🩵Mutual aid

Reach out to your neighbors – especially if you know they are staying home right now – and ask if they need groceries or toiletry items. Offer to pick up prescriptions, give rides, or shovel their driveway. If you know them well, bring them a treat that you know they'll enjoy. Or just ask them how they're doing and let them know you are there to support.

Connect with any of the orgs above and see if they are looking for volunteers.

Connect with a church or mosque in your area. From u/MuddieMaeSuggins: "I know a lot of regular Redditors are not religious (myself included) but like it or not this is a where a lot of community organizing happens, especially in immigrant communities."

Connect with your local school's admin office and/or their PTA. It's ok to reach out even if you don't have kids at the school. PTAs are organizing mutual aid for school families, safe rides, school observers.

🩵Activism

Find an official protest or other event via Indivisible, 50501, FREE AMERICA, or MIRAC. Students at many high schools are staging walk-outs; if your local school is doing this, reach out to school leadership or the PTA and ask how you can support as a community member.

Join the effort to stop Hilton from housing ICE by booking hotel rooms and then cancelling at the last minute. This action can be done from home! The effort is being organized by Sunrise Movement, who are telling activists to target specific hotels one-by-one. More info: SHUT DOWN HILTON

Find people in your area who are actively monitoring ICE and/or stationing themselves in high-traffic areas and ask how you can help. Check for local FB events where people are organizing and just show up.

At minimum, read the COPAL Handbook before you go out to observe. The DFL, Monarca, and other orgs have been hosting online trainings for constitutional observers (though these fill up quickly).

When you see ICE in action, start recording. Be as loud and as disruptive as possible: honk your horn, set off your car alarm, blow your whistle. Let people know that ICE is in the area. If you see someone being detained, try to get their name and a phone number to call their emergency contact.

If you do not feel comfortable observing ICE in person, there are ways you can support from home. Just ask the people who are organizing in your area. I have social anxiety, and I had never participated in any kind of political action before this past Saturday. If I can do it, you can!

Local organizers are requesting that people who help monitor ICE DO NOT participate in 1-to-1 mutual aid efforts, as these can put the families you are helping at risk.

It’s one of those questions. Always cropping up at the worst times—parties, bars, dating apps. Always from some pedantic would-be philosopher who thinks asking it makes them deep. Like they’re probing the mysteries of life when really, they just want to see people squirm.

You’d roll your eyes. Offer something cheeky, or dodge it entirely.

But later—late at night, in bed, in the quiet—you’d think about it. Always alone.

Maybe that was the answer. Alone. Maybe you’d choke on dinner in your flat. Slip on a hike, disappear into a ravine or waterway. Vanish on a flight over the Atlantic, screaming into the void with strangers, with no one knowing your name. Or maybe you’d just fade in some hospital, old and unmarried, alone in a sterile room.

It’s a seductive line of thought. Morbid, but oddly clarifying. If you knew—would it change anything? Would you live harder, freer? Or worry more? Spend every checkup bracing for impact, marking your calendar with a red X. Let the dread eat you alive.

You never could come up with an answer. Not even for yourself.

And then, when every nation with a space program tried and failed to destroy the looming, 128-kilometer-wide asteroid dubbed Fenrir? 

Well, then everyone had an answer.

Date of death: September 22nd. Cause of death: Impact event.

Societal collapse was both instant, yet oddly and disproportionately staggered.

Plenty of people heard the broadcast that night, switched off the broadcast, and went right back to their dinners and digestifs. They set alarms, went to bed, woke up, and went to work. After all, bills still arrived in the post. The Tube still ran. The world hadn’t ended yet, and that was enough reason to pretend it might not.

It wasn’t quite denial, more like a timid refusal to look directly at the thing burning a hole in the sky.

At the other end of the spectrum were the zealots, the hedonists, the opportunists. Those who had been waiting for permission to unravel and let go. They treated the news like a starting pistol. Riots, arson, mass looting. Street preachers with knives and bleeding palms. Mass suicides. Teenagers with baseball bats in grocery stores. Mayhem.

Infrastructural collapse did not occur so quickly.

People tried to preserve the illusion of order. Systems leaned on other systems. Governments clung to decorum with tight knuckles and PR briefings. Parliament swore it would sit in continual session. The Crown, sealed somewhere deep underground, uttered meaningless words over the airwaves. Officials promised the water would run, the lights would burn, right up to the very end.

The machinery of modern life limped forward out of habit. 

It lasted two months.

Then someone blinked. Everyone panicked. And the whole thing went down headfirst, screaming.

In the middle of it all, there was a lottery you did not win.

Limited seats on boats and planes, final one-way passages bound elsewhere, including to the States. The first went to families, visiting students, adults with dependents waiting back home. You didn’t qualify. A singleton with two healthy parents an ocean away, you weren’t in the first wave. Or the second. Or the third. You weren’t here on diplomatic business. You had no connections or strings to pull. Just an expat, living and working abroad, trying to live a quiet and comfortable life.

Until the phones cut out, and then the Internet, you did your best to reassure your parents. They were tucked away in their house in upstate New York, worrying over the line. You told them it was fine. That you’d be okay. You cried and mourned together, yes, but you kept lying through your teeth:

I’m not alone. I’ve got friends. We’re going to make a party out of it. We’ll watch one last sunset together.

Of course it wasn’t true. But you couldn’t let them die knowing that.

That in all your years here—same flat, same job, same pub—you hadn’t made a single lasting connection. There were coworkers. Casual boyfriends. People who forgot your name after two pints if they asked for it at all. Nothing that stuck.

And when the shops shuttered, your supplies ran low, and the neighbors disappeared, scattering to the countryside, to family, to anywhere else—you watched your street empty out.

The taps went dry. The lights flickered out.

So you made a decision.

If you were going to die alone, you’d do it somewhere worth seeing.

You packed a backpack and a carry-on, filled with whatever still mattered.

Then, you left. On foot. Walked straight out of London.

Three days on the road, and you hate every minute of it. 

You miss your sofa. Your books. Scented candles. Face masks.

There’s dirt under your nails, a hole in your jeans, and your sleeping bag is a shitty thin, miserable barrier against the hard ground.

Makes the memories bubble up and resurface, and you have to laugh at yourself. All those photos from childhood through your teens: there you were, every summer vacation, wedged in the backseat of the old family sedan with your walkman’s headphones shoved over your ears, nose buried in a book or hunched over a Game Boy.

So many places your parents took you that you couldn’t spare an ounce of interest in at the time—Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, Kalaloch, Arches. You tuned them all out in favor of fictional worlds, pixelated screens, and whatever mix tape a friend burned for you.

You hated the cold campground showers. The communal toilets. The mosquitoes that bled you dry while you slept. Wet socks, soaked jeans, mud squelching in your shoes. You used to count the days until you could go back to the city—back to pavement and delivery and indoor plumbing. You chose one of the biggest cities in the world, chock full of conveniences and comforts, to live in for a reason.

You used to whine when there was no cell service. Now you’d give anything just to hear a dial tone.

Funny how nostalgia hits hardest when you’re at your lowest. The backseat of that car had lousy air circulation and your parents constantly sang off-key, but it was, every summer, your whole world.

You didn’t know what it was like to be this exposed. This tired. You didn’t have to worry about where your next meal came from or whether someone was following you. Back then, all you had to worry about was boredom.

Now you worry about waking up at all. Dying before the big deadline.

The people you’ve met haven’t helped. Mostly weirdos and creeps. The decent ones peeled off weeks ago, chasing greener pastures, hunting for better places to wait out the end. You should’ve left then, too. Instead, you’re the last gazelle, trying to cross the river long after the herd stampeded ahead. The crocodiles circling in.

You’re late to the migration, and everything about you shows it.

One of the wheels on your suitcase gave out just outside city limits—snapped clean off. You’ve been dragging it, balancing it precariously on the single wheel or scraping it against the pavement. Carrying it is no better; it’s heavy and awkward, a constant reminder of how little you actually planned for this.

Now, you crouch behind the battered back door of a long-closed Greggs, clutching a brick tight in your palm. You fumble with the lock holding the chain looped through the handles, cursing whoever thought, Yeah, the world’s ending—better lock up tight. You crouch, lift and swing the brick at it. The impact rattles up your arm and stings. The lock doesn’t budge.

You look both directions down the lane, but no one emerges.

You grit your teeth, breath fogging in the cold, and seriously consider moving on. There’s probably an easier door to jimmy open somewhere, somewhere less obvious, but it’s not just about shelter now. You’re stuck on it. This place is here. Locked. Dry. Closed to you. And maybe there’s something left inside. Scraps of something edible. You’d take a handful of sugar sticks to bolster your supplies at this point. 

Mostly, it’s the roof you care about. Four solid walls between you and the elements and the road and people. Not so obvious a place one’s likely to check for a lone woman trying to survive the night.

You think about the motel you tried earlier—the ‘clerk,’ some older woman with smudged lipstick, asked if you were open to roommates, then waved to the orgy happening beside a very green pool. The whole place was ‘booked out’ until September. Not your scene.

Fingers trembling from frustration and exhaustion, you try the lock again. And again. And again. No luck. The brick chips, your palm rubs raw, and the rain picks up.

You raise the brick one last time, not to break in anymore but to just to beat something. You feel stupid. So damn stupid. Tomorrow, you think, you’ll join the first roadside cult or motel orgy you stumble on. At least there’s community there. Someone who might actually care. Someone—

“Think they’re closed.”

A voice cuts in over your shoulder.

You whip around, but you’re so in shock, you don’t have the presence of mind to be afraid. Not those first, breathless seconds.

The man who’s snuck up on you is a sight. Blood trickles from a jagged cut high on his forehead, near the hairline, splitting into thin tributaries that run down and tangle in the thick curls of his beard. Another streak, dark and wet, drips from the corner of his mouth, painting his lower lip red. 

And yet, the wounds aren’t what form your first impression.

It’s the fact he’s dressed like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. An anorak and a brimmed hat shield him from the rain. The heavy-duty, military-surplus pack on his back.

Your gaze drops to the knife strapped to his belt, then to the handgun holstered on his hip.  Your eyes bounce back up, stomach plummeting when you spot the unmistakable length of a rifle barrel jutting just past his shoulder. 

It’s been a long time since you last saw a gun. Not since your last visit home, when you watched your father sit at the kitchen table, meticulously cleaning his faithful Remington. The steady rasp of the cleaning rod, the smell of oil. That memory feels like another life entirely.

It doesn’t stave off the fear that sets in.

The brick falls from your hand and splits at your feet.

You can’t move. Can’t speak. You only watch as he reaches over his shoulder and draws out a long pair of bolt cutters, the metal jaws catching what little light there is. Your body jerks like it’s bracing for impact.

This is it, you think. Not the asteroid. Not some divine, cosmic reckoning. Just you, alone, outside a fucking Greggs, about to meet your end at the hands of a stranger carrying a small arsenal.

“I–I don’t have—”

He cuts you off. “Mind if I…? No, don’t think you do.”

Without waiting for your answer, he gestures for you to step aside. Your eyes stay wide, your hands twitching like you’ve been shocked. He steps forward, clamps the bolt cutters onto the chain, and with a clean snap, it all gives way.

He shoulders the door open and steps just inside, casting a quick look back at you, then over your shoulder, scanning the empty street, and back again. 

Tired blue eyes squint down at you, then sweep over your body—taking inventory, the same way you did him.

“Christ, love,” he mutters. “Shouldn’t be makin’ that kind of racket at night. A bad character might’ve found you.”

The sting of the words catches you off guard. You swallow hard, blinking through the rain, too cold and worn out to argue.

He exhales through his nose like he’s already regretting getting involved. Then he pushes the door open wider, tilting his head toward the dark interior.

at simon’s words, gaz hums into the slick heat of your core, his tongue curled within you, nose bumping gently against your puffy clit. his hands are on your thighs, spreading you open as you lean back against simon, who himself is backed up against the bed’s headboard.

you moan loudly. a lurid keen as pleasure vibrates through you. simon chuckles with his lips on your neck— then he begins to suck and bite, and the brief, dull sting means you’re in for a long night.

you crack your eyes open to look down at gaz. he’s grinding against the bed ever so slightly as he laves his tongue across your pussy, up and down, before curling it back inside of you again. he’s grunting, too. deep sounds from the back of his throat that have you clenching around him.

he opens his eyes, as if feeling you looking down at him, and meets your gaze. his pretty brown eyes are black with lust, pupils blown impossibly wide in the semi-darkness of the room. he hums something—a reassurance, maybe—against you, and your mouth drops open for you to let out another embarrassingly loud moan. gaz’s eyes sparkle.

“uh-uh,” you hear simon tut behind you, before one of his massive hands leaves your breast. suddenly, he’s gripping the back of gaz’s head and pressing him closer to your cunt— the abrupt change in pace and pressure causing you to yelp. simon’s other hand pinches your nipple between two fingers. “what did i tell you to do?”

you huff, body growing tense with an impending orgasm. you feel gaz let out a stuttered moan against you. although, it could be a small laugh. you weren’t too sure.

“simooooon,” you stretch out on a whine. “please—”

“no, don’t talk to me,” he replies quickly. you see that he’s stroking the back of gaz’s head gently, while the latter lightly bobs his head as he eats you out. simon pulls at your nipple and talks over you while you squeal. “you need to talk to gaz. you need to tell ‘im somethin’.”

you pant for a moment after he lets go of you, and then speak. “you’re doing such a… fuck, doing such a good job, gaz.”

simon continues, kissing your temple. “and how’s he makin’ you feel?”

“good—”

“don’t tell me, tell him.”

you whine through a pout, burning hot pleasure prickling at the base of your spine. your hips twitch, and you feel gaz mumble something against you, his tongue still working as simon holds him in place.

“you’re making me feel so good, gaz. it feels so good.”

obviously pleased, simon kisses your temple one last time, before he shifts slightly so he can yank gaz’s head back and force him to look up at you.

the rugby winger looks absolutely stunning— his big, round eyes with saucer-like pupils, and a face half-covered in your slick. his lips, parted, shine with you too, and he darts his tongue out to lick up the remnants from his bottom lip.

“now,” simon says, directing his speech over your shoulder while he resumes kneading passively at one of your tits. “tell her how fuckin’ good she tastes, gaz.”

you wonder, for just a moment, whether gaz was going to bite back. he’s strong-willed, after all, and both as cocky and competitive as your boyfriend. if not more so. he typically responds to simon’s on-field remarks with a snarky, quick-witted response.

but he always listens, even if he does have to get a sly comment in first.

“why? you’ve never told her?” he chides, but then immediately snaps his attention back to you and, with almost practised softness, utters, “y’taste so good, babygirl. sweetest little pussy i’ve ever had.”

simon grunts behind you but you ignore him. his paw releases gaz, who takes the opportunity to surge forward and slot his mouth back against you. you gasp, jerking violently in simon’s hold, as gaz renews his pace and stuffs his tongue into you.

you whine, head flopping back against simon’s chest as your legs begin to twitch. simon’s hands are back on your tits and his mouth is back on the junction of your shoulder as you hurtle towards release, dragged along by the thick warmth of gaz’s tongue moving inside you.

“hm, look how you’ve got gaz, baby,” simon says over your shoulder, and you wrench your eyes open with great effort as your mind clouds over with pleasure. “got ‘im humping the bed like a fuckin’ dog. look at that.”

gaz all but growls into you, but doesn’t lift his head to take the bait. his hands grip your thighs as he maintains his pace, but simon has a point— he was still gently rutting himself against the sheets, cock hard against the material, the soft mounds of his arse towards the ceiling.

gaz releases another guttural noise against you, and the vibrations send you over the edge. you come over his tongue, thighs clamping shut and pinning gaz between you like a vice. your body spasms, and simon holds you to him, kissing up your neck and whispering praise into your ear as your orgasm rockets through you.

when it tapers off and leaves you dishevelled mess in simon’s lap, gaz plucks your thighs away from his ears and sits back on his haunches, hard cock grasped in one hand, the other wiping your slick from his chin.

simon watches him carefully. “you need something, garrick?”

languidly, simon slips a strong arm around you, trailing down over your belly, your mons, and finally skimming past your clit and splitting the swollen lips of your cunt open with two fingers. cool air hits you, and you let out a tired squeak. simon watches gaz’s gaze fix on the movements, the winger’s cock twitching in his hand.

simon watches a bead of precum pearl on gaz’s tip, before it rolls down the shaft and disappears against his nearly-closed fist.

“oh,” simon utters quietly. condescendingly. he runs his fingers up and down, up and down the lips of your pussy, baring your fluttering hole. you try not to writhe against him, lids low over your eyes as you observe the man across from you. simon continues, “i know what you want.”

“‘course you fucking do, mate,” gaz grits out, shuffling closer— or at least attempting to, as he’s stopped by simon, who bends his leg inwards to prevent his teammate from getting any closer.

simon’s other hand trails over your body, tracing imaginary lines over your tits and tummy, over the softness of your thighs and hips. goosebumps raise across your skin, and you can feel your heartbeat gradually returning to your wet core.

“you want to get your dick wet, is that right?” simon snarks.

gaz huffs, tugging on his cock, and you watch another bead of precum roll over the head and run down a vein on the underside. “don’t be a wanker, riley. s’not like that.”

“then what is it like?” one of simon’s fingers finds your puffy clit and presses down firmly. you moan, mouth dropping open. you feel him smile as he turns his head to press kisses to your temple again.

“i want to fuck your girlfriend and have her scream my name while she comes,” gaz says through a wicked grin, smacking simon’s leg aside and shifting up the bed until he’s close enough to you that you can see the beaded perspiration over his chest.

simon grunts, but doesn’t say anything, and let’s gaz press his mouth to yours. you moan into gaz’s mouth, tongues coming together quickly, teeth clashing just a bit as he moves against you. he continues to stroke himself, but his free hand meets simon’s and presses two fingers to your clit as well, coordinating circles across it.

“oh, fuck,” you curse, body gearing up again as you’re worked towards another release. you feel it in the way your feet begin to twitch restlessly and hips falter against the bed.

“doing so well, sweetheart,” simon says to you, suddenly reaching one hand up to grab your chin, turning you away from gaz. “my best girl.” and then he kisses you, tongue curling against your canines as gaz drops his mouth downwards, licking across your jaw and kissing down your neck.

he also removes his hand from your clit, instead taking the time to squeeze at one of your breasts, rolling your nipple beneath the pads of his fingers. simon continues to grip your chin, but breaks the kiss, watching gaz kiss along your neck and across your bare chest.

“you ready, baby?” he asks you, and gaz looks up from his position between your tits, lips brushing your sternum. gleaming dark eyes peering up at you like a doe. simon stops his fingers on your clit, and you hum a quiet protest as your rearing release slowly fades away.

you nod. “m’ready.”

“now, this is how we’re gonna do this,” simon begins, large hands prying your legs even further apart. gaz shifts backwards, leaving splotches of saliva over your skin, and clutches the base of his cock again as he rakes his eyes down your body. simon rubs your inner thigh. “gaz is goin’ t’be a good lad and stretch you open, ‘kay? he’s gonna stretch this little pussy open an’ make you come before i join ‘im. does that sound alright?”

as he speaks, simon’s hand finds the heat of your cunt again, and splits your lips apart using two fingers in a downward ‘v’ motion. gaz groans gratefully, the sight of your fluttering hole making his cock twitch as he shifts his hips forward.

you find yourself nodding again. “yeah, that sounds good.”

simon smiles. “tha’s good, tha’s good… now, let’s be good for gaz and open up…” he speaks for you, before kissing your pulse while gaz presses the warm head of his cock against your opening.

the winger rubs it in circles there, collecting your release and smearing it around. you whimper, and gaz shushes you gently, leaning forward to kiss you.

“s’alright— just giving her a couple’a kisses, okay?” gaz whispers, the tip of his cock moving back and then forward. this happens a couple of times as he licks over your lips, the tip of his cock ‘kissing’ the drooling hole of your cunt while simon practically gnaws on your neck with one hand still holding your pussy open for his teammate. the other hand, again, is all over your tits.

when gaz pulls away, he finally, finally, pushes his cock into you. the head first, swallowed smoothly by a velvet warmth, then the rest, and you track it’s progress by the feel of that prominent vein against you. it forces several moans from your chest, which seem to rattle against your ribs and leave you breathless.

inch by inch, gaz gently pushes himself inside you, eyes watching where you take him, revealed, still, by simon, who watches over your shoulder, pawing at the softness of your belly so he could get a good look.

he hums, content, into your ear. “god, y’taking him so well, my sweet girl. i’m so proud of you.”

gaz bottoms out with a groan of your name, falling still for a couple of moments to catch his breath. simon repositions his fingers to toy with your clit, and you mewl at the sudden restart of pleasure. the winger wrenches his eyes open and something flashes across his face.

you can’t see it, but simon returns an equally challenging look.

“keep up, garrick,” simon spits coyly. “need her to come so i can fit.”

“ha,” gaz sneers, rutting himself out then in suddenly, making you wail and writhe against simon’s chest. he sets a rocketing pace that forces tremors through the muscles of your legs, his hands grabbing at your hips and thighs, your arse practically off the bed. “don’t think too highly of yourself, mate. m’sure your prick’s gonna slip right in. unnoticed, probably.”

a new kind of euphoria floods through your veins like ichor. being fucked by someone else while your boyfriend cradles you, kisses over your head and neck, rubs circles over your breasts and clit— it’s an entirely different feeling. a haze sits over your brain, your eyes struggling to focus, your lips open in a silent scream.

in your state, you barely even notice the way they’re speaking to each other.

“trust me, i’ll need you to loosen her up,” simon growls. “but, that’ll be ‘ard for you, won’t it? considering your dick barely fills your briefs.”

gaz makes a show of rutting deep inside you, finding that perfect spot immediately, rolling his hips and drawing a loud moan from you. a breathy but pronounced “gaz” as you blindly run your hands all over his chest and toned stomach.

then, he leans forward, kissing you on the cheek, then the chin, then finally on the lips. “you feeling good, darling girl? am i making you feel good?”

much to simon’s annoyance—although, he could never truly be mad at you—you respond quickly, “yes, yes—fuck, yeah, feel’s sooo good, gaz. cock feels so good—so big.”

gaz looks at simon again and winks. simon mouths “fuck you.”

“only if you’re lucky, mate,” gaz retorts, hips slapping against you now, cock driving into you faster and faster.

you know you’re done for as soon as gaz starts grunting with his quickened pace. your body tenses against simon’s, who continues to rub circles around your puffy clit. he’s sucking at your neck while gently rutting his cock against the small of your back, and you relish in feeling the warm length of it against your lower spine.

“gaaaz,” you whine, a slight twinge of pain in your hips as he fucks you, although it’s quickly overwhelmed by the pressure of your building orgasm. “wanna come, please—”

he answers you by slotting his mouth against yours, licking over your tongue and teeth as you whine and huff against him. restless, insatiable. your hands squeeze at the firm muscles that cord across his shoulders as you kiss him back with a pleasure-induced weakness that has his lips quirking in the corners.

then, simon’s in your ear. the pleasure fogging your brain making his accent seem a whole lot stronger. it turns you on even more, if that was possible. “come on, baby. let go.”

you do.

you rip your mouth away from gaz’s to moan loudly— his name, too, which simon’s bitterly sure the winger will wank to for years to come. no pun intended.

it tears out from your throat much like how your orgasm tears through your body, forcing tremors from you and pinning you back against simon. you feel yourself gush around gaz’s cock, which is slowly losing rhythm as he reaches his own high. a high which burns through him as his balls draw up tight.

he quickly looks up at simon. “can i?”

“what?” simon grunts, preoccupied with shoving his two fingers—previously on your clit—into your mouth and pressing down on your tongue.

“come inside?”

simon kisses his teeth and pretends to think.

gaz whimpers quietly, hips stuttering, and the sound sends throbs back into your clit.

“yeah,” you answer for simon. “please, come inside me—”

but gaz falters— looking from simon, to you, then back up to simon as a sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead. those damn big brown eyes. they even have your heart pinching in your chest.

simon grunts, burying his face quickly into the side of yours. “don’t— don’t look at me like that. just do what my bird tells you and come.”

gaz’s eyes slam shut and he finally, with a shuddering moan of your name, comes inside of you. his hips press to yours, cock punched deep inside, strong arms flexing where they grip you for support.

warmth pumps into you slowly, and you smile softly as gaz shakes, then leans in to peck you gently on the lips.

“i—” you open your mouth to speak, but simon is giving you no chances to catch your breath as you’re hoisted up and your legs are spread to accommodate his size.

big hands grab you roughly, man-handling you into a position where simon can slip his cock along the seam of your arse until the fat head brushes against your cunt, still drooling around gaz’s cock.

“s’pose i got what i wanted, didn’t i?” gaz says after a moment of silence while simon jostles you into the position he liked best. he’s regained some of his confidence, it seems.

simon scoffs. “and what was that, exactly?”

“having your girlfriend scream my name while i make her come,” is the winger’s reply, his hands moving idly over the soft mounds of your body as he helps in holding you in position.

you feel heat flush through your veins in a mix of embarrassment and arousal. you tilt your head to the side, and gaz beats simon to it and attaches his mouth to the damp skin.

simon chuckles quietly behind you.

not a good sign, especially now he has one of his massive paws gripping the base of his cock, his fist pressing almost uncomfortably against the bottom of your arse cheek.

“sure,” he says. “but she screamed mine louder.”

his egotistical chiding ends as he pushes his cock in alongside gaz’s— just the head, but the added pressure made you yelp and shout a very loud, “si! fuck!”

exactly what he was aiming for.

gaz knew he was too late to smother your sounds, but he presses his mouth to you again anyway, kneading your tits as simon slowly, slowly feeds more and more of his cock into you. gaz shudders against you as simon moves, and you whine over his tongue. you weren’t surprised to receive a little moan back.

“come on, there we go, baby, open up for me,” simon utters, feeling with his hand how your hole stretches to accommodate him. milky-white rivulets roll continually down his shaft as he pushes in, and you can feel them being pushed from you. he doesn’t stop and start, but his pace is slow and unsurprisingly attentive. “that’s my best girl. doing so fuckin’ well.”

“simon, god, i can’t…” you whimper when gaz allows you space to breathe your entire body is shaking, a searing pleasure settling like a blanket over your lower spine and pelvis. your swollen clit pulses rapidly with your heartbeat.

“yes, you can,” simon shushes you as gaz pets your face soothingly, the other on your side. “i’ve got you— we’ve got you, okay? just let us make you feel good.”

you realise that he’s all the way in.

“oh,” you whisper. you’re so full.

then, they start to move, and you feel even more full.

simon does most of the moving. his hips are snapping against you from where he’s slightly leaning back, propped up by the pillows. and gaz is trying, matching simon’s movements but his thrusts are shorter, more stiff, overwhelmed by simon’s hurried movements.

gaz doesn’t seem to mind, though, panting and moaning as he moves, hips jerking. you hold onto him, the pleasure so intense that you can’t help your eyes rolling and the way your nails dig into his skin.

it’s nothing you’ve ever felt before. you’ve reached a type of nirvana you’ve only ever read fantasised about.

your body is alight, every single one of your nerves feeling the way the two men shift inside you. each twitch, jerk and rut sends electric shocks buzzing through you. euphoric ecstasy, rivers of it, flood your system. liquid gold, and as four large hands grope and touch and hold, you realise they might both be midas.

you also realise that you’re not lasting one more minute. you read your own body like an analog clock, the curling of your toes and tightening of your lower belly a blaring indication that you’re—

“gonna come,” you gasp, the fullness making it hard to breathe right. “ple—please, m’gonna come. i can’t—”

simon groans, then growls his sentence between gritting teeth. “fuck yeah, you are. gonna come all over our fuckin’ cocks, aren’t you?”

“yes, yes, yes,” you babble. you’re seeing stars in your closed eyelids, and you can feel the room spinning around you as if you were drunk.

you don’t feel gaz’s arm move, but you feel two fingers on your clit— and your sternum all but rattles at the force of your cry.

you release with their names being chanted into the cool air of the room, cunt squeezing tight around them both. squeezing, gushing as you come kicking and screaming (a metaphor, although your moans fill the space like choir song and your arms and legs spasm with the force of your pleasure).

gaz comes almost simultaneously, the vice of your cunt drawing another warm release from him. this time, it’s quieter. he swallows most of his moans, but a quivering whine escapes him as he bends and kisses your forehead.

if simon is proud that he lasted longer than his teammate, he doesn’t show it. instead, he reaches his hand to grasp gaz by the back of the neck and direct him down, forcing his mouth to yours. you kiss him back, but barely, energy leaching from you.

“that’s a good girl,” simon praises softly. “an’ a good boy. always such good listeners— doin’ what you’re told. so obedient. so fuckin’ good for me.”

then, he comes, and you wonder how much of it gets on gaz’s softening cock. the thought makes you moan into gaz’s mouth while simon ruts, thrusting his cum deep inside you—like he always seems to do—before he collapses back onto the pillows. his cock slips out of you, and the rush of cold air as cum and slick dribble out of you makes you squeak.

simon wrenches you back roughly so you topple down beside him. gaz hisses as his cock slips out as well, but he soon follows, laying down beside you with his head on your chest.

if he were simon, he would’ve sucked a nipple into his mouth by now. the heathen.

long minutes pass.

silent, comfortable. heartbeat steadying and breath catching. a difficult task, however, with a drooling cunt that simon is leisurely stroking, and with gaz kissing your exposed chest, rubbing your tummy tenderly.

“you two alright?” simon speaks first.

“mhm,” gaz hums, and you reply with a little “yep” of your own.

then, something you didn’t quite get crosses your mind. you had let them do whatever they wanted to you, now your own fantasy was crossing your mind as your body steadily began to shut down for the evening.

“actually… si…?”

“hm?”

“can… i ask you to do something for me? both of you, actually.”

gaz looks up as simon nods. “of course, baby.”

you smile. “can you two kiss?”

simon rolls his eyes. “no.”

gaz just laughs.

you huff. “fine.”

silence again.

then,

“fuck sake,” simon groans. then, “come here, garrick.”

once more, he slams one of his large hands onto the back of gaz’s neck and pulls him over your chest. simon bends, trapping you between the two men, and meets gaz in the middle, parallel to your face. you expect to see a light peck, but simon slots his mouth to gaz’s and splits gaz’s lips apart with his tongue, licking deep inside as their mouths move together.

you hear gaz hum into the kiss as they continue, and you watch with wide eyes, happiness—and arousal—surging within you.

simon pulls away, and a string of saliva connects them together, but it snaps as simon presses his mouth straight to yours.

“happy now?” he asks you.

you smile against him, cradling gaz’s head in your hands. “very.”

———