violet

He’s so lost he doesn’t hear you rush up the stairs behind him, he doesn’t even register your presence, your worried voice until you lay your soft hands on him, cupping his cheeks in your hands and forcing his glassy eyes to lock onto yours.

A protest tears out of his throat, “No.” he moans, voice ragged and unrecognizable. He shakes his head, his hand weakly coming up to push you away from him. “Go. Sick.” He grunts each word separately, like talking steals all of his strength.

In his mind a silent mantra repeats itself, a reminder that he just needs to make it to morning. He just needs to see the sun and then the ache, the terrible thoughts, the burning in his gut will go away.

Clark thinks that this must be a fever.

You ignore him, sliding his arm over your shoulder and doing your best to act like a crutch, helping him slowly get back on his feet. “I know Clark, it’s why I came.” You explain, “Saw you stumbling around on the news.”

Clark’s chest heaves, your touch, the heat of your body pressed to his side makes the pain go away. Not completely, but it dulls the ache enough for you to get him to his apartment, your hands pulling frantically at the suit until you got him free. Clark was useless, biting into the mattress to stop himself from moaning when you undid his zipper.

The window is still open from when he left, curtains blowing in the night breeze, humidity filling the every inch of space and leaving no room for anything else.

The more you touch him, another problem pierces through the fog of his fever. His cock is rock hard and angry. The suit is still on his bottom half, polled at his waist and Clark hopes you can’t see what’s going on through the layers of fabric. It feels like an oxymoron, he can hardly keep his head up but his dick is ready for action. Oh god Clark was going to be sick, you didn’t deserve this, some fever dream creep show. You must be disgusted, he’s disgusted, you’re his friend, his very bestfriend, who is just trying to help him. Nothing more.

Despite his morals, Clark can’t help the way desire curdles in his belly with every touch.

You hold the back of your hand to his forehead and gasp, “Clark you’re burning up.”

A shiver wracks through Clark’s body at your touch, it washes over him like ice water, cooling him down and burning at the same time.

“You-“ he grits his teeth, the words barely escaping “-have to go.”

Clark doesn’t hear your answer, if you even had one. But suddenly your presence is gone. A ragged moan tears out of his throat, a tortured noise somewhere between relief and agony. At least you listened.

His senses are scattered, his hearing hardly able process anything beside his own breathing. His eyes are equally useless, vision tunneling and hazy. But smell remains, if anything it’s heightened. You’ve been gone for easily five minutes and he can still smell you. Warm, sweet, clean. He’s knows your smell better anyone else’s, but it’s never this strong, it never lingers this much. There’s something else underneath it, more subtle than the rest. It’s musky and natural.

His hand moves on its own accord, diving below the waist band of his suit. He grabs his cock tight, and the ache eases again, not as much as it did when you touched him, but enough for him to realize that whatever this sick is- this is what it wants.

He remember something his Ma told him when you were sick.

Starve a cold, feed a fever.

Giving in, he begins to pump.

Heat radiates off of him like UV waves as he works his cock over. He pulls it out of the suit, jostling his hips until it’s pushed down to his thighs. Not the most comfortable, but it would have to do. He hisses when it hits the air, hand gripping so tight it almost hurts.

He fucks his fist like a teenager, it’s so dry it’s almost painful, but so is the idea of pulling away to spit in his hand. Pathetic grunts fall from his lips, hips jerking as he chases the high.

Then you walk back in.

A gasp announces you, then a bang as you stumble into a door with a loud and embarrassed shout of his name.

Clark wants to freeze, stop, apologize, wants to do anything but he can’t. Instead he looks over to where you’ve pressed yourself flat against the wall and he cums.

It’s disastrous, spilling over his knuckles, onto the suit and his stomach. He cries out, not in pleasure but once more in pain. Like a knife that’s been twisted the ache in his gut intensifies.

Tears start to roll.

“I’m sorry-“ Clark babbles, he pulls his hand away and his hips thrust in protest. “I thought you left.” He explains.

You approach, slowly with small steps, like Clark is an injured animal you’re afraid to spook. “Got you a washcloth.” You hold the fabric up weekly, as if to explain. Then you look at down, first at his dick, then further to the bunched up suit and his boots. “Can I?” You ask, tilting your heads towards them.

Clark nods, and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s still hard, pre-cum dribbling down the side of his shaft as he tries his best to ignore it. Ignore the pulse of it, ignore the way your hands delicately grab the heel of his boots and pull. Ignore your frantic tugs to get the suit off of his legs.

He does his best to focus on something, anything else.

The smell is back, the one he couldn’t place, but stronger now. The notes of it impossible to describe but intoxicating nonetheless. It burns the back of his throat, yet he craves another whiff, inhaling even deeper. When he opens his eyes again, you’re back by his face, pushing wet curls off of his forehead. With the way his head is turned to the side, he’s right at eye-line with your cunt and as he watches your thighs press together, it suddenly becomes clear what the smell is.

Arousal.

Not sick or alien attack driven either, natural, uncoerced. It’s enough to make him consider it, the one thing that’s been on his mind since the fever set it. Your eyes are on his cock, fascination painted clear as day. He twitches against his stomach.

You flit back up to his face, expression torn between worried and wanting.

Clark’s resolve shatters, his chest heaving.

“Please.” It’s breathy, broken, and barely audible.

Its hours later, after he’s spilled in your hands and your mouth, that you finally sink down on him. The relief is like laying in direct sunlight. Clark chokes on your name, for the first time all night it’s like the clouds part and he can see you clearly. An angel on top of him, biting back whines while you struggle to set a rhythm.

He finds the strength to flip you over, whatever is coursing through in his veins has him mindless above you. Bottoming out with every thrust, each stroke leaving you clenching so tight around him, it’s almost painful.

Apologies fall from his lips. “I’m sorry-“ he gasps, punctuating it with another wild thrust. “I’m so so sorry.”

You try to soothe him as best you can, promising him it’s okay. “Wanted this for so long Clark.” You whisper, a soft kiss to his lips. “Take what you need.”

He sobs, his chest aches as much as his body. “Was supposed to be different.” He buries himself in your neck, words tender and soft despite the relentless pounding of his hips. “I’ll take you out proper, gonna make it up to you.”

His drives himself deep, the head of his cock pressed against the spongy spot inside you. You’re trembling in his arms, body wracking with pleasure. “Okay Clark.” You agree. Then you hook your ankles into his lower back, and pull him as tight as humanly possible, canting your hips up against him. “Just cum first.”

When it’s over, when you’re both more than spent, he tries to pull out.

The fog settles back over his vision before he even gets halfway. All intentions of getting a washcloth and water bottles disappear. With a groan, he buries himself back to the hilt.

Not yet.

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He’s so lost he doesn’t hear you rush up the stairs behind him, he doesn’t even register your presence, your worried voice until you lay your soft hands on him, cupping his cheeks in your hands and forcing his glassy eyes to lock onto yours.

A protest tears out of his throat, “No.” he moans, voice ragged and unrecognizable. He shakes his head, his hand weakly coming up to push you away from him. “Go. Sick.” He grunts each word separately, like talking steals all of his strength.

In his mind a silent mantra repeats itself, a reminder that he just needs to make it to morning. He just needs to see the sun and then the ache, the terrible thoughts, the burning in his gut will go away.

Clark thinks that this must be a fever.

You ignore him, sliding his arm over your shoulder and doing your best to act like a crutch, helping him slowly get back on his feet. “I know Clark, it’s why I came.” You explain, “Saw you stumbling around on the news.”

Clark’s chest heaves, your touch, the heat of your body pressed to his side makes the pain go away. Not completely, but it dulls the ache enough for you to get him to his apartment, your hands pulling frantically at the suit until you got him free. Clark was useless, biting into the mattress to stop himself from moaning when you undid his zipper.

The window is still open from when he left, curtains blowing in the night breeze, humidity filling the every inch of space and leaving no room for anything else.

The more you touch him, another problem pierces through the fog of his fever. His cock is rock hard and angry. The suit is still on his bottom half, polled at his waist and Clark hopes you can’t see what’s going on through the layers of fabric. It feels like an oxymoron, he can hardly keep his head up but his dick is ready for action. Oh god Clark was going to be sick, you didn’t deserve this, some fever dream creep show. You must be disgusted, he’s disgusted, you’re his friend, his very bestfriend, who is just trying to help him. Nothing more.

Despite his morals, Clark can’t help the way desire curdles in his belly with every touch.

You hold the back of your hand to his forehead and gasp, “Clark you’re burning up.”

A shiver wracks through Clark’s body at your touch, it washes over him like ice water, cooling him down and burning at the same time.

“You-“ he grits his teeth, the words barely escaping “-have to go.”

Clark doesn’t hear your answer, if you even had one. But suddenly your presence is gone. A ragged moan tears out of his throat, a tortured noise somewhere between relief and agony. At least you listened.

His senses are scattered, his hearing hardly able process anything beside his own breathing. His eyes are equally useless, vision tunneling and hazy. But smell remains, if anything it’s heightened. You’ve been gone for easily five minutes and he can still smell you. Warm, sweet, clean. He’s knows your smell better anyone else’s, but it’s never this strong, it never lingers this much. There’s something else underneath it, more subtle than the rest. It’s musky and natural.

His hand moves on its own accord, diving below the waist band of his suit. He grabs his cock tight, and the ache eases again, not as much as it did when you touched him, but enough for him to realize that whatever this sick is- this is what it wants.

He remember something his Ma told him when you were sick.

Starve a cold, feed a fever.

Giving in, he begins to pump.

Heat radiates off of him like UV waves as he works his cock over. He pulls it out of the suit, jostling his hips until it’s pushed down to his thighs. Not the most comfortable, but it would have to do. He hisses when it hits the air, hand gripping so tight it almost hurts.

He fucks his fist like a teenager, it’s so dry it’s almost painful, but so is the idea of pulling away to spit in his hand. Pathetic grunts fall from his lips, hips jerking as he chases the high.

Then you walk back in.

A gasp announces you, then a bang as you stumble into a door with a loud and embarrassed shout of his name.

Clark wants to freeze, stop, apologize, wants to do anything but he can’t. Instead he looks over to where you’ve pressed yourself flat against the wall and he cums.

It’s disastrous, spilling over his knuckles, onto the suit and his stomach. He cries out, not in pleasure but once more in pain. Like a knife that’s been twisted the ache in his gut intensifies.

Tears start to roll.

“I’m sorry-“ Clark babbles, he pulls his hand away and his hips thrust in protest. “I thought you left.” He explains.

You approach, slowly with small steps, like Clark is an injured animal you’re afraid to spook. “Got you a washcloth.” You hold the fabric up weekly, as if to explain. Then you look at down, first at his dick, then further to the bunched up suit and his boots. “Can I?” You ask, tilting your heads towards them.

Clark nods, and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s still hard, pre-cum dribbling down the side of his shaft as he tries his best to ignore it. Ignore the pulse of it, ignore the way your hands delicately grab the heel of his boots and pull. Ignore your frantic tugs to get the suit off of his legs.

He does his best to focus on something, anything else.

The smell is back, the one he couldn’t place, but stronger now. The notes of it impossible to describe but intoxicating nonetheless. It burns the back of his throat, yet he craves another whiff, inhaling even deeper. When he opens his eyes again, you’re back by his face, pushing wet curls off of his forehead. With the way his head is turned to the side, he’s right at eye-line with your cunt and as he watches your thighs press together, it suddenly becomes clear what the smell is.

Arousal.

Not sick or alien attack driven either, natural, uncoerced. It’s enough to make him consider it, the one thing that’s been on his mind since the fever set it. Your eyes are on his cock, fascination painted clear as day. He twitches against his stomach.

You flit back up to his face, expression torn between worried and wanting.

Clark’s resolve shatters, his chest heaving.

“Please.” It’s breathy, broken, and barely audible.

Its hours later, after he’s spilled in your hands and your mouth, that you finally sink down on him. The relief is like laying in direct sunlight. Clark chokes on your name, for the first time all night it’s like the clouds part and he can see you clearly. An angel on top of him, biting back whines while you struggle to set a rhythm.

He finds the strength to flip you over, whatever is coursing through in his veins has him mindless above you. Bottoming out with every thrust, each stroke leaving you clenching so tight around him, it’s almost painful.

Apologies fall from his lips. “I’m sorry-“ he gasps, punctuating it with another wild thrust. “I’m so so sorry.”

You try to soothe him as best you can, promising him it’s okay. “Wanted this for so long Clark.” You whisper, a soft kiss to his lips. “Take what you need.”

He sobs, his chest aches as much as his body. “Was supposed to be different.” He buries himself in your neck, words tender and soft despite the relentless pounding of his hips. “I’ll take you out proper, gonna make it up to you.”

His drives himself deep, the head of his cock pressed against the spongy spot inside you. You’re trembling in his arms, body wracking with pleasure. “Okay Clark.” You agree. Then you hook your ankles into his lower back, and pull him as tight as humanly possible, canting your hips up against him. “Just cum first.”

When it’s over, when you’re both more than spent, he tries to pull out.

The fog settles back over his vision before he even gets halfway. All intentions of getting a washcloth and water bottles disappear. With a groan, he buries himself back to the hilt.

Not yet.

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Clark groans quietly, his hips slowly rolling against yours, increasing the friction. “Just like that, honey. You’re doing so well.” His hands trail down to your thighs, fingers kneading into the doughy flesh.

The rough material of his jeans rubs just right against your clit, your skin growing warm with pleasure. Your pussy is wet, you can feel your slick begin to gather on your panties, and then seeping through them.

Clark watches your warm, wet arousal smear onto the front of his pants, leaving a wet spot as you grind on him. “Oh, God,” he murmurs, his bucking up against yours. “Fuck.”

You whine, chest heaving as your breathing grows labored. You follow his gaze down, watch the way you make the tent in his pants wet from your slick.

He’s throbbing now, his boxers sticking to the thick head of his cock with the precum that’s leaking from the slit. It’s almost painful, how hard he is, and it would be unbearable if you weren’t grinding on him.

His hands move to the edge of your skirt and gently push it up, revealing your soaked panties. He can see the outline of your cunt, and he watches the bulge in his pants slide between your clothed folds. It’s a miracle he doesn’t come on the spot.

He moans, “Fuck,” his head falling against the back of the couch. “God, you look so beautiful right now.”

You lean forward, little mewls pulled from your lips every time the creases in his pants press against your clit. You lick up the column of his throat, smiling a little when he gasps, and you feel his cock twitching in his pants again.

He lets you lick and kiss and bite on his neck, the sensation of your warm, wet mouth adding to the pleasure winding low in his abdomen. “Oh, baby…” he whispers.

He angles his face down and captures your lips with his, kissing you hungrily, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth before slipping in. His hands grab your hips and start leading you to roll against him a little faster, pulling you down harder on him until you’re whimpering.

“Clark,” you gasp, pulling away from the kiss. “Clark…”

He just hums softly, kissing your jaw before moving back to meet your gaze. “I know, baby. Oh, I know. You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

He glances down, his eyes on where your cunt presses against his erection, and he slides a hand down there. He grabs the front of your panties and tugs it a little, causing the crotch to slip between your folds, adding pressure against your clit and partially exposing your soaked, puffy skin.

You squeal and Clark growls low, his hips now moving up to meet yours desperately. “Such a pretty sight. God, you’ve got the prettiest pussy, baby,” he says breathlessly. He moves his thumb to press against your clit through the wet fabric of your underwear, rubbing it in tight, precise circles.

You gasp, now bouncing on his lap as you grind against him faster, needier, your thighs beginning to shake. You can feel that familiar, hot coil of pleasure wind tight in your womb, getting ready to snap.

His eyes trail from your pussy up your body, to your face. He watches you, caught in ecstasy, eyes shut tight and mouth open. “Good girl, honey,” he says lowly, his voice rough with is own approaching release. “Come for me, baby. I know you’re close. Go ahead and take what you need.”

He watches you squirming and whining on his lap. He can hear your heartbeat increasing, your breath getting caught in your throat, and with a little more pressure on your clit, he sends you over the edge.

You moan his name as you come, the balloon of hot pleasure in your womb bursting, your body quivering as your orgasm washes over you. You can feel the boiling ecstasy running through your veins, your cunt pulsing around nothing as you ride out your high on Clark’s lap.

He’s still helping you down from your climax when his own nears, and with a muttered curse, he shoves his pants and boxers down just far enough to free his cock. He gives himself a few quick, hard strokes and then he comes, spilling his thick, creamy cum onto your mound as he whines. It coats the material of your panties and drips over your exposed folds.

His cock gives a few last twitches until he’s spent, and Clark shivers, his breathing heavy. Through half-lidded eyes, he watches his spend dribbling down your mound, and he uses the head of his cock to smear it over your skin.

You shiver and whimper, still sensitive from your orgasm, and he slowly pulls away.

“Sorry,” he says lowly, voice thick, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “You just look so pretty covered in my cum.”

𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3

@booboobear-12 @savvysavsblog13 @donnadiddadog @akkahelenaa @tysukier @animegamerfox @absolutelybloodyhopeless @teenytinylilcrawdaddies @simpingreader @tezooks @justheretoreadmydear @lovexbunny @jazlinda @dolleciita @tinawantstobeadoll @preciselyshifts @markiplex @kissmxcheek @buckyisveryhot @rayamaya @fae-dreamer-99 @heynanasposts @lahniu @paddockspookie42 @lilychristine01 @chronic-fangirl-222 @sunnyteume @take-it-on-the-run @ninikrumbs @smzyyx @shamlesslipzz @spn-reader @gettingprettyfvckintired @cherryresidence @mollymal @liebgotts-lovergirl @lowrisemiller @mingyuziiiii @opalesquegirl @hrtsforstrkysblog @inside--her--fantasy @kodzuminx @evie2435 @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @diseasedclitoris @for-smut @soggywhore @snowfall--sunrise @sunmooner @elijahhewsonswifelol 

---

Clark Kent masterlist

The 141 on a mission.  There’s nothing particularly noteworthy about the mission—orders to extract certain intel, then bomb the site into rubble.  It’s a small group, just Ghost, Soap, and Captain Price.  A small group of support, which includes you:  the 141’s medic.

There should be nothing noteworthy, but part of the intel they are extracting is around a particularly nasty bioweapons program.  A rogue state, morally grey scientists and chemists, unlimited funding from a coalition of local warlords… it’s a recipe for disaster.

It turns desperate because you get separated from Soap as the team splits up to clear the laboratory.  Alone, you walk into a trap:  a canister rigged to blow, and you there just as it does.  It sends a cloud of gas in your face, sends you reeling backwards as you choke and sputter.

It’s Soap that finds you, and he has the wherewithal to note the labeling on the side of the canister.  He notes the name of the chemical, and it’s only at the safe house where he remembers where he heard of the chemical before.

-----

“Kor-tac shared the intel with us months ago,” Soap tells Ghost and Price.  They are gathered around a cold fire pit outside of the safe house, a little mountain cottage tucked into the edge of a forest.  “That’s what she got hit with.”

The men—Ghost standing with his arms crossed, Price crouched in the dirt, Soap pacing back and forth—all turn and glance in your direction.  You are further away, out of earshot—your back to them, sat on a downed tree that someone cleared of the bark to make into a rough bench. 

Soap drops his voice anyway and describes the poison that is going to kill you unless they take action.  It’s a potent blend that acts on a person’s different systems.  It shuts down some parts of the brain and amps up others.  It leaves the victim a mindless creature driven purely by hunger, by want and desire, by the animal need to fuck.  If the victim doesn’t find some form of relief, the fever raging through their body rises and rises until it cooks their brain.  People have died from strokes, from heart attacks, from organ failure, and the step progression to death is painful.

“Does she know what she’s been hit with?” Price asks.

Soap pauses, then nods.  “I think so.  She went over Kor-Tac’s intel with a fine-toothed comb.  She must know by now.”

“How long does she have?”  Ghost, this time, his voice a rough grumble.

“Not sure.”  Soap runs a shaky hand through the strip of tangled hair on his head.  “I dinnae see how much she got hit with.  Figure that makes a difference, like.”

“Someone has to take care of her,” Price says.  He sighs, stands up.  “I can—”

“No.”  Ghost uncrosses his arms and puts his hands on his hips.  “I will.”

Price shakes his head and starts to argue, points out that he’s the commanding officer and you are his charge, but Ghost shakes his head too.  He counters that if you need to be fucked to save your life, it should be him, not Price and not Soap, to do it.  The former is married, and Soap has a steady bird tucked away somewhere in the north, so ethically, it just makes the most sense.

-----

Price and Soap make their way to a second location.  Ghost asks them for the privacy, because while he doesn’t know you that well, what he does know… well, you’re a private person, a professional through and through.  He assumes you’ll be embarrassed.

Ghost makes his way over to where you sit, but when he walks around the log to face you, he sees that you’ve unholstered your weapon—a standard issue pistol, almost always tucked at your side.  Aside from the shooting range, Ghost has never seen you hold it.

It sits on your lap now, one hand curled loosely around the grip.  When you look up at him, the expression on your face is one of despair.  Your eyes are glassy with tears, and your mouth is raw from you chewing on your lower lip.

Ghost eyes the pistol, and he holds his hands up to show he’s not a threat.

“How’re you feeling, Doc?” he asks.

“You know what this is.”  Your voice is raw too, rough.

He nods.

“You know it’ll kill me.”

He nods, but replies, “only if we let it.”

You don’t seem to register his words.  You look down at the gun in your hand.  “Kor-tac’s intel says it hurts.  A fever that goes on and on, but more than that.  Capillaries start bursting.  The smaller veins collapsing.  Nerve endings dying off.”

“Doc, we know how to stop it from—”

A sob tears out of your throat.  “I don’t want it to hurt,” you choke out.  “I don’t want to hurt, but I don’t…I can’t…”  You lift the gun an inch from your lap, let it fall again.  “I’m a coward.”

It takes him a stupidly long moment before he realizes what you are saying.  When he does, he takes a careful step towards you, then lowers himself slowly until he is crouched in front of you.  He studies you closer:  takes in the dilated pupils in the dying afternoon light.  The sheen of sweat breaking out along your forehead.  The shakiness to your breathing.

“Here.  Let me ‘av that.”  He reaches out slowly and eases the gun from your grip.  In a smooth motion, he pops the clip out, pops the chambered round.  He puts the ammo in one pocket, slips your gun in another.

“Lieutenant.”  It comes out questioning as you watch him disarm you, and when he looks you in the eye, he sees confusion.  Fear. 

Simon is never soft, but his mind is a flurry of thoughts.  He wonders at why you’d expect death over one of your teammates helping you.  Someday you’ll tell him, maybe.  For this moment, though, he only feels a deep wrench of compassion for you—a soft, warm feeling unfurling in his chest, entirely foreign.

“C’mon.”  He stands up, grips the front of your vest and hauls you to your feet.  You sway, unsteady, and he gets an arm around your waist.

“I got you,” he mutters near your ear, and something makes you answer with a fresh sob.  You start to babble to him, panicky apologies, panicky pleas to just put a bullet in your head.  Even as he leads you into the safe house, leads you to the bed, starts to take your outer layers off—even then, you cry and say how sorry you are, that he doesn’t have to do this, that you’d never make him do this—”

“Hush,” he cuts you off.  “You really think I’d let y’die?”

It doesn’t start out as a love story, yet something starts in this moment:  because Simon is only doing this to save your life, but the moment does something to him.  It changes him.  As he stretches out over you, as he settles between your spread thighs, he mutters something vague to offer comfort—something like trust me or I’ve got you—you respond by wrapping an arm around his neck and mumbling back, “I’m so sorry you have to do this, Simon.”

Simon.  Who ever calls him that?  No one at work, and he has no family to speak of.  No friends beyond the 141, and everyone calls him Ghost.  So few people use his first name that it always jolts him, causes a moment of dissociation until he remembers that yes, he is Simon.

It’s enough to still him for a beat.  He leans back and peers down at your face.  He sees the pure misery there, the absolute mortification.  You can barely meet his eye, but when you do, he sees no artifice at all.  You are terrified and entirely vulnerable to him, and it makes that warm, soft feeling in him grow and spread.

He isn’t sure what spurs him to do what he does.  Afterwards, he’ll assume it was seeing you so vulnerable.  He hates that the moment is uneven:  him entirely in control, you with none.  He hates how closely it hews to coercion, hates how blurry the line is between you.

Ghost does it without thought.  He reaches up and pulls off his mask, tosses it to the side.  It’s enough to startle you, to still your tears for a beat.  You gaze up at him with wide eyes, and Simon stares back at you, wary.  He’s no prize to look at, he knows, but if you’re this vulnerable and exposed to him, he can offer you a little vulnerability in return. 

It’s even caught Johnny’s attention. The man stops his pacing and stands facing the bedroom, his face somber, both of their ears cocked toward the door as they listen for any sign of you on the other side. Maybe the wet sounds of you fucking yourself on your own fingers. Maybe more begging—begging for Ghost or Johnny or both at once to come in and stuff you full with their cocks.

No sound comes.

“Fuck it,” Ghost says, beginning to strip. “I’m going in there.”

“The hell you are,” Johnny says, stepping into Ghost’s space. He points a finger towards your pointed silence. “She’s been compromised; she cannot consent!”

“She’s in there dying, Johnny,” Ghost says, the sound of ripping velcro loud in the quiet of the house. “She needs to get fucked or she’ll die. I’ll take the fucking discharge.”

“She’ll hate you for this.”

“She’ll be alive to do it; that’s good enough for me.”

Johnny grips his bare arm once he’s stripped out of his kit, fingertips digging into scarred skin. “You’re not going in there without me. If one of us has to do it, then the other has to help him keep his head, aye? You’ll do no more than what you have to do to keep her alive.”

Ghost brushes off Johnny’s touch, something which is normally welcome. He’d break Johnny’s wrist for suggesting otherwise if he didn’t think Johnny might need both hands for what’s to come.

When they unlock and open the door to the bedroom the silence is near eerie. You’re not on the bed where they left you, and it takes a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room and find you laying on the floor beside the bed, like you had rolled out of it or fallen in your attempts to make it to the door. Your body is still except for the bone-deep shivers that wrack your figure. Ghost goes to your side and rolls you over onto your back, puts a hand to your forehead and withdraws from the way your skin burns with fever.

“Go start the shower. Tepid, Johnny. Not cold,” Ghost instructs him.

“Aye,” says Johnny, rushing into the tiny adjoined bathroom. The sound of water follows.

“Come on,” Ghost mutters to you softly. He tries to work his hand between your legs, but they are clamped shut tightly, the muscles seized up. It reminds him too much of the stiffness of a dead body. Instead he begins the arduous work of stripping you down, unlacing your boots, working your pants down your wide hips and thighs. It’s good enough.

Johnny reappears. “Shower’s ready. How is she?”

“Brain’s turning into a nice golden chip,” Ghost mutters, standing and hauling you up with him. You’re heavier than you look, especially when your body refuses to go limp in his arms. He steps into the bathroom and takes brief stock of it: the small, dirty porcelain tub, the shower faucet that is more of a dribble than a spray. He climbs into the tub with his clothes on and lays with you, both your bodies filling it to the brim as the cool water rains down on your figures.

Johnny kneels at the tubside. “What’s she need?”

“To cum,” Ghost says. He tries to work his hand between your thighs again, but your body actively fights against him, muscles trembling from the strain. At last he can work his fingers between your legs and he finds you sodden, soaked, dripping from the burning heat of your core. All he has to do is brush his fingers over the swollen knot of your clit and your body seizes against him, your jaw unclenching around a shriek as you cum for the first time. You arch against him like a cat, groaning like the frantic touch is the best thing you’ve ever felt. Pure pleasure to your frying synapses.

“Jesus,” Johnny mutters.

“Good girl,” Ghost mutters, unsure if you can even hear him. You’re still fighting against him, but not as much—or perhaps your body is growing tired, weak. He can work his hand between your thighs now, gathering your slick onto his three middlemost fingers and dragging the wetness up over your aching clit, rubbing in soft, rapid circles. This time when you cum, your knees snap open wide, cracking against the sides of the porcelain tub as your hips thrust upwards, chasing his fingers. The sounds that pour from your mouth combined with the way you writhe against him has his cock hardening against your back. Ghost takes even, measured breaths, trying to leave his body behind and focus on your own.

Johnny is fairing no better, shifting on his knees, cock pressed against the side of the porcelain tub. He reaches a hand down and adjusts himself, but lingers too long, until it’s impossible to call it anything but what it is: playing with himself.

A groan rips from your throat, forming syllables, nonsensical. You roll in Ghost’s grasp, your clothes clinging to your wet skin until your clothed breasts are pressed to his chest. Your eyes are open now but so frighteningly empty, glossy with fever and bloodshot. Your gaze doesn’t focus on him as you struggle to grind yourself against the hardening tent in his pants, fingers stiff and useless even as you grab at and cling to him.

“Give her some fingers,” Johnny insists. Your head turns toward the sound, and you scramble out of the tub, flinging water everywhere as you push him backwards off balance, pin him to the ceramic tile floor, and grind your cunt against his cock.

“Fu-uck,” Johnny groans, hands finding your hips. He stills you, the muscles in his arms straining as you put all your strength into defying him. “Lass, you don’t know what you’re doing—!”

Ghost climbs out of the tub, dripping wet. He turns the water off—hopeful that your fever is already beginning to abate now that they are giving in to your body’s needs—and loops an arm around your waist, wrenching you off of Johnny. Some help his Sergeant is. (Ghost had expected him to be about this useless.)

“Sit up,” Ghost barks. Johnny can still follow orders, sitting up and scooting back until his back is braced against the wall. Ghost puts you between his legs, facing away from him. “Hold her open.”

Johnny grips your thighs, fingers dimpling the soft flesh. His face is pained—whether that pain is coming from his cock or from his soft bleeding heart, Ghost doesn’t know. Doesn’t really care. He searches the soaked space between your thighs, finding your entrance and slipping two thick fingers into you.

You howl, body bowing against Johnny’s. Inside, you are like burning silk, soft and molten, squeezing tight around the girth of his fingers. He hooks them softly, aiming for that spongy area behind your pubic bone and works to fuck you with vigor, the wet squelches of your cunt nearly obscene in the enclosed, tiled space.

Your mouth forms words, simple ones: “Yes, yes, yesyesyesyes,” until you are hissing the word, your head thrown back to rest on Johnny’s shoulder and expose your corded throat, shirt sticking to your skin. When you run out of breath, you can’t draw in more, your body frozen in time, trembling with need. When you cum, you fucking squirt, a rush of wetness that follows his fingers when he trails them out of you and skims them over your clit to prolong the orgasm.

“Jesus,” Johnny mutters again, burying his face against your neck.

“No gods here,” Ghost reminds him. He reaches up and taps his wet fingers against Johnny’s cheek, thrills as Johnny turns his head and opens his mouth to take them, to suck them clean, groaning.

“No,” you shriek, wrapping both hands around Ghost’s wrist. You tug with all your strength, his fingers slipping wetly from Johnny’s mouth. “No—back inside, please put them back, please—”

But Ghost knows that these are only temporary fixes to get you off of death’s doorstep. If he wants to truly save your life, he knows the cost. What’s the use in prolonging your pain?

Ghost should pay up.

A groan rumbles out from his chest, vibrating through your body, as his cock slides impossibly deep inside of your pussy. He knocks against your cervix, resting there to give you time to adjust, but he notices you not making even a single sound, not even moving a little bit and you usually are trying to squirm away from him right about now.

He tilts his head to the side in confusion, sliding his cock back out, and thrusting back in once more just to make sure his eyes and ears aren’t deceiving him. It knocks the air out of your lungs, it makes you want to run from his fat cock, but the alcohol sitting low in your belly gives you enough bratty will to keep up the act.

“What kind of game you playin’ at lovie,” he coos, rubbing one rough, calloused hand down the length of your back.

Simon rolls his hips against yours, his balls smacking against your clit ever so slightly, his cock stretching you out while your walls mold to his length. His hands spread your cheeks, watching the way your pussy swallows him with ease, watching the way slick leaks from your entrance and wets his skin.

“Gotta fuck the brat outta ya or what?”

Simon isn’t a man with much patience, although he has a lot more when it comes to you, but you are really pushing his buttons. When all you do is shove your face further into the pillow as he grinds his tip against your cervix, he knows what he has to do.

He grabs both your wrists, pulling your arms back towards him, forcing your face to lift from the pillows and he slams into you with one deep, rough thrust. Your mouth falls open instantly, a moan ripping free from your throat, and tears well up in your eyes from the force of his cock bullying your insides.

“Si… f-fuck- ‘s too m-much,” you whine, squirming your hips against him, trying to pull your arms from his grasp because you know he’s about to fuck you as punishment.

“There ya are. You can take it, can’t you lovie?”

And just as you thought, his pace becomes impossibly fast, his cock sliding in and out of your pussy with little effort from how wet you are. Moans and whimpers fall free from your lips, your breathing coming in short, ragged gasps as every thrust knocks the air out of you, and you can’t help but arch your back and silently beg for more.

“Feels good, don’t it? Thought you could get away with that when you’re this wet and tight around me,” he says, voice low and rough, his thrusts only picking up speed the more sounds pour into his ears from you.

The veins and ridges of his cock slide through your walls, filling you up to the brim, leaving no parts inside of you empty for too long. He pulls out and your pussy tries to drag him back in, he pushes all the way in and your pussy clamps down on his as if it never wants him to leave. He laughs quietly, watching your resolve crumble under a few hard thrusts, and he angles his hips with precision to hit every last spot you have.

“So g-good,” you manage to mumble out, your words cut off by an obscene moan.

He fixes his grip on your wrists when your skin grows warm and sweaty, keeping you in the perfect position with your ass arched and mouth uncovered. His balls slap against your clit, your body jerks from the sensation, and you feel the heat pooling in your lower belly faster than usual.

“Yeah? What about here,” he coos just before angling his cock right up against your sweet spot.

Stars burst behind your eyelids, and your climax immediately crashes over you. Cum gushes from your entrance, leaking out around his cock, dripping down his skin and onto the soft sheets below. Your pussy pulses around his length rhythmically, clenching down tight over and over again until your body begins to jerk with overstimulation as he rides out your high for as long as possible.

“Si… can’t t-take it,” you stutter, trying to catch your breath, but his pace never once let up on your poor pussy.

“Oh c’mon. Give me one more.”

He drops your wrists, watching as your fingers curl into the fabric below you, and his arm slides around your waist. He presses against your lower belly, groaning from the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of you so deep before two fingers find your clit and begin to rub fast, tight circles onto the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your face is smooshed against the pillow once more, but this time, moans and whines fall from you. Your eyes are shut tight, tears stain your cheeks, and your mouth hangs open ever so slightly as drool drips from your chin while Simon fucks you dumb. All the sensations bring you close to the edge again for a second time: his fingers against your clit, his cock rubbing your walls raw.

“Go ahead. Cum on my dick again, yeah? Be a good girl for me,” he coos, pounding into you faster, harder, deeper, anything to make you feel good.

His voice rumbles through you, landing right in the heat pooling in your lower belly the same as before, and you cum all over his cock for the second time tonight. Cream coats the base of him, each thrust spreading it further along his length, and he begins to drive himself towards his own release.

“So good fa me… gonna make me cum so deep in my lady.”

“Please, Si. Cum in m-me,” you beg, looking back over your shoulder, watching him fuck you relentlessly.

Spreading your cheeks apart, he watches your wet pussy suck him in, and with a guttural groan and a few more thrusts, he’s spilling his seed so deep inside of you. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out against your cervix with every twitch of his cock, filling you to the brim and leaking out when there’s no room left for anymore. It drips down your thighs, pooling with your own on the sheets below, and when his movements come to a stop he collapses on top of you.

He kisses the soft skin of your shoulder as he catches his breath, his warm, slick skin against your own, his hands roaming up and down your sides while his thumb draws slow, comforting circles. You melt into the bed, feeling satisfied, and sleepy with his weight on you.

Simon stands and walks to the bathroom, running a rag under warm water before bringing it to you and wiping up the mess he left. Tossing it into the laundry basket, he slides into bed beside you and pulls you into his chest where you instantly fall asleep and the bratty attitude is gone just like that.

│Masterlist│

Tags: @fysalia, @scarhein, @bl-nk-bla-k