willow’s reblogs

His mask is still on; he takes a while to feel comfortable enough to take it off. But the bottom half is folded over to reveal his chin and lips so he can sip leisurely. 

Giving him a sheepish smile, you skip over to him, standing in the way of his view of some silly game. Wearing just a shirt, his shirt, you watch him eye your legs with barely hidden desire. It’s so easy to rile him up, but you find you’re just as bad if the wetness in your panties is anything to go by. 

“Sorry, Si.” He swings his arm around the back of your thighs, encouraging you to straddle him. “You just look so good.”

He hums, letting you get settled in his lap whilst he rubs his thumb over the skin of your hip almost as if he can’t help himself. “Can look as much as y’ want, lovie. ‘m all y’rs.” 

That is not helping. You feel bad for jumping him as he unwinds from long months of tough work, none of which he’ll ever disclose to you and that’s just fine, but he just smells so good, feels so good. Everything about him is perfect — broad shoulders, hefty arms and cuddly pecs, and oh god, his dick. Let’s not even get started. 

Rough and worn out, his jeans scratch your thighs. It’s a delicious sensation and you can’t help but shift your hips ever so slightly. Simon notices. Of course he does; he notices everything. 

But he doesn’t say anything, just continues to brush his thumb and takes a swig of his beer. When a drop runs down his lip and threatens to dribble over his chin, you don’t hesitate to lean over, licking the liquid clear off. His grip on your hip tightens, both as a reflex and as a warning. 

You’re being told off. 

Something between your legs pulses. 

“Si,” you whine. Sliding his hoodie and the shirt underneath up, you grope his abs with one hand whilst the other climbs higher feeling for the heavy muscles at the top. You grope his pecs. Simon doesn’t look impressed. “I wanna play.”

“Can’t help y’rself, can ya?” His voice is gruff, laced with exhaustion but also something deeper and darker. And even as he keeps his gaze locked on the TV, you know he’s watching everything you’re doing. 

He sees the way your thighs are cradling one of his, grinding back and forth in tight circles and feeling the material dampen with your juices. Simon doesn’t stop you, so you keep going, loving the friction. It sends dull jolts of pleasure up your spine, you want more but this will have to do for now. So, you continue, letting out low moans as you go back and forth. 

When he swings his head back to take another gulp of his beer, you rush forward to kiss him, swallowing the alcohol as you share. It’s slightly sweet but bitter, through it, though, you can taste the distinct flavour of Simon — dangerous, loving and protective. And all man. 

You pull away, some of the liquid falling down your chin and onto your lap, but he doesn’t let you go, just grabs the back of your head and smashes your lips to his. It’s a powerful clash of teeth, nipping on your bottom lip and rendering you speechless. Then he’s taking advantage of your gasp as he pushes his tongue through, searching for yours and wrestling in a merciless battle. 

“Ride me then, sweet’art.” He grunts, feeling your legs clench down on him. You’re grinding faster and faster, feeling that distant wave of pleasure nearing and nearing. It’s so close, you’re so close, and when he starts kneading your ass, guiding your movements, you grow overwhelmed. 

It's been too long, you're sensitive and everything from the scraping of your shirt against your nipples to the callouses on his hands is driving you crazy. Months of fingering yourself to the memories of his body on you and riding his pillow, imagining it was him, are catching up.

He flexes his thigh, and you tense. In a frantic whimper, you call out his name as the pleasure washes over you, grinding faster and faster as you ride it out, “Si!”

“Good girl,” he whispers against your neck, kissing the crook of it. “That feel nice?”

You nod, but then you’re frowning, brows furrowing. “Want more, Si.”

Simon knows what you need but he can’t give it just yet; you're nowhere near ready. So he slides a hand between your legs, cupping your pussy through your soaked panties. His middle finger traces the parting of your lips, from the sources of all your wetness to the little bump at the top, and he presses down. 

You jolt. 

“’ere she is,” he huffs, “let’s make y’ feel good, yeah?”

He’s not even talking to you, but you nod regardless, riding his hand as he presses harder, his palm rubbing against your clit. It’s too dull and he knows it, can see it in the way you’re shutting your eyes in frustration. Feeling particularly merciful, he pushes your panties to the side and feels your pussy in all its glory. 

“Fuck!” Simon shuffles, adjusting his cock. “Y’r soaked, sweets.”

His lips are parted, and his eyes darken, narrowing at the apex of your legs like it’s threatening him, like it’s killing him. You want him to take off the mask so you can see and feel all of him, but this is enough for now. Simon circles your clit with two fingers, rubbing tight circles just as he knows you like, pressing down hard once in a while, leaving you a spluttering mess. 

And when he dips lower, feeling your juice pool on his palm, he curls his fingers inside. Your hips jerk up and he exhales an amused breath. Still under his shirt, you dig your nails into his skin, no doubt leaving crescent indents there, but the pain only spurs him on more, and he curves his fingers against the ridges inside your walls,

“Simon!” You moan. “Yes, right there!”

He keeps pressing, letting you ride the heel of his palm. You’re being stimulated inside and outside and it’s so good. Something cold touches your most sensitive point and when you look down you find yourself clenching and gasping. Simon's pressing the half drunk bottle of beer against your clit. The change in temperature sends flashes of heat through you and you can't bring yourself to care about the mocking grin on his stupid face.

Whilst he rubs at your g-spot, you ride the bottle, all warm and slimy from your hard clit. He's holding it still, unmoving despite the aggressive circling of your hips.

"Ya like tha', dove? Gonna cum from my beer?"

Shaking your head, you whine out a reply, "No, I wanna -ngh- come from you, please!"

You kiss him, desperate to feel his lips on you again and he humours you, letting you take your time. Eventually, he discards his beer, and both of his hands are exploring your body underneath his shirt. Dragging his dull nails down the curve of your spine, you arch, pushing your tits into his chest. Your nipples are poking through and his other hand cradles one breast, enjoying the smooth skin there, and he's cupping the heavy fat, revelling in the weight.

Perhaps it’s because it’s been so long, or maybe it’s because it’s Simon and he knows your body better than you do, but you come in embarrassingly quick time. It takes both of you by surprise. You spasm around his fingers, lips parted in an elongated moan, twitching and tensing, until you fall limp on his chest. 

And then Simon is laughing. He’s actually laughing at you. 

“Simon! Please! I want more,” you beg.

“Yeah?” He seizes your wrists with his large hands pressing your hands down on his zipper. “Want more? Y’ gotta take it, lovie.”

Wasting no time, you unbutton his jeans, pulling the zipper down and then freeing his cock. It’s already fully hard, the tip red and leaking. You swipe a thumb over it and bite back a moan when he hisses. It’s been so long and he’s so big, you’re in for a tough time. 

“Fucking love these tits,” he grunts. “Missed ‘em.”

You gasp when he pinches and then pulls. 

More. 

You need more. 

Pushing your panties aside, you kneel and line his cock with your fluttering hole, wetting his head with a mix of his pre-cum and your juices. When you slowly lower yourself, you both hiss as his cock head is stretching out that tight first ring of muscle. He’s too big. 

Your eyes are shutting, face scrunching up in a little pain. It’s been months since he’s last been inside and your pussy’s almost forgotten the shape of his dick, every curve and every vein. A tragedy of the highest order. But you’re no quitter, so you keep lowering, spreading your legs as far as you can to accommodate his size. And oh god, you feel so full and he’s not even all in yet. 

“Si, it’s too much,” you’re gasping, reeling. It’s like you’ve been deprived of oxygen, searching for air.  You’re gripping his head, revelling in the scratchy material of his mask, grounding you as you push through that stretch. 

Something even darker flashes in his eyes and his uncovered mouth curls into a sneer, it’s terrifyingly beautiful, a wolf stalking its prey in the woods — you wonder how his enemies feel, his menacing mask being the last thing they see. Then, with a soft voice, comforting and warm, he reassures you, “Y’ can take it, lovie. Always -ha- take it so well for me, don’t ya?”

And you do. Somehow, despite the impossible stretch and his daunting, never-ending length, you always take him to the very hilt. With his hands guiding you, you feel his cock head scrape all the way inside, reaching your belly button and you’re overwhelmed. Every part of you has been filled up and you clamp down on him. 

You both hiss.

“Good girl. Such a good fucking girl for me,” he grunts. “Take y’r time, yeah?”

Nodding, you circle your hips slowly, desperate to adjust. Simon grabs the back of your neck in a possessive hold, firm and final as he smashes his lips into yours again, like he can’t help himself, like he needs to taste you, need to feel your tongue wrap around his. You lift just an inch and drop down. 

“So good,” you mumble against his mouth. His stubble is growing in and the friction sets your skin alight. “Si, I missed this.”

Groaning, he thrusts up into your tight cunt, his cock head kissing your cervix and it robs you of your breath. His hands urging you, you lift and slam down again and again, going higher and higher with every thrust, and slamming down harder and harder to wring out those shallow breaths out of him, to drive him to maddening pleasure just as he’s driving you over the edge.

This isn’t just hot and rough sex, this is love. With every kiss, every bruising force and every smack of his heavy balls against your ass, you feel his frustrations at having been so far away from you for so long. All the lonely nights, the time differences that got in the way of phone calls, and all the times he had come close to returning home in a casket. 

“Fuck, lovie.” He’s trying to breathe through his nose, to maintain his cool, but every squeeze, every clench from your sopping wet pussy is tearing apart his sanity thread by thread, and he’s being rendered powerless. “Too damn good, Christ.”

“Si! More, please,” you’re practically screeching as he meets you thrust for thrust, bracing both of you for the pummelling up of his thighs. Even when you’re on top, he has the control, the ultimate authority. When he grinds your hips down when skin meets skin, you’re reminded of how easily he can wrestle you into place. 

You grow wetter. 

Simon doesn’t know where to look; your pussy is drenching his cock and his jeans, leaving a tantalising ring of cream around his base and your mouth is parted, eyes rolling to the back of your head, and gun to his head, he wouldn’t be able to say which is more beautiful. Both are certainly making his cock throb. 

“I love you, Simon!” You repeat over and over as you slam down on his cock, moaning and whining at the stretch, at the way he’s hitting that spot inside of you that’s making you see stars. “I love you so much.”

He buries his face into your neck, sucking and nipping at the skin. “Shit, y/n, don’t say tha’. Gonna make me cum.”

Somehow, he’s growing even bigger; he’s threatening to bulge out of your pussy. You feel him in your stomach, hell you feel him in your lungs. A growing pressure inside of you is screaming for him to stay in there forever, it’s building and building, and the crash is going to be magnificent. 

“Fucking missed this pussy, y’know? Had to wank in the toilets at night -shit - and bite my fist to keep quiet when I remember how -ngh-  fucking perfect this tight little cunt is.”

It doesn’t even register what he’s saying, you’re too lost in the pressure. And you don’t even know if he’s talking to you, he’s just muttering whilst he thrusts up, hugging you to him. You’re both soaked in sweat, still clothed and your shirt is clinging to you uncomfortably, but you don’t care. 

“Watched our videos, the old ones -ha- and the new ones you sent.” He bites your neck, and you arch into him, pumping your hips harder and ignoring the ache manifesting already. “Jesus, lovie. You petting this cunt, my cunt, whilst stuffing one of my masks in your mouth -fuckkk- made me cum like a goddamn teenager. Made an arse out of me.”

He spanks your ass, feeling it bounce and ripple under his hand and he can’t get enough. Smack after smack, you’re being abused inside and outside whilst he whispers sweet nothings in your ear. 

“That dildo ya bought didn’t do shit, did it?” He’s pushing out a rumble of a laugh when you shake your head frantically, still bouncing on his lap. “Nah, course not. Greedy fucking pussy only wants me, yeah?”

“Only you, Si!”

His thumb finds your clit, rolling the little bud with his callouses, hard and fast just as he’s thrusting inside. Your filthy moans, the sound of skin slapping, squelching of your combined juices, and the low breathy groans coming from him fill the room, a choir from the dirtiest circle of hell.

“Open.”

You slack your jaw so you can take that glob of spit he drops in your mouth and accept the sloppy kiss that soon followed, savouring each other’s tastes. 

You’re both meeting each other’s thrusts harder and faster, with no particular rhythm, letting the desperate desire and the months of frustration and isolation wash away with every kiss against each other’s sweaty skin, tasting the salt and the sweetness there. 

“Cum for me, lovie. Milk my cock, yeah? Been saving up my load for ya.”

And you want it so badly, wanting everything he’s willing to give you. You need to have it inside, need to be branded with Simon’s essence. So, you clutch him to you and slam down just as he thrusts up. 

Your orgasm drowns you. Eyes crossing, head thrown back, and body spasming, you lose track of time. It feels like you’ve been stuck in a purgatory of utter euphoria. Your hips are still churning, trying to ride out your pleasure as you steal back air, gaping like a fish. 

"Yes! God, fuck fuck fuck fuck," you scream.

"So fucking tight," he growls.

Simon’s cock is being milked hard by your pussy clenching down and wringing every last drop as he shudders against you. His cum paints your walls and you’re both savouring the feeling — for too long the both of you have had to make do with just your own hands, or, in your case, cheap and weak replacements of his dick. Now you’ve returned to the real thing, you’re not sure you could part away again. But that’s a conversation for a different time.

Instead, you comfort his head through his mask, right before he takes you down with him, slumping against the couch. You bury your head in his chest, enjoying each other’s warmth as you both catch your breath.

“Fucking love ya, y/n,” he whispers. It’s somewhat broken, the extent of his physical and mental exhaustion leaking through and your heart breaks. “Can’t keep leaving ya for months. It’s doin' my fuckin’ head in.”

There isn’t really anything to say when Simon contemplates his occupation. You will never know what he truly does and the extent of his fatigue, and he’ll do everything he can to keep it that way. So that your light will never be dimmed by his darkness, by the things he’s seen and done, and never be dirtied by the blood on his hands. Not if he can help it. 

“All those times I wanted to see y’r face, to hear y’r voice and fucking couldn’t cause I’m in the middle of nowhere and y’r sleeping. Times when I wanted to know what y’r doing, if y’r alright and couldn’t cause ya can’t fucking reach me.” 

Simon brushes your hair with one hand whilst the other soothes your back, feeling your deep breaths and finding deep satisfaction in your weight grounding him, keeping him tethered. 

His hold on you tightens. “What am I gonna do if you get hurt and I can’t do fuck all? I’ll lose my fucking mind.”

“I’ll be fine, Si. Don’t worry about me.”

He’s the one that goes off into war torn lands, fights bad guys and has to wear a bulletproof vest and wield weapons on a daily basis, and yet he’s worried about you being here, in the civilian world, where your biggest danger is a splash of oil on your hand or slipping in the shower. Though you can’t fault him; the distance creates a sense of unknown that leaves your stomach all twisted up, and sometimes when you haven’t heard back from him in days, you can’t sleep. 

“Always gonna worry, love.”

There’s a finality in his words and you can do nothing but listen to his steadying heartbeat and clench down on his softening cock to remind yourself that Simon’s home. 

Not Ghost or Lieutenant Simon Riley.

But Si. 

Your Si. 

that was new; unchartered territory of some sorts. simon’s never been that type of a lover, so used to bearing all his weight onto yours when he is taking you, and making you feel every pudge and every muscle; always skin on skin, meat on flesh, but a hand on your neck as you mount him, riding him with such finesse that he’d been reduced to breathless and trembling moans? yeah, that was new.

not unwanted, though. no.

not with the way your cunt convulsed, walls spasming around his girth, before your squirt was punched out of you. god, it felt so euphoric — stuffing yourself with his cock, gobbling it all up down to his pelvis, while the weight of his touch grounded you, constricting on the press of your throat because like that, just like that, simon was overwhelming.

like sure, you were the one on top, conquering him with a single-minded focus, but the ease in which simon had taken back his power — not that it was about that to him; hell, you know that simon would rather kneel by your feet if it really came down to it, but- but it was for you — so seeing simon work it; seeing simon take it from you with just a heavy hold– it unmade you. it ruined you.

it made your hunger more vicious; armed it with teeth.

it made you want to be—

collared.

.

simon’s thorough, of course he is.

he’s walked you through codes and signs — “green for go, yellow for pause, and red is full stop. if words are too much, three taps means out, okay, baby? no, i need to hear you say it– thank you, sweetheart.” — then told you the collar is a surprise when you asked him if you could pick one out right now.

your nose curls when he said that.

“i want it now, though,” you say, totally not whining. you’re wearing his shirt, legs and pussy still bare and sensitive after he’s fucked you on the couch. the ache is a pleasant thrum, and you feel like jelly with how sated you are down to your bones, but still, you refused even the softest of pyjama pants that simon’s pulled out for you.

he sighs, all patient, and scoops you to his lap.

“a collar’s a gift,” he says. “or, at least, let me gift it to you.”

he softly bites your cheek when your only reply is a pout. “don’t worry, i’ll choose a pretty one. you know that i will.”

you hum, nodding because of course simon will. he always has. the ring on your finger, the necklace you’ve got on, the lines of lingeries stuffed in your drawers, the jewelled plugs — simon knows that you want the pretty things. he knows that you love pretty things.

but the collar is—

you want it to mean something else. you want it to feel vitriolic. to feel dirty. like simon’s fully possessed you and that collar is proof of his claim. like he’s fully got you in the palm of his hand, sitting pretty for him.

that what was lovely was not the collar, but you.

“okay,” you say, still deep in thought.

(you don’t notice simon’s knowing stare or the way his eyes darkened, desire crashing into him with such ferocity. he knows you so well that it still surprises him when you think that he doesn’t. he knows what it is you want.

he knows what this means to you, or what you want it to mean.

what you want him to make it mean.

and simon’s so soft for you; would spoil you rotten if he could, and he will because you’ve promised yourself to him, so let him prove himself to you. let him show you how he will take care of you.)

.

the box is made of this green velvety material and it makes you pause midway through as you remove your coat. it’s on the dining table, stark above the rest of mundane things that belong in the room and on that oak, and it’s placed directly on your spot so it’s for you, you know, but simon’s been quiet since he followed you into the room, wordless as he watched you.

you turn to him, eyes wide and lips twitching with the thousands of things you want to say, but all you could croak out is, “is that—”

simon gives you a curt nod, the ends of his lips twitching slightly.

“go on,” he finally prods when you still remain frozen on your spot, arms still tensed, your jacket still half-slung on. “or would you want me to put it on for you?”

it’s like a switch was flicked on in your mind, like now that simon’s offered it, there’s nothing else that would suffice. so you give him a nod, quiet as you finally shuck off your coat before playing with the hems of its sleeves. he hums, just a soft curl of his deep voice, and ushers you forward, closer to the box. to the—

simon picks it up for you while you move to drape your jacket on the chair but even without baggage, you refuse to take it from him, lying in a limbo, waiting for him to decide for you. because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? this whole thing — the collar, simon’s hand around your throat, something you always fall back to obsessively, stuffing yourself full with your fingers — is because of control.

his control over you. his possession of you.

simon hums, like he knows where your mind has gone, and moves to open it for you. there’s no bloating of tension, simon opens it the way one would rip a bandaid off — quick, unthinkingly, and half-hungry for the sting.

you breathe in sharply at seeing it.

you expected softness, maybe even something pink or purple or anything that was light hues, with lacing and silk that would not chafe. not this — dark leather with thick and heavy buckles, and lined with three metal rings that you know is for nothing else  but a leash.

“fuck—”

simon’s hand falls on the small of your back, his thumb digging into the dimples and rubbing softly. “d’y’like it?”

“yes,” you reply, breathless, not knowing how else to verbalize your desire or that swooping feeling in the pit of your stomach, feeling your heart thudding within your ribs, so deafening amidst the noise of your blood rushing to your ears. “simon, i– yes.”

simon huffs this pleased laugh, and you feel so shaken at feeling him tug you closer, urging you to look up at him.

“want t’wear it now, baby?”

you don’t even realize that you’re already lurching, gasping out your reply, so needy as you whimper out, “yes, please.”

simon doesn’t really murmur a comforting shh but he does act with that cadence — a gentle sort of coaxing as he pulls his free hand away from your back to pluck the collar off the box’s velvety lining. it looks even more beautiful in his hand like that, with the width of the collar almost more than half the size of simon’s palm and you remember the way he’s held your neck, the weight of it pressing on your throat, and god, you need.

you need.

he curls it around your neck, the leather sliding on your skin, and you try your best not to twitch in his hold as he fastens the end to the buckle, sliding until it’s a tight ring. but—

“tighter,” you rasp out, breathing from your mouth.

simon groans, and it’s a pained little thing, and you wonder how you look right now, begging him to tighten it more; asking him to dig it even deeper into your skin, until the collar etches trenches for you to trace in front of the mirror; until the sting forms new bruises for you to obsess over.

the collar is now a heavy press on your neck, consistent as it pinches the skin. you try to swallow only to feel a resistance that was never there before and this—

you have never felt so much freer. so much more desired.

“thank you,” you choke out, almost in tears, and simon looks just as overwhelmed.

he cups your jaw, thumb tracing the edges of your lips, before sliding his hand down to brush his fingers along the collar.

your collar.

“so beautiful,” he whispers, so soft like it was meant for himself.

.

the first time that simon fucked you with your collar was almost too much. it was too good. almost unbelievable with the way it scratches that itch burrowed in the pit of your stomach, unyielding and aching. and now, indulged fully by simon. 

your collar is tight around your throat, a consistent weight that has you panting, mind slipping underneath the fog. your saliva pools in your jowls, and the pleasure burns, leaving you to splinter at the drag of it until you are suspended into that cataclysmic point.

you have never felt so small until that moment; tucked away into the softest of corners, shielded from anything and everything that isn’t simon and his greatness. you are reminded of the ease in which you've surrendered your control and the way he was hungry for it, wielding it as he tugs at the rings, forcing the collar to dig even further into the welts it’s created. 

you are made, then unmade; forced to lick at the backs of your teeths to ground yourself — but why are you trying to?

the pleasure is filling. you do not remember how you used to be taken; how you were fucked without the weight — of simon as he drills his cock into you, the girth splitting your walls apart until they pulse around him as mini-orgasms burst in your core; of the collar, making every ragged gasp of air deliciously painful.

“where are you?” simon grunts in your ears, his breath huffing out hotly. “come back t’me, love. t’me.”

you whine, split between sobbing out and moaning, and simon tugs and tugs, coaxing you above the fog, telling you when it is right to breach for a gasp. 

“s’right, baby. jus’ like that.” simon is so patient, his words grounded, like his hips are not crazily pistoning, fucking his leaking cockhead further in, in, in, until it is kissing the pucker of your cervix. 

it’s so—

it’s—

“go on,” simon rumbles. “cum f’r me.”

your orgasm is akin to a breaking, to a ripping of reality, like the fabrics that make you are split and turned, leaving you to find ecstasy bursting across your synapses. it feels too good. too much. too unreal. it feels like a fluke, a one-off—

but simon’s hand falls to your belly, pinning you close to him, and you are reminded that you are not done. 

he hasn’t cum yet.

it’s not over yet. 

this pleasure that you can’t really fathom, the one that you can’t even fully name, it hasn’t found its summit. you’re just there, at the throes. 

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