thefinalcalmdown

[amaranthinespirit]

boyfriend!simon riley and american!bimbo(ish)!reader

simon loves his ditzy, american girlfriend. how you make him repeat his words, sounding out the syllables because his accent's so thick, and voice so deep. though he thinks it's just an excuse for him to talk right into your ear, his voice several octaves deep, a rumbling sound low in his chest.

he loves your little american terms, the differences in your cultured upbringings in terms of slang, and lingo.

"'s futball, lov'," he'd murmur, a beer in the hand of the arm slung around the back of the old leather couch as you watched the game. his other arm would be across your shoulders, fingers creeping up your neck as he caressed your soft skin and lengthy collarbone subconsciously.

he'd huff a chuckle if he heard you mumble 'soccer' in return.

but it wouldn't be too long until he heard his own words integrated into the vocabulary, but only when you weren't laid on your back, legs thrown over his shoulders as he plowed his hips into your slick cunt.

your sweet, american accent just mewling his name so nicely from your lips, harsh contrast to the stinging pain your claws left in his scarred back.

it only earned you grunts in return, followed by a particularly harsh thrust, lewd, flithy sounds of flesh on flesh.

but pretty, pretty music to his ears after you'd been fucked stupid, a cock-drunk babbling mess. pretty american girl.

he'd call you a good girl for calling it 'football' instead of 'soccer,' and eat you out too.

[bi-writes]

ok simon and his mail order bride live rent-free in my head now and, like, what i wanna know is what their anniversaries look like? not just their one year anniversary, but also their fifth or tenth? how does it change as they settle into that deep comfortability that comes with being with someone a long time? -391780

this piece i still consider canon mail-order bride, but i see it almost as an extra than a continuation of the current story since it is very much in the future of that timeline. <3

mail-order bride

it's difficult to see the potential of something so mangled. sometimes things are so worn out and so used that they don't reflect what their purpose was. instead of function, they see flaw. instead of value, they see waste.

sometimes you wonder if that's what they saw in you. sometimes you wonder if that's why you were given to him.

that's what they made him. simon was a tortured dog they let loose. they saw value, but only what was left, and perhaps they thought something like you might help them squeeze just that little bit more out of him. one more year. one more op.

the sunlight wakes you up. you forgot to pull the blinds, but when you see simon sleeping peacefully next to you, it's worth it to be up so early. you know as soon as you move, he will wake, so you keep still for just a few more minutes.

today marks ten. he doesn't look much older. he seems to have stopped aging ever since you asked him to put in his papers.

like always, as soon as you sit up, simon blinks awake. he's bleary, but conscious, and when your eyes meet, you smile at him. he lifts his big hand and rubs your back gently. you don't speak any words so early in the morning, but you don't have to. there isn't much to say when the love of your life loves you, and you love them back.

you push the blankets off, giggling when you reveal the black and orange balls of fur that blink up at you. they almost seem irritated that you interrupted their sleep, snuggled in the heat that simon radiated. they'll just have to deal with it.

you drag your hand down simon's leg wordlessly. you hear his deep breaths from behind, and you reach into your bedside table to press a little balm into your hand before spreading the ointment across his knee and under it. you work it into the muscles nice and slow; any faster, and simon will hitch his breath in pain, and you'll have to start over.

you kiss his knee before laying back down, settling into his side, and you lift up your left hand, wiggling your fingers knowingly at him before looking up towards his face. he smiles down at you sleepily, raising his hand to cup your fingers.

"still love me?" you ask softly, and simon pretends to think about.

"mmm..." he rumbles. "still love ya."

"but do you still like me?"

"more everyday."

the first few years were spent trying to play catch-up. fancy dinners, expensive gifts, handwritten letters that could've been novels to try and stuff the love you have for each other all in one night. they were all wonderful; you think about those nights all the time, and you cherish the gifts he's given you like they are a part of you, but today feels different.

today might not be just another day, but it's just as special as yesterday. and the day before that. and the day before that.

when it's time to really wake up, you let simon guide you. he walks easy, barely a limp, and he sits you down at your vanity to help you do your hair as you add your serums and moisturizers. he's good with that brush, running it through gently, parting your hair the way you like so he can tie it up. he'd braid your hair if you asked him to (he said it wasn't unlike all the knots he knows how to tie--and he meant it, no one dutch braids like him), but you know your show came out last night, and you want to watch them with the scones you have proofing in the fridge.

he makes the coffee and tea while you set the scones in the oven. you fill the cat's bowls while he cleans out the water fountain. it's wordless, the morning routine, but you like the times when you brush by him. when your arm runs against his. when your hands bump going for the same cabinet. when he leans down as he passes you, kissing along your jaw before he keeps walking.

bliss. fucking bliss.

he's waiting for you in the living room once you pull the scones out of the oven. your coffee sits on the table on its coaster, in your favorite mug, and he's under your blanket as he flips through the tv. he already knows what you'll want to watch, and you bite back your smile when you notice him typing it into the search bar because he didn't see it when he scrolled past (you keep telling him to wear his glasses, but he'll never listen).

you take a seat next to him, thumbing at his cheek, and he takes a scone off the plate before biting into it. he smiles when he tastes chocolate, looking at you knowingly, and you reach for his hand as you settle against his chest.

you used to be mangled, too. a mess. pretty on the outside, dying on the inside. all fried wires, a traumatized animal, learned behavior of relieve and appease that kept you out of trouble and out of sight.

you have never seen simon this way. and simon has never seen you this way. no hopeless potential. no wasted space. no diminishing value.

i matter because you matter. you matter because i matter.

hidden, not broken. disguised, not incomplete. you did not have jagged edges, only armor that you tried to put up to protect yourself.

you tip your head back to look up at him, and when he cups your jaw to stare back at you, you're relieved by what you see in his eyes.

ten years. it will be nothing like forever. it will be nothing like your next life, nor like the life after that. it's comforting to know what home looks like. maybe you will recognize it the way you recognized it in this life.

no, that can't be it.

you recognized it because it had already happened. in some other time, in some other place, you were sitting where you sit now, looking at simon the way you look at him now.

you knew who he was before you even met him, and you will know who he is when you meet him again.

[readwritealldayallnight]

You narrow your eyes at your boyfriend, watching as the all too smug smirk on his face stretches further.

“Simon, don’t-”

“I’m on such a sweet roll though, lovie.”

“No.”

“I’m gettin’ in the Halloween mood! Thought it’d make you laugh-y taffy.”

“Terrible.”

“Just like candy wrappers are tear-able.”

“No.”

“No need to be such a sour head.”

“Simon I’m so serious-”

“Alrigh’, alrigh’.” Simon relinquishes, reaching a hand towards the candy bowl in your lap, meant to be for the trick or treaters, but has been acting more as his inspiration for as many awful puns as he can think up.

“Twix or treat?”

You groan at the awful joke, only partly hating them, secretly loving Simon’s dad jokes.

“Your jokes are going to give me a cavity.” you reply.

“How’s about tit or treat?”

“Inappropriate. Not even Halloween related.”

“Sure it is. The treat’d be to see your boo-bies.”

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Soap: I dare you to kiss the next person who walks into the room Ghost: Screw that I'm not kissing any of you *Y/N walks in* Ghost: Fine I'll do it rules are rules

[machveil]

to say I’m obsessed with biting Roommate!Simon is the understatement of the century.

maybe i’m just projecting here but thoughts on just sitting in the couch with Roommate!Simon, watching a movie or something, snuggled up together and just chewing on his fingers? not even realizing you’re doing it either until he points it out.

anyways…. love your writing ❤️

Roommate!Simon Riley being your personal fidget toy. it always makes his heart squeeze when you absentmindedly fiddle with him, gently maneuvering his hands and playing with his fingers. he’s used to it, looks forward to it, seeing you distracted by your phone or the tv while messing around with him. he never says anything, content to let you fiddle about. he can’t fight off the smile that settles on his lips when you pull and tug at his fingers, the way you press your thumb to his palm

Roommate!Simon Riley that lets you cuddle up to him late at night when you watch movies and shows. it always helps him relax, being able to sink his weight onto the couch while you rest against him - a makeshift weighted blanket keeping his breathing steady. he barely registered when you started fidgeting with his fingers, running your finger pads over his nails. he feels you bring his hand up closer to your face, your breath dusting over his knuckles while your eyes are glued to the tv

Roommate!Simon Riley whose heart stutters when he feels your lips against his pointer finger. nothing new, you’re just zoned out, but he can’t help the way it makes his chest tighten up. and then your lips are around his proximal, incisors gently nipping at his index finger. not enough to hurt, but hard enough that there’ll be little indents he trace over before going to sleep. he’s tense, trying not to move, if his phone was near him he’d try to get a candid photo - something to look at when he’s back in the barracks on base. instead, his deep brown eyes are memorizing the moment, staring at you while you softly bite at him

Roommate!Simon Riley that only speaks up when your eyelids start to droop, nipping turning into a weak gnawing. he can feel your spit coating the small portion of his finger but he’s fine with that. a gentle kiss pressed to the back of your head, his lips quirk up slightly, “M’not a pacifier love.”, he murmurs, slipping his hand from your grasp, “C’mon, let’s get you t’bed.”. tired, warm and sleepy as your eyes blink shut, “M’not tired, Simon.”. he just grunts, shifting to sit up. holding you securely, Simon gets up, making his way towards your room, “Right, just gonna rest your eyes, yeah?”

[starboye]

imagine simon riley who can't control himself at dinner for some reason, he knows he's out with the team and all but you just look so fucking good right now that he can't help but get a boner just looking at you smiling and chatting with everyone, his head was spinning from how painful it was straining in his briefs

he excuses himself and grabs you by the arm to take you to the bathroom, checking every stall to make sure no one else is in there except you two and then locking the door before kissing you, telling you how much he needs you right now while taking off your button up shirt, no matter how hard you tried to push him off and explain you're in a public place he didn't listen

bending you over the sink, making you look at yourself as he fucks you, he knows he's so wrong for this but he couldn't hold it until he got back to your flat he needed you right now, he just barked at anyone who dared pester him to open the door, telling them they can go piss outside and going back to ravishing you whole and fucking you until your eyes flickered into the back of your head

your legs were shaking by the time he was done fucking you, helping you put back on your soaked pants and giving you his jacket to help cover up the rest of his marks he put on you, telling you how handsome you look while you give a fucked out smile and walk back to the teams table, the second they see you they know simon fucked you like hell, price being the first to roll his eyes and reprimand simon

[tradgedyinwaves]

First Choice - Part 9

Part nine of this Poly141! x fat!reader tw: anxiety, panic attack, angst

You could feel the first tickles of a panic attack, heart rate rising, breathing getting a little more difficult and the tell tale pain in your chest like it’s caving in on itself. You knew this gala was going to be a bad idea. 

Snatching another glass from a passing tray, you knocked back the entire thing and looked for your boss. You weren’t getting paid for this and it wasn’t worth the pain in your feet or the way your chest was tightening further. Finding him, you quickly informed him you were leaving and began stumbling towards the door.

Digging through your bag, you yanked out your phone and began ordering an Uber, not looking where you’re going. It’s this trek between your boss and the door where they see you. Or rather, you smacked right into Johnny’s chest, distracted by your phone. 

When you looked up, your eyes narrowed and you dodged around him, beelining for the door. The cool breeze that wafted over your face as you stepped outside helped soothe your overrun nerves, breathing it in and letting it take the rest of the anxiety away. Of course, that didn’t last long when Johnny was calling your name just as your ride pulled up. 

Leaning through the passenger window, you confirmed the ride and the driver before stepping back to get in the back seat. With the door open and a foot inside, Johnny finally caught up to you, gripping the frame of the door. 

“Please, bonnie. We can’t leave, but let us explain later, please,” he pleaded with you and you almost fell into the sea of blue staring at you. “It’s fine, Johnny. Go have fun with your date. I’m sure she’s missing you.” At that, you slipped into the car and tugged the door shut, leaving Johnny standing on the sidewalk with a broken look on his face. 

You weren’t sure why you thought they’d be any different than the rest, you thought to yourself as you fought the urge to sob in this random person’s back seat. Luckily for you, the event had been held close to your home so only ten minutes later you were unlocking your door and bolting all of the locks. 

You all but tore the dress from your body, leaving it in a heap as you stripped off the spanx and strapless bra you’d had to get specifically for said dress. You left all discarded on the floor as you started to turn the tub on for a bath, abandoning the idea when memories of spending time with Kyle flashed through your head. A hot shower it was then as you turned it on and stepped in, washing the hairspray away and the perfume you’d spritzed on your body. 

Hours later, a knock rattled you from your cozy place on the couch. Standing from your nest of blankets and pillows, neck of a bottle of wine still in your hand as you cracked the door open, chains crossing the space.

On the other side stood all four of them, still donning their suits as Price stepped up, the default spokesperson for the team. “Please let us explain.” You wanted to. Really. But you were so tired of being thrown around and used and forgotten. Not this time. “No. It’s-It’s okay, really. I hope you guys have a good life,” you murmured back before shutting the door and locking it again. 

Pressing your back to the door, you took a deep breath before letting the tears flow again. How stupid could I have been? Four gorgeous men wanting anything to do with me? It’s a fucking fantasy. Too good to be true. 

Or was it?

The muse is flowing today, I guess. Have another part! Enjoy!

<- Part 8 Part 10 ->

[connorsui]

I want my husband! Simon to come home from deployment and use me like a starved first meal that he hasn't touched in decades …like straight up lifting the cute skirt up and pushing the panties to the side… wasting no time but to stretch this ass so much with his dick that ain't even painful... –like this might be for him but this man ain't gonna leave the kitchen until we are left cumming on his cock at least four times until our knees are practically giving out that he has to hold us by the waist to keep us in place

:(

[ghouljams]

Happy Haunting

Rating: E (MDNI) Tags: Ghost!Ghost x f!reader, dub-con, temperature play, nipple play, fingering, squirting, unconventional blindfolds, bullshit ghost magic Summary: The veil is lifted, but you haven't quite figured out how that all works yet.

You almost anticipate it now, being awoken by hands and mouths, by the blunt press of an unseen cock and the swipe of transparent tongues. You can track the cycle of the moon by it, by the shadows cast along the floorboards. The broad shoulders of a man hunched over you, the slide of his hands, the roll of his hips, the coursing of moonlight through his form that leaves you so achingly deprived. Seeing his face again, seeing his body without the barrier of rage, is all you yearn for, all you ask for when he takes his fill from you.

The night is so dark when you lay down. That must be why it startles you to feel his teeth sinking into your breast. The clock chimes and you are suddenly accosted by his already full mouth. His body heavies on the mattress, the weight of him curled over you in the pitch black of the room as he fixes his mouth over your chest and bites to bruise. You can feel the heaviness of him in the dip of the bed under his knees, by the firm press of his hand against your mons as his fingers spread your folds.

You whine and he releases the delicate skin, rolls his tongue over the wet indents, moves to target another spot. He wraps his lips around your nipple and sucks, his tongue circling and poking at the bud. It's like ice. The chill grips you, makes goosebumps race over your skin and your nipple tightens to a stiff peak as you shiver. It doesn't deter your ghostly visitor, if anything it eggs him on. The wet slip of his tongue against your skin makes your eyes squeeze shut, the cold press of it yields to your skin in a way your brain can't rationalize.

Soft, mobile, ice.

The fact that the room is still pitch black only adds to the sensation. Your body on full alert to every touch, jolting like it's been struck every time his tongue grazes you. You can't anticipate his movements, can't even see yourself to know what marks he's already left.

His fingers, at least, have the warmth they've stolen from where they pinch at your clit. The heat of your desperate sex evening out the conflicting temperatures to an unfamiliar lukewarm that you're starting to find yourself craving. Inhuman, but tantalizingly so. Deft fingers rub and stroke over your cunt, slipping against the growing wetness as the mouth on your breast drags its tongue to the other one. The beads of drool that slip down your sternum leave you shuddering. Your teeth dig into your lip to keep from chattering as the cold air of your house claws over the ice-y spit your ghost leaves behind.

Perhaps that's why you find his mouth leaves you wanting. Unfairly teasing at your warm skin, leaving your breast aching, your nipple reaching for a muscle it barely knows. You ghost sinks his teeth into your other breast and you groan. They're harsher this time, over-eager. He takes advantage of his weight, grabs your hand when it's flown to grip his shoulder and presses it heavy against the pillow beside your head.

The draw of his shuddering breath sounds like panting. There's wheezing of his severed windpipe, and the drip of his blood, a wetness where you can never find a pool, sliding over your stomach to disappear before it hits the sheets, and panting. Like the man he is, taken by his own ministrations, subject of his own desires. You wonder if he digs his teeth into your meat so deeply because he has none of his own, if its envy that drives him to press his fingers into your warmth, or if it's simpler than that. A man driven by lust alone may not be better.

These thoughts don't stop the noise that forces itself from your chest when his finger crook. His thick digits thrusting hard into your cunt, shallow and fast. Intent follows the swirl of his tongue as it spirals closer to your nipple, the icicle heat of it making you arch into his touch. The movement forces your hips down onto his fingers, which must give him an idea the way he freezes.

His tongue leaves your skin, and your feel the tip of his head as he tilts it to watch you. His thumb rubs at your clit and you buck, the tight bud tingling with need under his lukewarm attention.

"Tha's it," He rasps, "Fuck y'rself on my fingers, lemme see ya work for my cock."

You whine, turn your face against the pillow and squeeze your eyes shut. It doesn't make much difference open or closed, you're blind in the darkness of the room. That doesn't stop the mirthful chuckle that escapes your ghost's lips as you try to turn away from him. It does make him jab his fingers in a bit deeper, abandoning the soft spot that leaves you putty in his hands in favor of wiggling his fingers against your gummy walls.

You shift your hips to get him back where you want him and he hums, pleased.

Tentatively, you rock your hips onto his fingers. You're sure it won't be as good but he meets your shallow movement with a precises thrust and your eyes roll. You try it again, and meet the same result. You move and so does he, your hips working to push onto his fingers, and your lip caught between your teeth as you focus on his request. It carves a burning trail through your hips, your stomach tight as you enjoy the steady pressure against your g-spot.

It's only too bad you can't move your hips fast enough to get what you really want.

"Ghost-"

"Ah ah," He stops you, "know my name now baby, you ask me-" He draws in air, steals it from your own lungs as he pulls his fingers free of your cunt to rub your clit, "-properly."

"Simon," You whimper. His fingers rub hard and fast over your clit. Your orgasm draws tight in your stomach, and your hole drools with slick. Desperate. Debauched. Your fingers claw at his cold skin as his mouth attaches itself to your nipple again. "I want to come. Plea-ease." Your cunt clenches tight as his teeth bite into your nipple, and roll the tight bud between the sharp dentition.

The chill of his tongue does little to sooth you, but the slide of his fingers back to your cunt melts through the pain. He moves to give your other breast the same treatment as he starts to fuck you with his fingers in earnest.

You can hear the sloppy wet sounds of his fingers thrusting in and out of your pussy, the slap of his hand against your skin. He pulls at your breast, his teeth still closed firmly around the tight nipple, tugging it away from your body only to let the soft skin fall back.

He spits on your chest, just as you feel the tight dam break. Your cunt pulses, your stomach pulls tight, and liquid trickles from you. Only to be splashed back onto your thighs by the ever present thrust of Simon's fingers. He works you through your orgasm, through the icy slide of his spit between your tits, and doesn't let up. You scramble to push at his hand, the overwhelming feeling or coming starting to rush into an overload of sensation.

It works. Simon mercifully pulls his fingers from you, and you feel your muscles unspool onto the mattress. He even releases your other hand-

And climbs up your hips to settle over your chest.

Your breath shudders out of you, your ribs held between his thick thighs and your hand guided to grip his fat cock as he positions himself comfortably.

"Give it a stroke love, wanna see ya paint that pretty face." You hold your tongue out for him, and feel his thumb pin it in place. "Greedy little slut aren't ya," He hums, "try not to get any in your eyes."

As if you have any choice in the matter with the lights off.

Divider by @/saradika-graphics

[sigh-tofm]

when they come home drunk…

… price

- thinks it’s important that he loudly tells you he’s married while you steady him upstairs to bed. points to his ring incessantly, slurs on and on about his perfect wonderful wife with the big ass and soft tummy. you roll your eyes and can’t help but smile when he doesn’t let you hold on to his arm to support him. something about protecting his virtue for his wife, as if you’re not standing right beside him. proceeds to lock you out of your own bedroom when you finally get upstairs, telling you his wife will be home soon so he can’t have a strange woman in their bedroom (but still remarks on your wonderful ass). you decide it’s too early in the morning to persuade your drunk husband to let you in, so you go down to sleep on the couch. you wake up with price sleeping soundly on the floor beside you, having gone to find his wife when she never showed up in his bed the night before.

… kyle

- gets sappy and apologises for being away. loses all concept of time when he’s drunk, says he’s sorry, he didn’t mean to be away so long, he was thinking of you the whole time, the guys pulled him along and he couldn’t say no. while he’s on his knees at your feet, pressing his face to your thighs and mumbling into your marbled skin, almost making you lose your balance with his fervent apologies, you gently remind him that you were the one who made him go out with the boys because he needed to unwind after a stressful weekend of combat drills, and that he had left with them less than two hours ago. he refuses to hear and only hugs your thighs closer, so much so that you have to support yourself on the wall. turns out all he needed to relax was you.

… johnny

- is horny. almost starts drooling when he eyes you at the top of the stairs, after struggling to close the entrance door for a good minute, causing you to investigate what made all the noise. gets a wild look in his eyes when he sees you in just his t-shirt and makes you scream and giggle as he chases you back up the stairs and to the bedroom. being absolutely shitfaced, he has the coordination of a tranquillised moose and stumbles head over heels across the floor, catches his foot on the doorway and narrowly misses the edge of the dresser with his head as he falls. still, his little soldier is courageously tenting his pants when you worriedly lean over him and he gets a good look right into the collar of your shirt.

… simon

- is emotional and clingy. can’t get enough of you, won’t leave you alone. you can’t make out half his words when he’s had this much to drink (and the mancunian in him breaks out too, making it ever harder to make out the words), but you play along, smile and nod and let him sit on the closed toilet seat and talk and talk while you do your night routine in front of the mirror. so lucky to have you, luv. how could’a lug like me get a pretty one like you, luv. his melancholy statements of love become comfortable background noise for you as you remove your makeup and apply moisturiser. lets you wash the sweat and grime of the day off his face with a washcloth, closes his eyes while you massage your floral-scented moisturiser into his skin, never once stopping his little speech. ambles after you out of the bathroom, holding on to the hem of your shirt, when you’re all finished and ready for bed. his devoted mutters only let up when be falls asleep next to you.

[skyrigel]

“Oh Simon…” And you forgot everything, lost into oblivion of some sweet dreamy kind as he pushed and slammed even more further with his big rigid cock.

Your eyes rolled back in your skull, while the room echoed with Simon's groan and the creak of your couch, the shameless sound of skin slapping against skin in electrifying sizzles. A sharp pain stinged where Simon's big palm connected, aching in tingles as he fucked harder, all the while pain stirred in toe-curling pleasure.

“Ya’ not here with me, stay here.” He demanded, leaning further over to yank back at your hair, his arm snaking around his neck and surrendering you in a headlock.

“Shake ya’ head, yeah ?” He hit your g-spot and another scream tore down your throat but only managed to vibrate against your skin, Simon's chokehold was damming your senses.

He released his grip and you hastily gulped bulk of air before he tightened his muscles around your neck, his veins popping along and how much you wanted to kiss them.

“If ya’ can't speak your safeword then shake ya’ head lovie.” He grunted but didn't stop for one bit and you were grateful. You were drooling on his elbow that was wrapped around you like coil.

“Good girl.” Simon hummed.

[blingblong55]

Sex is on fire- Simon "Ghost" Riley NSFW

Kinktober Day 14

Based on a request: I recently saw my husband in the yard working and fuck did he look so sexy. So now I can't help but imagine Ghost as my husband, working in the yard and there's a spontaneous fuck. He's hot and so is this idea ---- F!Reader, MDNI, 18+, smut, P-in-V, oral!sex, unprotected!sex, husband!ghost, wife!reader, exhibition? ----

A/N: we won't talk about the first time I posted this, got it? great, thanks <3

The late afternoon sun casts a warm glow over the overgrown garden, highlighting the faded stones of the path winding through it. He looks at you, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Hot, huh? Well, I aim to please," he says with a playful wink, trying to match your lighthearted tone.

He spots the sledgehammer leaning against the shed and picks it up, testing its weight in his hands. Then, with a growl of effort, he swings it at the nearest stone, cracking it neatly in half. Simon grunts with satisfaction, sweat already beading on his brow as he continues down the path, methodically demolishing each stone. His muscles flex with each swing, rippling beneath his shirt.

He pauses after a few minutes, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "This is actually... kind of fun," he admits with a grin. "Cathartic, like you said. Feels good to just let loose and destroy something." He looks at you, his eyes brighter than they were earlier. "Thanks for this. For knowing exactly what I needed, even when I didn't."

He steps closer, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before returning to the path, ready to continue his destructive work. You bite your lip as you keep your eyes on him, “Mm, fucking sexy… wow,” you smile and lean back, god, does he look so sexy. “You keep going until you’ve had enough, handsome face.”

Simon pauses mid-swing, glancing over at you with a raised eyebrow. A slow, heated grin spreads across his face at your words.

"Oh? Is that so?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave as he sets the sledgehammer aside and stalks towards you."Watching me work up a sweat gets you all hot and bothered, does it?"

He reaches you and leans close, his breath ghosting over your ear. "Maybe I should take a break and give you something else to bite those pretty lips of yours," he murmurs, nipping lightly at your earlobe. His hands come to rest on your hips, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the heat of his skin through his clothes, the hard planes of his body.

"Or maybe," he continues, his voice a low rumble. "You want to join me? Help me work off some steam?" He rocks his hips against yours, letting you feel his growing arousal.

"I could put that tongue of yours to good use," he suggests with a wicked grin. "Keep me company while I finish tearing up this path." He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark with desire. "What do you say, beautiful? Want to get your hands dirty with me?"

“I’m not picking up a sledgehammer, but I’ll happily get my mouth dirty." you wink. Simon's eyes darken with lust at your suggestive words. He grins wolfishly, his hands tightening on your hips.

"Mmm, now that's an offer I can't refuse," he purrs, his voice low and rough with desire. "Get on your knees for me, baby. Let's see how well you can use that pretty mouth of yours."

He guides you down to the ground, his strong hands supporting your back. Once you're kneeling before him, he steps back and starts to unbuckle his belt, his movements slow and deliberate.

"Remember, no biting unless I tell you to," he teases, his eyes locked with yours as he unzips his pants. "Unless you want to earn yourself a punishment later."

He tugs his pants and boxers down in one smooth motion, his hard cock springing free. It juts out from his body, thick and throbbing, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. "Fuck, look at you," he groans, wrapping a hand around himself and giving a slow stroke. "On your knees for me, so eager to please. Such a good girl." He steps closer, his cock bobbing mere inches from your face. "Open wide, baby. Show me what that mouth can do."

“Fuck, you see… this is why I enjoy watching you,” you say before taking his cock into your mouth. You take his hand and place it on the back of your head. You look up and begin to bob your head, your eyes rolling back a bit, gagging but enjoying the thickness of his size.

Simon groans deeply as you take him into your mouth, his head falling back in pleasure. His hand comes to rest gently on the back of your head, holding you in place as you work. "Fuck, Y/N," he grunts, his hips rocking slightly to meet your bobbing motions. "Just like that, baby. Take it deep."

His cock pulses against your tongue, the taste of him filling your mouth. He's thick and hard, stretching your lips obscenely around his girth. You gag slightly as you force yourself down further, taking him into your throat. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes but you don't pull away, determined to please him.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice strained with arousal. "Choke on it. Fuck, you look so good with your lips wrapped around me." He tightens his grip on your hair, guiding your movements. You relax your throat, letting him fuck your face, using your mouth for his pleasure. "Gonna... fuck... I'm gonna cum," he warns, his thrusts becoming erratic."Swallow it all, baby. Every fucking drop."

With a final, guttural moan, he releases, flooding your mouth with his hot seed. You swallow reflexively, milking him for all he's worth. "Fuck yes," he gasps, riding out the waves of his orgasm. "Such a good girl, taking it so well."

Finally, he pulls away, letting you catch your breath. You sit back on your heels, looking up at him with a satisfied smile, his cum glistening on your lips. Simon smirks down at you, his eyes hooded with satisfaction. He tucks himself back into his pants and zips up, then reaches down to pull you to your feet.

"Mmm, you're insatiable today," he chuckles, brushing a thumb over your cum-slicked lips. "Not that I'm complaining. I love seeing you like this - so hungry for me." He leans in and captures your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, licking the taste of himself from your tongue. You moan into the kiss, your body pressing eagerly against his.

"Fuck, I need to finish this path," he pants when he finally breaks away. "But first, I think I need a little more motivation." His hands slide down to cup your ass, squeezing roughly.

"How about you strip down and bend over one of these garden benches for me?" he suggests, his eyes glinting with wicked promise. "Let me fuck you right here in the yard, where anyone could see what a dirty slut you are for your husband." He punctuates his words with a sharp smack to your rear, making you yelp.

"What do you say, baby? Want me to split you open on my cock while you watch me work? I bet you'd love that, wouldn't you?" You nod eagerly, "Oh... fuck yes, I want that, I want that so bad," you say with need. What more can a wife say? No? Her husband looks so fucking sexy when he does manual labour and asks to fuck her in their backyard and she is meant to say no? Fuck that shit.

Simon grins wickedly at your eager response. He gives your ass another hard smack before stepping back.

"Strip," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And bend over that bench. I want to see that pretty pussy on display for me."

You waste no time obeying. Hastily shedding your clothes, you position yourself over the garden bench, your legs spread wide. The cool wood against your bare skin makes you shiver with anticipation.

Simon takes a moment to drink in the sight of you, his eyes roaming over your exposed body appreciatively. "Fuck, look at you," he groans, palming himself through his pants. "So perfect, so ready for me. I'm gonna ruin you, Y/N. Gonna fuck you so hard you forget your name."

He moves behind you, running his hands over your curves possessively. Then, without warning, he drives his cock into you with one hard thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

"Yes!" he hisses, gripping your hips tightly. "Take it, baby. Take every fucking inch." He sets a brutal pace, pounding into you relentlessly. The sounds of skin slapping against skin echo through the yard, mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure.

"That's it, fucking take it," he growls, one hand coming up to fist in your hair, pulling your head back. "You love this, don't you? Love being used like a cheap whore by your husband." He angles his hips, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "Gonna fill this cunt up, pump you full of my cum. Everyone's gonna know who you belong to after this."

You moan, your back arches, “Oh… fuck… ah… ngh~” It's too fucking much but it is so fucking good.

Simon pounds into you harder, spurred on by your desperate moans. His fingers dig into your hips, leaving bruises in their wake. "That's it, baby," he pants, his voice strained with impending release. "Cum for me. Cum on my cock like the dirty little slut you are." He reaches around to rub your clit in rough circles, sending you careening over the edge. Your pussy clenches around him, milking his cock as you come undone.

"Fuck, Y/N!" he roars, slamming into you one last time before stilling, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his seed. "Take it, fucking take it all." He collapses against your back, both of you panting heavily in the aftermath. After a moment, he pulls out, watching with satisfaction as his cum drips down your thighs. "Look at the mess I made," he chuckles, swiping some on his fingers and bringing it to your lips. "Clean up your mess, baby. Taste what I gave you."

As you lick his fingers clean, he tucks himself away and zips up. Then he turns back to the broken path, picking up the sledgehammer once more. "Why don't you go inside and get cleaned up?" he suggests his voice already back to its usual gruff tone. "I'll finish up here and join you in a bit. Maybe we can go for round two in the shower, hm?"

He winks at you over his shoulder before turning his attention back to the debris, swinging the hammer with renewed vigour, his earlier tension seemingly melted away.

Tags:

@liyanahelena @goldenmclaren @ghostslillady @moonsua1 @frizzseaberries @frazie99 @idklols @katybaby00 @saoirse06 @vampsquerade @alxexhearts @juneonhoth @tiredmetalenthusiast @jinxxangel13 @strangepuppynightmare @enarien @Simonssweetgirl @luvecarson @nellsbobells @ikohniik @nobodys-coffee @strawberrychita @sae1kie @queen-ilmaree @Llelannie @Macnches2 @avidreadee123 @talooolaaloolla @skelletonwitch @bittermajesties @1234beeandpuppycat @sparky--bunny @honestlyhiswife @who-can-appease-me @ghostwifeyy @konigssultwithghost @pinkblossomsworld @lovelyvqer @the_royal_bee @beansproutmafia @soapybutt17 @a-goose-with-a-knife @foxface013 @born4biriyani @mychemichalimbalance @marshiely @iruzias @sleepyycat @noodlezz-bedo @trinthealternate @azkza @VampyTheGoth

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Closer Than You Think

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader

Warning: fluff, Simon being very observant (kinda giving silent but deadly stalker vibes)

Authors note: I hope yall enjoy, this is inspired by @machveil Off-Putting! Simon Fic Link here: https://www.tumblr.com/machveil/765073373377249280/off-puttingsimon-riley-with-a-reader-that-matches (definitely check them out💜)

Word Count: 1.3 K

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The kitchen was warm and quiet, filled with the familiar scent of spices and simmering food as you moved around, focused on your makeshift lunch. Simon was supposed to be cleaning dishes, his usual routine after meals, but he’d been washing the same plate for over two minutes now. From the corner of your eye, you could see him watching you, his intense gaze following each step as you sliced vegetables and spread condiments with the quiet concentration of someone completely unaware—except you were more than aware.

The faucet ran uselessly, water spilling over his hands as he held the plate. His stare was unblinking, a quiet, focused intensity as if he were afraid you might disappear if he looked away. Finally, you turned to him, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “You can keep looking, Simon,” you said softly. “Just turn off the faucet.”

He blinked, almost as if snapping back to reality, and then, with that familiar smirk of his, he shut off the water, letting the dish slip into the rack. His gaze remained on you as he stepped closer, his presence heavy, grounding. You felt the warmth of his hand hovering at your back, close but not touching, like he wanted to reach out but held back, that fierce intensity tempered by the quiet tenderness he saved just for you.

---

Simon’s need to be close extended far beyond quiet mornings and kitchen counters. He was your shadow throughout the day, moving with you from room to room, an ever-present figure who seemed to appear whenever you least expected it. You’d be folding laundry in the bedroom when you’d catch sight of him leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you with that same unwavering focus.

Once, while reading in the living room, you looked up to see him seated nearby, his eyes never leaving you as you lost yourself in the pages. He held his coffee mug in one hand, watching with an intensity that felt both comforting and slightly unnerving. It was as if he was memorizing you, studying every detail, absorbing your presence in a way that made you feel as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered to him.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked, meeting his gaze.

He just gave a slight shake of his head, that rare, almost shy smile softening his features. “Nothing. Just like looking at you.”

There was a weight in his words, a depth that went beyond simple affection. Simon’s love was a fierce, consuming thing, one that he conveyed not with grand gestures or pretty words, but with his quiet, undivided attention. And in those moments, you could feel it as clearly as if he’d said it out loud.

---

At night, his need for closeness became even more palpable. Simon would slip into bed beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist with a firm grip that sometimes bordered on possessive. He’d hold you tightly, his hand splayed across your hip, fingers pressing into your skin with a roughness that left faint red marks in the morning. It was as if he needed that physical connection, a tangible reminder that you were his and right there with him.

There were nights you’d wake up to find him watching you in the dark, his gaze soft but intense, a quiet kind of reverence in his eyes. He’d reach out, brushing a hand gently down your arm, his fingers lingering as if reassuring himself of your presence. And when he thought you were asleep, he’d press a kiss to your shoulder, the tenderness in his touch a stark contrast to the hard lines of his usual demeanor.

“You’re really watching me all night?” you murmured one evening, breaking the silence.

“Only sometimes,” he whispered back, a hint of a smile in his voice. But his hand tightened around you, pulling you close in a way that made it clear he’d stay there forever if he could.

---

Grocery shopping was another arena for his quiet protectiveness. Simon followed you through each aisle, staying a few steps behind, his tall frame casting a watchful shadow as you moved through the store. He’d let you wander ahead, giving you space to browse, but he was never far. Sometimes you’d look up to find him at the end of the aisle, his eyes tracking your every movement.

One day, while you were comparing brands, a well-meaning stranger approached, glancing between you and Simon. “Excuse me, but… are you aware that there’s a man following you?”

You laughed softly, casting a glance at Simon’s intense, unflinching stare. “Oh—thank you. He’s my husband.”

The stranger’s eyes widened in surprise before he mumbled an awkward apology and hurried away. Simon stepped up beside you, his hand finding its way to your lower back, a grounding presence. You felt his thumb press against your spine, a subtle reminder of his possessive nature as he leaned in, murmuring in your ear, “I like when they know you’re taken.”

“Oh, do you?” you teased, nudging him lightly as he smirked, his hand lingering just a moment too long.

---

Sometimes he’d follow you outside too, finding excuses to be close even on the quietest strolls. You might be out in the yard, admiring the blooming flowers, and he’d appear beside you, silent and watchful, his eyes tracing over you with that same intense focus. If you wandered too close to the edge of the property, his hand would come to rest on your shoulder, guiding you back with a gentle but firm pressure.

Once, you caught him outside in the early morning, his eyes on the kitchen window as he watched you from a distance. You’d only been making coffee, the simplest of tasks, but he observed you with the kind of attention others might reserve for something far more significant. You stepped out onto the porch, calling his name, and he came inside without a word, his gaze never leaving you as he slipped into the kitchen and pulled you into a loose embrace.

---

In social settings, Simon’s need for closeness only intensified. He’d stand close behind you at gatherings, his presence a protective wall against the crowd, his hand occasionally brushing your arm or settling at your waist as if anchoring you to his side. His gaze stayed fixed on you, making it clear to anyone nearby that you were his, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

One night at a friend’s party, someone reached out to give you a friendly hug, and you felt Simon’s body tense beside you, his hand sliding to your shoulder with a possessive grip. He didn’t say a word, but his stare was unmistakable, a silent declaration that made the friend take a step back, nodding in understanding. You couldn’t help but stifle a laugh, reaching up to rest a reassuring hand on his arm.

“Relax,” you whispered, amused by the quiet fierceness in his gaze. He just shrugged, a hint of a smirk on his lips, but he didn’t let go, his hand remaining on your shoulder in a gentle yet firm grip that conveyed exactly how he felt.

---

Even in the smallest moments, his intensity was ever-present. When you’d return from running errands, he’d meet you at the door, his eyes scanning over you as if reassuring himself that you were safe and whole. He’d take the bags from your hands, his fingers brushing over yours, lingering just a moment too long. And at night, he’d hold you close as you drifted off, his arms wrapped around you with a gentle possessiveness that left faint marks in the morning.

Simon’s love was a quiet, intense thing, a devotion that showed in the way he watched you, touched you, held you. He was a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes, his constant presence a silent declaration that he was yours, and you were his. And as you lay beside him each night, feeling the weight of his hand on your waist, the warmth of his breath against your neck, you knew that this was a love unlike any other—fierce, consuming, and wholly, irrevocably yours.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reblogging! -Midnight💜

[pleaselmhau]

Random scenario I’ve been thinking about of single parent reader

Accidental-boyfriend-and-stepdad-Ghost who had fuck all to do in between deployments. He spent his time wasting away. half at the pub near his dingy flat and the other half in said dingy flat. His fingers curl around the cool glass containing his bourbon. He knew he probably looked like a intimidating, sitting on the absolute end of the bar up against the wall with his hood up, but hey, at least he wasn’t wearing his mask in a civilian pub. That surely would raise a few alarm bells, a jacked, 6’4 man in a mask is probably the line drawn where civilians might start to freak. Not many people really bother him here, that’s why he likes it. He always found people watching occasionally interesting, as long as he could sit back and stay uninvolved.

So he’s a little more than surprised when sweet, attractive you pops right up next to him all sugary smiles and batting lashes. It becomes clear quickly with how your hand brushes against his bicep and you keep giving them flirty looks that you were looking for a fling. A one time hookup. It’s been awhile since he’d fucked so even though you aren’t his usual type, he bites. Not his usual type not in that he doesn’t find you attractive, he does, it’s more he thinks you’re out of his league- or rather out of your element. You seem a little too friendly, chatty even. It’s nothing really in particular that you do, he can just tell you’re the type to get attached. Though you did approached first so maybe he’s wrong, he decides.

The hookup is rather run of the mill at first, sloppy make out session from the front door to the bedroom. Both of you bumping into various furniture and walls as you lead him through your small apartment. His foot brushes against some hard object on the floor but he pays it no mind, too wrapped up in how you’re kissing him like he’s the air you need to breathe. You’re so full of life, passion, it nearly flusters him. But he is nothing if not adaptable, so once close enough to the bedroom he can see where you two are heading he just leans down and scoops you right up with one arm around your thighs. Faster, more efficient. It takes a mere nudge of his shoulder and lean before you’re falling back on the bed and he’s following you. His mouth slots over yours again, hot and heavy. Your hands tug at his shirt and he obliges, letting you pull the fabric off. It’s dim in your bedroom, only the moonlight filtering in through the window but he can see your silhouette clearly when he pulls back your last layer of clothing, and fuck is it a pretty sight.

He didn’t mean to spend the night, he really didn’t. But when you were bouncing on his lap, pressing fresh kisses to his throat after two rounds already he knew it was gonna be a long night. He wakes to find you draped all over him, wrapped up in the sheets like you’re trying to be some renaissance painting. He squeezes his eyes shut for a few moments, blinking away the grogginess of just waking up. Never being one to just lounge around in bed he detangles your limbs from around him and slips out. Bending down he retrieves his clothes, tugging his pants and shirt. When he has all his things he risks a glance back, hoping you’re not awake, he’s never really been good at the whole morning after shit, always preferring to leave during the night. Though for some reason the way you were all over him, the way you clung and kissed at him like he was the only man in the world made him want to revel in it, in you, long enough until he simply was too tired to consider leaving last night. His eyes flicker over you for a moment as if he’s subconsciously trying to commit you to memory, maybe he’ll meet you again sometime at the pub, he wouldn’t mind a repeat, but he’s not staying. Or so he thinks because as soon as he steps out the bedroom he’s met with the sound of two small feet pitter pattering on the floor then big eyes staring up at him.

His brows furrow in confusion, he didn’t notice a kid last night, actually he’s sure there wasn’t any kids in the apartment last night. For a long few moments he just stares down at the kid, not sure what really to do. The little girl, probably no older than ten stares right back up at him. “Can you make pancakes?” She asks, head tilting a little in curiosity. “Uh.. sure.” As she leads him through the living room he realizes what he kicked last night was her toys scattered about the floor.

So now he’s in the kitchen with Lily, as he found out the little girls name was, sitting on the counter. He figured out her aunt watched her last night and brought her home this morning. shes stirring up the batter as he puts butter into a pan. “You’re a friend of mom’s/dad’s?” She asks, stirring maybe a little harder than need be. “Something like that,” he responds, dipping in a random measuring cup then pouring the batter onto the pan. He can hear her still stirring even after. “that means we’re friends now too right?” She asks. He glances over taking in her kiddish hopeful expression and finds himself nodding immediately. “Yeah, we’re friends now too.” He responds, trying to not sound so flat. Truthfully he hasn’t a clue what he’s doing or what he should do. He tries to put himself in your shoes, how weird it’d be to stumble out and see your one-night stand still here cooking breakfast with your daughter. Though at the same time it feels rude too to just dismiss her.

When the pancakes are done he watches her jump off the counter and scamper over to the lower cabinet, pulling out a tray. “Well bring mom/dad some too!” She announces, grabbing at the pancakes with her hands and plopping them on the plate. Once the tray is all made up, a few pancakes stacked and a glass of orange juice she picks it up again. “You helped make it so you have to come too,” then she’s waddling off back toward the same bedroom he woke up in, orange juice splashing out of the glass in her excitement. He wonders if he should just slip out now while Lily is distracted, though he finds himself following, opening the door for her then watching as she pushes the tray right on the bed next to you before jumping on it and pressing her hands into your shoulder to shake you awake. He stands in the doorway awkwardly, watching the scene with a hint of… well he doesn’t really know. Warmth? A breakfast in bed from Ghost and your daughter wasn’t really what you were expecting when you woke up, though you can’t help but to smile as you see the jagged pancakes and half filled orange juice, rest on the tray itself.

The three of you spend the rest of the morning watching movies until it’s late enough that the three of you end up going out for lunch. Then end up making dinner together. And Ghost realizing maybe being off duty wouldn’t be so bad if he had a family to come home too and seems the perfect one was placed right in his hands.

Sorry if this is word vomit it’s very late and I was just swooning over the idea of Ghost with single parent reader

[machveil]

POOKIE!! hear me out a fic for an extremely sub!ghost like to the point where he's on his hands and knees literally sobbing his heart out because he wants to eat you out and you're denying him because you're just enjoying watching him beg but eventually you give in

(I'm ovulating don't judge me im not usually this cruel 😭)

pookie… I see and hear you, I feel you in my bones we’re jumping straight in

CW: Fem!Reader, Sub!Ghost, weepy Simon Riley to soothe the soul… and other things, clothed humping, oral (fem!receiving)

tactical gear still fastened and balaclava tugged up just over his nose, the sight before you has your thighs pressed together as you sit on the edge of his bed. Ghost, in all his glory, sitting at your feet - tears wetting his eyelashes and balaclava as he looks up at you. he’s still large even when he’s kneeling, but the way he’s behaving makes him look so small

the last deployment he had been on, one where you stayed back at base, had taken such a toll on him. all in one piece, but exhausted and sore. he was admittedly gross right now, sweaty and gear dirty from field work, but god— as soon as he had guided you to his room he all but fell to his knees for you. “Please, jus’ wanna taste you sweet’art.”, strained, voice ragged and gravelly from giving out constant streams of orders. pitiful, deep brown eyes gazing at you as he tugged his mask up

something about the way he looked made a spark flicker to life in your chest, heat pooling in your gut. Ghost is never like this, your Ghost would never be like this - let alone on base. your Simon Riley? that’s what makes this all too familiar, the way he’s looking up at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars. that’s saved for the comfort of your home, your shared flat back in Manchester. to see him like this? a needy, desperate man crawling towards you, resting his chin on your lap? who could blame you for wanting to see a little more?

it almost makes you feel bad when a choked sob leaves his lips - you had let him slip your slacks off, pooled around your boots. your boots, maybe that was why Ghost’s eyebrows were screwed together as he sloppily mouthed at your thighs. “You can— just need you to cum for me first, Ghost.”, maybe that request was too cruel for him, you knew him too well. the sight of him grinding his painfully hard bulge against your boot, spit and drool slicking your thighs as he cried against your lap. you know he can’t, not like this. Ghost— Simon’s too used to you helping him

he can’t cum, not without you - your hand, your mouth, anything you’re willing to give him, even if it’s just his mouth pleasing you. skin on skin contact, it’s nothing compared to grinding on your boot or using his hand. his sclera are tinted red at the edges, salty tears mixing with his spit as he sucks at your thighs, anything to keep his mouth occupied as his hips buck against your shoe. five minutes, five minutes too long when Simon looks up at you. scarred lips smeared with his own saliva, a broken little hiccup followed by a shoulder shaking sob leaves him, “Missed you— please, please, lemme make you feel good, lovie, m’sorry.”

he nearly breaks down when you shift to tug your underwear down, shaky hands coming up to rest on your knees. before you can even finish saying ‘okay’ Simon is parting your legs, slotting himself between your plush thighs. sloppy, a man starved of affection and your cunt for weeks. it would have tugged at your heartstrings if you were paying attention to him, head lolled back as he desperately sucks on your clit. if you had been paying attention you would have caught his sobs, your poor Simon, crying against your cunt. as good as you feel, Simon’s already gone, underwear soaked through as soon as he had his mouth on you

[gloomwitchwrites]

Monster (S)mash - Task Force 141 x Female Reader - Porn Star AU

Content & Warnings: Porn Star AU, group sex, oral sex (male & female receiving), unprotected piv, cnc, restraints, anal sex, double penetration, haunted houses, masks, knifeplay, creampie, multiple orgasms, cum swallowing

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: For Kinktober 2024 (Group Sex)

On the set of Monster (S)mash, the monsters come out to play. It's your first themed porn film and it's set in a haunted house. You're eager. Excited. But you've never taken something like this on before. You're filming with four of the greatest names in porn, and you don't want to mess this up.

ao3 // main masterlist // kinktober 2024 masterlist

"Would you like to review the scene? Go over boundaries again?"

Kate Laswell, the Intimacy Coordinator, takes a seat on the opposite couch.

"I'd like a refresh," replies Johnny. "Now that I'm in character." He grins, gesturing at himself, and you almost laugh at how ridiculous he looks.

Johnny MacTavish, known in the industry for his many creampie videos, is dressed as a crazed clown with a red wig and exaggerated makeup. His clothing is nothing more than a black industrial vinyl apron covering up the important bits. Kyle Garrick, a connoisseur of the cam world, sits next to him in a fresh white robe with a Jason Voorhees mask sitting on top of his head, the elastic band digging into his skin behind his ears.

Kyle taps away at his phone. "I should go before you, mate." Kyle glances up and winks at you. "Since I’m up first."

You feel heat rush to your cheeks. Kyle is incredibly handsome—all four of them are—but Kyle has a gentle swagger that flusters you a bit every time he addresses you. The two others, John Price and Simon Riley, are still in the makeup tent transforming into a werewolf and a demon.

While you've been on various porn sets, this one is far more complex than previous films you've been a part of. Monster (S)mash is set in a "haunted house." You'll go room to room, each containing one of the four men before it ends with the five of you partaking in each other. Filming is expected to take all day and possibly into the next.

Kate finds a comfortable spot on the sofa and addresses the two of you. "Your scene takes place in a forest with a cabin. They'll be a fake machete. We're looking at knife play. Some c-n-c. A bit of a chase. What do you think about that?"

Kyle shrugs and then glances at you. "Sounds fun. I'm excited. But it's what you want." He gazes at you expectantly.

You shrug. "What we talked about during our meeting yesterday is good with me."

Kyle nods. "I remember."

"And we know the safe word and the non-verbal signal in case anyone needs to stop?" asks Kate.

"Apple," says Johnny.

"Three fingers with a wrist shake for non-verbal," adds Kyle.

Kate smirks. "And what if someone is restrained and cannot shake their hand?"

"Then three fingers will do," you finish.

She smiles, clearly content with that answer. "Very good." She clasps her hands and then pushes up from the couch. "My assistant and I will be standing off to the side watching and listening for a signal."

Rodolfo, the director’s personal assistant pops his head in. “We’re ready for the first scene.”

Kyle groans as he stands, returning the Jason mask to its proper place. The robe is gone and tossed onto the sofa beside Johnny. Kyle is completely naked underneath it all. You follow him out, robe still on.

"Head that way to mark," Rodolfo says to Kyle and then he gestures at you, beckoning you closer. "Stand here."

You find your mark and then remove your robe, handing it off to Rodolfo who politely keeps his gaze averted. Unlike Kyle who wears nothing, you're in a skimpy black thong that's more string than material.

“Quiet on set!” comes Alejandro Vargas’ voice from the director’s area. He’s standing behind a monitor, watching whatever is coming through on the camera.

There's some minor rustling before all goes silent.

"On three...two...one."

You stand just outside the entrance of the fake haunted house. Taking a deep breath, you count to three. Glancing over your shoulder, you deliberately stare off-camera, and then head inside. The camera moves forward as you walk, focusing in on the makeshift sign.

You will be touched, carried, restrained, played with...

The camera lingers on the sign for a few seconds before following you into the dark.

"Cut!" Alejandro calls out. "Let's hold there. Get her to mark two."

Rodolfo appears, gesturing toward the first "room" of the haunted house.

Each set is separated by curtains. With the lights on, it looks a bit silly, but during filming and post-production editing, no one will know that these scenes weren't filmed in an actual haunted house attraction.

As you step up to your mark, a tingle of excitement swells in your belly. You've always found your job fun and enjoyable, but this is the first themed film you've attempted. While the film crew and intimacy coordinator have solid reputations in the industry, the four men you're working alongside are known for their decency, politeness, and general kindness when working with others. During yesterday's meetings, they were incredibly focused, asking questions, and spent extra time wanting to know and remember your boundaries and limitations.

When you first started out, that was unheard of. You’d show up to set and hope for the best. Discussions about limitations and boundaries were few and far between.

"Going on three...two...one."

You enter the first room.

It's arranged to resemble the front of a cabin in the middle of the woods near a lake. The cabin is just a facade anchored onto a wall while blue lighting creates water-like ripples off the front of the cabin. The path to the "exit" is lined with two folding chairs, a metal picnic table, and a makeshift campfire with fake flame included. Ambient nature sounds play in the background, but it's only loud enough to create an unsettling atmosphere.

Slowly, you step around the two folding chairs and walk past the picnic table, glancing around in feigned nervousness as if danger lurks around every corner. That danger is just Kyle in his Jason mask.

As if summoned by your thoughts, Kyle appears. Standing near the makeshift exit, he is completely naked other than the mask and the machete clenched in his right fist. You freeze, holding up your hands in a placating gesture.

Kyle rolls his shoulders and neck. You hear the audible pop from where you're standing. He saunters forward, turning the machete handle end-over-end in his palm. Though you know the machete is fake, and that Kyle won't harm you, your fight-or-flight response kicks in. It fuses with your excitement and underlying arousal, sending your senses into overdrive. Your vision narrows, focusing on Kyle as he swaggers toward you.

"No," you whisper, backing toward the spot you entered from.

Kyle lunges, and you shriek, turning on your heel to dodge out of the way.

Spreading his arms wide, Kyle blocks your way forward. You step to the left and he matches your movement, the machete blade outstretched. While the two of you discussed this scene with the intimacy coordinator, the chase is entirely improvised. You don't know what Kyle will do or how he'll eventually trap you. The idea is thrilling, warming your body with heightened anticipation.

Stepping around the edge of the picnic table, you aim to dart around him on the right side. Kyle leaps over the fake flames and lands in your path. He swings the machete and you duck. The blade is nothing more than rubber, and his aim is purposefully wide.

As you turn away, Kyle follows, his stride casual and calm. It's infuriatingly sexy how sure of himself he is. And somehow, you're flustered by him, even as you try to make for the exit.

But there is no escape—and it's not like you want to get away from him.

Kyle's muscled arm catches you by the stomach. He hauls you against his chest, even as you wiggle and squirm, lashing out as if that will do anything. His strength is apparent in the way he confidently keeps you close, unafraid that you might accidentally clip his jaw with your knuckles.

The camera moves in as he brings the machete up to your throat, pressing the rubber blade against your jugular.

"Stop moving," he growls, the mask muffling the sound.

You cease your squirming, both hands grasping his forearm. The edge of the mask digs into the side of your face, and his hard cock presses roughly against your back.

"Are you going to be a good girl?" he asks. The low gruffness in his voice sends a bolt of heat straight to your pussy.

You whimper, but say nothing.

Kyle lightly slaps the inside of your upper thigh. "Answer me."

"I'll be good," you gasp, the sting of his strike causing your muscles to clench, ass bucking into his pelvis.

"You'll be what?" This time he squeezes your thigh.

"A good girl."

He makes a pleased sound as the machete falls away and his arm releases you. Grabbing the back of your neck, Kyle uses his grip to turn you around, to force you to look at his face. With the mask, all you can see are his eyes. They're in shadow, but fuck, they're gorgeous.

With a final squeeze, Kyle forces you to your knees. His cock bobs in front of your face. Your lips part, but Kyle keeps a firm grip, allowing nothing. He is in control.

Your gaze is entirely focused on him. You have no idea where the camera is, and there is no point in looking. It's not your concern.

"Wider," he instructs, and you present your mouth to him, tongue out. "That's it."

The head of his cock taps against your tongue and then slides back and forth over its surface, teasing what's to come.

You want it. You want him.

Kyle's hand moves from the back of your neck to the top of your head. He fists your hair there, and then guides your mouth around his cock, forcing you to take every inch of him. The cool rubber of the machete presses against your neck. Your hands rise, anchoring yourself by grasping the front of his bare thighs.

You hold on as he fucks your throat. Keeping your gaze on the mask, you relax your muscles, focusing on not gagging. Kyle is more length than girth, and the head of his cock roughly hits the back of your throat with each stroke.

"That's a good girl," he rasps. "My perfect slut."

The praise is wonderful. Perfect. You hold on to it, humming with contentment around him, the vibrations making him shiver. In your peripheral, you notice the glint of a camera lens but you don't glance over. You focus on Kyle, and how eager you are to get both of you off.

Kyle is rough but not overly slow. He's careful not to go too far. His movements are restrained but controlled, and that only turns you on more. One of your hands slips between your thighs and you find yourself blissfully wet.

You circle your clit and then dive downward to slip one finger, and then two, inside your pussy. Repeating the motions only builds the oncoming orgasm like a viper hidden in a pile of leaves, waiting to strike.

"Are you fucking yourself with your fingers?" Kyle's question isn't meant to be answered. It's rhetorical. He knows you are. He can see it.

With his cock in your mouth, you're unable to answer. One watery tear rolls down your cheek and Kyle lightly taps the machete blade against your throat.

"Not being a good girl. Didn't tell you to do that."

The machete disappears. Using his grip on the top of your head, Kyle guides your mouth off and away with a wet pop. He drags you to your feet, and as you move to run from him, Kyle presses the tip of the machete against your stomach.

"Get on the table," he growls. "Now."

You glance over your shoulder briefly to figure out where it is. The path is clear—just a few steps and you're on it. Kyle prods you with another poke of the machete.

Moving backward, you eventually bump into the edge of the table. Kyle does not help you up but the top is just below hip-level. You get on easily.

"On your back. Legs spread."

The command in his tone is undeniable. You do exactly as Kyle says. The camera is directly behind him, following his forward advance. Kyle wraps his hand around your ankle and tugs, dragging you to the very edge until you're close to falling off.

Without ceremony or elegance, he tears away your thong and tosses it aside. Kyle lines himself up and thrusts.

"Fucking hell," he groans.

You moan loudly, toes curling as your pussy takes all of him. The stretch is just enough to hurt but entirely euphoric.

Kyle slams the machete down onto the table next to you. In seconds, he has one hand over the front of your throat and the other on your inner thigh, keeping you wide as he drives in and out of your body.

This is where he's roughest, and you don't care at all. It's delicious. Glorious. From this angle you can watch every corded muscle shiver as he moves.

And the eye contact.

Kyle won't stop looking at you. His gaze is firm. Heavy. You are trapped by it as much as by his strength. His hand on your inner thigh slides further inward until he's almost on your pelvis. The camera shifts to point directly at where your bodies meet just as Kyle's thumb starts rubbing slow circles around your clit.

The building orgasm shivers outward, stretching into your limbs. A sense of numbness comes with it, as if you're floating above your body. It lingers there at the heightened apex before crashing down around you.

Your body tenses—seizes. Kyle groans, continuing to thrust through it. His thumb keeps stroking, and the intensity continues, wave after wave flooding through your system until you near overstimulation.

Kyle's thrusting increases, a pounding rhythm that signals his coming end.

"Fuck," he groans, hand around your throat tightening slightly.

The fingers on your thigh dig in, and Kyle stills, his sigh a gentle rainfall. You feel your pussy flood with warmth as his release hits him. You see the shudder, watch as his eyelids close behind the mask, and the keen pulse of his veins in his arms.

Kyle thrusts once. Twice. And then with a heavy sigh, grasps the base of his cock, stroking it as he slowly eases out. The camera comes into view, panning inward to catch the sight of his cum. Kyle keeps you still, gaze lingering on you. He's waiting for the camera's retreat.

Just as it backs away, Kyle's grip on you loosens. You're the pretend, helpless victim no longer.

Gripping the machete, you strike out. Kyle avoids your terrible swing, and that gives you your change. Off the table and onto the floor, you rush toward the exit, not looking back though you hear his enraged growl and the swoosh of air as he lunges for you.

You disappear, nearly stumbling into the next room as the director calls for the end of the scene.

"Cut!"

You catch yourself before falling forward, a little breathless. Poking your head out from behind the curtain, the set team comes rushing in, moving objects out.

"Let's set the next scene."

As you step out, Rodolfo and someone from the makeup department rush in. You're offered your robe which you politely decline but accept the water.

"You good, love?" Kyle approaches, removing his mask, gaze expectant and observing.

"Yeah. I'm good," you reply, taking another gulp of water.

His observation isn't one of keen interest but one of concern. He's checking you over. Making sure he didn't harm you.

"I didn't hurt you?"

You're a little sore but it feels good. "No," you answer. "Promise. I'm fine."

He grins, relief clear on his face. "Thought I might have been too much."

You shake your head. "Not at all."

Rodolfo checks his watch. "Ready for the next scene? Or would you like a break?"

You cap the water and hand it to him. "I can handle it."

He nods. "Be ready in five."

After a bathroom break, a brief touch-up, and a gentle cleanse between the thighs, you're herded to the next mark.

"We're going in ten...nine..."

Your robe is removed and water whisked away. The camera is somewhere in the room already, ready for you to step out from behind the curtain.

"...three...two...one."

You emerge, knowing that this might be the scene you need to call a stop to. Not that it'll be Johnny's fault, but the place is absolutely ghastly.

It's set up like a meat processing warehouse. The room is bathed in red light. Fake bodies wrapped up in cloth hang from the ceiling along with a few hooks on chains. There are two "exits" covered in plastic strip curtains. One is a true exit and the other is where Johnny is supposed to emerge from, but you have no idea which.

The camera follows your forward movements as you navigate around the hanging set pieces. Against the wall is a stainless-steel table. On it are bloody body parts all haphazardly stacked on top of each other.

As you make it to the middle of the room, Johnny appears—not that you see him. You don't notice him at all. It isn't until he revs the chainsaw he's holding that you do. It startles you so bad that you stumble backward into a fake body, almost tripping on your own foot.

Johnny charges forward, much faster than Kyle. The hanging bodies, hooks, and chains are in the way. You try to push them aside, to run as you're supposed to, but it hampers your movement.

Johnny catches you quickly.

Cornering you between a trio of hanging bodies, Johnny circles the space, revving the chainsaw as he walks. There is no chain on it, but he doesn't point it at you. He keeps it pointed away from his body and yours.

Transferring the chainsaw to one hand, Johnny snags your upper arm, dragging you against him. You beat at his chest, the vinyl apron slippery when your skin makes contact. Nothing happens. Johnny is solid.

With his grip on your arm, Johnny hauls you toward the body-covered table. He sets the chainsaw down and then both hands are on you. Spinning you around to face him, you attempt to fight him off even as he restrains you, attaching handcuffs to your wrists with ease.

“Let me go!” you shriek, but Johnny only laughs. It’s manic and high—completely deranged. It’s wonderful acting. You’ll give him that.

With a sharp tug on the connecting chain, Johnny sends you stumbling. He steps out of the way, his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp slap. You yelp but manage not to fall. The smirk on his face tells you everything. He’s loving this.

You attempt to strike out at him but Johnny is so much stronger.

Using his massive, muscled arms, Johnny wrestles for control, winning easily. You’re herded to the center of the room. At one of the hooks, Johnny lifts your arms over your head, hooking the connecting chain on the nearest one.

Everything stretches, but it’s not painful. It's a good stretch and just enough to keep you on your feet but appear as if you're hanging in the air. It's a great trick. You're on full display for the camera and for Johnny.

You’re facing away from Johnny, and you have no idea where the camera is. All you’re aware of is your breathing, and the swelling tightness in your muscles as the stretch starts to curl forth a gentle ache.

You’re hanging there. Untouched. Waiting.

There’s a gentle brush against the back of your thigh. You jerk against the touch, tilting your head to catch a glimpse of him. Johnny appears before you like a phantom. He steps into your view slowly. The red light bathes him in a blood-tinged glow.

Johnny grins, grasping your chin in his hand.

“Are you going to remain a good girl for us?” His Scottish lilt is sinful. You find yourself leaning forward as if you’ll kiss him. That grin softens, and then becomes a wicked thing.

Johnny drops to his knees before you.

His hands grab the backs of your upper thighs, lifting you off your feet. He guides your legs over his shoulders, hands adjusting to support your ass. Johnny’s mouth is on your pussy immediately, tongue teasing your entrance. The fake plastic nose he wears perfectly presses against your clit. It rubs back and forth against it as he devours your pussy.

The orgasm comes quickly and with sharp intensity. You scream out your pleasure, head falling back, eyes closed as Johnny continues to feast between your thighs. Your toes curl, the muscles in your lower back seizing and relaxing with each wave.

With a final lick, Johnny tilts his head back, smug with himself.

You’re gasping for air, chest heaving as Johnny returns your feet to solid ground. He ascends, hand undoing the ties that keep his black vinyl apron in place. He circles you as he does it, a teasing dance before it falls away.

Your gaze immediately drops, and fuck—Johnny is thick. There’s a decent amount of length but this man is all girth.

He palms his hard cock, gaze enraptured with the sight of you. Circling you like a predator, Johnny takes his opportunity to run his hands over your body, to touch everything. It’s been he comes to a stop behind you that the anticipation builds.

Johnny’s face presses against your neck as his hands grab hold of your hips. His cock rubs against your ass and then slides between your thighs. He rocks back and forth, coating himself in your wetness. The head of his cock pokes at your sensitive clit.

You whimper, and Johnny gives you relief.

With his grip on your hips, Johnny angles himself at your entrance. A quick thrust, and Johnny is home to the hilt. Your thighs are pressed against each other, and the thickness of Johnny’s cock is only intensified by the limited space.

He remains behind you, pumping steadily as you hang from the hook. Johnny’s hands on your hips delve, squeezing your thighs. He brings one palm down in a quick slap against it, your thigh jiggling from the strike.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he whispers into your ear, and you know that’s only for you to hear.

While Kyle was a bit rough with you, but Johnny is steady, his rhythm hitting all the right beats until you’re numb with lust. You fall into it, heading leaning back against his as Johnny as his way with you.

At his end, Johnny’s groan morphs into a whimper. He comes inside you, his grip tight as he holds you flush against him. A few more thrusts and then Johnny is pulling you, forcing your thighs apart to show the camera the mess there.

You expect a pause as the camera lingers there. What you don’t expect is for Johnny to put his mouth back to your pussy, to suck his cum out of it, to stand and force your head back, slipping his fingers between your lips only to spit his cum down your throat.

He grins at you, licks his lips.

This dirty fucker.

Your thumb finds the small button on the cuffs. Like everything else, it’s a prop. You press the button. The chain breaks as it’s supposed to. The moment your feet are flat, you take off, rushing toward the exit.

You hear pounding footsteps and then—

“Cut!”

Johnny almost knocks you down on the way out. “Shit,” he gasps, grabbing on to you before you topple forward.

“Take ten!”

A robe is thrust at you, and Johnny is pulled away as someone else shoves another water into your face and someone else fusses with your hair and makeup.

It’s the maze that’s next. This one is completely staged compared to the other scenes. At a certain point, you, Johnny, and Kyle will converge on a singular point. Johnny on one side of you. Kyle on the other.

When you’re set, you enter into the makeshift maze. You don’t need to go far. Just a few feet. Johnny is right behind you, every step heavy and loud as he navigates the maze. Only a couple striders further and you’re trapped.

Kyle steps out of the dark and you come to a halt. But as you retreat, Johnny is right there, blocking your exit. Their hands are on you immediately. You have no control. You give in to them, allowing them everything. It’s nice to surrender, to hand control off to someone else.

They move you into position. Johnny’s cock slides home, filling your pussy. Kyle takes the other side, and then you’re full in both holes, groaning loudly with each thrust. Your hands seek, fingers digging into whatever they can find.

Over your shoulder, Kyle pushes up his mask enough to reveal his lips. You go in, tasting Kyle’s sweetness. His hand grasps the front of your throat, dragging you in for a deeper kiss.

Johnny isn’t one to be left out.

As Kyle breaks away from the kiss, Johnny reaches for him, the two men locking lips next to your face as they both move in and out of your body. You drape your arm over the back of your Johnny’s neck, and all you know is the perfect way they fill you, and the feel of their lips against your skin.

And when it’s over, you’re a little disappointed that it couldn’t continue.

There’s another break—this one longer than the others. Kate’s assistant massages your muscles, and she checks in before the graveyard scene with John Price. You’ll truly need some rest before the final scene with Simon Riley and the rest of the men, but you can do one more.

But only one.

And it’s the easiest of the bunch.

There is no chasing. No running.

You play the helpless damsel, pushing at John’s chest as if you don’t want it. All around you is smoke and shadow. The headstones around the two of you create a little circle, almost as if you’re in the center of a ritual.

You’re put on your hands and knees on the ground, the fog from the fog machine swallowing up your hands and legs. Price is behind you, already pumping, already taking from you like the wolf he’s supposed to be.

The makeup department did wonders. They gave him sharp teeth, yellow contacts, and a partially transformed look to him. It’s brilliant, really. He looks very much the monster.

Each stroke is deep. John presses on your lower back, forcing you into a different position, pushing your ass higher into the air. Your legs widen and then John increases his pace, his pelvis smacking loudly against yours. Skin meets skin, and your pussy quivers with excitement as the orgasm builds.

You stroke yourself between your legs, leaning on one side to keep yourself upright enough not to slip. You’re slippery between your thighs, and you can’t help but trace where your bodies meet. Your nail grazes John’s cock, and he emits a low moan.

John grips your ass harder, and then he’s pounding into you, using your body like it belongs to him. You lightly bite your lip, trying to focus on your building orgasm. Each stroke comes with a spank, jerking you against your teasing fingers.

“Oh—fuck,” you mewl as your orgasm comes raging forward, curling outward.

John fucks you through it, growling like a fucking animal behind you. When your orgasm wanes, his hand grasps the back of your throat, holding you in place as he continues. All you have to do is sink into it, to grin with contentment and let him have what he wants.

There’s something primal to the way he holds you down and fucks you. It’s different from the way Kyle kept you in place or the way Johnny fucked you. Even in their roughness they were sweet. John is all business, and you’re perfectly fine with that.

His cock is fucking perfect, his dominating demeanor a soothingly sensual experience. There’s something to be said about giving in—to submitting.

But it’s after the extended break that completely alters your brain chemistry.

Simon is the last. The very last.

There is no chase. No true lead up.

This room is set in hell. There are fake flames, reddish-orange backlighting, and a throne. Simons sits on that throne, lounging casually, legs wide, his cock and heavy balls on full display. He’s dressed like the devil, but there are no plastic horns or dollar store red cape. He is perfectly painted in red and black. From his head are twisting black horns that curl up and back. They’ve given him red contacts and fake canines for a vampiric bite.

You are in his thrall, sitting at the base of his throne when the camera turns on. There is a leather collar around your neck connected to a silver chain that Simon holds in his fist. He lightly tugs on it, urging you forward.

Your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, coaxing him toward hardness. You tease the head with a swirl of your tongue before taking him into your mouth. Simon fists the chain, twisting another link around his fist. Every time you take him deeper, Simon shortens the chain further and further.

At first, there is no tightness. It grows shorter. Shorter still. The leather begins to bite into your skin. With each twist of Simon’s wrist, the leash shortens. It draws you closer to Simon, leaving no room for you to retreat—to get air.

Your nostrils flare as you breathe through your nose. Relaxing your throat, you suck him down, cupping his testicles gently in tandem with your movements. The only sound he makes is a grunt and you have no idea if that’s good or bad.

But his cock is hard. Solid. You can’t take all of him or you’ll fucking choke on it.

He tugs sharply on the leash. "In my lap, pet."

You do as Simon instructs, standing between his legs before turning around toward the camera. You sink down into his lap, and Simon leans back, gently guiding you to straddle his lap, legs wide and draped over his thick thighs. He rubs his cock against your pussy, and then you’re sinking down on him.

John arrives from the dark, still in costume. He prowls forward, coming up to the left side of the throne. He grabs your wrist as he comes to a stop, guiding it to his cock. You fist John just as Simon thrusts upward.

Kyle arrives soon after. He kneels in front of you and Simon, teasing your clit with his fingers. It starts as a gentle stroke before his tongue replaces them, swirling little circles against your clit. Simon thrusts upward again, and your pussy clenches.

Just before your orgasm crests, Kyle’s tongue descends, stroking against the space where Simon’s cock intrudes. He descends further, lightly sucking one of Simon’s balls into his mouth. It’s brief. Just a blip. And then his tongue is back on your clit.

Your orgasm comes raging forward, but just as your mouth opens to cry out, Johnny appears, grabbing the back of your head, filling your mouth with his cock.

Your body is theirs to use.

Theirs to enjoy.

Simon thrusts upward, and Kyle draws back, his lips glossy with your arousal. He puts the mask back into place, and Simon lifts you off his cock. You’re picked up. Turned around. You sink back down on Simon’s cock, and Kyle is right there, adding his cock to your pussy. It’s an incredibly tight fit. They rock their hips gentle as John and Johnny touch your body, guiding your hand and mouth back to them.

One of them comes inside you—but you have no idea who before you’re full of just one cock. There are two sets of hands on your ass, bouncing you on whoever’s cock is filling you up. You’re simply clinging on, fingers digging into Simon’s shoulders. His head dips, the horns brushing against your cheek as his tongue circles a nipple.

John grabs the bottom half of your face. “Open,” he instructs and you do so, eagerly sticking out your tongue. John jerks himself until his cum explodes on your tongue. He tips your head to the side and Johnny follow suit.

“Swallow,” growls John and you do exactly that.

Someone groans, and whoever is inside you comes. You’re lifted off Simon’s lap, brought to standing, and then promptly bent over the arm of the throne. Simon’s cock returns to your mouth, and someone settles behind you, spreading your legs before sliding inside.

Every time someone comes in your pussy, you’re moved. Switched. Bent over. Spread wide. Forced onto your knees. You take it all. Enjoying every orgasm. Enjoying every touch.

As your energy fades, it is Simon that takes the final fuck, who brings you into his lap. His hands are firm on your ass, bouncing you up and down his shaft as the camera zooms in on it. You are lost in him—lost in the bliss that pulses throughout your body.

You are perfectly fucked.

Perfectly content.

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