fic recs mainly

Summary: Simon finds your G-spot.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex

Note: I’m on Instagram now (kinda), come say hi :-)

Word count: 2.1k

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.

Temporarily deaf Reader x TF141 !

cw: angst, minor character death (but it's a bit sad), miscommunication, angry tf141 (Don't worry! All will be fixed soon.),

You weren’t incompetent; you knew that. You knew the team valued you and that you contributed to the success of many missions. But you were also human. And humans, as much as it sucked, were prone to error. Your error came in the form of empathy. 

You were new. At least, new in the eyes of the rest of the 141. The youngest, least experienced,  but the most hopeful. So when you opened the door within an Al-Qatala base to see a trembling woman with wires across her chest and a large ticking timer that read 00:56, you couldn’t turn away. You tried, Price’s voice ringing in your ear, “[+] sitrep?”, but your feet remained anchored to the ground, frozen. The clock still ticked.

I imagine Simon as a certified thighs guy. Like imagine him laying down on your thighs and biting on 'em occasionally. Just to hear you yelp and complain about him being a big mutt. Him just loving the plush fat and sleeping on 'em or asking you to squeeze his face between 'em.

He is your big mutt, your personal guard dog.

Now he is obsessed with your thighs and being between it and eat your pussy, his face between your folds, tongue lapping on your syrupy slick, slobbering mess as he grunts praises while you whine. He's so messy, and gods he's gripping your thighs again biting them when he wants to withdraw the pleasure away.

It makes you feel so hot, so fucking hot. Your trying to grind your hips on his face, nose specifically. He looks up, through his eyes tongue rolling against your bud as you shudder, trying to push away at the overwhelming sensation.

He's being a bad dog, he knows. He's being a mean boyfriend to you right now. Biting and licking and pawing all over your sweet sweet cunt. What can he do? He just loves the way you get all shy and sweet and teary when his mouth is on that pussy.

You're making him uncomfortable. Good.

Serves him right for deciding to see you as some sort of daughter figure before you even shook his hand and introduced yourself as the new member of his old task force.

He wasn't even that much older than you. He wasn't even old! Definitely old-fashioned, though. Something along the lines of what they call "positive sexism". He sees a girl, cute and young, surrounded by men who either want her out of the room or want her in their bed—oftentimes both, one after the other. He feels the need to protect you, look after you, help you adjust, and make you comfortable.

You want to see the imprint of his cock bulging out of your stomach. You want to hear yourself squelch embarrassingly loud from his hard and slow thrusts into your pussy. You want to taste his cum before you swallow it all and open your mouth like a whore to show him proudly. You want your bedsheets to smell like him for days when you're done with him.

And you keep touching him. All the time. Anywhere you want. Everywhere you want. His shoulder when you pass by him in the hallways. His hair in the breakroom when you claim to see something stuck to it. His fingers when you insist on delivering your paperwork straight into his hands.

But if you had to be honest, you would have to say that you like showing him more. Nothing too obvious, obviously. Just tasteful and careful views; a little cleavage here and there, a slip of leg whenever you wore something short for the day, a subtle arch of your back that you know he can't keep his eyes off of. So, nothing you can't pretend that isn't on purpose and make him feel like he's the pervert in this annoyingly still platonic relationship.

Which means that you have no choice but to be content with simply watching the effect you have on him. The way he keeps clearing his throat and pulling excuses from thin air to leave the room far too quick to not be obvious. The way he has to cross his legs, wince at the sensation, and immediately try to cover it with an over-the-top fake cough. The way he shies away from your direct gaze but tries to sneak glances at you with an adorable flush on his teddy-bear cheeks immediately after.

One of these days, you swear you're gonna snap and just tackle him to the ground and ride him on the floor like a suctioned dildo, fully clothed and right in the open where everyone can see you.

You have no idea how dangerously close he is to laying you on his lap and spanking your insolent ass raw if you keep on keeping this up. Acting like a real fucking slut. He's not a green little altar boy, okay? He knows what you're doing. He's trying to restrain himself. But he's not stopping you either; he tried, but after he chickened out halfway through the conversation on both separate attempts and started stammering about hardware parts for fifteen agonizing fucking minutes, he's not going to humiliate himself that way again. Ever. Instead, he's going to shut up and take it like a good boy and beat his cock every night to the thought of you, emptying load after load into his palm and biting back angry, shameful tears. Because what else can he do?

You'd love to show him. All he needs to do is say yes.

and we all know johns a patient man. he lets you run, each time. only because he knows you’ll come back. fucks you a little harder for it when you do. gives you a just little bit more to salivate over in his absence. gives you a little more filth to feed on when it’s just you and your pathetic fingers in bed at night. the gradual increase until you’re sure there’s no possible way he could make you feel any better than he already has.

and even when he continually proceeds to prove you wrong, even when your cunt is beggin for more than just quick weekend fucks — you’re a stubborn woman with a heart to protect. to which price stays steel-spined for as long as possible, even though he wants nothing more than to tell you to jus give it up cause theres no goddamn way you’re escapin this, princess.

his patience is commendable through it all. but maybe he forgot just how little commendations mean when that primal filth takes over the moment he overhears simon flirting with you. simon the behemoth riley. the only other man on earth price suspects could break you as much, if not a little more than he can.

it’s then that his patience is disintegrated. all bets are off. john price makes the point to not ask but tell you you’re his as he has you repeat it over and over with every orgasm he forces out of you til you’re sobbin with his cum leakin outta every hole.

Simon’s lounging back on the hotel room’s couch, jaw wired shut and bruised to hell, watching with dark eyes while you squirm under Johnny’s mouth. He’d insisted on staying—said he couldn’t stand to miss it, even if he couldn’t do anything but grunt approval and adjust his sweats.

Soap’s palms are firm on your thighs, holding you open like he’s been given a sacred duty. “Told me it was a goddamn emergency,” he murmurs into your skin, hot breath making you twitch. “Didn’t think Ghost meant it literally.”

He laps at you slow and thorough, like he’s got something to prove. Every flick of his tongue is deliberate, practiced. When you whine his name, hips jerking up, you swear you hear Simon groan around his bite guard.

Later, when you’re wrecked and boneless across the bed, Simon scribbles something on a notepad and holds it up.

It started as a joke. "I'm gonna die if I don't get my cock wet soon," Johnny whined, sprawled backward over the couch, legs spread, hand draped over his forehead like he was seconds away from his last breath. *"Swear I can feel it in my fucking molars, mate. I'm gonna explode."

At first, you and the others ignored him. Typical Soap — loud, dramatic, a walking sexual frustration PSA. But it didn't stop. If anything, it got worse: every mission debrief, every meal, every late-night sit around the barracks, Johnny lamented his poor, poor cock like it was a national tragedy.

When he started describing how tragic his wanks were — "My hand's too fuckin' rough, not the same, need something wet, something tight—" — you snapped. Loud enough for everyone in the room to hear: "Christ, Soap, I'll fuckin' take one for the team if it'll shut you up."

Johnny sat up like you'd just offered him oxygen.

Which is how you found yourself bent over the nearest flat surface, jeans yanked halfway down your thighs, Johnny pressed tight to your back, rutting into you like a man possessed.

"Fuck—fuckin' hell, love, yer savin' my life," he groaned, hips slamming into you like he was trying to crawl inside. "Warm 'n tight, fuck, could stay here forever."

You barely bit back a moan, hands braced hard enough to hurt. You weren't supposed to enjoy this, just do your duty to the squad’s sanity.

But then Johnny started whining again — not his usual loudmouth bitching, but these needy, half-choked sounds against the back of your neck.

"Need ya," he rasped, like he couldn't help himself. "Need yer cunt, fuck, not gonna be enough, need it again—'m not done—"

Even after he came — hot, messy, filling you to the brim — he didn't stop. Still rocking against you, still murmuring desperate filth into your skin, already hardening inside you again.

You realized then: You hadn't fixed the problem. You'd made it worse.

He barely pulled out before he was pushing right back in, thick and slick with his own cum, grinding into your overstretched walls like he could merge the two of you if he tried hard enough.

"Fuckin' perfect," Johnny slurred against your neck, teeth scraping along your skin. "Mine now, y'know that? Filled you up good—fuckin' claimed you—"

You tried to push him off, half-hearted at best — muscles trembling, brain fogged from how full you felt — but Johnny just wrapped an arm around your middle and held you there, hips rolling slow and filthy, fucking his own mess deeper inside.

"Nuh-uh, love," he muttered, pressing kisses to your shoulder, messy and possessive. "Said I'd lose my mind if I didn’t get to fuck you. Y’think one load's enough to fix this? After all that sufferin’?"

You whimpered, feeling his cock twitch again, fully hard despite just cumming. He chuckled low against your skin, voice dark and wrecked.

"Told ya I'd go mad. Now yer stuck with me, sweetheart."

He fucked you slow the second time — not like the frantic, desperate slamming from before, but a grinding, possessive rhythm, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you properly. Every time you clenched around him, he gasped, praising you in that ruined, filthy brogue.

"That's it, good girl," he breathed. "Take it all, take it like y'made for it. Fuckin' born to milk my cock, huh? Gonna pump you so full you won't remember what it feels like to be empty."

You felt him bulge even thicker inside you, grinding down into your cervix, every thrust stretching you wider, making you feel owned in a way that had nothing to do with orders or duty.

Johnny growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. You barely registered it before he was moving — hands gripping your hips, manhandling you onto your back like you weighed nothing.

"Wanna see," he panted, almost delirious. "Wanna see how fuckin' ruined you are for me."

Your legs were shoved open before you could think to protest, ankles tossed over his shoulders. Johnny leaned back just enough to look — and groaned, obscene and ragged.

"Fuckin' hell, look at that," he hissed, watching his cum leaking out of you, your cunt red and puffy, still clenching greedily around nothing. His cock throbbed in his hand, still wet, still ready.

"So messy, love. Drippin' for me already. Y'know what that means, don’t ya?"

You shook your head weakly, breath stuttering in your chest. Johnny just grinned, all teeth and danger.

"Means I’ve gotta fill you up again. 'Til you can't take any more."

Without warning, he lined himself up and pushed — forcing his cock back inside your sore, sloppy cunt in one thick, slow thrust. You cried out, back arching, and Johnny moaned like you were his whole damn salvation.

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Started fucking you immediately — deep, grinding strokes that had your whole body jolting with each brutal snap of his hips.

"That's it, that's it," he gasped, head tipping back, sweat dripping down his temple. "Take it all, pretty thing. Gonna make sure yer stuck full of me. Walkin' round leakin' my cum for days."

Your brain barely worked anymore. Just open-mouthed whimpers, toes curling, walls spasming around him like you wanted it — wanted everything he was giving you and more.

Johnny's pace turned frantic again, slamming into you harder, the sound of skin against skin filthy and wet between you.

"Belong to me now," he growled, words punching out of him with each thrust. "No one else. Fuckin' mine."

You couldn’t even pretend to fight it. Couldn’t think past the way he filled you so perfectly, the overwhelming heat, the way his cock dragged along every sensitive spot inside you until you felt tears spring to your eyes.

He buried himself to the hilt one final time, grinding down against you, hips jerking as he spilled deep again, thick and endless. You could feel it — the heat, the stretch, the way he pulsed inside you like he was branding you from the inside out.

Johnny didn’t pull out. Just collapsed over you, mouth hot and messy against your jaw, still twitching inside your wrecked cunt.

"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely. "Still not enough. Need you again, love. Gonna fill you 'til you’re round with me, swear it."

Johnny stayed buried in you for a long moment, hips grinding lazy, slow circles, as if trying to force every last drop even deeper. You could feel it leaking out around his cock — hot, sticky, obscene — and you whimpered, overstimulated and wrecked.

Johnny noticed immediately. Growled against your throat, feral.

"Leakin'," he muttered, almost offended. "Can't have that. Gotta keep it all in, love. Need you drippin’ full for me."

He finally, finally pulled out — and the flood of cum that gushed out made you sob, weak and broken. But Johnny didn’t give you a second to recover. He dropped between your legs, shoving two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep and obscene, scooping the mess back up.

"No wastin' it," he rasped, fucking his cum right back into your cunt with slow, filthy thrusts. "Take it all, greedy girl. You fuckin' need it."

Your legs kicked weakly at the overstimulation, but Johnny just grinned — wild and unhinged — before spreading you wider, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit while he stuffed you full with his fingers.

"Gonna breed you proper," he whispered hoarsely. "Fill you so deep you’ll be round with me. Belly all heavy, stuffed full of my fuckin' load—"

You sobbed, hips rolling despite yourself, body desperate for more even as your mind shattered into static. You should have known it’d be like this — Johnny didn’t do anything by halves.

He leaned down, mouth dragging messy, possessive kisses along your trembling stomach like he could will it to swell.

"Mine," he murmured. "All fuckin' mine."

And that’s exactly when you heard the door creak open. You barely had the strength to lift your head, vision blurry — but you saw a tall shadow in the doorway.

Ghost.

He stood there, silent, unreadable behind his mask — just watching. Johnny didn't stop. Didn’t even slow down. He curled his fingers inside you again, making you cry out, making more of the mess spill down your thighs.

Ghost's head tilted slightly, almost curious.

"Problem?" Johnny barked over his shoulder, voice wrecked but cocky as hell. Like he wanted Ghost to see — to know.

Ghost said nothing. Just crossed his arms slowly over his broad chest.

Johnny smirked and turned his attention back to you, dragging his fingers out with a wet squelch just to stuff them right back in — slow and possessive.

"That's right," he said lowly, clearly for Ghost’s benefit now. "Had to take care of it myself. Filled her up so good she's fuckin' leaking. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?"

You whimpered in response — too broken, too full, too wrecked to argue.

Ghost watched you for a long, heavy moment — chest rising and falling — before he spoke, voice flat and unreadable: "You better clean up after yourself, Soap."

Then, calmly — without another word — Ghost shut the door behind him with a click.

Johnny barked out a wild, breathless laugh against your stomach. "Come to help, mate?" he panted, fingers still lazily dragging through the wrecked mess of your cunt. "Think she needs it. Poor thing's so fuckin' stuffed already, can't hold it all."

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to.

He stalked closer, heavy boots thudding against the floor, until he was standing right at the edge of the bed — looming over your trembling body. You watched through blurred eyes as he popped the button on his cargo pants, dragging the zipper down slowly, deliberately.

Johnny shifted you slightly, spreading your legs even wider, thumbs digging bruises into your hips to keep you open — presenting you like a ruined offering.

"C'mon, Ghost," Johnny muttered, voice rough and wild. "Don't leave the girl waitin'. Look how pretty she is—drippin' fuckin' ready."

Still silent, Ghost wrapped a hand around the base of his cock — thick, flushed, already leaking — and lined himself up.

He didn’t ease in. Just pressed the fat head against your already-used, dripping hole and pushed.

You screamed, body arching off the bed, overwhelmed instantly by the stretch, the pressure, the unbearable fullness of taking another man inside you without even a second to adjust.

Ghost let out a low, broken sound, not quite a grunt, not quite a moan, and buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

"There we fuckin' go," Johnny whispered against your ear, laughing breathlessly. "Take him, love. Take us both."

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Ghost fucked you without mercy — slow, devastating thrusts that forced Johnny’s mess and his own spit to spill down your thighs in filthy, wet streams. He said nothing — just breathing harshly through the fabric of his mask, hands brutal on your hips, using you like a living, breathing fucktoy.

Johnny kept whispering filth into your ear — encouragements, praises, commands — while Ghost destroyed you from the inside out.

"That's it, good girl," Johnny crooned, petting your hair while Ghost slammed into you. "Take it like you were fuckin' made for it."

You felt your mind fracturing — pure overstimulation, pure broken pleasure — as Ghost fucked you harder, grinding deep, his cock stretching you to the point of tears.

And then Johnny shifted again — ducking low between your legs to lick around where you were stuffed full, his tongue dragging over your overstretched rim every time Ghost pulled out just a fraction.

"Fuckin' hell," Johnny gasped, almost reverent. "Look at that, Ghost. Cunt's swallowin' you like she needs it."

Ghost let out another low, broken sound — and picked up the pace. The bed creaked violently under you, your body jolting with every brutal, punishing thrust.

You could feel it building — some dark, overwhelming climax you couldn’t fight — tightening low in your stomach, burning up your spine.

Ghost suddenly reached down and gripped your throat — not tight, just heavy, possessive — and that was it.

You shattered. Clamping down around him so hard Ghost actually groaned, thrusts going sloppy, brutal. And then you felt it — hot, thick, spilling deep inside you, Ghost’s cock pulsing violently, joining Johnny’s mess inside your ruined cunt.

You lay there twitching, barely conscious, as Ghost finally pulled out — slow, heavy — and watched as his cum immediately leaked out after him.

Johnny's hand was already there — catching it, stuffing it back inside you with lazy, satisfied fingers.

Ghost pulled his gloves back on silently, redressing with mechanical efficiency. Said nothing. Before he left, he pressed one gloved hand to your trembling thigh — firm, approving — and then disappeared out the door without a word.

Johnny leaned down over you, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

"Told ya, sweetheart," he whispered with a wicked grin. "Was gonna fill you proper."

And from the ache in your gut and the obscene mess between your thighs —you knew he wasn’t lying.

Morning hit like a slow, heavy sledgehammer.

You barely even remembered falling asleep — just flashes: Johnny fucking his cum deeper into you with lazy, loving thrusts while you sobbed into the sheets; Ghost’s heavy hand gripping your thigh one last time before disappearing without a word.

Now your entire body ached. Your thighs were sore, trembling even at the slightest twitch. Your pussy was a wreck — raw, swollen, still leaking a slow, lazy drip of milky white that soaked into the crumpled sheets beneath you.

You tried to shift — to roll onto your side — and whimpered immediately. Everything hurt. You could feel the mess drying on your skin, inside your cunt, coating your thighs.

And Johnny, of course, was already awake.

He lay stretched out beside you, arms tucked behind his head, a smug, satisfied smirk spread wide across his face.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he drawled, voice rough from use, eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "Sleep well?"

You glared at him weakly, too exhausted to even muster words. Johnny just grinned wider.

"Y’look wrecked," he said cheerfully, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from your sweaty forehead. "Proper job, that."

You tried to move again — a pathetic, sluggish attempt — and Johnny laughed, full-bodied and warm.

"Aw, poor thing. Can’t even fuckin' walk, huh?"

His hand drifted down — over your collarbone, the bruises he’d left, the fingerprints, the possessive marks — until he palmed your lower belly, pressing down just slightly.

You gasped, muscles clenching reflexively around the lingering mess inside you.

Johnny's grin turned wolfish.

"Still full, are ya?" he murmured. "Good girl. Holdin’ it all for us."

He sat up slowly, bare chest gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat, and pulled back the sheets.

You whimpered as cool air brushed your ruined, sore cunt — thighs automatically trying to close, to hide yourself.

Johnny tsked softly, spreading you open with two rough hands like you were something precious to be displayed.

He hummed low in his throat — a sound of satisfaction.

"Ghost’ll be pleased," he muttered, almost to himself.

You blinked sluggishly at him, confused.

Johnny chuckled and gestured toward the nightstand. There — sitting neatly next to a bottle of water — was a simple piece of paper. No name. No explanation. Just three short words, written in Ghost’s heavy, blocky scrawl: “Hold it in.”

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest.

Johnny laughed again — delighted, wrecked — and leaned down to press a filthy, claiming kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh.

"Guess we’re not done after all, love," he whispered against your skin. "Orders are orders."

he’s so big your legs are already spread wide to accommodate him but he presses his thick hands to your soft thighs to spread you out and open.

giving him perfect access to kiss your hole. tonguing and licking before fucking you with his tongue.

his crooked nose pressed to your clit, rubbing against it roughly as he devours you.

loves it when your slick starts coating down his chin, and how you get a little embarrassed at how wet you’re getting.

spitting onto your puffy clit before sucking on it until you’re desperately asking him to let you cum.

Inspired by the song “ordinary life” by The Weeknd because he’s my Shayla and no matter how freaky he is I still love him

Your mouth was heaven, and Simon swore he was driving straight into hell.

The hum of the tires filled the silence between his gritted teeth and your quiet breaths. Your lips slid along his cock, slow and messy, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin. Every time he looked down, it nearly made him swerve.

“Shit baby—keep your mouth right there. Just like that.”

Your hand wrapped around his base, pumping in a slow rhythm with your mouth, and finally, you glanced up at him.

“You’re driving too fast,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, husky from your ruined throat.

Simon let out a low, broken laugh. “Hard when your makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

Your lips curled into a slow, wicked smile before you sank down again— deeper this time, until your nose nearly brushed his pelvis. He grunted, hand leaving the wheel just long enough to push your hair out of your face.

“Fuck birdie,” he rasped, thumb brushing your cheek.

“Just like that. That’s it. Takin’ it so well, love.”

You hummed around him in response, the vibration sending a sharp jolt straight through him. His hips jerked without permission.

“Fuck—fuckin’ hell, sweetheart…”

He came deep down your throat, warmth spilling over your tongue, and you swallowed every drop without flinching. Your lips dragged off him slow, a faint, satisfied sound slipping from you as you licked him clean.

Simon’s breath came heavy, chest rising and falling while he tried to blink the haze from his eyes. His knuckles were white around the wheel, his pulse still thudding hard in his ears.

Then, gruff, still wrecked he glanced at you and muttered,

“Get in the back.”

You blinked up at him, silent and wide-eyed.

“I’m not done,” he said, voice like gravel.

“You made me cum, yeah? Now I’m gonna make you do the same.”

He yanked the wheel, pulling over rough to the side of the road, killing the engine before the tires even stopped rolling.

Climbing over the center console. He followed after you, quick and deliberate, hands already on your hips before you even got your footing.

Simon sank into the seat, legs wide, dragging you to straddle his lap. “Gotta take care of you too,” he rasped, pulling you closer.

“Need to taste you… need you on my fuckin’ tongue.”

You gasped softly as he shifted beneath you, hands tugging at your waistband. “Been thinking about this for weeks,” he muttered,

“Every night I was gone, every time I got myself off—fuckin’ useless compared to this. Compared to you.”

He hooked his fingers under your panties and dragged them down. “Already soaked,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along the inside of your thigh. “All from suckin’ me off in traffic?”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, breath coming in soft, broken little whimpers.

“Yeah,” he smirked, voice pure filth. “That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

he buried his face between your thighs like a starving man, growling against you, tongue fucking deep, hands locking you in place like he wasn’t letting you go until he got every last drop.

let me tell you something, one of the most iconic and that's heavily distinctive to barrage is his slutty compression shits. those amazing ones that hug every single muscle of his so nicely, almost like a second skin.

and one thing is for sure, knowing how much you like them, the whorish compression shirt stays one while he fucks you. to him it's more than just wearing clother he's comfortable in, it's about the ceratin level of control it gives him.

he knows you want to get a good look at him and at his muscular body, but he won't allow you to fully see him in a mean way. like you don't get to see the whole thing, but he doesn't find it in him of depriving you of a good view of his sculped boy as he's fucking you.

his hips snapping against the plush of your ass every time he pushes himself deeply into your soaking wet cunt, that seems to suck him in, as you cry about not being able to see him. filipping you over so you can watch the muslce ripple behind his shirt and the way the fabric pulls taut around his big biceps - and he also gets to watch your face contort with pleasure, your eyes rolling back. and the way your tits jiggle with each harsh thurst -.

they may bater, they may fight, but god do konig and horangi know how to work together. in every sense. with that, what a dreamy thing it would be to have a threesome with them, because the teamwork is immaculate.

big bad scary men sharing the same sweet thing. because they would definitely find themselves some femenine lil' girl with enough courage to approach and flirt with them. both of them, at the same time - with no shame -. they've never been so amused.

let's be real, they would tag team you. horangi would be to one leading the whole thing - koing's an introverted asshole who wants in but doesn't have the guts to ask for it -. so y'all end up back at yours, bent over the back of the couch as horangi takes your pussy. bottoming out in a single go, sitting there with your walls fluttering around him before he starts setting a pace.

and while konig was just watching with a raging hard on pressing against his pants, all it took was a handful of words from horangi to have him naked and fucking your mouth, grabbing your head to use it properly while getting a bit of help from the shorter's man sharp thrusts.