𝓡osie

stepdaddy!toji couldn't tear his eyes away when you walked around the house in just panties and a sheer white top after another fight just to spite your mom, with your nipples peeking through. you never gave any blunt hints, but the way you stared at his biceps every time he reached for the salt on the table, or at his huge cock when he wore gray sweatpants, spoke for itself.

stepdaddy!toji walked into your room one day while you were out to swipe your panties and sniff 'em while he jerked off, but he found something way more interesting. your laptop stayed open with a chat with your friend on the screen. he was just about to blow it off when he saw his name.

→ idk girl, it sounds gross but if you saw him you'd wanna fuck him too

i mean, you got a shitty mom who's been terrorizing you since you were a kid, he didn't raise you, he didn't change your diapers, so why the hell not? if the dick's worth it lol ←

→ it's huge, i'm sure he'd just rip me apart. i have to imagine him instead of my dildo, though he's definitely like three times bigger

stepdaddy!toji decides to shower with you the next morning, making you let out a scream. "what are you doing in here?" and you try to cover yourself up, but he just laughs. "giving you exactly what you want." he starts stripping and you stare at his massive biceps, his rock-solid chest and abs, then your eyes trail down and see the happy trail leading to a huge, hang-hard cock that was already standing tall. your mouth hung open while he sat down on the edge. "get over here, baby." one second you stopped hiding yourself, and the next you were bouncing on his cock, and he was deep inside you, ripping you apart.

his hands are glued to your ass, guiding your rhythm, squeezing and spreading you open on his cock. every time you slide down, you feel him hit that spot deep inside. "nngh! yes! yes! so good—" he leans forward and captures your nipple between his lips, suckling hard, his tongue flicking across the sensitive peak. "you were made to take my cock." you gasp when he bites down gently, then soothes the ache with his tongue. "mmnn— my little girl’s got the sweetest tits, huh? gonna suck 'em dry." your hips start to slow — you're exhausted, your muscles screaming — but he won't let you stop. his hands grip your waist and start bouncing you on his cock, fucking up into you with brutal precision. your head falls back, mouth open, letting out a long, guttural moan. "you like that, baby? you like your daddy using you like this?" "yes! yes— please nngh! don't stop—" "that's it, baby. cum for daddy. cum all over my cock."

stepdaddy!toji gets addicted to you right away. he turns fucking you every morning into a tradition. he's already hard when he pushes your door open, already stroking himself through his boxers by the time he's kneeling on the mattress, dragging the sheets off your sleeping body. "mornin', little girl." you stir, blinking up at him. his cock is already out, thick and heavy, the head brushing against your thigh. "...it's so early..." "shhh." he pulls your panties down your legs. "daddy needs his breakfast." he rolls you onto your stomach first, because he likes watching the way your back arches when he pushes inside from behind. his chest presses against your spine, his mouth at your ear. "been dreamin' about this pussy all night, baby. you know that? can't sleep proper without knowin' i'm gonna be inside you the second i wake up." "nngh! daddy—! so good..."

stepdaddy!toji uses your tits like a pacifier. it started as something innocent — him suckling gently while you watched tv — but now it's a full-blown ritual. his hands find your shirt, push it up. your bra follows. he groans the second your nipples are bare, leaning down to take one into his mouth. "toji—" "shhh." he sucks hard, tongue circling the sensitive peak. "just let daddy have this."

his eyes are half-closed. he is latched on, suckling slow and steady. his hand cups your other breast, thumb stroking over the nipple. "one day," he murmurs against your skin, "gonna put a baby in you. gonna fill you up so good. and then these tits..." he takes the nipple between his teeth, tugs gently. "gonna be full of milk for me. gonna drink it straight from the source, baby." you whimper, and he suckles harder, his hand sliding down between your legs. "and you'll let me, won't you? let daddy drink it whenever he wants. let me fall asleep right here, with your nipple in my mouth and my cum drippin' out of your tight little pussy." he does fall asleep like that, sometimes. your nipple still between his lips, your hand stroking his hair. and when he wakes up in the middle of the night, hard and aching, he slides inside you without a word, still half-asleep, still sucking your breast.

stepdaddy!toji loves making you squirt just to prove he is way better than guys your own age. he's on his knees between your legs, and he's been down there for god knows how long. your thighs are shaking, you're soaked, and he shows no signs of stopping. "i know you got it in you, baby." his fingers curl inside you, pressing against your front wall. "give it to daddy. give me that." "daddy, i can't—mnngh! i can't, it's too much—" "you can. you will." his mouth closes over your clit, sucks hard while his fingers pump faster. "c'mon, my baby. let go for me. let me see it." your body locks up. every muscle goes tight. and then it releases — a gush of fluid that soaks his hand, his chin, the towel he'd laid down beneath you. "there she is. there's my good fuckin' girl." he doesn't stop. he keeps fingering you through it, keeps sucking your clit until you're screaming, until you're pushing at his head because you can't take anymore. "one more, little girl. give me one more."

stepdaddy!toji who treats your pussy like a living thing. he talks to it, kisses it, worships it. he pushes your thighs up to your chest and groans at the sight of you. "mm, she's wet for me. of course she is. she knows who she belongs to." "look at my girl. missed me, didn't she?" he's talking to your pussy, and he means it. he leans in, presses his open mouth against your folds like a kiss. "fuck, i missed you too, pretty girl." he makes out with it. that's the only way to describe it — his tongue sliding between your lips, pressing inside, then pulling out to suck your clit into his mouth. "daddy's girl's got the sweetest fuckin' pussy in the world. you know that?" he presses his nose against your clit, inhales deep. "can't get enough." "ha— mmnh!!— daddy! i'm gonna—!" "come in my mouth, baby." you cum again from his tongue alone, and he moans through it, smiling against your pussy. when you try to pull away from the oversensitivity, he grabs your hips and yanks you back. "i'm not done. daddy's never done with this pretty pussy."

stepdaddy!toji doesn't give a fuck if someone can catch you guys, if he wanted to fuck you, nothing was gonna stop him. "someone will see—" "let 'em." he pulls you over the center console, guides you onto his lap. your back presses against his chest, the steering wheel digging into your knees. his cock slides into you from behind, and you choke on a moan. "shhh, baby. gotta be quiet." but he's already thrusting up into you, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your throat. "look how good you take my cock." a woman walks past with a shopping cart. you freeze, but he keeps moving, keeps fucking up into you slow and deep. "look at her. she got no idea you're gettin' stuffed full of my cock right now." "fuck— daddy! —nngh!" "that's it. let 'em hear. let 'em know who you belong to." sunlight floods the car, and anyone glancing over would see two silhouettes. he comes inside you with a grunt, holding your hips down, filling you up while a minivan parks three spaces away.

stepdaddy!toji who tells your mom he needs to spend more time with you to get to know his stepdaughter better, so he heads to the mall with you. he fucks you in the first dressing room he finds. you're on his lap, your back against his chest, the flimsy curtain doing nothing to muffle your sounds. his cock is buried deep, and he's holding you still while the saleslady asks through the curtain if everything fits okay. "just fine," he calls out, voice steady. his hips thrust up. "my girl's just trying things on." you bite your lip so hard you taste blood. his hand covers your mouth. "shhh, my baby. don't wanna get caught, do you?" but he's fucking up into you harder, faster. the cheap stool beneath you creaks. "nngh! mmn—!" "what was that?" he pulls his hand away. "you got something to say, little girl?" "daddy! — fuck... i'm gonna!—" "gonna come? right here? with your mama thinkin' we're just havin' a nice afternoon?" you nod frantically, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "then do it, baby. come on daddy's cock. let 'em all hear who makes you feel this good." you come with a broken cry, and he follows right after.

stepdaddy!toji finally gets to fuck you everywhere after the divorce, without hiding or trying to muffle your sweet sounds. he bends you over the thick upholstered arm, your toes barely touching the floor, ass arched high. he pushes in slow, watching his cock disappear into your tight little pussy inch by inch. the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of your soaked pussy fills the room. "you hear that, baby? listen to how wet you are for me. this pussy knows who it belongs to, doesn't it?" "y-yes, daddy! it's you— ah!— all yours!" or when he folds you in half, knees pressed against your shoulders, your ankles hooked over his biceps. he looms over you, watching his own cock slide in and out of your gaping hole. he fucks you deep and slow, grinding his pelvis against your clit with every thrust until you're a writhing mess beneath him. "look at you little girl, taking every inch. you love being stuffed full of this cock, don't you?" "yes! daddy— mmnh!— yes, i love it, i love it!"

stepdaddy!toji who loves it when you warm up his dick. he's sitting on the couch, watching tv, and you're in his lap, facing him, his cock buried deep inside your pussy. you're both fully dressed except for where your panties are pushed aside and his zipper is down. "just sit still, little girl. keep me warm." you try to stay quiet, but every small movement makes you clench around him, and you can feel him twitch inside you. your thighs are shaking, your pussy pulsing, and you're so wet you can feel yourself dripping down onto his lap. "please— i need you to move—" you can feel him twitch inside you, feel him get harder even though he's not moving. his thumb traces lazy circles on your hip. "one day," he murmurs, "gonna keep you on my cock all day long. gonna carry you around the house like this. make you breakfast with my dick still buried in you." you clench around him involuntarily, and he groans. "fuck, yeah. squeeze daddy just like that."

stepdaddy!toji who couldn't see you for a whole week because of all the divorce drama. and when you finally show up at his place, he doesn't even take your clothes off all the way. just pushes your skirt up, rips your panties aside, and sinks into you with a groan that sounds like relief. "fuck! fuck— i needed this. i needed you, baby." your back hits the wall, your legs wrap around his waist. he's holding you up, fucking you standing, your weight suspended on his cock. "never again. never gonna go a week without this pussy again. you hear me?" "yes— mmh! daddy— yes!" "now i can have you whenever i want. wherever i want." he carries you across the room, still inside you, fucks you against every surface he can reach. the counter. the couch. the floor. "gonna make up for lost time. gonna spend the whole weekend buried inside my little girl."

there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.

at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.

midnight schedule it was.

it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.

the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.

and then there was him.

tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.

the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.

(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)

he moved through his workout with terrifying

efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.

you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.

“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.

you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”

“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”

you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”

he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"

“i do not know his entire workout routine.”

your friend raised a brow.

you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”

his brow lifted higher.

“…and arms on thursdays.”

silence.

“right.”

“shut up.”

you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.

the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.

and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.

What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.

so, you stayed quiet..

until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.

in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.

“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”

“i use it,” you protested.

“you walk through it.”

okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.

you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.

you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.

the bar didn’t budge.

you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.

okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—

"y’need a spotter?"

you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.

you swallow. "uh."

his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"

"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."

he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.

your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.

"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.

you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!

he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.

"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"

you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"

"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.

you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."

you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.

he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.

a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.

but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.

"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"

he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."

you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?

he hesitates. "depends."

"on?"

"the day."

you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."

"sure it is."

you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.

it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)

you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.

"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."

and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”

he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”

you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.

"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."

you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.

“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”

“drop it.”

“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”

“drop it.”

some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.

it’s unbearable.

like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”

you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.

you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.

the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."

you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”

he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."

you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”

his eye twitches. “just drink it.”

and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.

one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.

you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.

simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.

"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.

you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”

he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.

"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.

you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—

his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.

"fix that grip, sweetheart."

you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.

"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."

your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.

his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."

you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.

you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.

and then— "good girl."

barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.

your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.

you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.

and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.

"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."

simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"

your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."

his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"

"yes."

he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."

you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.

"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."

your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.

"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."

low, warm, approving—

"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."

simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.

"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”

“please.”

the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.

simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.

his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.

his hips roll up.

you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.

he does it again.

your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.

"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."

his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.

his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.

you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.

"fuck-"

he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.

"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."

your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.

"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"

you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.

his patience snaps.

one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.

simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.

he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.

the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.

simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”

he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—

he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.

"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"

"yes- yes, please-"

"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."

he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.

the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.

"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"

you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.

his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”

your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.

simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”

you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”

he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.

your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.

his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”

then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.

you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.

simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”

he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.

his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”

you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.

his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.

“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”

he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.

then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.

his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”

the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.

simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—

he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.

"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."

your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"

"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"

you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"

"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."

you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."

then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.

you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.

"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"

you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.

"s’not fair," you mumble.

"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.

"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."

you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.

"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"

you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.

when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.

then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—

you take him.

the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.

"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."

you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.

breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"

"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."

but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."

his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."

"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"

he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."

then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.

"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.

simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."

the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.

"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"

he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.

it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.

but you’re already gone.

your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.

"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"

you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.

he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.

"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."

"s-simon-"

"what, love? too far gone already?"

his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.

you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"

"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."

he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.

"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.

"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."

he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.

"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"

"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.

"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."

Before Simon could argue, you dug into your handbag, fingers rattling through girly thingamabobs he couldn't make sense of. He wasn't nearly youthful enough to understand the sort of things that danced around in your handbag and your head alike. His eyes caught on your polkadot halter top and the ruffles of your tiered denim skirt—absentmindedly, lazily, for the most part—lace trim matching your knee-high socks. Simon's gaze snapped up to the small ziplock bag you held out in front of him. He folded his arms with an incredulous shake of his head, eyes fixed on the green buds inside. 

“And you need my help, why?” Simon drawled, tilting his head. He pinched your wrist bone in his long fingers, turning your hand around to examine the baggie. “How'd you even get your hands on this?” 

“Well, what the heck am I supposed to do with it?” You stamped your heel, then added, “Someone at the party gave me.”

Now, it wasn't every day you were so antsy—always said 'please' and 'thank you', you did—and Simon easily attributed the urgency with the illicit materials you absolutely weren't allowed to carry around, in your hand. With that in mind, he decided to allow you into the caravan in a rare act of mercy. “Figures. Better keep you here before you wander off and make a show of yourself,” Simon grumbled as he stepped aside, gesturing you inside sharply with his chin. 

He turned his head to watch you scuttle into his living room, kitten heels clicking on the linoleum floors, the baby pink lace of your bra peeking out the back of your halter top. “Your daddyʼll have my head,” he muttered under his breath exasperatedly, closing the door shut behind you in defeat.

And there you were, no less exuberant in the dingy overhead lighting—making your way into his orbit as you always did. Simon typically didn’t pay you any mind, hardly exchanging a word with you even as you sunbathed or set up your lawn chair too close to his patio when you were reading. You were too young to consider—and he never did consider you, despite your demure but trying efforts. He had no vices there. At best, you were a stray dog at his heel. Still, the idea of you wandering half-witless and in the wrong hands needled at him. Though Simon knew your father would be less than forgiving if he caught wind of things, Simon figured keeping you under watch the first time you got stoned was the lesser of two evils.

He turned to watch you settle onto the L-shaped couch, belly-down on the chaise, feet kicking. Normally he might lecture, but today he went on rolling the joint in silence. His flannel was off, now leaving him in a white tee and denim jeans. You blew strawberry-flavored bubbles, chattering away, ignoring his hands despite his attempts to demonstrate.

“Remind me who gave this to you?” he spoke up eventually, ears burning at your babbling.

“One of the older boys.”

“Okay. You drunk?”

“Nope!” you said triumphantly, gum wedged between your teeth.

“Good,” he grunted, bringing the joint to his lips between scarred fingers. Orange light suffused his angular features as he thumbed his lighter and lit the joint. You sat up with a start, scooting closer, quite literally at the edge of your seat—only for Simon to pull the joint back like a bone for a dog, tutting. You opened your mouth to protest before Simon held out his open palm, giving you a pointed look as you chewed your gum. You froze, the bubblegum lodged between your teeth, eyes flicking between the joint and his hand. Oh. He raised an eyebrow, flat and unamused.

“Go on,” he muttered, fingers beckoning, a trace of warning in his low voice.

You hesitated, chewing thoughtfully, almost as if testing him. Finally, you tilted your head and gingerly dropped the bubblegum into his palm. Simon watched the pink glob land with a slow, measured blink, lips twitching just slightly, before returning his gaze to the joint. Simon turned away to dispose your bubblegum in a tissue, the heat in your cheeks growing while your eyes trailed after him. He returned with the joint, and you settled closer to him, wide-eyed and attentive. “Watch this,” he murmured, before he took a puff, eyes never straying from you. His Adam's apple jutted out as he tilted his head back, exhaling a plume of acrid smoke before passing you the joint. A nervous flutter rose in your belly. “Not too much. Your first time,” he reminded, coaxing softly.

The end felt warmer than expected as it touched your lips, your wide-eyed gaze darting up to find Simon's. His indifference was surprisingly grounding, a reminder that there was no reason to worry. You sucked slowly, pink gloss staining the mouthpiece. The smoke filled your mouth slowly, before your airways promptly rejected it. You hacked, trying to stifle the unladylike cough, eyes burning and your cheeks pinkening. He leaned back in the couch, his eyes scanning your face as you struggled to catch your breath.

Simon exhaled through his nose amusedly. “Easy, luv. Too much too soon.”

He took the joint back from you, taking a deep hit himself before offering it back to you. It seemed he didn’t mind the residual stickiness of your lipgloss combo. “Try again. Easier this time.”

“I didn’t take too much!” you said, plucking the joint with a wrinkle of your nose. “It tastes… not-nice,” you remarked while eyeing the burning joint—almost like a wine-taster—before returning it to your lips.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice still rough, but softer. “Some people don’t like the taste. But you learn to like it. You'll learn to like lots of things that you don’t understand now.” His arm draped along the back of the couch, body heat framing you as you drew carefully on the joint, rosebud mouth closing around the end. You wore powder blush on the apples of your cherubic cheeks, but your face was only getting redder. The smoke felt like cotton in your mouth, and tasted faintly burnt, almost resinous, somehow. But maybe you were imagining things.

He watched as you fidgeted slightly, clearly starting to fall under the spell of the sativa, slowly but surely. His gaze lingered on your legs, the eyelet hem of your skirt resting on your thighs. He tried to quell the growing heat in his stomach, shifting his weight.

Simon cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of control.

“How do you feel?” he asked gruffly.

“Um, okay,” you answered with an unsure lilt in your voice, furling your brows together skeptically. Simon made a noise of amusement at your attempt to articulate your feelings—his version of a chuckle—the high-pitch of your voice itching some part of him. Most days, you'd be in over your head at the opportunity to speak to Simon at length, alone. But it was becoming a task to focus, with the haze of smoke floating around you. Something warm ebbed through you, but you weren't completely off your rockers—yet. That was a relief.

Simon took a closer look at you, almost curious, your eyes unwittingly searching his back as he removed the joint from your mouth and took a puff. He could tell you were still fairly coherent. His broad shoulders crowded your field of vision. He breathed the smoke out in the other direction, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Just okay?” he echoed, his tone slightly teasing. “You feeling a little woozy?”

“Yeah, a little woozy,” you admitted bashfully, soft laughter overtaking you as you slumped back and covered your face with your hands, although you weren't sure what was so funny. Even the feeling of his denim jeans grazing your knee tickled slightly, your fingers absentmindedly tugging on your skirt. Simon forced his eyes away from your lap with a breath and grabbed his forgotten bottle of Heineken off the coffee table, humming noncommittally in response—piecing back that usual mask of indifference.

“You sure you're not too high?” Simon spoke behind the beer bottle, keeping his gaze down the neck of the bottle. He wouldn't look at you, he swore to himself—even as you propped your feet up on the coffee table and put your legs back in his line of sight, ankles crossed. You fiddled your feet, legs and feet encased in knee-highs and pink kitten heels like a present.

“I'm okay.” Your nerves were a little frayed, but you didn't say that part out loud, waving off his worries with a slurred giggle. A cloud of smoke floated above your heads, the LED light filtering through like sunlight through treetops. “You know... you don't usually talk to me this much,” you pointed out in a skeptical tone, squinting at the older man with a bemused bite of your lip. Sure, it wasn't much by normal standards, but you thought Simon asking questions first was a big step for him. You may as well have rendered him mute just as quickly, though, chewing on your lip like a pin-up girl. You were killing him, really. It seemed that the harder the man tried not to look, you immediately drew the spotlight to yourself.

He forced himself to speak. “I know,” he grunted. For a moment, he almost felt guilty—whether for ignoring you in the past, or for noticing you too much now.

“Why not?” Your voice was a soft, thoughtful hum. Guileless.

Simon sat back, hauling his weight onto the cushions. His gaze flicked over your form in consideration. “Dunno,” he grumbled. “You're just a kid. What's there to talk about?” He took another drag, the smoke winding around the two of you like a safety net.

“I'm [insert age],” is all you said.

Simon's brows furrowed slightly at the mention of your age. Legally an adult. But you still felt like a kid to him.

“Still a kid,” he murmured through an exhalation of smoke, his voice rough but not unkind.

His thigh was pressed firmly against the side of yours now, and he couldn't help but notice the warmth seeping through his jeans. He shifted again on the couch, trying to ignore the stirring in his pants. You blinked a few times as if trying to tune in on the conversation—and not how his knee touched yours, or the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.

“But I'm old enough to get stoned with?”

Your feeble attempt to outsmart him roused a wry huff of laughter from him. “Yeah, luv, you're old enough to get a little high,” he replied with a sidelong glance, quirking a brow at your half-baked reasoning. A small smirk played at the corners of his lips in spite of himself. His thigh pressed a little more firmly against you as he took a good look at you, then looked away.

“You're not old enough for what some people would want, though.” He held out the joint, offering you another hit.

You took the half-burnt joint between your manicured fingers, puffing on it briefly. “What does that mean?” The soft giggle leaving your lips in surprise sent a shiver down his back, the sound catching in your throat, equal parts shy and incredulous. Removing the joint from your lips, you tilted your head back on the cushions, taking a moment to gather your bracings. The smoke wafted up from your mouth, a heavy feeling weighing down your limbs.

“You know exactly what it means,” Simon murmured, his tone low and raspy. You picked your head up to listen to him speak, watching him reach out slowly—or maybe that was just your brain, working in slow motion. His knuckles skimmed the top of your thigh, the bare skin of your leg just under his fingers. The discordance between his words and his actions only fuelled the heady feeling swirling around in your mind, your breath picking up pace as his palm rested on you.

“And you really think I'm not old enough?” you mumbled indignantly, shifting in your seat. His hand was starting to move up.

The effects of the weed had clearly taken hold, making you more pliable. Just enough to take the edge off.

Simon's fingers continued their path up your thigh, reaching the edge of your denim skirt and lingering there. “Not old enough,” he repeated raspily, his hand sliding under the hem of your skirt and moving further inward. There was that confusing thing again—his words, at odds with his doings. His movements were steady but determined, feeling the goosebumps on your skin as he went.

His other hand reached out and took the joint from your fingers, your eyes trailing after it longingly as he stubbed it out in the ashtray on the coffee table. Your mind was here and there, briefly chasing after the warmth of the joint, but then it snapped back to him with a squeeze of your thighs around his fingers. He almost groaned.

“Are you gonna do that stuff anyway?” you asked quietly.

His movements halted at your question. Those words struck a chord with him, you could tell, and you almost regretted asking when you noticed his hesitance. Those world-weary eyes didn't meet yours, looking at the place where his hand disappeared under your skirt. The pads of his fingers moved along the front of your underwear slowly and that was an answer in and of itself. He felt the thin fabric of your panties sticking to your folds, your slick arousal glueing the fabric to your flesh as his fingers started to move back and forth. Hesitation took the backseat as his teasing ministrations drew a warm sensation between your legs, your small sounds like music.

When your sativa-addled head grew heavy and fell back on the cushions again, Simon's free hand pulled your face up-close to his. His fingers squeezed your flushed face in a pout, dwarfing your head in its entirety with his large hand. He brushed his lips against your bottom lip—featherlight, waiting—his breath fanning against your skin before you met him halfway.

Even now with his hand between your legs, he found you achingly cute, with small, clumsy touches of your soft lips trying to press close to him. Like a butterfly's wings. His tongue slid over yours, and you tried to return the gesture like it was something nice worth sharing.

“Oh gosh,” you gasped quietly into his mouth when he peeled the gusset of your panties to the side, lifting off your seat slightly. Cool air hit your soaked folds, baring and revealing. More exposed than you'd ever been in front of a man before. His digits slipped between your wet slit before your hazy mind could drift again, teasing your sopping entrance then sliding up to your clit—they flattened against the hood, massaging lazy circles. “Have you ever stuck anything up there before, baby?” he asked in a low murmur, lowering his gaze between your legs and bringing his fingertip to your tight entrance, probing curiously.

“W-what? No...” you admitted, cheeks flaming as your hips shifted against his hand. A ghost of a smile touched the corners of his eyes at your movement.

“Not even your fingers?” Simon asked quietly, the curiosity in his voice almost demeaning—as if you were some rare specimen, something to be poked and observed.

You shook your head with a whimper, cheeks slightly puffed out in embarrassment. His finger eased inside your cunt a notch—a centimeter or more. Your walls fluttered around the intrusion, a trickle of moisture dripping onto your skirt.

“No? You play with yourself here, then?” His words were punctuated with his thumb circling your clit, sliding his other finger inside you in one smooth motion. You huffed as his finger started to move inside of you, thumbing your sensitive clit at the same time to ease the discomfort of being stretched. Your soft sighs met his ears incoherently, all mindless squirming and whining. “I asked you a question, baby,” his voice tethered you back to earth, gently nudging your chin to face him.

“Sometimes...” Your answer was a quiet whisper, embarrassment burning your cheeks as you held the hem of your skirt down. It came as no surprise, you were in an experimental stage of life.

“Dirty girl.” He nosed against the side of your face with a soft chuckle at your admission, clearly getting off to having you bared before him in more than one way. He liked hearing your dirty little secret, to imagine you with your delicate hand lost in your panties, trying to chase the kind of pleasure only a real man like him could give you.

His finger curled against that spongy part inside you, hooking in-and-out of you at a deliberate pace that made something hot coil inside your abdomen. You burrowed your head against his shoulder as a second finger thrust inside you, the tension in your belly fast-growing. His meaty fingers disappeared inside you with lewd squelches, the muscles in his heavily tattooed forearm flexing with each fast flick of his wrist. He groaned against your hair, moving on top of you to look directly at you. Simon's free hand rested on your sternum to keep you still as you arched against the cushions, your pulse erratic beneath his palm. Your stomach clenched, chest rising and falling quickly beneath your halter top.

“I feel weird—” you stammered, your skirt bunched up against your belly as you rolled your hips forward. “Feels good,” you then corrected, gasping out your words and clutching onto him tightly. Simon's hooded gaze pinned you down, taking in your dewy skin and expression, your cunt walls pulsing like a cat preening at attention.

Perspiration broke out over your neck as your core muscles tensed suddenly, the pressure building up before suddenly going lax, like you couldn't hold back what was rippling out of you even if you tried. “Oh, please, please-please.” Your knees fell open and you sobbed in pleasure, his gravelly voice reverberating against your ear with encouragement.

“Just like that, baby. Give it to me, give it to me.”

“Fucking soaking my fingers, aintcha? Yeah, you're a messy girl.”

You spilt your release over his hand with staccato whines, soaking him down to his knuckles. The heel of his palm ground against you with each thrust of his fingers, making you wince with overstimulation, the dopamine and sativa running through your system making you see stars. He slipped his soaked fingers out of you with a low coo, bringing his hand to pet your swollen clit a few times as your orgasm pulsed through you. You closed your eyes shut as he sealed his mouth over yours, groaning like it was him who just came.

Your eyes fluttered open to the metallic sound of his belt coming undone, darting down to look at him one-handedly unbuckle the belt above the tent in his pants. You'd been speechless for the past few seconds already, squeaking girlishly when two hands grabbed your hips and tugged you down the chaise of the sofa. Simon leaned back on his heels, unceremoniously unbuttoning his denims and tucking his dick over the stretchy waistband of his boxer briefs.

Pre-cum pooled over the slit on his tip, throbbing veins cording his girth. A hoarse laugh spilled past his lips at your innocent, rosy-cheeked gawking, fingers wrapping around himself and pumping lazily. “You ever seen one of these before, baby?” he asked, cupping your face with his other hand.

You shook your head, bashfully mumbling 'no'. “Nuh-uh.” His fist started to move faster around his straining cock at your innocent response, hissing through his teeth. God help him.

He liked your bow-accented panties, but this time, he ripped them down your legs and tossed them onto the carpet along with your heels, making you squirm. Simon grasped your knee and threw it around his hip, a gasp ripping from your lips as he splayed you open under him.

The scene before him wasn't one he'd soon forget. Halter top, short skirt, glistening cunt. Your glassy eyes made you look even more youthful, in a way, lipgloss smudged on your chin in a matching shade to the glow in your cheeks.

The denim skirt bundled around the top of your hips, his fingers absentmindedly stroking your knee socks while he settled between your legs. He bunched the hem of your skirt in his hand and used it as leverage to pull your hips down the sofa, the head of his cock aligned with your entrance. Your stomach flipped with realization. Your fingers scrambled to hold onto him for support, digging glossy pink nails into his tattooed arms while the older veteran groaned at the friction of your slippery folds, rubbing his length back and forth over your slit.

“Gunna put it in now, right, darlin'?” he murmured, his voice raw and intimate, running his hands up and down from your knees to the insides of your thighs.

“Yes,” you breathed, nodded your head with a hard swallow, before adding quietly, “I'm ready.”

Your doe-like eyes were wide and pleading, and it was all he could do not to bury himself in your heat and brutishly take your virginity in one go. His breath shuddered, big hands wrapping around your waist as he pushed himself inside your welcoming heat. You were still throbbing from your recent climax, your cunt practically sucking in the tip despite your initial nervousness. Your chest caved in with a deep, shuddery moan, rolling your head back—Simon was all girth, splitting your walls open around him. His fingers dug into your hips and your ass, a grounding force when stars sparked in your vision.

“Christ, baby.” He grunted, rolling his hips forward. “So fucking wet for me.” But you knew a couple inches wasn't enough for him, his brows furled together with restraint. His fingers found your clit, two fingers massaging side-to-side as he eased his length inside you. At first, he paused, feeling the resistance of your virgin cunt, before that tightness gave away to warmth. The stretch was brief, barely a sting—much unlike the scary expectations you had for sex—aided by both the comforting weed in your system and just how wet and pliable you were for Simon. Both of you gasped as he bottomed out inside of you, the head of his cock seated deep inside your cunt. Sobbing his name, your thighs hugged his waist tight, toes curling all the way.

“'s so big,” you gasped breathlessly, cock-drunk and stoned, your hands slapping ever so soft and gentle against his big arms, pink lips pushed into a pout that made his dick twitch.

“I know, luv, I know,” the older man hummed into your ear. “You can take it. You're a big girl.”

He tugged the hem of his T-shirt up and wedged it between his teeth, as if desperately needing as much freedom to move as possible. He breathed heavily around the cloth in his mouth as he pumped inside of your heat, your walls pulsing around him like a second heartbeat.

His hips pressed against your ass, his dick driving in deep and springing tears in your eyes. He'd been a man of discipline and restraint for years, he tried to be careful with you—he did. But you were just so delicate, or maybe he was just too big, too strong.

Simon leaned over you with a groan, your whiny cries filling his ears—and he wasn't even fucking you as hard as he wanted just yet. Your pussy was wet and inviting, but he wouldn't want to break you the first time.

He fucked you deep and full, his hips slapping against your skin rhythmically. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Meanwhile, you were gasping and preening under him, your back curving off the sofa as you fumbled to clutch onto his arms, his shoulders, or his hair. “Please, please-please,” you pled mindlessly, not even knowing what you were asking for.

Simon maneuvered your legs off his hips suddenly, grabbing your ankles in one hand and propping them up on his broad shoulder. You squealed as the man pulled his hips back and slammed into you again. His cock rubbed against your spongy g-spot with your hips tilted up, knees against your chest as he pressed down on you.

He filled you up over and over, and when your hips tried to twitch away from him like you were growing overwhelmed, he'd pull you back down on his shaft. “Mm, no—you take it. Fucking take it,” he let out a guttural groan, his forehead resting against yours. Your eyes watered, the head of his cock kissing your cervix without abandon. You'd probably feel it later, but your hazy brain made it that much easier to let the pleasure override your body's pain cues.

You wrapped your arms under your knees and hugged them to your chest, dumb little noises falling from your lips as you held yourself open. He almost spilt his load into you right there, watching you all docile and willing under him.

That was when it really occured to him; he was balls deep in your virgin cunt with no protection. He hadn't second-guessed it initially—blame it on virility or the joint. Blame it on your knee-socks and big bubbly eyes that followed him everywhere.

His head fell forward with a groan, his pelvis pressing flush against your ass with rough, staccato thrusts, fingers digging into your thighs. “Can I come inside you, baby?” You squeaked at his bold request, his large hands wrapping around your legs and smoothly spreading them open to press his chest against yours. “Hm? Gonna let me fill you up?” He urged gently, brushing the tip of his nose against yours.

As always, your answer came in the form of shaky nods, hiccuping on your own moans. He could feel your cunt pulsing around him invitingly, your sock-covered legs squeezing around him. “Uhuh, uhuh-” You bit your lip, brows screwed together in bliss. “I dunʼ mind.” In spite of Simon's bone-deep stoicism, he almost fawned at your ready acceptance.

“Atta girl,” he mumbled against your cheek, a crack in his hoarse voice. “Gonna fill this pretty cunt. Make you take every last drop.”

His thrusts fell out of rhythm with a growing pit of pleasure in his stomach, the weight of his muscled form bearing down on you, fucking your pliant body into the cushions. The ministrations grew almost frantic, perspiration on his brows, his throbbing cock slamming into you. The sound of your broken moans in his ears pushed him over the edge—hips stuttering against you with deep, guttural moans as his load gushed inside your cunt.

You were too sweet, too giving. He should've been the responsible one. Shouldn't be planting bad ideas in your head. You didn't know any better. But he couldn't help himself.

Your thighs shook around his waist while he fucked his seed into you, pulling in and out, a creamy ring forming around the base of his cock. He pushed his hot cum between your folds, pumping inside you and watching your puffy cunt sucking in his tip. The ridge of his tip bumped against your sweet spot, your toes curling in your socks as he pressed his palm on your lower belly and your climax ripped from you.

Your sweltering, velvety heat wrung his cock dry for the last drops of his load, your cheeks splotched red and your pupils cherry-pie-wide. You both moaned in tandem as he eased his cock out of you, his length slapping against your belly.

Simon heaved on top of you, his gaze roving from your dazed expression to the space between your legs, milky globs dripping out of your fluttery cunt. He heard a blissed-out giggle from your lips, long lashes fanning out as you gazed up at him and lowered your tiny fingers to mingle with the sticky fluids on your folds curiously. A sight far too lewd for someone far too innocent, wonderment glittering in your big eyes, your thighs squeezing together out of sensitivity. He felt a twinge of guilt at the adorable sight—arousal, too.

Simon breathed shakily, patting your head absentmindedly before he glanced over his shoulder at the windows.

The party was still going on. No one would've heard you over the music, no matter how loudly you moaned his name—he knew that. But Simon couldn't help but wonder if anyone had seen you go inside his caravan and not come out at this time of night. Most importantly, if your father or anyone who knew your father had seen.

He was going to hell for this.

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† notes , tysm if you read this far! apologies, there's a pretty bad drop in quality halfway, i started rushing to the end bcs i was afraid no one would read if i made this too long. :(

“i’m am happy with you, love” he responds for the umpteenth time

“well how am i supposed to know, si? you look miserable”

it’s an argument you two have almost like clockwork. he has no problem reassuring you, though. his patience never runs thin, his voice never raises. it’s almost like emotion is a totally foreign concept to him completely.

that is until, you invite over an old friend of yours. könig. you two met during a solo trip to austria two years ago. it was casual, friendly. trips to the club, lunch dates, touristy activities that he begrudgingly did with you (because he’d do anything for you, truly). and ever since then, it’s obvious your connection has grown close. never too close for comfort, all though he probably wishes it did.

you don’t notice, he plays it off just right. large hands slipping over your delicate ones “accidentally”, the subtle change in his breathing, his fingers thoroughly working the muscles of your shoulders because you “look tense”. it was all too familiar to you, it went unnoticed.

but your husband noticed it all. könig wasn’t innocent, not at all. simon is a man and he knows exactly what’s going through your dear best friend’s head. he sits in the corner of your living room, hands folded together while he kicks his feet up on the coffee table. he hasn’t spoken once besides a brief “how are ya?” after you practically forced him to introduce himself. instead he watches quietly, head tilting with every word exchanged between the two of you.

you wiped off some dishes while könig rambled on and on about his latest endeavors, mostly work related. simon detested how you gave him your full attention, eyes wide and responsive like you actually cared. his fingers twitched at your gentle smile.

once you finally bid your goodbyes and closed the front door with a soft thud, he faltered and spoke his mind.

“he wants to fuck you”

“WHAT?” your eyes were wide open, this time with shock instead of attention.

simon shrugged “you heard me”

with brows furrowed together and lips scrunched up into an uncomfortable position, you scoffed, disbelieving of his words. “si- what- he does not want to-“ words don’t seem to fall from your lips like they usually do, instead, they tumble clumsily into the air and make a fool of you.

he’s tried to hold it back all this time. every time another man snuck a glance at you, every time you went out looking like a fucking model, he paid it no mind. he painted his face out to be calm even though his insides were churning with jealousy. “it’s obvious” his jaw clenched.

it didn’t get past you. the subtle tenses of his muscles betrayed him, and it let a smile play at your lips. “are you jealous?”

“no.” he lies through his teeth

but you’re tempted to push his buttons like you always do. it’s his favorite quirk of yours. perfectly manicured fingers gently run down his chest, making him suck in a breath. “i think you might be lying” you say

he denies it immediately “i don’t lie. you know it.”

“so you think he wants to fuck me and that doesn’t bother you?” you ask

simon’s teeth grind together, heart pounding against his chest. “no. you know why?”

“why?”

“you wouldn’t do it.”

your lips turn up into a little smirk, amused that he took the bait like eager prey. “oh? i wouldn’t?”

he shook his head “you’re a spoiled little girl, lovey. you know i fuck you so good.”

and with that, you’re bent over the couch, his hips slamming into the soft skin of your ass without remorse. his dick is shoved so far into you that his tip hits your cervix with every thrust. your pussy drools all over his dick and his muscular thighs, earning a cocky smile from him. “feel that, love?” his thumb quickly slides between your sticky thighs. “that’s how wet you are. still think he’d fuck you better?”

“no- no, si” you manage to moan choppily. your nails dig into the fabric of the couch as your back arches toward him like a cat.

he’s enjoying this too much, the idea of you being cock drunk. though, he’s nearly pussy drunk himself, he’d never show it. “invite him over again, lets remind him that you’re not fucking interested” he punctuates his sentence with a harsh slap on your ass, his thumb then slipping into your other hole like it belonged there.