》Gay on sideblog

POV: You're watching two of the finest men you know about to fuck like wild animals...

It's official. You hate Ghost. You hate Ghost with the force of a thousand fucking suns. Fuck him.

And fuck König, too, for cosigning this bullshit. Fuck both of them. You hope the glare you shot Simon got your point across.

Yeah, you hate them right now, but goddamn... they're fucking beautiful like this. And you can't do a damn thing about it.

It all started when Simon fucking snapped earlier. König got the best of him again and the bastard took it personally. Again. And in pure Ghost fashion, he shot the Austrian his signature glare and if you didn't know Simon well, you'd think he was trying to kill König ten times over with the way he was looking at him. But he wasn't. Not really. Not unless you count sex as murder.

Simon glared, body taut, and it was a mixture of frustration and pure unadulterated want. And poor König, looking startled, somewhat wary, and... oh—

Hard. They're both hard. Oh shit. When did that happen?

It was like a flash. They were staring each other down and next thing you know, Simon managed to tackle and pin König down on the floor. Oh shit. Bet y'all weren't expecting that.

Time to intervene—"Sit down." Huh? Say what now? "Simon—" "Sit. Down." You wanted to challenge him but... consequences, baby. And his voice sent shivers down your spine. So you sat. And you watched with rapt attention. And so was König, apparently. Huh. You thought he'd be more resistant to whatever was happening but he was just as interested in seeing this through as you were. Hell, you both wondered what the fuck Ghost was going to do next.

Well, you two didn't have to wonder long. Ghost practically ripped König's clothes off him he was so damn aroused. And oh, poor König, shocked and startled and hard and leaking... and, oh god. Fuck, Ghost...

His clothes came off just as quickly. And to hell with foreplay. Nah, it's all or nothing with this. No preparation, no fucking kisses, just the main course, a rush of adrenaline and pure and utter hate.

Goddamn, you remember the last time you and Simon hatefucked. Felt like you couldn't walk or see straight for the rest of the fucking day. Now it was König's turn. You squeezed your thighs together and bit your lip to suppress a moan of pleasure. Oh, you felt yourself getting hot. But Simon had you both fooled. No words. No indication. Just adrenaline and pure and utter hate. Shocking, wasn't it? The bastard just grabbed König's dick and made himself home on it. Slowly. Almost too fucking slow for your tastes. And König's. German curses under his breath, fingers twitching, and frustration emanating off of him in droves. And Simon's groan didn't make shit any better. ("F-Fucking hell...")

And what do you know? The motherfucker wouldn't even give König the satisfaction of touching him. Practically snarled the moment he tried to grab hold of his hips and pull him down even further. But fuck that noise. Simon didn't give a damn (well he did but that's not the point right now). Hope it felt so goddamn good he'd go insane. God, what was wrong with him? It hurt so damn much; his body was on fire but fuck if it didn't feel good, if his baby didn't feel good inside him. Fucking bastard.

It wasn't long (it felt like it though) before König was completely sheathed in Simon and it felt like you three were falling apart at the seams. Yeah, shit like this couldn't wait. Simon grabbed the taller man by his chin and made him look ("Look at me."), made him watch as—oh fuck, the way he moaned, the way he started to move, to make his taller lover fucking groan and come undone. And fuck you, König. He'd show you he could beat you where it counts. He'd show you who bested who in the end.

König couldn't complain, his breath was too busy being taken away, and hell, you weren't that far behind, watching the scene unfold before you, knowing that Simon would and could make this last as long or as short as he wanted to.

So yeah, fuck you Ghost, and fuck you, König for making this shit so. fucking. beautiful. Goddamn...

Chaos doesn't always have to be bad, you know.

Take for instance the bed. After some good sex. The bed that'll be a fucking mess.

Pillows everywhere (you swear you have more pillows than you do blankets; thank the Pillow Princess for that), covers thrown haphazardly, and you'll be there, sweaty and sated, resting in a pile of muscled arms, legs, and chest.

You usually don't know who the hell you're laying on you're so fucked out but damn their chest feels good.

Heh. You thought your libido was high but König and Simon got you beat there, too. By miles. Holy fucking shit. You and König also joke that Simon's the slut of the three of you. The bastard doesn't deny it, either.

As much as Simon and König love you, best believe there's always a competition between the two men when it comes to you sexually.

You'll also find out that the winner of their sparring matches is also the one who gets to fuck you first.

Those hands of König's aren't just good with a knife. He can make you come with those fingers alone.

He's also the one who loves to go down on you (this isn't to say that Simon doesn't). Will feast on you forever if you let him. Will also encourage (read: command) you to fuck his mouth or ride his face.

Dirty talk — Simon is a fucking pro. While König's showing you what his mouth does, Ghost is practically growling in your ear and telling you everything they'll do to you. Everything.

They can and will subject you to some orgasm denial if you wanna fuck around and find out, too.

And oh baby, when you get down on your knees and return the favor... it takes everything in them not to bust right then and there.

König goes crazy when you suck the head of his dick. Simon has this one vein on the underside of his. That's his weak spot. Have fun.

König loves it when you run your nails down his back while he's fucking you. Loves to see those marks in the mirror.

You also found that one spot on Simon's shoulder that if you bite down on it, the fucker goes crazy.

He loves covering you in hickeys, too.

König is the gentle but firm kisser. Simon is the passionate, tongue-fuck, bite-your-lip-and-leave-a-mark kisser. So bite his lower lip and leave a mark, goddamnit.

One time they were away and you were so fucking horny, you called them up. They heard you, heard your pleas as you touched yourself, as you told them you missed their hands, their mouths, and their dicks. You told them that you needed them to come home and fill you up. You moaned so wantonly and practically screamed when you came. They were dead silent the entire time.

König was so damn flustered and hard and frozen like a goddamn statue. Ghost was fucking seething. He was so fucking pissed. He was so fucking aroused. Why the fuck would you do that, knowing he wants nothing more than to be home, fucking you into the mattress, fucking your face, or god knows what else. Refused to rub one out and most definitely saved that for when he got home.

Simon and König also got you back once by calling you and making you masturbate for them. And god, you can never forget the way they sounded, authoritative, their accents heavy and thick with desire as they fucking ordered you to touch yourself and moan for them. Yeah, that's it. Moan for them, baby. Cum for them...

Oh, yeah, back to competition. One time König was away and Simon was home and you spent the better part of the day teasing him. He told you in so many words to fuck around and find out. You found out alright. Goddamn, did you find out.

He made you ride him. He made you ride him and like fuck were you stopping anytime soon. König called, Simon made you answer the phone (on speaker no less) and made you say his name ("Say it, love. Tell him who's making you fucking scream."). Oh shit. Silence on the other end. Again. Oh fuck, you knew it was on when König got home.

He wasn’t emotionless. Far from it, actually. And he wasn’t as stoic as everyone thought he was, either. That's what he told himself.

But when you wear a mask—literally—and hide the deeper parts of yourself, it was easy for people to make assumptions and for the most part, Simon allowed it. Made for some good comedy.

The drawback to that, however, was that even he could get lost in conjecture. “You think too much,” he heard his brother’s words echo, the playful ribbing of siblings (after a fist fight no less), “Too fucking much and that’s all you’ll ever be fucking good for. Thinking.” And his father, with alcohol on his breath and misery coating his entire being, set everything ablaze again. His mother, with tired eyes, tired, thin, and worn hands, and the weight of the world on her shoulders, would do her best to comfort him with words and hugs hollow and meaningless when set against the backdrop of a decaying home.

And maybe that’s what kept him from going too far when he finally snapped and released every single thread of resentment and anger onto his father: thinking.

And perhaps it’s that same thinking that’s always kept him from living in the moment.

But you were too busy with your heads in the clouds to notice it. Good. It gave him more than one opportunity to look you over when you weren’t looking, when you were preoccupied with fantasizing over the Simon in your head and doing fuck all to reconcile him with reality. With Ghost.

But that’s the thing about fantasies, right? The real deal will never measure up.

Simon knows this from experience. He felt that way about relationships (like he’s had some fucking meaningful ones). And sex. Once. But he’s had too many partners, not enough orgasms, and the comfort of his own hand to know that the fantasy of it all dies a terrible, fiery death. And so it was quick encounters and one night stands, enough to sate the itch and chase the high, and then it was back to business as usual. He couldn’t tell you their names or remember their faces if he tried—not like he didn’t.

But you were different. And you weren’t. Somehow. You had a way of seizing without having to do much at all. It intrigued him, honestly. He’d been the recipient of enough secretive glances to pick up the signs but here you were, with your head in the clouds, giving him the most blatant ‘come fuck me’ stare this side of the fucking Channel. Fucking hell. And it’s not like he couldn’t ignore it. Well, he could, but then he’d never hear the fucking end of it from Soap and Simon didn’t really have the energy to punch him. Not this time.

But yeah, back to you.

Simon should be snorting right now. Snorting and ignoring the way you’re staring at him. But instead he’s staring at you. Analyzing your body language. Thinking too fucking much—that old pathetic git can burn in hell—and not living in the moment. And he wonders what his brother would think, toothy grin and all, and maybe that’s why he’s happily settled and enjoying his life beyond belief, the shadow of their father long dispelled.

Fuck.

But maybe it’s not so bad, not thinking as much. Living in the moment. Maybe it’s not so bad, having your eyes on him with your head in the clouds. But maybes could be dangerous; maybes were risks, ones where life and death made all the difference and there were some risks that Simon truly wondered if he could take.

And really, what the fuck happened to him that he’s over here contemplating fucking rather than just doing it. What the fuck? Is it… you? Or maybe he’s become too entrenched in his mask and the shadow of his father’s words has loomed so fucking long that they’ve become integral to his very person.

If it’s the latter then fuck you, Dad.

So sure, he’ll continue to stare in the meantime. And size you up. And maybe reciprocate your interest. And if you cross that bridge and make a move, a nice shag could do you both some good. And then you’ll finally see that the Simon of your fantasies doesn’t quite match Simon—Ghost—in reality. And they will die a terrible, fiery death. And the cycle of meaningless fucks and relationships will continue.

Perhaps that’s a risk he was willing to take. This time. Fuck if he knew.

Feeling the heat of his stare on your back. You turn around and damn if you're not rooted in place with the way he's undressing you with his eyes. Maybe you should bend over in front of him some more.

For his part, Simon is doing more than just undressing you with his eyes. He imagines bending you over, right back into your previous position. He imagines your gasp as he enters you for the first time. He imagines his name falling from your lips like a melody as he starts to fuck you without abandon.

Finding his erogenous zones has been an adventure because the man is a brick fucking wall. To date, his zones are the nape of his neck (brush your fingers against it and he'll shiver), his scalp (helps that he keeps his hair cut short), his inner thighs (you found this out completely by accident), and, surprise surprise, his ass. At least two of the four were discovered in public.

The feeling of hard muscles and tense energy pinning you down. It's the adrenaline pumping, that gnawing ache for intimacy that he's denied himself for so long. You feel it, feel what he's feeling, and you whisper in his ear that your body is his to use, his to help relieve his tension. And he does. He fucking does.

Refusing to meet the smug bastard's eyes because Simon knows that nothing makes you positively, absolutely melt more than feeling his large fucking hands rest comfortably on your hips. Asshole.

Him teasing you, changing the pace of his thrusts, denying you the pleasure of cumming. He slows down when he sees the telltale signs. He wants it to last. Wants to see you fucking lose it. That and he loves the way you beg and whine and rage. Holy shit, does he love it. ("S-Simon, no—baby... baby, 'm so close. Please don't—don't stop. Don't ever stop.")

That intake of breath when you first kiss and lick the head of his weeping dick. The way the muscles in his thighs jerk when you envelop him fully in the wet heat of your mouth. And let's not forget his voice, scratchy and gravelly, dropping even lower as he practically struggles to form words and coherent thoughts. ("Fucking hell. Love, baby—goddamnit. FUCK!")

When you tell him "Good boy" or call him "Baby Girl Boy" and Simon. fucking. MELTS. Oh fuck, he felt his knees get weak there for a second. And the smirk on your face is equal parts infuriating and intoxicating. Goddamn it, he'll be your good boy. He'll be your baby boy. He'll be any-fucking-thing for you, baby.

Ghost.exe damn near stops working when you send him risque photos when he's on assignment ('Miss you, baby boy. ♥️' is what your fucking text says). You thought that shit was fucking cute, eh? His dick is fucking rock solid and you're thousands of miles away. Fucking hell. Just you fucking wait.

Primal. The word oozes grit and feels menacing and hot on your tongue. You lick your lips for the sensation like you've done so many times before, thinking, wondering what it would be like to feel it against them, to feel it coat your tongue and excite your tastebuds. You lick your lips as you stare at him and goddamn—.

Primal. That's how you'd describe Simon, even if he didn't think the word applied to him. But it did. In every way. In every fucking way.

You were curious how his lips would taste, all steely resolve, war, and sinfulness pressed firmly against yours. How'd he kiss you breathlessly and leave your lips swollen and tingling. You imagined how you'd kiss him under no pretense of gentleness, nothing but biting and sucking to leave your mark of possession.

You envisioned his body beyond black and kevlar, all muscles, adrenaline, tension, and control just waiting to snap. Snap and take you. Snap and fuck you. You envisioned his mass, all grit and needy, pinning you down and enveloping you, and oh fuck, Ghost—!

And his voice. God help you but it was rough in all the right places, rough enough that you could only dream about how he sounded when he was aroused, how deep it would get, music to your ears as he'd groan and swear and goad you on and tell you to come for him and oh shit, your cheeks are burning hot.

You've ruminated over his hands, too, dexterous and big, and holy shit, maybe you should stop daydreaming because you're supposed to be working on something. Yet you can't help but wonder if those same hands that grip tightly a gun or knife would grip your hips the same way, grip them and keep you in place as he fucked you brutally, whispered harshly in your ear, and you had no choice but to take it and fuck, you'll moan his name like a goddamn prayer.

His eyes are dark, brooding, intense, faraway, and aware all at the same time, and you've avoided and met his stare head-on. Your knees damn near gave out the first time you locked eyes. You always felt like you were gazing into the abyss, tapping into base strength and controlled violence and destruction. You visualized how those eyes, dark, brooding, intense, faraway, and aware all at the same time, would look glazed over with naked want, devouring you like you want to devour him. But maybe, just maybe, if you weren't so wrapped up in your daydreaming you actually could feel the heat of his gaze on you and the intensity of his want. Oh... interesting.

But sure, daydream. Think of Simon, of Ghost. Think of piercing, dark eyes, the outline of muscle against the fabric of his clothing. Think of dexterous hands gripping you tightly, bringing you to heaven and back. Think of his voice, gravelly and commanding, as it sends shivers down your spine and makes you squeeze your thighs together to hide your arousal. And sure, think of what it would be like to be pinned underneath him, aching and dripping and begging him to fuck you harder, and please try not to moan out loud goddammit!

And all of it, yeah, it's primal. Like him. Primal. In everything he does. Goddamn.