Dedicated to Baldur's Gate 3[18+]

You’re both on the running track, doing your morning runs at the same time.

“On your right,” Simon grunts, just loud enough for you to hear. He pivots just a bit to your right so he can pass.

But then you also slide a bit to your right, speeding up on the way so that you’re still in front and blocking his way. When he tries going to the other way, you zig zag with him. Left, right, left, left, more left, right.

In the end, you stop when he stops. You turn towards him, eyeing him like a moldy meal you forgot to throw out.

“Oh. Hi, Lt.,” you say. “Didn’t see you there.”

“I told you to move, Sergeant,” he mutters.

“Sorry, Lt., what was that?” You cup your ears. “Couldn’t hear you over my music.”

You’re not even wearing any earbuds.

He turns on his heels and leaves with his fists clenched tight.

It’s been like this since you first joined. He remembers it as clear as day-- a younger, somehow more stubborn-looking you. 

Plucked fresh from whatever unit you were in before them, you had greeted them— Price, Garrick, Johnny— with respect: a salute, a handshake, and a smile to boot.

But then you hear his name, see his mask, and it’s like hell freezes over on your face.

Lieutenant Riley, nice to meet you– like it was the exact opposite, like it caused you physical pain to even say his name.

Johnny makes fun of him for it. Dae ye know 'em? Face looked like ye curbstomped a bairn or something.

You drop the filter entirely once you settle into the team months later. Tongue gets looser, no pulled punches, thinly veiled contempt slipping into pure snark.

He needs to grab something from a cabinet you’re in front of? Your hand shoots out, waggling your fingers. Five quid and I’ll move, Lt.

Helping him bandage up on an op? He grunts when your fingers dig just a tad too deep into his skin and wrap the wound just a tad too tight. Maybe if you didn’t get hit in the first place, Lt.

It’s infuriating.

But you don’t stop because there are never any consequences. 

No matter how many looks Price shoots him when the old man overhears the blatant disrespect.

No matter how many times other soldiers stare at you like you’re out of your goddamn mind (you are) for saying the shit you do.

Why?

Because the reason Simon never writes you up for insubordination is the same reason he's fisting his leaking cock in bed like some horny fucking teenager.

It's the same reason he lets you snark in his ear over comms, quietly grinding his rock-hard erection into cold dirt, and grunts to hide the pleasure that shoot down his spine when your nails dig into bloody skin.

It's the only thing he can think about when he's like this— your nails tracing the muscle of his back and gripping his cock until his spunk gets all over you.

Simon doesn't remember when it started. Doesn’t remember when the want became a need.

Maybe it was the time you sassed him in front of the others, or maybe it was when you looked him straight in the eye and told him 'you look like a cosplayer, Lt.' Or maybe it was since the beginning, on your very first day.

The one thing he is sure about is how much he wants to fuck you.

Simon wants to fuck you until you're all babbles and wails— bend you over in his bed until you can't think straight and all you can muster is how you want more of his stupid, stupid cock.

He wants you to want him as much as he wants you. But he doesn't want to fuck the fight out of you though, no.

Yeah, a part of him still wonders why you hate him so much, but he doesn't mind you sticking to whatever fucked-up preconceived notions you have of him.

Your fire is what makes it fun, and Simon loves to burn.

He cums like that, mind flush with the thought of you fucking yourself on his cock while telling him how much you can't fucking stand him.

When the haze of pleasure finally recedes, he's stuck with one goal in his mind,

—getting you in his bed.

Your lieutenant's acting strange.

Ever since he walked away from you on the track, Ghost has been... accommodating. Moreso than before.

It's suspicious as fuck.

You're not an idiot. You know your behavior should've gotten you sacked ages ago. Even though Ghost might let it slide for whatever reason, it's still highly disrespectful to your CO. (But you have your reason, as petty as it is. He deserves it.)

So it's strange when he starts acting almost-nice to you.

Exhibit A.

Standing up for you.

The 141 is respected amongst operators and soldiers alike; this is fact. But there's always bound to be a green recruit who thinks, I can do it, I'm special, why not me?

These are the ones you encounter most as the most recent and youngest addition to the 141. It's something you had to grow new skin for, but that doesn't mean it isn't fucking annoying to deal with.

"I bet I could take them in a fight. They don't even look that tough," the recruit prattles. "Do you think the captain will let me into 141 if I beat them?"

The group of soldiers he’s posturing to snicker and laugh. They don’t seem to care that you’re standing ten feet away, or that you can very visibly hear their conversation.

You're about to tell them to drop and give you fifty when a big hulking man steps towards the group.

"Think you got what it takes, corporal?" Your lieutenant drawls, staring down at the recruits who look like they're all going to piss their fatigues.

"L-lieutenant! No--yes, I mean, I--"

Ghost jerks his head towards the training mats.

"Let's see how good you are then."

The recruit gets dropped within ten seconds.

Your lieutenant mutters something to him before barking at the rest of the group. Get your asses on the field. You lot are runnin' laps until you know what it means to respect your betters.

Does he even know how hypocritical he’s being?

Later on during dinner, the recruit who insulted you walks up to 141's table, still ruffled from the nasty takedown and sweaty from running around base. He barely manages to squeak out an apology to you, shooting the smallest glance at your lieutenant before running away with his tail tucked.

(How do you grapple with the way your heart turns?)

Ghost doesn't react, doesn't even look up. Only sips his tea like nothing ever happened.

Exhibit B.

Since when did Ghost start talking back to you on comms?

"If you let me die tonight, I'm going to haunt you and your bloodline forever, Lt."

An undercover mission. Infiltrating some invite-only bourgeoisie gala that's an alleged meeting place for many, many VIPs. Coincidentally, 141's newest target happens to be invited and you are the one who's thrown into the lions' pit.

"My bloodline? Not happening."

He's somewhere out there, watching. On the roof of a nearby building probably.

There’s a sense of comfort in that. You may not like his guts, but you’ve never doubted him on overwatch.

"Why? Got no game, Lt.?"

"Got plenty," he says.

The soft rumble of his voice tickles your ear. It's unusual-- weird-- to hear him banter with you over comms like this. He usually only ever does it with Soap.

"Well, make it happen then," you mumble.

A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. You smile politely, shaking your head ‘no’.

It’s not the highest risk mission, but the amount of armed guards you’re seeing is a bit annoying. That, and your target is still nowhere to be found.

If you have to send another flirty smile to another grimy man while waiting, you're telling Ghost to aim the crosshair at you instead. And then you're going to haunt him.

"You volunteerin'?"

Your brain short-circuits.

What?

Your mouth bobs open, then shut, and then open again. Hoping to whatever deity out there that your lieutenant's scope isn't actively trained on you right now.

Shit hits the fan faster than you can gather your thoughts.

Screams ring out through the ballroom as windows shatter and gunfire fills the air. Chaos quickly spreads through the masses as people run for cover. Ghost's voice flickers in over the noise.

"Sergeant, take cover, now! Go!"

You don't need to be told twice.

There'll be time to think about what he said later, when you aren't actively in danger of being hole-punched.

And then, Exhibit C.

This is how it culminates.

Outside, on the fields with your fellow sergeants and Ghost. The four of you toss sticks to decide sparring partners; it's sheer dumb misfortune that you end up pairing with Ghost.

You've sparred with him before. He's relentless. There's always a bruise or two on your body when he's done with you. Never once have you won against him; you don't expect this time to be any different.

“Let’s see if you’ve improved, Sergeant,” Ghost taunts.

“I swear I won’t accidentally kick your balls, Lt.,” you reply.

The two of you grapple at each other, swiping and pushing, body on body. Ghost is wearing a tight compression shirt today. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't somewhat distracting with the way it hugged the planes of his muscles— no! Keep focusing! It's never easy to wrestle a man as big as him. But you have to try.

Your hands can barely wrap around his biceps, but you use what you have to your advantage. Nails nearly break skin as you dig deep. He grunts, grip tightening on your arms.

A man's strength can sometimes be his undoing.

You let your weight shift, using his hold on you as an anchor. Tilting back, you let your legs swing forward, grappling around his waist. The momentum has Ghost stumbling back, and you make your final move.

Ghost lets out a surprised grunt as you let go of his arms and force your way through his grip. You push through, pressing your forearms against his throat until his whole body tilts and falls back onto the mat.

Oh, you're gasping out breaths. Holy shit.

You did it.

Ghost is, like you, breathing hard through his nose, eyes lidded. His hands no longer wrap around your arms. Instead, they're settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place.

It occurs to you then the position you're in.

Legs spread over his waist, sitting right on his belly. You're bent forward, hands splayed across his chest and next to his head. Practically laying on top of him.

He's so warm.

An involuntary jolt rolls through your body as you jerk backwards, an attempt to get some distance from his face.

Big mistake.

Holy fuck, this is not happening right now.

You feel it beneath your ass. Unmistakably big, undeniably hard.

A shiver makes it's way down your spine. Your legs clench tight, squishing his abdomen and grinding deeper against him. With the way Ghost's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, you know he feels it too.

There's a fog closing in on your mind. The sight of your lieutenant under you shouldn't turn you on like this— and yet, the growing dampness between your legs tells you otherwise.

Panicked, you rip yourself off of him and get on your feet. A look over at Soap and Gaz, but they're still in a grapple of their own. It's only a temporary relief that runs over you when you realize they hadn't seen what happened.

"Sergeant," your lieutenant calls out. He's propped up on his arm; you look anywhere but him.

"Sorry, Lt. Feeling a little sick," you say, licking your lips. "Going to freshen up a bit."

You don't wait for him to dismiss you before you're jogging back to your quarters.

Standing in front of your little bathroom sink, you splash cold water onto your burning face. It barely helps.

How did you end up here?

Was it when he started being nice to you, even though you were never anything but rude? Was it when he defended you against egotistic recruits?

Or has it been doomed since the start, when he first looked at you through his stupidly long lashes, like he was trying flip you inside out with his stare?

You weren't lying when you told him you felt sick.

It's a creeping feeling in your gut that's been burning low for a while now. Don't want to call it denial, but what else could it be?

(Betrayal, maybe. You shouldn't feel anything else. Shouldn’t be feeling anything but spite for your lieutenant. It isn't fair to your friend who—)

Knock knock.

The sound breaks you away from thought. A part of you dreads opening it, because you know who stands behind the heavy door. The other part of you is who turns the knob.

Ghost stands there, towering over you.

"Alright, Sergeant?"

His composure is unfair. It's like before never happened. You take a deep breath before replying.

"Yes, sir," you say. It comes out all crackly and rough. "Nothing to worry about."

The silence that falls between you is unsettling.

“If that’s all.” You start to close the door, but his hand catches it.

“Need to talk to you ‘bout something,” he says.

You feel your heart drop somewhere into hell. “Sir, there’s nothing—”

He pushes the door back, pressing into your room. “D’you have a problem with me, Sergeant?”

Eyebrows scrunched, you back up into the wall behind you. “What?”

“I repeat, do you have a problem with me?”

Ghost tilts your chin up. His hand feel like a brand on your skin. Your gaze moves back and forth from his eyes to where his lips shift under the mask, all of a sudden taken back to the picture of him lying beneath your legs. He follows your stare, searching.

“Yes or no, Sergeant?”

His voice is all guttural and deep, like he’s holding himself back from something.

“…N-no, I—”

“Good,” he hums. “Won’t have a problem with this then.”

He moves faster than you can process. Hand slipping his balaclava up, just enough to expose thin scarred lips and a crooked nose. You blink, and suddenly they’re pressing against yours.

Any semblance of self-control melts away after that.

He kisses you like a man deprived of oxygen. Feels more like he's eating you up rather than kissing you. Like he's trying to drink up the air you breathe and more.

But after all he's been doing these past few weeks, the contact feels like a deep reprieve in your bones— a relief you don't want to admit to needing.

You chase him when he pulls back.

“Do you hate me?” He asks, thumb tracing your swollen lips.

"I just let you kiss me," you say, breathless and incredulous. "And you're asking me if I hate you?"

He smirks-- it's stupidly attractive seeing a real expression on him.

"Can't be sure when it comes to you, Sergeant."

You furrow your brows, annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean— mmph!"

Ghost cuts you off with another kiss, hands moving down to your hips. You yelp when he pulls your legs up to wrap around his waist, hauling you up by your ass.

"Arms around me, love," he grunts between pecks.

Once your arms wrap around his shoulders, he pushes off the wall and carries you over to the bed. With surprising care, he drops you on the mattress and settles on top of you.

"Tell me to stop," Ghost growls against your neck. "And I will."

You should say no. No to fraternization, no to betraying your morals.

Stand strong in the face of evil temptation!

"More," you plead instead, because the devil lives inside you. "Want more, Lt."

He groans into your skin. It excites you infinitely more. Leaning back, he pulls his shirt off, revealing firm muscles and a soft belly.

Fuck, he’s so stupidly hot. Your own top and pants comes off a moment later, left forgotten on the floor.

The two of you are a mess of tangled limbs in your little bed made for one.

Ghost kisses down your body, latching onto your soft skin and sucking bruises down your chest. He says things that make you burn a fever pitch— fuckin’ gorgeous, sergeant, knew you needed me, isn't tha' right?

It’s unbearable how turned on you are.

Whines bleed through clenched teeth as you paw at his body. He bites, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.

Always pissin’ me off with tha’ smart mouth of yours, he mutters. Makin' me go wank off like a fuckin' teen.

Your mind is blur— everything is happening too fast, too hot, to process what he's saying to you.

Ghost moves down your body, giving your chest a rough fondle before settling in between your shaky legs.

When he drags your underwear down, your pussy is glistening with how utterly wet you are.

"All f' me?" He asks, pupils blown at the sight of his prize. "Fuckin' drippin'."

You squirm, cheeks searing hot. "Shut up—"

He doesn't let you finish, burying his face between your thighs in one smooth motion.

If Ghost kisses like a man starved, then he eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

He pulls you close in his arms and drinks you up like the slick dripping from your pussy is his own personal ambrosia. Moans and groans like it's some divine providence to have his mouth on your cunt.

Your hands claw at his neck and shoulders, but it only spurs him on with more fervor. You feel it simmering into a boil in your belly; the telling signs of your orgasm building.

"Hah—Fuck, Lt., I'm gonna—," you moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation.

But then he stills.

Just stops completely as his mouth leaves your pussy cold and shaking. You lift your head to look down at him, eyes in a frenzy from a ruined climax.

"W-why'd you stop—,"

"Never answered my question, love." He blows cold air on your clit, teasing.

"Huh?"

"Tell me why you hate me," Ghost says, staring at you through soft lashes. "Tell me why you act like such a fuckin' brat, and I'll let you come."

Your breath hitches. “You’re such a fucking asshole—“

You try to kick your leg at him, but he's strong and there's nothing you can do with them pinned down. He nips at your clit, making you yelp out in shock.

"Answer the question, Sergeant."

Ghost shifts his arm, bringing his hand over while still holding your leg down. It's sinful to watch it happen-- his tongue flicking out, licking two of his fingers until they're shimmering with saliva, petting your pussy from the clit down to your pulsing hole.

"Mmhh—"

The stretch of his fingers in your pussy makes you tremble with anticipation. But he doesn't move them the way you want. Only teases you slowly and gently.

"Please, Lt.—"

"Not fuckin' you 'til you tell me, pet."

And isn't that simply the most aggravating thing to hear?

You let out a frustrated whimper. Mind running back and forth over what you could possibly say so that he'll make you come. A shock of pleasure flickers through you when he suddenly crooks his fingers inside you.

"C'mon, pet," Ghost encourages you. "Know y'want it."

Keeping your gaze, he flicks his tongue out and drags it slowly, tracing a line from where his fingers fuck into you, all the way up to your clit.

"Promise I'll fuck you right if you tell me."

The words bubble up your throat before you can stop them.

"...myfriendaskedyououtbutyourejectedthemsoI'mobligatedtohateyou— please, let me come, Lt.," you half-beg, half-sob.

It’s embarrassing. Borderline humiliating to say it aloud.

The real reason for why you treat him like trash— how you only really hate him by proxy.

Truthfully, there's never been any real ill intent. Only a sorry moral obligation to be as spiteful as possible for an old teammate who had confided in you after being coldly shot down by the masked lieutenant of 141— the very one that's currently knuckles deep in your throbbing cunt and covered in your juices.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it, love?” Ghost purrs, fingers still slowly pumping in and out of you.

He's still smirking, that fucking asshole. You wriggle your hips, but he keeps you still with an arm and it’s just not enough.

“Fuck you,” you cry out in frustration.

“I will," he hums. "All tha’ sass for what, hm? Someone I don’t even remember?”

He presses his nose into the plush of your thigh and takes a deep inhale.

"Jerk— hngh!"

Broken moans escape you as his lips find your clit once more. This time, he eats you up without mercy, thick fingers curving wickedly into that one spot inside you. A familiar spark beginning its ascent from where it first fell.

You want to tell him that he's mean, a straight jerk for not remembering someone confessing to them. That this was your friend he was dismissing like a nobody.

(Oh, but what would your friend say if they find out you're in bed with the man who rejected them?

It was so long ago though, your mind whispers. Surely, they've moved on by now, right?)

His tongue laps with just the right pressure on your bud, full broad strokes that make you see stars. His fingers work your pussy with focused precision, sinking into the spot that keeps making you cry out in pleasure.

It's all too much for you to take.

When he finally wraps his lips around your sensitive clit and sucks— you come with blinding lights in your vision, hips grinding up into his face uncontrollably.

"Tha's it, just like that, Sergeant," Ghost coos against your clit, sending another jolt through your legs.

He slips his fingers out of you and pulls himself up back towards your neck, nipping and nestling at your throat. His still-clothed cock grinds gently against your pulsating core.

With the crash comes some of your rationality.

"They liked you, you asshole," you accuse softly, boneless.

"Like me?" Ghost says bluntly against your skin. "They don't even know me."

You roll your eyes. "What, like I know you?"

He pulls back, both arms braced at the sides of your head. Something indecipherable in his gaze.

"Don't you?"

Don't you?

Your breath catches in your chest.

And what would it mean to know someone like Ghost?

His name? His face?

Is it to know the same ten jokes he tells on the field? Or how he always makes sure to give his soldiers a once-over before heading out, and is always the last to exfil?

Or maybe it's to know the sound of his voice in your ears, to be able to pick him out from a crowd of blurry faces. To be able to recognize the scarred curve of his lips, the rough callouses on his palms against your skin.

You sink into the deep end when you realize how close the proximity between you and the man-you-tried-to-hate has become.

"You with me, pet?"

Ghost pulls you out of your thoughts with a nibble on your throat.

"Worryin' too much," he nuzzles into your neck, suckling a sensitive spot that makes you whine. "Couldn't care less 'bout your friend."

You frown, opening your mouth to berate him again, but he beats you with a deep kiss.

“Don't care f'anyone else," Ghost utters between kisses. "Copy?"

The thought makes your head go fuzzy. You nod.

"Good, 'cause 'm gonna fuck you now."

Like a switch, Ghost goes back to teasing you. He kisses you hard, still as desperate and hungry as it was before. Your hands slip down his muscly frame, tugging at the hem of his pants.

"—off," you manage to say between breaths.

Ghost obliges, breaking free from you to tug off his pants. You salivate at the sight; you'd felt it before, on the training grounds— knew it would be big.

His cock is fat and heavy on your cunt when he settles back in between your legs. Even against the size of his bulk, he's fucking huge.

"Scared?" He teases.

You break eye contact with his cock to look up at him. The stupid smirk is back on his lips, irritating you in all the right ways. His eyes stare down you, as heavy as his cock feels.

"I've had bigger," you lie.

He tilts his head. "S'that right?"

Grabbing your hand, he pulls it down towards his cock. His own hands guide yours as he drags them up and down his length.

Holy shit, you can barely wrap your hands around him.

He makes you press his cock against your pussy. It squelches with how wet you are, as his cock slides against your lips. Your breath hitches when his fat tip catches on your slick entrance.

"So fuckin' wet f'me," Ghost groans. "Want my cock inside you tha' bad, pet?"

You whine, needy pussy fluttering every time his nudges his cock at your hole. "Please, please—."

"Please what? Use your words." He presses his tip in, just a bit.

"Need you to fuck me, Lt.—," you plead, grinding your hips down in attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.

"Say my name, pet. I know you know it."

Fucking. Asshole!

Frustrated, you dig your nails deep into his arms, earning a pained grunt from him.

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Simon."

You're not ready for the way Ghost absolutely buries his cock deep inside you with a pathetic whimper.

Your own breath is knocked out of you with how fucking big he feels, legs shaking at the sudden intrusion.

"Fuck— so fuckin' tight," Simon grunts out.

His hips shift back just a bit before plunging back into your ruined pussy, drawing a choked moan from you. The stretch is euphoric— combined with the way his tip rubs up against that spot in your pussy, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling into the haze.

“D'you know—,” he says, sinking again and again into your cunt. “—how much I thought ‘bout this?”

"'Bout fuckin' this pretty cunt—" Thrust.

"Bending you over in my bed—" Thrust.

"Makin' you come over and over—" Thrust.

It's no use; you lose yourself in the pleasure of his cock, eyes rolling back as he repeatedly pounds you further into the bed. His hands squeeze tight around the curves of your ass, pulling you flush against him and stuffing you full with each thrust.

Simon doesn't stop teasing you.

"What's wrong, love? Got nothin' to say?" He taunts you, lifting both your legs over his shoulders and somehow fucking into you impossibly deeper.

"Cock's got your tongue?"

"F-fu-ungh—"

Tears trail down your cheeks as the simmer in your belly grows overwhelming.

He slips a hand between your legs and starts rubbing circles on your clit, coaxing a string of debauched sounds out of you.

"Sound so fuckin' good like this," Simon groans, eyes hazy and looking just as wrecked as you. "Should jus' keep y'here and fuck you forever."

"—mngh, f-fuck... you," you finally managed to choke out, voice raw and scratchy.

It doesn't distract from the way your cunt clenches tighter than before, not with the way you watch his eyes flicker dark.

He bottoms out with a particularly hard thrust at your words, leaving you a sobbing mess as he fucks you relentlessly.

You grasp away at him as your pleasure begins to overwhelm you— now threatening to boil over. Simon, Simon, Simon is all you can muster, but it's enough.

His cock ruts into you with no reprieve, fingers still flittering over your aching clit.

"Come f'me, pet."

And for once in your life, you obey your lieutenant.

Euphoria burns through your nerves as a second orgasm crashes over you from down under. Your cunt pulses in unrelenting waves, the pleasure borderlining too much. Squeezing his cock even deeper as Simon chases his own climax.

When he finally unravels, it's chaotic and frantic. Simon bends you over, covering you with his body and pulling you close as if to keep you under him. His eyes are squeezed shut, panting as sweat drips into the fabric of his mask.

Your pussy flutters one more time— milking his cock dry at the idea of knowing what Simon Riley looks like when he comes balls deep in your pussy.

“I still hate you,” you whisper, once the electricity fizzles out of the air, leaving only faint static remnants.

But there’s no real venom in your voice.

Simon huffs on top of you. You feel it in the way his chest jumps against yours.

“Right.” He relaxes his body onto you, weight squishing the air out of your lungs with a small ‘oof’. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, love.”

You can't describe the silence that falls over the both of you as comfortable, but... it's not bad, either. There's still a lingering sense of guilt in the back of your mind— but it's no longer screaming at you like before.

Simon's head shifts, the mask pulling on your sheets as he turns and mutters into your temple.

"Still plannin' on hauntin' me now that it's gonna be our bloodline?"

You slap his side as best as you can with your pinned arm.

His quiet chuckle rumbles deep in your ear.

Fucking prick.

Simon brought you flowers, paid for dinner on your dates, opened doors, helped you over puddles in the streets; he was the perfect gentleman. Simon was also a master at following orders. Hence the request you just threw his way as you were watching him wash dishes from your seat perched on the counter.

“Yeah?” Simon asked, an amused smile pulling at his lips as he looked at you from the corner of his eyes.

“Yeah,” you reiterate, plucking the plate he had just finished rinsing to dry it. “Not too hard, nothing that will leave marks, but I wanna feel that floaty feeling. I also want praise tonight; tell me I'm good, tell me how it feels, talk me through it.”

“Alright,” Simon answers with a nod, draining the water from the sink, shaking his hands to dry them, making droplets of water hit your arms and face.

You giggle at his antics, wiping the water away from your skin before pressing a soft kiss to the side of his face.

It had taken some getting used to, making your wants and needs in the bedroom known. Before Simon, most of your lovers had been selfish, and the few times you had voiced your kinks they had been shut down or executed so poorly you didn't want to voice them anymore. But Simon thrived with clear instructions. Praise me, degrade me, use me, worship me. So long as he knew what you wanted him to do, he was more than willing to make your wishes come true.

It’s a few hours later, with Simon spreading his legs wide on the sofa, you tucked close under his arm, the TV playing some rerun of an old show you’ve both seen more times than you can count, that he brings it up again.

“Now, love? Or later in bed?” His hand is slowly stroking up and down your arm, nothing overtly sexual but no less intimate nonetheless.

You hadn’t even thought about having sex in the livingroom, had assumed he’d take your instructions from before and utilize them once you’d both gotten ready for bed. But you can’t deny the way your stomach heats and flutters in that all too familiar way.

“I wouldn’t mind now,” you confess, feeling your face heat under Simon’s intense stare. He’s always had a staring problem, never letting you out of his sight more than necessary, and if you ever were to find yourself not right by his side, you could always feel his gaze on you, making you feel safe.

Simon hums his understanding, a sound that vibrates through his strong chest, before redirecting his eyes to the TV; his fingers still wandering up and down your arm softly. You know his focus is entirely on you, on your reactions, even if he is acting like it isn’t, and you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together for a brief moment of relief. You hadn’t been particularly horny, but just knowing that you’re going to get fucked just the way you want, has arousal already pooling in the juncture between your legs.

“You’re always so soft,” Simon murmurs, dropping his face to the top of your head, practically nuzzling you. You smile but say nothing, just lets him voice his thoughts. “Smell fucking amazing too. Can’t believe you’re all mine sometimes.”

You want to echo his sentiment, say that he’s all yours too, that you feel just as lucky as he does, but his hand has dropped from your arm to your thigh, squeezing and massaging your flesh in the way he knows you love.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” He punctuates the statement with a kiss to the top of your head, his fingers slipping dangerously close to where you want them — where you need them. The way he pushes your legs apart isn’t rough, but it could never be described as gentle either, and when his hand dips below the waistband of your sweats you don’t suppress the moan of anticipation that leaves your throat. “Eager one, aren’t you?”

He’s teasing you, both with his words and the way his fingers run up and down your slit — inside your pants, but not yet inside your underwear. You don’t answer verbally, already melting against him, giving in to the pleasure you know is coming, only nodding lazily as your eyes slip shut.

You can hear the smirk in Simon’s voice as he speaks again. “That’s it, just let go and let me take care of you, love.” He presses down a little firmer, rubbing tight, slow circles around your clit and relishes in the way you tense your thighs in preparation; you want to grind yourself against his touch, he knows it, you know it, and it takes all your willpower to not give in.

“Please, Simon,” you whine, letting your head fall back against his shoulder, opening your neck up for him to plant open mouthed kisses on. Not one to let his love go unsatisfied, Simon leans down to trace your weak spots with his lips, making your pulse flutter and your breath hitch under his ministrations.

“Sound so pretty when you whine and beg,” he says against your skin and finally, finally, slips his fingers into your underwear. “Already so wet for me, love.” He drags the digits through your folds, gathering some of the slick to smear over your clit. His touch is gentle but precise, he knows just how you like it and is intent on making you enjoy yourself.

“Choke me,” you beg, a reminder about what you're expecting, about what started this whole thing in the first place.

“Patience,” Simon mumbles against the length of your throat, his fingers pressing down just enough to be uncomfortable before going back to the toe curling circles.

He plants more kisses along your heated skin, sucks gently at your pulse point in a way that drags an embarrassingly loud moan from your throat. The TV is still on, but whatever was playing on it got drowned out by the noises of Simon's fingers gliding through your wetness and your panting breaths. 

It's Simon that groans when he finally slips two fingers inside. “Fuck you're wet.”

You nod lazily, clenching around his digits, already practically humping against his hand — you love it, love him, you need more.

“Only for you,” you manage to say and you can feel his lips quirk up in a smirk against your shoulder.

You beg for him to go faster, and ever the obedient soldier, Simon does; pulling moans and whimpers from you until you're nothing but a wet, panting mess on the couch.

“Doing so good for me, love,” he says before moving his free hand to wrap around your throat. It's not unexpected, but it catches you by surprise nonetheless; you had been so wrapped up in his pumping fingers, so focused on chasing the pleasure he was providing. 

“Fuck,” Simon groans again, teeth scraping the shell of your ear. “You like that, huh? Go on, cum on my fingers, love.”

His palm presses against your clit, his fingers never slowing their constant in and out, and you hump needily against him. It's when he curls his digits just right to rub against that spongy spot inside and tightens his hand to constrict your airflow just enough to make your mind float, that you explode. White hot pleasure shoots through your limbs, your back arching, eyes squeezing shut as you rut against him and cum with his name spilling from your lips.

The hand around your throat eases and you have to take a moment to catch your breath. When you finally turn your head enough to blink up at him, Simon is cleaning your slick off his fingers, eyes closed as he indulges in the taste of you. The sight sends another bolt of excitement through you, making you squeeze your thighs together. 

“More,” you say, already swinging your legs over his to straddle his thick thighs, hands searching for the hem of his shirt to pull it up and off. 

Simon chuckles but lets you undress him. It takes some combined effort to remove his jeans without getting up from the couch, but you’re both hellbent on not losing the contact between your bodies.

“You want to be on top, love?” He asks, voice low and practically dripping with arousal. His words vibrate through his chest and it makes you grind down on the obvious bulge in his boxers.

You turn it over in your mind; the idea of being on top, of being the one more in control. But ultimately you shake your head in the negative. Tonight was a night for submission, for letting Simon play your body like an instrument, for letting go and giving in. 

With strength that always seems to surprise you, he grabs hold of your thighs, rough fingers digging into plush flesh, and flips the two of you over on the couch.

“So fucking pretty like this,” Simon murmurs, placing soft, wet kisses on the length of your throat, nudging at the neckline of the shirt you wore — one of his, Riley stamped across the back. It made him crazy every time he saw you in it. “All worked up, so needy for more.”

“Mhm,” you hum, not trusting your voice enough with words, head already scrambled with pleasure and anticipation.

“So wet and ready for me.” He keeps sweet-talking you, breath fanning over your skin, hands wandering up and down your body until your clothes are laying in a pile on the floor and his hips are slotted between your spread legs. 

“Simon,” you whine, fingers digging into his muscular back, hips lifting from the couch in search of friction. 

And he has the gall to laugh, a deep chuckle that makes molten hot desire pool in your guts. You're just about ready to explode, to beg for him to just fuck you already, when he ruts against your sopping cunt, the head of his cock nudging against your clit.

“Aching for it, aren't you? Naughty girl,” he says, rubbing his cock up and your folds, coating himself in your wetness before slipping just the first inch inside. It's a stretch, it always is, but you crave more.

Simon mouths his way up your neck, finding your lips and kisses you dizzy. He swallows your moan as he sinks in, filling you up in a way that always makes you ache just slightly.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth, his hips unmoving as the two of you just bask in the feeling of being connected so intimately. 

A few more kisses get exchanged, lazy and languid, all lips and tongues and deep moans, but before long you're aching for more.

“Move,” you demand between kisses, hands roaming the vastness of his broad back before coming to rest on his ass, pushing just enough to give him an incentive to follow orders. 

He's slow about it, mean even, pulling out until just the head is lodged inside before pushing back in. And when you thrust up against him in an attempt to make him move faster and deeper, Simon grips your hips and keeps you pinned down against the couch. 

“Just stay still for me. ‘M gonna make it so good for you, but you have to be a good girl and do as you're told,” he says and a whine passes your lips as you struggle against all the feelings bubbling up inside your chest. It's not just the physical pleasure, it's the emotional intimacy and just everything — you're so goddamn in love with this man it makes you want to explode.

Simon's next move is less of a roll of his hips and more of a snap, slamming his cock inside in a way that nearly punches all the air from your lungs. One of his hands moves from their position to keep you still to instead lock around your throat.

“This what you wanted?” He asks, a quick check in to make sure you're okay before anything threatens to spiral out of control. You had asked for choking, but he needed to make sure anyway.

“Yes,” you breathe, nodding as best as you can with the limited movement your head is given.

And that's all Simon needs to hear, fingers constricting over your throat as he fucks you right there on the couch; other hand still on your hip, making sure you lay still and let him take care of you.

“Feel so good ‘round me, love. So fucking good,” he groans, so low and deep it could nearly count as a growl, punctuating every word with a punching thrust.

Gasps and moans and the filthy, wet sounds of Simon's cock slamming into your cunt fills the room, and the pleasure is all you can focus on.

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, your chest heaving and you swear you're probably drooling with how your mouth hangs open.

“Such a good fucking girl. Taking my cock so well.” Most of what Simon is mumbling gets lost in the grunts he makes, but just the sound of his voice gets you closer to the edge.

He keeps whispering sweet nothings and filthy words, but it's when he thumbs at your clit that's your undoing. Just a few quick, hard circles around that bundle of nerves has you careening towards ecstasy and your legs constrict around his middle as he fucks you through the orgasm.

“That's it,” Simon growls as your eyes roll to the back of your skull, the hand on your throat squeezing just enough to make you feel light headed. “Cum on my cock, pretty girl.”

Your climax ebbs and flows, a tidal wave of dizzying pleasure that the oxygen deprivation only seems to add to. A garbled noise leaves your throat and it's enough of a tell for Simon to ease his grip on you. 

“‘M gonna cum. Where do you want it?” His hips are still snapping against yours, cock racing in and out of your weeping cunt and it takes a few moments as you catch your breath before you manage to register it's no longer rhythmic. 

“Where you want it, love?” Simon repeats through gritted teeth, thighs flexing and relaxing with every thrust. 

“Inside,” you manage to gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders, red half moons denting his skin.

“Fuck, fuck!” He groans, spilling inside of you as your inner walls all but milk him dry.

He collapses on top of you, face buried between your neck and shoulder, breath heavy and hot on your skin as you both bask in the afterglow of your shared orgasms. His lips find your pulse point again, just a chaste kiss, but it still sends a shiver through your body.

“No,” you complain when he moves to get off you, cradling his head as you pet his hair.

“Not going far,” Simon promises, hissing from the overstimulation as he slips his softening cock out of your wet heat. “Gotta clean up.”

You make a whining noise of complaint but let him go nonetheless. You make yourself comfortable on the couch, following Simon’s movements with your ears as he disappears into the bathroom for a moment. You can hear the water of the faucet turn on, then off, and then he’s back by your side with a damp towel and a glass of water.

“Drink,” he says, shoving the glass into your hand before carefully swiping the towel between your legs to clean off any excess cum. He settles in beside you, tucks you in close to his side, presses a kiss to the top of your head and throws the blanket that had been draped over the couch’s back across both of you.

“You okay?” He asks. Always making sure. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, I’m perfect,” you answer, smiling up at him before craning your neck to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Me too.”

As info: the total length should be 39 cm or 15,35 inches. You can adjust the pdf scale using your printer, according to the length you want it to be.

It was honestly a bit hard to draw, since it’s not a knife and the lines are not straight, but the center line IS straight so (I guess it’s one of the few straight things about him… anyways) I had to balance the lines a bit