverent. But deeper. Purposeful. Like every thrust is a vow:

I’ll make it up to you. I’ll never leave you empty again.

"Bloody hell baby. So tight for me. How are you still so tight for me?"

He grits the words out like they hurt -- like the feeling of you wrapped around him is almost too much, like it’s pulling him apart thread by thread.

His forehead presses against yours again, sweat-slicked and shaking. His breath stutters against your mouth as he rocks into you, quicker now and brutal, dragging every inch of himself through your walls like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.

Legs dangling at his forearms. Caged. Spread open like velvet on his cock.

You moan something helpless, wrecked, and his hand fists against the wall beside your head as he feels you tighten against him. Your spongy walls hugging his dick tighter like it doesn't want to let him go.

“You’re all mine,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Fuck -- always been mine.”

You nod, gasping, eyes glassy. “Yours, Simon -- always, always yours.”

Something breaks behind his eyes.

He groans like it’s too much, too tight, too perfect, and then he slams his hips up into you with more force that knocks the air from your lungs. Once. Twice. A rhythm that’s no longer careful -- it’s desperate. Relentless. You feel it in your spine, in your ribs, in the heat curling low and fast in your belly. Pushing all the way to the hilt until he feels himself punch his way into a deeper part of you.

The tip of his hard cock hitting your cervix. The sudden and surprising intrusion making you gasp and scream. Nails unconsciously clawing at his arms, back, and chest. Quivering at the sensation as you whine. Eyes rolling at the back of your head at the almost painful feeling.

But that sight. God that sight and feel of you makes him growl and grow even quicker. Unmerciful. Mean. Brutish. Unable to stop as he thrusts again and again into your cervix at a bruising pace. Not caring if your mouth remains half-open in a silent scream at the overwhelming and paralyzing feeling.

The wet slide of him inside you, the sound of skin on skin, his name -- gasped, choked — on your lips over and over like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You feel that?” he growls, one hand gripping your ass, the other splayed over your lower back, holding you in place while he fucks you up higher against the wall. Legs stretched wider in his arms to the point that it aches your thighs. Using your hole like it was nothing more than a fleshlight. “Feel how deep I am? How perfect you are for me, birdie?”

You whimper, head falling back against the wall, letting him take, letting him have.

And still, somehow, it feels like giving.

He grunts, the sound guttural, vibrating against your skin as he drives deeper, harder, chasing something feral between your bodies. His cock drags against every sensitive nerve inside you, thick and hot and relentless -- and you can’t think, can’t breathe -- there’s only Simon, only the rough rhythm of him pounding into you, the overwhelming fullness, the heat building tighter and tighter until you’re right there again, on the knife’s edge.

He feels it -- the way your body clenches around him, desperate and fluttering -- and he snarls, fucking you harder against the wall, like he’s trying to carve his name into your very bones. Punching deeper and deeper into your womb like there was any more space left for him to worm his way into.

“Shhhh I know baby. I know -- fuck -- That’s it, baby -- take it, take all of me,” he pants, forehead pressed hard to yours, sweat dripping from his temples. “You were made for me. Fuckin’ made for me.”

Your legs quake around his hips, nails raking down the broad span of his back, and you sob his name, high and broken, as your orgasm tears through you -- blinding, brutal, endless.

You’re still coming when he continues to thrust again -- deep, possessive -- pulling another cry from your lips that’s more instinct than sound. Groaning lowly as you whimper at the overstimulated feeling.

“Si -- I can’t -- I just -- ”

But he’s already shaking his head, mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw, your lips.

“Yes you can,” he breathes, voice ragged. “You will. Gonna give me everything, birdie. fuck fuck yeah like that -- Every fuckin’ time.”

And he keeps moving, hips grinding into the heat of you, wet and pulsing and too much -- but not enough. Not for him.

Your whole body trembles, wrecked and overstimulated, your fingers digging into his shoulders like they’re the only solid thing left. And maybe they are. Maybe he is.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours again, eyes wild and wide. “You squeeze me like you don’t wanna let go. Like you can’t.”

You sob, raw and breathless, head falling back -- and he chases it, kisses your throat like a man starving.

“I’m not stopping,” he whispers against your skin. “Not ‘til I know you feel it. Every part of you. Every breath. Every fuckin’ heartbeat — mine.”

You can only whine, tears starting to fall down your cheeks in both pain and pleasure. Bordering on hurt and the aching feeling to please and feel all of him after so long

"Said you can take it didn't you birdie? -- Yeah fuck -- So you will yeah?"

Fifth, huh?

Oh, it was setting in - fuck, was he feeling it. You were so pretty underneath him, sweat-slicked body splayed out all shamefully for him, slurring words barely coherently. And Toji couldn’t even keep his eyes open, stars popping up behind his lids at every one of your velvety clenches, abs burning with each ravaged mash of his overworked, weepy head against your ravaged g-spot.

Fingers jittery where he’s hauling your body desperately to his muscled one. Clinging onto you so close - like a lifeline - that you could hear every tremoringly quiet ah! ah ah! following those long, solid glides, feel his happy trail scratching against your sluttily arched back. 

It almost hurt - but it hurt so good, that even after painting your gluey, sloshing insides white four times tonight already, Toji wanted more more more-

A bludgeoning knee comes down to shove your thighs spread even wider, spreading your puffy pussy lips so gapingly around his thick shaft. 

“Oh sh-shit.” he’s hissing. And Toji Fushiguro never stutters, he never throws his head back to let out such pained whimper like this.“Such a f-filthy pussy.” His pretty pink lips purse to spit a languid wad of his spit down on the bullseye of your slobbering cunt. The chilling dredges oozing a slow trail down your split-open pussy. “The fifth time- n’ y’pretend like this cute cunt of yours can’t handle more of me.”

“Ngh-” your teeth are clamping around one of the cushiony pillows, trembly fingers scrambling jerkily at the headboard, the plush mattress, anything- “You’re in s-so deep- feels like m’gonna pass out. How the hell are you still going?”

Toji rolls his eyes, acting for all the world like those whiny little words of yours don’t have his red, angry tip painting your insides with another honeyed coat of his sweltering precum. “Told ya not to hah- test me doll- just had to run that pretty mouth, huh?”

You’re keening when all five of his calloused fingers come up to smush your cheeks together embarrassingly, “Saying m’not gonna last going in raw- look where ya are now.” Toji’s craning his head to leave wet little kisses up your spine, your jaw, your forehead. Fully bending you in half to meet his lips, angling his riotous hips to graze his sensitive slit right against the swollen, bruised divots on your cervix. “Look where I am- I can’t stop.” 

And your hypnotized hips can only manage to give a last sticky heave meeting Toji’s drunken staccato before splaying limply down on the bed. Moaning around the lewd sucking of his lips around your heavy tongue. 

“No- no come back- shit, m’not-” He’s slowly losing control of those lingering thrusts, desperation bleeding into the way his big arms frantically circle around your weakening waist. Dragging you up, up, up like some glorified ragdoll, “How are ya n-not able to keep up when you hah- came up with the idea, ma.” And for all how gentle he’s being suckling on your pouty lower lip, one hand of his glides down easily to cup at your bulging pussy. Smearing in another quick, branding stream of saliva on your struggling, swollen folds spread so lewdly open around his thick hilt, “Ohhh, gonna make a man lose his sanity with a pussy this heavenly. Doesn’t seem so fair now, does it?”

That delirious little shake of your head makes him bare his canines in a grin, smiling at how utterly fucked-out you were on his mean cock. There’s a lazy, glistening trail of drool at the corner of your lips that Toji idles out his hot tongue to lick away, “Now now. Why don’t you- ah- use those words like a big girl, huh?” 

“Hah- didn’t-” those wet gurgles bubble at your throat, dying down after each harsh clash into your most sensitive spot. He’s reaching every nook and cranny inside of you - drilling cock expanding even girthier with each heady second. “Didn’t think you’d get so-” Another pretty glob of spit onto your cunt, “-addicted!”

“Well, what can I- hah- say?” Each taunting word is pushing you further and further up the bed, Toji’s tense hips hammering into you with no rhythm and rhyme now. Just lingering, mindless grinds chasing that painfully good smack! of his heavy, cum-filled balls at your ass, “When- ngh- when life gives you a wife this cute-”

You think he’s cumming - you think you’re cumming. But you can’t even be fully sure at this point, your own high nothing more than a few white-hot tingles, Toji’s overwhelmed cock straining to squeeze out a few more wispy strings of his milky seed. Until you were drenched in a silky coating down your inner thighs, beading pearly drops of his seed and your sweet sweet juices. To stuff you full even more.“-fuck her at least five times.”

“At- at least?”

Toji grins, “At least.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - As many as you can take (and a lil’ more!)

“My love.” Two soft pads of Nanami’s long fingers tap gently on your cheek, lingering when he lovingly cups your glossy pout. “My love.”

Biting your lip, you whine at his heated intrusion at your pretty cunt. Free hand thumbing open your soppingly wet slit to spread even wider around his thick hilt, scratching up so rawly against those neat tufts of blond at his sharp pelvis. “N’nothing, s’just that- hahh–” cocking your head to nuzzle his large palm, “You’re not- not tired, Ken?”

“Doesn’t matter.” he breathes, minty hot breath fanning your face when he leans in. And you think he’s going to kiss you - to maybe mouth away those big fat, overstimulated tears rolling down your face - but instead, Nanami’s stern lips wrap around your lolling tongue. Sucking. Moaning so depravedly. “All that matters is that- hngh- that–” Splaying out all five fingers on your stomach, pressing down hard where he can feel the divot of his very head, “-the mother of my future kids s’doing alright.”

He can feel that rotund clenching of your snug channel, the way your pussy grows increasingly more soaked with every stuttering nudge at your g-spot. 

When the heady bedroom air is only punctuated with a few sticky squelches from your cunt Nanami has to grit out - to force himself to speak. “Please-” hissing at the velvety silk or his seed swirling around your hole, it makes his toes curl, overworked balls squeeze achingly. Shit. “Give me an answer- please, darling, your cunt s’driving me insane. Fuck- I’ve- I’ve lost count at this point how many times I-”

At this, you can’t help but giggle. Reaching up to lick at the stray, glistening tear falling down his sharp cheekbone, “Are- are you crying, Ken?” The heels of your trembly feet curl tightly against the sinful dimples at the end of his spine, plunging him even deeper into the gloopy bottom of your pussy. “Can’t take any more?”

“No!” Nanami’s usually steady voice just cracks pitifully at the end. “No no no- just- hngh! I can take it- can give y’more. Anything for you, ma.”

Each of his hammering thrusts are slowly getting meaner. Slowly losing control. They’re haphazardly alternating between long, thorough slams of his entirely swollen length to mere jutting, half-thrusts - as if it just pained him to part with your clingy pussy more than that. 

And, shit, he’s so thick - so jaw-slackingly hefty when he twitches animalistically against all your sensitive spots. Gliding in solid, wet smears of his leaky tip against your cervix reminding you of the sheer strength he held. Fucking you so mean, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it - tired, fatigued body moving on animal instinct.

“Darling–” Nanami’s wet croon has you blinking away the lusty haze in your pupils, locking them with his own blown-out ones. “Eyes on me- have to make sure you can- ngh-” You can hear his jaw click with strain when you’re giving an experimental squeeze of your velvety cunt, “-m-me. Hafta make sure you can take it- you can take it, right?”

You’re gasping out brokenly, nodding in response to his question - thighs jittery and you don’t know whether you want to run or fuck yourself back down for more more more-

“Then why are you running, ma?”

Just as those billowing words leave his mouth, Nanami’s falling back onto his thick thighs, grabbing your body right along to seat you prettily down his brutal dick. It was devastating. It was sloppy how silky, stringy ropes of cum were rushing down in a glossy coat. Smacking so sluggishly down below.

“Wh-what?” you’re batting your teary lashes, jaw hanging open at just how much this didn’t sound like your usually gentle husband. Deep voice jagged, gutturally dangerous - he was talking to you in a steady, hard tone as if you were some prey. Setting his lewd sights on you to mash up even harder into your pretty cunt. 

He’s breathing out shakily in a way that told you he was getting close, thighs aching, red tip so angry and flinching in such a dizzy way. “Why- are- you-” The metal band of his gold wedding ring burns into your heated skin, digging possessively when he hauls you close. “-running away? Don’t- don’t think you can escape, darling.”

Those drenched silk sheets bunch up messily behind you at just how firmly he was halting your escape. “S’jus’-” you’re whining, in that syrupy sweet tone that makes him only grow painfully harder. Stiffening his back to drill copious inches, he’s tracing his fingertips back across your stomach. “-you’re in so deep. Think m’- hah, think m’getting close.”

“A-ah– of course you are.” he whimpers, tone lilting upwards at the end. It was just so stimulating how you were taking him so well despite being stuffed to the brim, overflowing in a creamy sheen. “Gotta- gotta get my pretty lady to cum- ngh! Breed her pussy full.” And oh, despite how composed Nanami seemed on the outside you could sense the waver in his words, the way his ruthless pace was evening out to something more messy. Untamed. “Make her the most beautiful momma.”

Brows knitting deeper and deeper every, it hurt - fuck, but it hurt more to not stuff you full until you were round and glowing. To leave even the tiniest chance of you being carried out of this bedroom without carrying his future kid. 

“You can do it- cum f’me.” It’s almost like he’s whispering to himself at this point, stamina withering. One hand of his guides your other own down from your searing grip on his unkept strands, down past his tear-slicked cheeks, down past his wobbly plump lips. Wrapping your fingers tightly around Nanami’s pale neck, forcing your nails to dig into the sweat-beaded skin. “Cum f’me- jus this once, because after this time m’not gonna be playing nice, my love.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - 7 rounds

“Shhh, gorgeous.” Geto’s hushed, smooth voice in your ear would almost be soothing, his large thumb gliding against the very peak of your puffed-up clit almost distracting- “S’all part of your special initiation.”

If it wasn’t for the rest of the cult standing behind those semi-sheer watching all of this happen to you, that is. 

Ah, you didn’t know whether that syrupy sweet idea of a special initiation - a rite of passage “just for you” - had you joining Geto’s religious association even sooner.  

Because here you were - your thighs burning with the relentless stretch of Geto’s forearms hooked underneath them, spreading you so fucking shamelessly towards where the countless others in the group were stood behind the covering around the creaky bed. A barely-there sense of privacy while he just ravaged you into the meanest full nelson possible. 

“Oh- fuuuck–” Geto’s groaning at your drunken little squirms on his cock, mouth salivating at the wet squelches being wrenched out with each pressurized thrust. “Just one more round now- come on, seven’s my lucky number. And y’wanna hngh- finish the initiation- right, pretty girl?”

His two strong legs plant even more vice-like on the absolutely drenched sheets, seeping into the creamy puddle of cum and honeyed slick spreading further and further each obscene second. 

That lolling nod of your delirious head has him crashing his sensitive, throbbing tip against your spongy g-spot, already so branded with the bruises of his divot. Holding back each whine after whine threatening to drag out from his throat when your swollen lips meet his in a sloppy graze of a kiss.

Shit, you were so cute - no wonder he had the fucking brilliant idea of fucking you like this. Even if it hurt - even if his achy cock was rubbing raw, over and over and-

“Aww, my pretty baby wants a kiss?” Geto’s leering grin only grows when he glides a dripping coat of wispy precum right across the back of your cervix, it’s so hot inside you - and you feel drunk off of every ooze of his cum from before, sloshing down in a milky white sheen. “Well not until you hngh-” He’s moving to bite down onto your earlobe, pussydrunk mind wondering whether your gummy walls were shaping around every ridge and vein of his shaft by now. “-cum f’me once more.”

“S-Sugu–” your eyes are rolling to the back of your head at the warm, wet cascade of his juices down your thighs, slipping and sliding you easily down his girthy length. “Don’t know if I- if I can cum- hah-” That admonishing smack! on your achy clit is taken in stride, gaping your gummy entrance even wider to swallow his every fucking inch greedily. “But- but I wanna. Wanna cum f’you so badly.”

There’s a muted shuffling from behind the curtains that have Geto’s darkened eyes narrowing in hostility, and he’s possessively turning his head to take in that sinful view of you down below. 

Shit- he could’ve almost came from just the sheer sight. The sight of your glisteningly puffy folds stretched to their limits around the creamy translucent ring around his thick hilt. Velvety walls contorting to massage his attritioning veins, grinding in thorough, purposeful gyrations against his heavily twitching balls. 

You were taking him so good.

And Geto’s never been more happy you couldn’t see the full plane of his face. Eyes rolling to the back of his head at the mere sight, teeth biting down on his plump lower lip as if to draw blood. 

“Then do it.” Geto’s biceps just bulge against the small of your waist when they dig into a restraining loop around your body, pinning you down so helplessly to his sculpted front. “Cum f’me like a good girl then. Show me, show them-” The hand not rolling over your sensitive clit dips upwards to angle your face towards the still-watching crowd. His lips are drag so slowly at your heated ear, “-show them what a good girl you are f’me.”

Your cute, wobbly lips cry out in a broken little whine - and then your slutty cunt is just gushing down the entirety of Geto’s furious front. Slobbering a glossy, glossy sheen that coats his milky skin, syrupy and sticking - meshing your bodies so close together he doesn’t know where you begin and where he ends. 

”Good girl- good- hah- good girl.” Geto’s gritting out, trying for all the world to not sound as wrecked as he feels right now. Fuck, ignoring the spiking sensitivity, the stars behind his eyes to chase every little suck of your sopping wet walls, thighs trembly, eyes crinkling with such pathetically big tears. Shit, he’s pussydrunk. Only babbling out, “Ohhh- so perfect f’me, right? Even squirting- too generous f’me, gorgeous.”

It only takes a few more gasps from his ragged chest - heaves even. Delicately pink tip stuffing you so wholly full it’s like you’re about to explode, and Geto’s not too far behind. 

Not at all, in fact, with the way a final, harsh nudge against your springy cervix has him spurting out ribbons of creamy white cum. Oozing out in a thick, viscous polish that drools out of your bulging slit. Leaving a lewd trail of evidence where Geto’s fat cock was rummaging your poor insides. Over and over until he’s shooting nothing but blanks.

And it’s so hot, that you can almost feel it in your lungs. Limbs twitching mindlessly, he’s finding it easy to pull out - to display the gloopy filling lazily trickling out of you. Those slender fingers of his on your clit dance just downwards to circle the ring of your sloppy hole, swirling around that messy gloss. He coats his fingers until they just gleam in the dim lighting. Around and around. 

With a look of pure, unfiltered pride Geto clears his throat authoritatively. Jolting, you realize he’s not addressing you this time, “Everyone, say hello to your new second-in-command.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 6 rounds

Choso thinks he’s cumming - Choso thinks he’s crying, begging out such broken little pleas in your open mouth. He’s wrapping five pale, jittery fingers of his around the furiously red base of his cock, angling the bulbous head of his fat tip just right to press deeply into your greedy entrance. 

“Oh!” you’re smirking down at your best friend, biting back a wrecked moan at just how much he was stretching you, barely even reeling back at the brief resistance. His shredded patience can only wait a beat - two - more watching the snug channel of your cunt gush down in thick, hot streams of his seed from earlier, before bucking his hips up, up up- “Even five times wasn’t enough for you? What did I hah- tell ya about th-the-”

“I know I know, m’sorry, baby–” Choso cries, dark lashes batting at his cheeks when his eyes scrunch up into a pathetic bawl. “M’sorry I accidentally ate your- your ‘special chocolate’ but I fuck- it feels like m’burning all over. Like m’gonna die if I don’t fuck your cute cunt.”

And yet his bruising grip on your hips don’t waver, he’s still prying down your sticky body onto his, strong arms wrenching open your thighs to straddle him even wider. Still so needy - so hot all over with the itching greed to fuck you until one of you breaks.

Truly, it was a surprise to come home and find out your sweet best friend had raided that joke stash of aphrodisiac chocolate gifted by your coworkers last week - a welcome surprise. 

Because here he was - splayed out on your drenched silken sheets, big fat tears glistening across his cheekbones, toned body jolting so harshly at each one of your touches. So pussydrunk that you almost wondered whether it hurt, how his poor, overworked cock wasn’t fucking seizing at this point.

And even if it did, Choso wouldn’t complain - not one bit. 

“Please-” his breath comes out in a feverish puff, as wild as the fingers now toying with your swollen clit. Smearing the creamy dredges of his seed all over your puffed-up folds in tight little circles over and over and- 

Slam!

In a split-second, Choso’s hands are being pinned above his head. It would’ve looked almost comical - your much smaller ones restraining his own, fingers twitching animalistically with every sloppy drag down his pulsingly needy length - but oh, was Choso letting you. Letting himself be used like your favorite toy. 

“You’re being real greedy, Cho–” your teasing voice sends shivers wracking down his entire body. Powerful thighs bucking up in pressurized ruts up into your squelching cunt. “First you ate my- hah- secret stash, n’ now you’re being so hasty makin’ me cum.”

Each one of your words are punctuated by a sticky slam down onto his slowly-reddening pelvis, the fat of your ass being smacked with his sharp hipbones. You were riding him to insanity. 

“Yes!” Choso’s jaw hangs deliriously open, rosy red lips forming around your name again and again like a mantra. “M’so greedy- so greedy for your pretty pussy.” He whines, and just the feeling of your velvety walls milking his fat length for so long has his syrupy mess of a mind thrown into such a primal frenzy. “Can’t help it when you’re so heavenly, baby– K-keep wantin’ to fuck this cunt forever.”

The painful pull of your fingers weaving into his dark strands have him keening, latching onto the very tips of your sensitive nipples bouncing temptingly onto his face. “Can’t help it.” he echoes, swirling his hot tongue around your sweet areola, looking up at you with his gorgeously glassy, dark eyes. “Really can’t help it.”

There’s such a sickly, syrupy sweet staccato of Choso’s probing tip pressing deep into the drippingly wet g-spot inside you. And slowly - but steadily - your deft fingers find themselves dancing a path down to wrap around Choso’s heavily gulping throat. Breath hitching when they squeeze-

“Cum f’me, Cho-” he raises his lolling head up to meet yours, meshing back into a messy excuse of a kiss. Your teeth sink down to tug on his pouty bottom lip, fingers tightening, “Cum f’me- s’all to cure you of this chocolate after a-all, right?” 

At the reminder of that, his wrists try to wrench useless in your other hand’s vice-like hold. And honestly, Choso doesn’t know if he wants to cum again - he doesn’t know if he can. But the soft clingy feeling of your walls against his girthy shaft have him gasping, poor, overworked balls so raw. Tight and clenching painfully with every crashing push into your g-spot. He’s absolutely ruined. 

And both of you know it.

Oh, his head was so light now - your fingers vice-like around his pale throat. The only thing that Choso can seem to urgently choke out right about now is a honeyed, dragged-out drawl of, “Spit-” His wild cock leaking hot precum in another drippingly saturated wave everywhere, “Spit in my mouth, baby–”

And you do - that translucent wad of saliva barely hitting right in the middle of Choso’s lolling-out tongue before he cums. That ravaged divot on the very tip of his fat head stuttering out only one, two tiny beads of milky seed before he’s riding out such an addictively dry orgasm. 

Dewy eyes rolling to the back of his head, body sweat-slicked and clinging onto yours with creamy strings of cum and spit. So desperate when he’s fucking into you so filthy, pummelling you along the curve of his length like he was trying to drag out another milky stream of seed. Again and again and-

It takes only a split-second to break out of your hold - of course, it does - and you’re barely even registering it when Choso pins you back onto the sloppy mess of your soaked sheets. Hips still relentless, voice still ragged- “Think we’re gonna hafta hah- skip the dating n’ go straight to marriage after this, baby.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 8 (and a half) rounds

If there was ever a time that the infamous king of curses would let out raspy little whimpers of his baritone voice - muscled just heaving deep gasps, looking at you all four eyes glistening with wet tears, hearts in his gaze - it would be right now. 

When the day sitting around his throne had been too long, when there’d been just a few too many scum curses groveling at his feet. 

When you were sprawled all prettily on his muscular, manspread thighs, your expensive robes pulled up just enough for that gummy cunt of yours to stretch open gapingly around his two matchingly rock-hard cocks. The plush of your ass on full, obscene display for him, limbs twitching with each swallowed-up inch down his fat, throbbing lengths. 

“Fuuck- take it easy, woman.” he’s hissing, powerful hip rutting upwards to skim his sensitive tip over the ends of your slobbering pussy. 

That has you pouty tearily, huffing out a low, “W-well- jus’ want you to hngh- be right-” Skittish fingers fluttering over to where you could feel him coating every hidden spot of your insides in his potent seed, angry cockhead bruising your taut channel more and more open around him. It was such a delicious stretch. And you’re pressing down where you can feel the divot of his head knock feverishly on your womb, splattering around milky dredges inside you, “-here.” 

Sukuna’s hips just surge forwards, like he didn’t even realize what he was doing. 

“Kuna- wh-wha-” you’re barely able to get out, whirling your head half-lucidly over your shoulder. But you don’t get very far - because one domineering palm hastily turns your face right back. “What are you-”

“No.” he’s letting out a strangled moan, leaving neat little indentations of his black, sharpened fingernails on your skin. “No you don’t get to- oh–” In a flash, sharp canines are digging menacingly right above the pulsepoint on your throat, and his hot breath fans over your ear. “Ah- y’don’t get to see me hngh- like this- fuckin’ embarrassing. I can’t even-” 

Sukuna’s cutting himself off by getting up onto two unsteady feet, holding you plastered so close onto his bowed body. The position is so precarious that for a second you’re worried, wondering how the hell the two of you haven’t broken any bones these past eight rounds. 

It’s his reversed curse technique, you later learn - but for now all you can do is gasp at your legs dangling in midair, spine arched back against his bulging pecs in a perfect arch, raising your head up, up, up and oh-

His eyes are aflame, glowing through the hypnotically dim lighting. Teeth bared into such a vicious grin one which only curls wider when you ask, “C-can’t even what, Kuna?”

He hisses down at the absolutely sultry look on your face - kiss-bitten lips falling slack into a soft oh! eyes half-lidded and miles away, your moans ringing through his ears like his favorite melody. “Heh- the fuckin- ah-” Another staggering push past your clingy sopping walls have him spitting out little swears, vision blurring dangerously at the corners. “-the fuckin’ audacity t-to ask me that, knowing what yer doing to me. S’pposed to help me relax but you’re hngh- driving me insane.”

You swear, you could feel his bulbous heads grow even thicker, expanding their way into contorting your gripping walls around his very shape. The even deeper intrusion has him throwing his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing with a dragged out moan of your name. 

A limp hand of yours dares to thread its way into Sukuna’s, tugging - pulling, “Look at me, please–?” And when he finally does - though, not before punishing the curve of your ass with such a stinging smack - you smirk, “Look so- ngh! pretty when you’re ruined like this, Kuna.”

That makes him falter - it makes his eyes grow just a bit wider, the insides of your elastic cunt being inflated open with another fresh wave of his furiously leaking precum. 

“Don’t-” Sukuna clears his throat of any traitorous dredges of a whimper, “Don’t push your- your luck, brat.”

But he couldn’t hide the fondness in his tone, that tiny little drawl of a whimper in his words. Heavy, pink lashes clumping up together with his overstimulating tears. It only takes a few more solid rams into your sweet hole - milking the bloated ends of his lengths for something delicious - a few more sharp, branding slams of his curving balls against your cunt. So large and aching for release that when they do, the sheer volume of Sukuna’s cum makes you dizzy.

Double the amount. It overspills, splattering half the thick, silky contents onto the decadent throne room floor. Soiling a sinful little puddle that he just can’t help but smile at, tutting mockingly, “Now now, look what you’ve done- making things even- hngh! even more stressful f’me now with this to clean up.” 

Out of his four beefy arms, two of them pin your own easily behind your back, the other dipping down to roll your puffed-up clit between his thick index and thumb. And the last one- fuck, the last one was pooling all the milky white ribbons of cum slobbering out of your stretched-out entrance. Velvety spurts dousing your walls once more - and he’s having so much fun, molding out your gummy cunt around to squeeze his fingers right in-between his two cocks. 

Still rutting into you - still cumming from both heads - every jackhammering thrust sparks stars behind his eyes. Back muscles curving deeper and deeper into you when he replaces every dredge of cum oozing down your saturated slit with a new one. The thrumming hum of his jujutsu making you keen-

“So messy. Such a filthy cunt my woman has-” he sighs, in a dark little way you knew meant he was just seconds away from tearing you apart. “Hmmm…wonder if it’ll be more relaxing. if I cum dry?”

♡ GOJO SATORU - RIP.

The strongest looks up at you with big, teary blue eyes, long lashes twinkling his pretty cheekbones every time he’s batting them. “Please. Just the tip-”

“Toru-”

“Please.” Gojo whimpers out, two of his massive hands laying at rest on the curving globes of your ass. Squeezing. Kneading you desperately in shallow, lazy grinds up and down his furiously leaky cock, “Please, sweetheart, don’t think I can handle cockwarming.” His abds are aching when they flex upwards towards you, “Haven’t had my hngh- fill just yet.”

You’re gasping when he has the audacity to give your plump clit a sharp smack! the pressurized buzz of his jujutsu from earlier sending white-hot electricity running down your arched spine. Splaying your cunt so deliciously to massage against your bulging g-spot. “N-nice try.” you grit out, legs trembling at the feeling of his thick, potent cum sliding out of your surprised entrance. “But I don’t think you’re ready- you’ve already set the lights off with your jujutsu being overstimulated, Toru.”

“Jus’ the tip- m’kay? Just the tip, I swear-” If you were of a clearer state of mind maybe you’d have pointed out that Gojo was well past the tip at this point. Feeling his fat head curve at your womb, knocking in a merciless, methodical pace. “Just missed you so much today- hah- gotta make up for lost time.”

He flashes you a devilish grin - one you’re somewhat ashamed to admit has your sopping cunt drip down a fresh sheen of your sweet sweet juices down his curvaceous length. Pooling at his frantically, painfully squeezing balls. 

And Gojo notices - of course, he does - even with his six eyes getting a bit too bleary right about the eighth? ninth? round. Ah, fuck, it didn’t matter anyway- 

“Then- then that’s good, isn’t it? Lights out- across all of hah- Tokyo, I bet.” His wretchedly strained tone is so different from the incessant pace of his bullying cock. Bludgeoning deep into your most secure spots, he’s nudging apart every velvety crevice of your walls, making such a mess of the creamy white seed of his dripping from the inside. Gliding his nose up the sweat-slicked column of your throat, “So really- we have nothing better to do. How about you- hngh- let me paint this pretty pussy white all over again?”

Of course, you wanted him to - but it was so fun how your barest tease makes Gojo fall apart. Pouty lips running a mile a minute.

His words are almost sleepy, and both of you aren’t even lucid enough to do anything about the ever-spreading puddle of cum and slick right below you. Meshing your lips drunkenly in an intoxicatingly sloppy kiss, “Come onnnn–” he’s babbling at your pointed silence. “One more? M’begging- begging, sweetheart. You got the strongest on his ah- knees n’ unable to use his powers.”

You knew so many people - so many curses - would kill to have Satoru Gojo all helpless like this. His lips moving faster than his overstimulated mind right now, drool dripping down the side of his rosy red mouth. So sensitive right now - unable to fight back. The only show of his previous prowess of strength being a stray flicker of blue lightning at his eyes when you’re cushioning his fat length with your clingy walls just a bit too hard, 

He’s heaving now - gasping deep, lungfuls of air every time his bruising grip is just bouncing your pliant body erratically down onto his. Wreckless, lunging slams that have your knees weak, stars flickering behind your lids. 

“Come on- come onnn–” He spits so syrupy sweetly into your panting, open mouth. Slender fingers wrapping around your clit, and it just throbs with the steady hum of his reversed curse technique. Stopping the two of you from breaking bones - because shit, how the hell is Gojo going to fuck up into you like an animal. Desperate little pleas of yes! yes! yes! wrenching from you at the stimulation. “Give it t’me, missed so much when you were gone out today. Please-”

“Hngh! S’too- too-” you’re drawling out incoherent sentences to match his. “Yeah- fuck yes- jus’ like that, Toru–” 

It’s only because of Gojo’s ungodly stamina that he was even able to last this long - the fact that he hadn’t fucked himself into a stupor at this point. And that’s the only thing, along with a few fumes of his reversed curse technique that have him careening smacking away your pathetic attempts to meet his thrusts.

The sensitivity too much, that he’s bawling - unable to handle the saturated drags of your slobbering pussy down his raw shaft. Mouth lolling open when you feel two big arms circle around your waist, mumbling tearily, “Wait- fuck hold that- think m’-” Like something snaps in the air.

Because then he’s cumming - at least, Gojo can feel himself cumming. This time, there’s no shattering of lightbulbs, no gleaming power in his pupils, because his poor body was too fucked-out for this. Too tired to do anything but have his heavy, strained-out balls just clench, shooting up wispy blanks into your readily swallowing pussy. 

“Oh!” he’s throwing his head back at the sheer overwhelming pleasure, beading out only a few, pearly little beads of sticky seed. But fuck, was Gojo riding out his high - riding out yours. Fucking you through each convulsing little clench of your silky cum-slicked walls, a high you’ve barely even registered still. “I don’t- I don’t know if I-”

“Don’t, Toru.” you warn, but it’s too late - only one, fleeting glance at your prettily stuffed pussy, the creamy little outer ring on your entrance, the way your puffy folds are just quivering like you’re in need of more - has Gojo intaking a sharp gasp. 

His wrecked eyes widen, looking almost afraid. Breath hitching, his words are shrill - barely audible, “Think- think we haven’t made up for lost time yet, sweetheart.”

“Toru, I was gone for five hours.”

“And?”

A/N. Gojo nation will we get a comeback today plsplspls?!