Dear Simon

Dear Simon…

Simon is on leave his wife and four boys make him letters  and he reads them while away

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Simon, 

I hope you are taking care of yourself… I know you think you only need 30 minutes of sleep but I promise these extra 8 hours will do you some good. I'm going stir crazy without you here but i've gotten so much done to occupy the time when I’m not absolutely infatuated with you

You’ll be so proud of me! I finally cleaned under the stove and found that old football magnet you lost! Who knew the boys could shove that many fruit-loops under the fridge? And! While I was looking for more plain balaclavas for you I came across the cutest Bluey jumper for Laurie- next letter I send I’ll give you a polaroid of him wearing it. 

I know you’d say something like “good job, pet” 

God I miss you  and so do the boys ; Carney keeps telling his friend ‘daddy is a superhero’ and Tommy has started to do that baby gurgling- thing?? Don’t know if it’s his attempt at speech but it’s so cute! He’s finally growing a face- looks just like you. Kinda eerie, honestly …

Please be safe, you know how I worry. 

hugs and kisses

Three months is starting to feel like three years. This must be how you felt when I was in Urzikstan with Farrah and Alex…and then back in Urzikstan with Price, Gaz, and Laswell… god that feels like ages ago! You remember meeting up in Las Almas and all that sand came out of my hijab?? God - what I wouldn't do to see Farrah and Alex again. When you come home we should contact that- I'm sure Price knows how to. 

Anyway! Seymour and Carney are at each other's throats again- yesterday morning your son took your painting supplies and dumped it all over his little brother's bed? Made him clean it up and apologize but I just don't know what else to do. I try talking to Seymour but you know him, he's so… he doesn't like to talk he just gets so angry. He reminds me of Tommy…

I love you, please come home

(p.s. Here's the jumper I told you about)

I’m worried about Seymour. He hit Carney today…I'm not sure what to do and I really need you home. Please send back, I'm worried about you. Six months? What could Price possibly need for 6 months?

I love you, dovie 

(p.s. Don't forget to cut your hair. We don't need a repeat of last time)

Hey dad…Mum wants me to write to you I guess. Don't really see the point. Mum says you're back in Las Almas which is cool, I guess. Is Mexico like in the movies or is that all fake stuff? Uncle Gaz gave me one of those coin things - peso? Maybe he'll bring me back another, can you ask him for me?

Mum says I need to talk to you about my anger? I dont think I'm angry, I just think… well everyone is annoying, yeah? Like Tommy is a baby and can't do much of anything. Laurie is attached to mum's hip and never leaves her. Carney is dumb and won't leave me alone. He always wants to hang out and it's embarrassing! I've asked mum to tell him to stop but she won't. And you can't do anything since you're away with work so now i'm stuck with three annoying little brothers. 

I didn't even want siblings. 

You should come home, she wont stop cleaning. The whole house smells like bleach. Eight months is longer than usual, last time you were this late Mum nearly had a cow

You should come home now. 

Bye, Seymour

(p.s. Mum tried cutting my hair, looks just as bad as when you do it)

I signed him up for rugby this year, maybe it will even out his short fuse? I told the boys we might be able to call you this week but I think they all know I'm lying. Sometimes I worry they like you more. You're all they talk about- for good reason but still… is Seymour so angry because it's me home for once? Instead of you? God, I'm pathetic. 

I got your wedding resized like I  know youve been meaning to and I got ours both cleaned and shined- felt like the Queen afterwards!

Took Carney back to the ER- your son needs to be a sticker restriction because I refuse to let another doctor pull them from his nose!

Tommy is starting to make sounds and he almost looks like a full person- though he's still got that newborn old man face. 

Lauire and I redid the garden and I managed to save our snow peas from dying like last year!

The roof leaked again. The boys helped me fix it just the way you showed us! And we cleaned the gutters- see i told you i'd do okay if an apocalypse hit!

Anyways, I love you, Wish me luck at rugby practice

(p.s. He's so cute in his jersey)

Dad! You should have been at my match! I scored twice and got the winning point! You’d be like the other boys' dads yelling and getting crazy on the sidelines! Mum even got into it with Will Greysonns mum! Should’ve seen the way she got right in her face. Don't know what it was about - something about a foul ?? Who cares, we won!

You have to be there for our next game cause we are playing against Will’s team and I'm worried mummy might really fight that lady!

I passed years classes and some of my teammates are in my classes this year- Mum thinks I'm gonna get popular or something? (i'm already cool duh)

Our next match is in two weeks, please come home.

Seymour

They won

We need you Home.

Love You

Hello my darling,

We are missing you more than ever. The boys are going stir crazy without daddy and now I’m positive they like you more! Seymour is begging me to send you videos of his matches but I wouldn't want to risk anything so you’ll just have to see him in action when you get back. 

We love you! 

Below the final letter is a crude signature from each of his boys with a small finger paint hand of Tommy. 

Simon quietly folds the well-loved and well-worn notes into familiar creases and places it in his breast pocket. A deep sigh rattled his bones, causing an elderly creak to shift up his torso and into his exhausted back. The young father sighs, a bout of guilt creeping up his neck, welcoming demons of shame leaves reddened footprints- hives finding their way above layers of eye black and purple eye bags that have rented space on his face this last year. 

“Ghost? Price is ready.” Gaz speaks, popping his head in for just a moment before quickly turning and shooting down the hall, yelling for Soap. The two sergeants bumble down the nearly empty hall, knocking into walls as they playfully shove each other. Their laughter echoes until it slithers beneath heavy, military-grade doors and brings Simon to reality. They'd all had cabin fever, never being away for longer than a couple months- but a full year? Hulled up in Las Almas was wearing on the whole team- even Los Vaqueros. 

Simon stands, stretching out sandy bones, reactivating joints, and resetting his shoulder that hasn't been able to stay in place since they'd been hijacked on the way out of the city. 

“LT!” Soap yells, “Evac!”

Simon nods, mostly to himself. The soldier groans, popping his back and gently patting the notes tucked into his vest packet. With heavy feet and a warm tint to his cheeks and ears, Simon follows the rest of 141 to their helicopter, mind cleared and heart full.

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MY REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Brain went brrrrrrrr

Price and the new 141 member getting into an argument. Price is all like if you don't behave ill take you over my knee girl.

She's all like I fucking dare you or you'll have to catch me first or even you don't have the balls.

🫠🫠

i’ve always wanted someone who was super by the book to clash with John “i routinely tell my superiors i’m going to maim/murder/hang them” Price. this gave me the perfect opportunity to do so. 

noncon spanking. abuse of authority. power imbalance. size kink. mean, dom!Price. forced submission.

You have this way of getting under his skin. 

An impossible itch. No matter how many times he picks and prods at his flesh, you worm beneath the dermis, burrowing deep. Sitting pretty against his goddamn bones. Festering. 

Incurable. 

He turns to vice to stem the irritation. Cigars. Whiskey. His hand shoved down his trousers like he's a fuckin' boy and not a man on the wrong side of forty. 

Thinking of you—of breaking that smart mouth of yours on his cock. 

It's the way you saunter around with your head held high, balancing golden eggs on your crown, that irks him something awful. The patronising drawl when you huffily remind him that what he's doing is breaking seven, no, ten, different laws, Price. You can't just do whatever you want, there are rules—

And that's the crux of it. 

A difference of ideas. Experience. You still see the world in shades of black and white. Good and bad. Unwilling to acknowledge that the line between is saturated and blurred. A putrid muck that traps all. Bogish. 

He knew it was a mistake when they sent him your file, asked if he needed the additional help. Hostage negotiator. He's heard of you. By the fucking book. You recite passages like it's gospel, turning printed words into a knife. A terrible fit for a team that works in the pivotal no man's land you claim doesn't exist. 

Yet—

He takes you on. Brings you in. Buries his anger at your fucking gall deep in his chest where it rots. Grows. Swallows down the rage, apoplectic fury, when you undermine him at every opportunity, citing laws and regulations like it's a fucking prayer. 

A calamitous decision, he knows. Terrible. But—

Despite it all, you're good at what you do. Brilliant. A budding rose germinating in fecund soil. You'll grow into something wild, won't you? Something untamed. 

Under his hands, you'll bloom the prettiest. He knows this deep in his bones. But—

“You're breaking the rules, Captain—”

—pedantic little thing, aren't you? 

Obediently following the wrong master. 

It irks him. He's been known to step on the toes of his superior officers for less, caustic words hissing foul from between his teeth. 

But unlike them, you're worth something. Even as the moral antithesis to his utilitarian dogma, he sees your potential. How you can shape this world dangling on a brittle thread if you lay down your senseless principles and follow him. Listen to him. 

But of course, you don't. 

And he supposes he ought to have known better. It's dripping gasoline over an open flame. The sequence of events is easily premeditated, seen, when you refuse to listen to what he says (“it's against the law, Price!”), walking away from him, his team, the mission, and take matters into your own, morally righteous hands. Bringing his underhanded methods to the desk of your superior officer, demanding he be investigated for crimes. The result is a loose warning from someone in a suit several sizes too big for them, and your fury when he pulls you back, has you assigned to another mission with the 141, with himself. Preens at your glower when you march back into his office, into his hands. 

In the fallout, he has no one to blame but himself, really. Anyone could have seen this coming. But the thing about shirking his morality in favour of a better outcome—above all else—is that he doesn't have to. 

And so, he doesn't. 

No. He blames you. 

(How perfect for him, then, that there's no one on base except you and him.)

“If you think I'm not going to report you again if you do something illegal, Price, you're wrong.”

He scoffs, shaking his head at your fucking audacity. 

"Better watch that mouth of yours, Sergeant, or you won't like what happens next." 

His palm itches when you look up, offering him a slow, feline blink. Leonine eyes creasing at the corners. 

"And what is that, sir? I'm just doing my job—" it's whispered breathlessly, all faux professionalism even as jest leaks down your brow. They pinch, then. Drawing together in a mockery of confusion. "Isn't that what you wanted me to do?" 

"What is that, mm?" He mocks, arms folding over his chest. He has to breathe through his nose for a moment. Gather himself together before he does something reckless, something like— 

It's the defiant little jut of your chin that does him in. That unravels this fraying knot of control until threads slip through his fingers. Falling too fast for him to clench down on them. 

He's threatened his superiors for far less. His kin, teammates. You have no one to blame but yourself for this, really. No one at all when he pulls his hand from where it's tucked under his armpit, curling rough, worn fingers around your wrist. Pulls you close, wrenching you into his chest until your nose bumps the buckle of his vest. 

"'m'gonna take you over my fuckin' knee, is what's going to happen." 

Your swallow is a gunshot. “You—you wouldn't dare—”

He leans in close, closer still. Breath scorching over your cheek. Preening when you bare your little teeth at him. “Wanna bet on that, Sergeant?” 

It's easier than he would have expected to wrangle you over his knee, pinning you down with an arm across your lower back. The height of his chair keeps your front bent, belly pressed against his thigh. Ass seated perfectly in his lap. Precious gem. 

He hums low in his throat, teeth sinking into the butt of his cigar as he locks you tight against him. Grabbing your wrist, twisting it up behind your back. Holding steady. A warning. 

The dangerous twinge in your bone stills you. 

One wrong move and he'd snap it in half. 

This has you taking a different approach, legs falling limp over the armrest. Head dropping over the other side. Malleable in his grasp—however artificial it is.

“Price—” you breathe, winded. Panic on a spindle. “What are you—what do you think you're doing—?”

He hums, mouth tense around the cigar. Words muffled, slurred. “What I should have done a long time ago.” 

“What—hey!”

Your words pepper off into a choked scream when his other hand falls to the hem of your pants, grabbing the fabric in his fist. The shock fades into indignation. Anger. He tastes it in the air as your hips squirm, legs kicking at nothing. Furious little growls spilling from your lips as you thrash, unconcerned by the ache in your bone. 

“Better keep still, love,” he taunts, mouth curling over his teeth as he twists his hand high, higher, up the small of your back until your fingers brush the skin between your shoulder blades. Any more and he'll break it—

“I'm going to fucking—!” It ends on a whine. A whimper. The pain makes you shiver. “Fuck, fuck—stop, stop, ow, stop—!”

“Not a fan of a little pain then, mm?” 

Your breath is ragged. Paints the air in a fine mist of defeat. He has you. The only option out of this is breaking your bone, a threshold no one is willing to cross. 

Price purses his lips back around the cigar, inhaling once, thrice, before he slips his fingers out of the hem of your trousers, reaching up to take hold of the cigar. It's all so matter-of-fact. So nonchalant when he places it in the ashtray. When he brings his heavy, warm hand back to your ass, curling his fingers beneath the fabric. Pulling. Tugging. 

They come off easier than he'd expected. A harsh tug, and the cleft of your ass is revealed. Plush skin curving enticingly as he rips them down to mid-thigh—panties and all. 

The shock fades back into indignation. You hiss something foul under your breath that makes him huff out a chuckle. 

“Not really in the position for that, are you, love?” 

“Shut up—”

He likes the way you sound like this. Feral. Furious. There's ash in your throat. It blots soot around each word, giving them weight. Gone is the woman who barged into his office, sniffing like you smelled something foul. Backing him into a corner. Sputtering in his face about rules. Regulation. 

Now you're bare-assed, panting, in his lap. Small little fawn in the maw of a bear. But oh, do you fight back—

Teeth bared, indignation bleeding into embarrassment, blotting pink in the whites of your eyes.

The sight is hewn into his hindbrain. 

“Look at you,” he purrs, petting your cheeks. “Been beggin’ to be bent over my knee since you got here, haven't you?” 

“Begging? Don't be—ahh!”

He brings his hand down with a small huff, eyes glued to your flesh. Watching it shake under his hand. The width of one swallowing up an entire cheek. So big is he that you're nearly made infinitesimal in his clutch. The thought makes him groan.

You squirm more in shock than discomfort. Head craning over your shoulder, eyes misting over with tears. Glaring at him. 

“What the fuck, Price!”

He strokes your skin, feeling the heat of your flesh bleed through his palm. Resilient little thing, aren't you? He huffs again, blood buzzing. Electric. There's a kindling fire in his guts. Embers sparking, catching. 

He can't deny how badly he's been wanting to have you like this. Craving your tears, your agony, your submission.

“Count,” he barks out, rough. Abrasive. “You're getting ten. Count ‘em for me, and if you miss one, I'm adding two more.”

“You're crazy, you're—!”

His hand comes down again. The impact shakes the fat of your ass. The strike makes you yowl, thrashing to get away. You don't get very far, still trapped in his hold. The threat of a broken bone keeps you from lashing out too wildly, and all you can really do is sit in his lap, and take it—

The notion has him groaning low in his throat. Something wicked spooling in his veins. Wanting. The sight of you heaving, bare-assed, and begging for mercy unleashes something inside of him. Something primal. Starving. 

Price takes a breath to steady himself, head buzzing. Heart pounding. It feels like the euphoria of nicotine—all bliss, sedation. Ease. 

Cathartic. 

“I said count,” he rasps, words cinder in his chest. Smoke. Dragged up from that burning pyre in his belly. Nocuous, hungry. “That's an order, Sergeant.” 

His hand is scorching against your skin. Thoughts turning over themselves as you hiccup in his lap. So pretty, he thinks, eyes flitting over to you. Taking in the sight of your shock, your denial. It tastes like fine wine on his tongue. Heady. 

“Here comes one—”

“One?”

“I told you, didn't I?” His nail rakes across your skin, cruel. Mean. Something preens when you gasp. Your pain perfuming the air. “M’addin’ two more if you don't count. Thought your speciality was listenin’?”

You scowl, twisting back to level him with an awful sneer. “Oh, fuck you—!”

His hand comes down again, harder this time. Vicious. The scream is tangled in your throat, gagged. He feels pleasure—dark and ugly—bloom in his chest, dripping, liquid, down the length of his spine. The twist of agony on your face is beatific. 

“Not gonna count?” He taunts, pinching your inflamed flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “We're gonna be here all day at this rate, love.”

He leans down, broad chest curling over the small of your back, hand cupped possessively over your cheeks. “But maybe you want that, mm? Maybe all this, mhm, insubordination has just been for show. You wanted this. Wanted to be taken over my knee—”

“You're wrong. I haven't—” it tapers off into a squeak when he pinches your flesh again. 

Price pulls back, breathes shallowly through his nose. 

“You and that smart fuckin' mouth. Told you it was gonna get you in trouble—”

He doesn't wait. His hand rears, and comes down with a loud smack that echoes in the sparse office he has you trapped inside. Your howl races alongside it, curling up the walls. Beautiful in all its agony. 

“Christ—” it's a dagger to his resolve. You sound so fucking good howling like this. Oscillating between feral anger and pain, hissing vitriol between clenched teeth. Choking on sobs. 

The first few are experimental. Testing the waters. Feeling. You're combative during it all. Fighting. Screaming. Each strike is uncounted, echoed only with a plea for help. One he knows won't come—

The only person on base is his Lieutenant. Ghost knows better than to barge in on his affairs. 

“No one's comin’, love,” he grunts, sweat beading along his hairline, dripping down his temple. The room heats along with the blood in his veins, stifling and oppressive. He reinforces each hit with more strength, increasing the tempo until you're screaming on his lap, begging for mercy, mercy, please, please, Price stop, stop—

Your skin raises with each new strike. Swelling. Becoming inflamed. The perfect imprint of his handprint sits on each cheek, edges intumescent. The globes shake, shuddering deliciously under each hit. 

He gets to eleven before you break. Tears streaming down your face, voice a threadbare whisper. Hoarse from screaming. 

His hand rains down, slaps your left cheek so hard it stings his hand. Burns. You whimper. Mewling. Squirming on his lap, and then—

“O–one—”

He grunts, feels himself thicken in his trousers. “Good girl.” 

You shudder, body breaking out in goosebumps. “Price—”

“Ah, ah, love. You're not allowed to speak unless you're counting.”

He hits you again, cock throbbing when you tense up, sniffling. Grinding out a soft two between trembling lips. 

You don't break the way he wants you to. There's a glare on your face despite the tears, the sniffles. A defiance that burns over the bridge of your nose. 

But that's fine. He has eight more strikes to ruin you, doesn't he? 

He sets to it with a low moan, your pelvis pressing taut to his tumid cock, the friction raging in his guts. 

But that, he finds, isn't really the point. No. The pleasure, the arousal, is secondary to the way you fall to pieces at his hand. Flesh stinging his palm with each loud smack that rings out sharply in the room. Uneven breaths. Shuddering little ah-ah-ahs that tumble out through clenched teeth. 

It's addictive, this. Therapeutic. 

There's static in his head. White noise. It renders everything else mute. Moot. Molasses drips down, thick and entrenching, congealing over every churning thought in the back of his head. There's a sense of peace, ease, he hasn't felt in years. In decades. 

He feels his belly knot each time your ass jiggles, skin bulging up from the trauma of being hit so harshly. Chafed under his palm. Welts forming in the shape of his hand. A tattoo you'll have for weeks when he's through with you. Aching each time you try to sit. And fuck—

You'll think of him. Of this. Being taken over his goddamn knee like the bad fucking girl you are. Broken in over his lap. Helpless. Submissive. 

The whimpers fade, replaced with shallow hiccups. Your throat is torn. Raw, ruined, by your screams, yowls. Each rasping whine sends jolts of pleasure down his spine. Liquid want molten in his marrow. 

“S–seven, nngh—”

The moan slips out—scorched, bleached—and drills deep into his loins. 

He peels his gaze away from your blistered skin, glancing at your face, but you duck from his view. Hide. Dropping your head over the armrest. Evading him. 

It's new, this. This meekness. 

You were so combative, so feral before. His gaze rakes down the expanse of your spine, over the curve of your cheeks, before settling, hot and heavy, at the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis. You squirm in his lap, thighs sliding together. Rubbing. It's no different from before when he'd spank you, but—

He catches it. 

It glints in the soft light when you move, and he feels something dark, ruinous, curl in the tar-stained fibrils of his chest. Congealing in the crevasses. Hardening. 

Price flicks his tongue out, swiping over his lower lip. The bristles of his beard graze the soft flesh, prickling across it. His throat is suddenly dry. Parched. 

His hand comes down again, notably softer than the other hits he subjected you to. Almost—

Tender. 

This isn't meant to hurt. Not this one. 

He strokes his finger over your skin, cock throbbing with the rasping gasp that spills—a twisted amalgamation of pain, skin still smarting, burning to the touch, and—

His lashes flutter. Nostrils flaring. 

Your slick, wet, between your inner thighs. 

He slides his hand down, down, until your ass cheek is cupped in the bracket of his thumb and forefinger. Nestled tight. A perfect fit. The sight of your skin—soft, so soft—against his bearish, hirsute paw is sickeningly addictive. He grunts, pressing his thumb into the crease between your cheek and thigh. 

“P–Price—”

And then he pulls, moaning deep in his chest as he peels the fat of your ass away, unveiling your cunt to his rapacious gaze. Fuck—

“What’s this?” He taunts, breathless. Pinched. You squirm, trying to press your thighs together. Hiding your pussy from his scorching stare. He doesn't let you. “Gettin’ off on me spankin’ your arse?” 

“N–no, I'm—”

He pushes his thumb up, sliding it over your skin. Gathers your slick on the tip. “Don't lie to me, mm. You're fuckin' soaked.”

The air is punched from his lungs. Spills out in a wretched grunt. In the vacuum, something grows. Knots. Festering inside his chest. Animalistic. Primal. There's an itch in the back of his head. 

He lets go of your arm, knows you won't run. Won't try to escape. No. 

You're a good girl, aren't you? One who does what they're told. Follows orders. It tangles in the soporific slurry of his head, pitching a bivouac of need when you bring your arm down, curling it through the gap of the armrest, holding tight. 

Bracing yourself. 

His hum breaks in his throat. He drags his hand away from your cunt, reaching for the snuffed cigar idling in the ashtray. There's a fever in his veins. It makes his hand tremble. Shake. He needs the blunted drag of nicotine to quench this heady anticipation blooming in his guts. A brumous storm gyring inside him, an incipient maelstrom of want thickening. Intensifying. Threatening to spill over. 

He needs something to steady himself before he tears into you like a beast—

You cock your head over your shoulder, staring at him with eyes drenched in midnight ink. There's a flicker across your tear-stained expression. Something coy. Feline. Leonine. 

There's nothing said. Nothing needs to be. He finds what he's looking for in the fracture of your mien, and scoffs under his breath at your sheer gall. Little fuckin' minx. 

Tobacco proves to be a paltry facsimile when he draws in a bursting mouthful. The restive glow of it dulled under the adrenaline coursing through his veins, heady. Syrupy. A roaring deluge of anticipation broiling in the balmy air, crackling around him like a storm cresting over the horizon. Ozone saturates in the thickening atmosphere. 

Something will break. Shatter. 

He tenses, waiting for the first stormcloud to breach, and drops his hand back to your tender ass. Stroking over the raised welts just to make you gasp. Your hips flex under the shocks of pain riveting down your spine, undulating in his lap. Pitched perfectly over his cock. 

His breath shudders through a needlepoint. The friction is electric. 

In petty retaliation—and just to see you squirm—he trails his knuckles over your heated skin, luxuriating in the way you shiver. Head falling back down over the armrest, beautifully alluring in your vulpine submission. His fingers dip between the cleft of your cheeks, feeling the slickness sticking to your soft, sensitive skin. Soaked between your thighs. Wretched girl. 

His index and middle finger slide over your slit, parting your folds. He feels the small pulses of your drenched hole against his flesh when he slides over it with the press of his fingers. Eager little thing.  

He hums under his breath at the sight of his hand seated across your hand, fingers shoved between the globes of your smarting ass. Soft and tender to worn and gnarled. The cropping of dark hair over his knuckles, his hand, against your bare skin is obscene. The picture of sin with your stricken flesh and his thick veins. The contrast curdled in the back of his head, morphing into something ugly and wanting. 

Idly, he thinks of making you bounce your sore ass on his lap later, your pussy swallowing up his fat cock. Taking it all the way to the root. Over and over again. Breaking you on it until you're begging for mercy, until this little attitude of yours is crushed between his teeth. 

Slick gathers against the rough pads of his fingers, drenching them. The hair on his knuckles is matted down, wet with your arousal. Naughty girl. He'll make you pay for that. 

And for the puddle seeping into his trousers. 

You mewl when he slips, sliding over your clit. The noise spilling molten over your lips, bludgeoning into his loins. 

He drags in another mouthful of smoke. Lets it rot between his teeth as he drops the cigar into the ashtray once more, attention riveting to the slip-slide of your slick thighs rubbing together for friction against your aching clit. Cunt pulsing needily against his hand. 

You haven't learned a damn thing at all, have you? 

Smoke funnels out of his nostrils when he growls. “Spoiled, aren't you? Need to be taught a lesson in respect.” 

“I, ah, am respectful, Captain—” 

He sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. This lippiness of yours grates on his nerves. He wants you begging for mercy, limp in his hold. Pretty doll. Waiting obediently for him to put you back together again. Soft and submissive at his heel. 

“Got three more to go, love.” You shiver when he strokes over your ass. Petting gently with wet, tacky fingers. “If you're a good girl and take it for me, I'll play with your pretty cunt, mm. You'd like that, wouldn't you?” 

Price brings his hand down, grunting when you moan out his name. Sharp and needy. Your plaintive posturing is a spark inside a tinderbox. 

“E–eight.” 

The next one is harder, sharper. The force twinges his joints. Rattles through his bone. 

It's unexpected, and the pain makes you yowl, body drawing tight like a bow. There's no pleasure when it's like that. No friction against your cunt. It's just—

“Price—!” You yelp, shrill and distressed. The lead up to this has been child's play. A soft hand to tender a nervous mare. 

His old man taught him to never strike with the whip first but to wean them slowly. 

He waits, humming mockingly to your pettering whimpers as you heave, tremulous, into the air. Shuddering in his grasp at the aftershocks of agony rippling through your body. 

Waits. Waits. And—

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, cooing low and condescending when you gasp, craning your neck to level him with an imploring, pleading stare as you stammer out a frenetic nine in a breathless rush. Tears soak your lashline, clumping them together when you blink through another deluge pooling against the rim. Your lip wobbles. The stream breaks, spilling over. Fresh tears run down your wet, sticky cheeks. 

There's real panic in the whites of your eyes now. That haughty, pedant gleam buried under pyretic desperation. Gone is the coy twist to your lips. The wily little bloom of amusement in your gaze. 

Aw, poor thing. But—

Too late. “You didn't count. You know what that means, love.” 

That knot in his chest unfurls, and leaks acid into his lungs. This want is corrosive. A poison. The sob breaks through your chest. The first thunderclap. He relishes in it. Leans back in his chair to bask in the potency of your unmaking. 

“Good girl,” he husks out, burning lungs spewing black smoke into the air. “Just ten more now, love. Know you can take it for me, can't you?”

Pretty thing. He'll have that haughty attitude snuffed out before the end of the night. Have you begging for his touch, his cock, him, before the sun draws across the horizon. 

Your ruination at his hand. The thought strokes along the kindling smouldering inside of his chest. Burning away at the pyre he's been building since the day he met you. When you looked up at him, pretty in your scorn, and disobeyed his command. Undermined him. So righteous in your fury. A burgeoning flame he wanted nothing more than to snuff out under his heel, and now—

Wide, wet eyes plead with him. “Please, Price. Please, please. I'll be good—I promise I'll be good, sir—”

—ash in the palm of his hand. 

He strokes over your searing flesh, humming softly under his breath. “I know you will, pretty girl—” basks in the hiccup of relief you let out, lets it glue in his ears, echoing over and over again. So sweet. 

He lets your relief live for a moment. Take its first breath of air through aching lungs—

“But I told you, didn't I? That I'd take you over my knee.” Price pats his hand over your cheek, shushing you when you startle, squirming on his lap. 

“Now. Be a good girl and count for me, mm?”

I want older bf!simon so bad Jesus CHRIST!!!

Cuddling with him and showing him funny tiktoks (having to explain the context of each one in painstaking detail) before he fucks me within an inch of my life

it’s beyond a joke at this point, i actually NEED him 🫶🏼

the end of the day is the best with older bf!simon when you’re both in bed. he’s sat back against the headboard and you’re cuddled into his chest.

his hand is against your back, rubbing gently along your spine. your hand is against his stomach, resting on the bare skin as your scroll through your phone.

tiktok time, simon’s limited exposure to social media.

“so he’s singing in chinese because he doesn’t want to apologise to his girlfriend-“

“is that actually him singing?”

“well no, he’s lip syncing it’s just-“

“so he can’t actually sing in chinese? needs’ta ‘pologise to his-“

“ok next one, si”

it goes on like this, you explaining every single trend and every single meme to this man that views the internet like he was born yesterday.

“so it’s framing it like a competition about being cheated on-“

“terrible competition”

“yeah i know but it’s a joke, and khloe kardashian is there-“

“who’s that? the blue guy?”

“no, my love, thats squidward-“

and in the end you naturally end up on the nighttime side of tiktok and you’re getting one that says something stupid like “ladies try flashing your man when he’s had a long day” or whatever.

suddenly he understands tiktok like he might as well have invented it.

“y’dont do that for me”

your looking up at him under a quirked brow as you shrug, “let me know the next time you have a long day and i will”

you can feel his hand start creeping around under your shirt and you’re trying to hide the smile thats forming on your face as you lock your phone.

“had a long day, sweet’art”

summary: alex is your friends-with-benefits, and it’s your cousin's wedding, and you need a date.. (this whole plot was made just so he could eat box)

pairing: alex keller x f!reader

a/n: alex keller is a certified munch and i stand by that. also this wasn’t even supposed to be a whole fleshed out fic, just a little thought buttttt unfortunately i can’t summarize… also the jason todd fic is coming but it is also unfortunate that i’m lazy:) IT WILL COME THOUGH (also i am trying to get through my asks so don’t worry bbs IM GETTING TO WORK) enjoy alex being nasty;) ALSO NEED MORE ALEX APPRECIATION HE'S SO HOT

word count: 2.7k+

wanna be on my taglist ? fill out this form !

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Backyard Barbecue

"Please.." You beg Alex as you sit up in his bed, naked, with his fluffy comforter covering you. He sits on the edge, carefully putting his boot on, with his abdomen bare.

"You know I wouldn't ask you if I wasn't  desperate." You enunciate the last word. He turns to face you. "Desperate. Huh?" He raises a brow and turns back down to lace up his boot.

"Yes." You sigh. "My cousin is younger than me, and she's already getting married." You bring your knees up, so you can rest your head on them. "My aunts are always nagging me about when I'm gonna finally get a boyfriend." You huff out.

"Look, I feel for you—I really do—but they're going to know I'm not your boyfriend," he said, bending up and turning towards you.

"Don't make that face at me." He says, noticing your big puppy-dog eyes and deep frown. "What face?" You murmur, obviously lying.

"You know the face." He leans down to pick up a white shirt and slips it on. You silently curse and crawl your way across the bed to him with the whole comforter wrapped around you.

You rest your chin on his shoulder. "Please.." You purr as you press a kiss to his clothed shoulder.

"Uh-uh." He tuts. "What?" You question as you kiss your way up his neck and gently nibble at his ear. "I'm not-fuck-I'm not falling for that." He protests but makes no real effort to move away.

"Please.." You say again, this time whispering it directly in his ear. He could feel your hot breath, full of need. "Go with me." You leaned more on him, slowly dropping the blanket encasing your naked body so he could feel your nipples graze his shoulder as you leaned to look him in the eye.

He turned to look down at you, now at his eye level. "I'll make it worth your while." You grin, threading your fingers through his hair, gently tugging on the roots.

"Are you trying to barter sex?" He groaned out, a smirk playing on his lips. "Maybe." You play with the hem of the joggers he had on, slipping a finger beneath the waistband.

"God, you're gonna be the death of me." He huffed, roughly gripping your waist and pulling you onto him so you were straddling his lap. You could feel the fabric from his shirt rub against your bare nipples and the fabric from his joggers rub against your cunt.

He gripped you tighter, dragging his hand from your waist to grip your ass. "Uh-uh." You say, gripping his hand on your ass and moving it away. "You don't get to touch if you don't go." You use your hand to tug at his hair again.

"Fuck, fine." He gritts, bringing both hands to grip your ass. 

"Yay! Thank you." You exclaim, sliding off of him.

"Seriously." He huffs as you wonder to pick up your dress and bra off the floor, as you laugh at him. He doesn't stay sour for long as he notices the way your bare ass swings as you pick up your clothes.

"Jesus Christ, sweetheart." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. You pop back up and look at him. "Bad boy." You laugh out. "Quit looking at my ass, and get yours dressed."

"Why?" He sighed as he laid back on the bed. "Because we have to leave in thirty minutes." You casually said as you slipped your dress back on.

"It's today?" He twisted his head to face you, his voice carrying a lethal tone. "Surprise. Get dressed." You harp as you swipe some lipstick over your swollen lips. "God damn it." He grumbled as he begrudgingly got off the bed to head into the bathroom.

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The ride to your cousins felt exhausting and long because Alex kept whining the whole time. Though, you didn't take his complaints too seriously because his hand rested on your thigh the entire drive.

You looked out the window to see the white, bricked, picked-fenced house—the house you had spent so many summers at. 

"We're here!" You chimed as you scooted closer to him to pull up the neck of the tie he pulled down as soon as you put it on him. 

"Was the tie really necessary?" He tilted his head, raising his hand to push a strand of hair away from your face. "I want you to make a good first impression." You gently pat him on the chest. 

"Let's go." You beamed.

You both made your way to the front door, which swung open without you even knocking on it.

"You made it!" Your cousin chimed, bringing you in for a tight hug. She made quick notice of the hunk of a man behind you. "You must be the boyfriend?" She asked, shamelessly looking him up and down.

"Yes, ma'am." He politely said, sticking his hand out.

"Oh, please. We're family!" She quickly brought him in for a hug, and he gave you a "help save me look" and you let out a quiet laugh. She let go. "Well, come on in! Your dad's inside." She stepped aside so you could both come in, but she gently grabbed your wrist and gave you a wink and a thumbs up.

"Nice catch." She whispered, referring to Alex. You let out a little laugh, covering your mouth. She led you both to the kitchen, where the rest of your family was. Alex noticed a familiar man leaning against the counter. He made his way over to him.

"Keller, what the hell are you doing here?" Captain Price questioned as he took a sip of his whiskey.

"I could ask you the same, Captain." He laughed out.

"Well, I'm-" Price begins.

"Dad!" You chimed, making your way over to Price and hugging him tightly. Alex's eyes widened. "Wha- Dad?" You pull away and tug on Alex's arm, so you're side-by-side. "Dad, this is my boyfriend, Alex." You beam as you thread your fingers through his.

"Boyfriend?" Price questions as his eyes dart to Alex's.

"Maybe boyfriend is a... strong word," Alex says, nervously scratching the back of his neck. "We've been dating for five months." You inform your dad, smiling.

"Is that right?" Price's eyes are still on Alex as he slowly sips his drink.

"Yes," you say as you turn to see your cousin struggling to bring in some fruit trays through the front door. "Sorry, let me go help her. Stay here." You say to Alex. His eyes widen, and he tries to grip your hand, but you are already off to the door.

"Keller." Price starts, as Alex turns back towards him. "What the hell are you doing with my daughter?" He gently places his whiskey glass down.

"Look, I didn't even know you had a daughter. You think I would have started dating her if I knew she was yours?" He counters. 

"I would hope not." Price cooly says as he crosses his arms. He notices Alex's pleading expression and decides to cut a little slack—just a little, though.

"Look, I know you're a good guy, and hell, she looks smitten. But that's my baby." Price gestures to her over by the door.

He continues. "If you do anything to hurt her, Keller, I'll-" 

"You'll kill me?" Alex interrupts, causing Price to let out a low chuckle.

"Christ, no. She would never speak to me again." Price leans a little closer to Alex. "But, I do know some guys who would if I asked." He's quick to step away from Alex and chuckle as he sees you approaching. He gives Alex a nod, and he puts on a fake laugh.

"Sounds like you two are getting along." You smile, grabbing Alex's hand. "We're going to go grab some food. You want anything, dad?"

"No, no. Your aunt already made me eat three plates." He pats his bloated stomach. You let out a laugh and drag Alex outside the back door to the burger station.

You assemble your burgers, carefully adding an array of veggies and a slice of cheese. As he puts ketchup on his bun, you turn towards him.

"Are you having fun?" You question shyly. 

"Why're you actin' all shy, sweetheart?"

"Well, you know." He raises a brow. "Because we aren't really da—" You are interrupted by a hand gently moving you aside. "Excuse me," the voice says. "Oh, sorry—Jack!" You smile, raising your arms to bring him in for a hug.

"I was wondering how long it would take ya," Jack said, encasing your body in a hug. It felt strange seeing him after all these years. You never dated, but your parents always joked that you two would get married.

You pulled away and looked at Alex, whose eyes were narrowed and his body visibly stiff. "This is my boyfriend, Alex." You grabbed his hand.

"Boyfriend?" Jack questioned, his eyes drifting to where your hands were connected. 

"That's right. Boyfriend." Alex confirmed, enunciating the last word.

You looked at him and made a confused expression but turned back to Jack. "So, are you having a good time?" You took Alex's cup of iced tea in his hand and sipped some. 

"I'm... ya." Jack's gaze slowly fell to the dip in between your breasts. 

"Eyes up," Alex commands, bringing his hand to rest on the small of your back. Jack immediately raises his eyes to meet Alex's as his face reddens at getting caught. "Sorry. I should. I... okay." Jack steps away from both of you, forgetting his plate with his burger on it on the table.

You turn to Alex with your hands on your hips. "What was that?" You question. "I don't know. Maybe he was busy?" He picks up his burger and takes a bite, playing dumb.

"You know that's not what I'm talking about, Keller." You continue. "I'm talking about you getting all jealous." He swallows. "Me. Jealous. When?" Widening his mouth at the accusation. 

"You so were. Oh my God!" You say, lightly hitting his bicep.

"I wasn't jealous. He was being weird." He explains. 

He pauses for a moment, trying to ease out his next words. "Have you two had sex?"

"What?" You laugh out. "No, Alex, we have not had sex." You grab a napkin off the table. "But, we've... done other stuff."

"Other stuff?" He shifts on his feet. "What other stuff?"

"Like you know.." You trail off.

"No, I don't know." He tilts his head, feeling his body tighten. "Go on." He pushes.

"I can't believe you're making me say it." You look down at the ground briefly. "Fine. Like oral or whatever," You continue before he can speak. "Well, he didn't like going down on me. It was mostly me going down on him."

"You're fucking serious?" He put his burger down on his plate. You nodded, taking another sip of his tea.

"I'm glad you like to though." You smile, drinking more tea. You tilt your head a little, a puzzled expression taking over your face. "You like to, right?"

He laughs. "You don't think I like to?"

"I don't know.." You tug on your bottom lip with your teeth.

He takes another bite of the burger, scanning your needy face and puffy lip tucked between your teeth.

"Where's the bathroom?" He roughly asks after swallowing. You weren't picking up what he was putting down. "It's... ah... to the right of the front door, then your turn to the left."

"Care to help me?" He asks, setting his burger down. He then grabs his tea from your hand and sets it next to his plate.

"Oh.. sure." You smile as you grab his hand and direct him inside.

It was nice everyone had moved outside, so now you and Alex didn't have to worry about anyone hearing you two.

You stepped into the bathroom first, and Alex followed suit, locking the door as soon as he stepped in. He was quick to connect his lips to yours. His hand wandered down your body, stopping just above your ass.

You begin to sink to your knees, but Alex quickly pulls you up and places you on the edge of the sink.

"You don't want me to?" You skeptically question, shifting on the cool porcelain of the sink.

"I only want to taste you." He sinks to his knees and pools up the fabric of your dress so it's gathered around your waist. You eye him and bring your hand to thread through his light hair. 

He places hot, open kisses on your lower thigh, slightly nipping at your skin, causing you to squirm. He continued moving up your thigh, painfully slow. You could feel his facial hair graze you, sending goosebumps across your skin.

"Can you.. can you just.." You threw your head back as he made contact with your upper thigh, grazing your cunt. 

"What was that?" He said, a smirk playing on his lip.

"Can you just.." You tried to gently scoot his head closer to where you ached.

"Talk to me. What do you need?" He gruffly said against your thigh.

"Fuck. I need your tongue." He let out a rough laugh that vibrated throughout your entire body. He leaned in closer and licked a small strip across the outside of your dripping cunt.

"Fuck." You moaned, tightening your grip on his hair.

His tongue was firm but not too firm. It felt just right against you. You craved more. No, you needed more. It was almost as if he read your mind because he slipped his tongue in you so it was grazing your clit.

You buck against his face at the contact. "I swear you're a mind-reader." 

"I know what you like." He gently licks your clit, making you cry out in pleasure.

"We gotta' be a little quiet, baby. You know I like to hear you, but I don't think your family would." He gruffed as he took your clit between in lips and sucked it slowly.

"Alex." You moaned out, leaning your head against the bathroom mirror. 

"Feel good?" He murmured against you as he licked your clit.

You quickly nodded.

"What was that?" He paused his actions, awaiting a response.

"Yes. So good." You whine out, trying to move him back.

"Good." He dipped his head back down and lightly licked your clit, then dragged his tongue along your inner lips, earning sweet moans from you. He moved back to your clit and drew soft circles on it. Once your legs began to shake, he knew you were close.

"I'm so-" You began, voice gravely.

"I know." He finished as he started to increase his pace. He kept it consistent as your moans became more frequent and your body pulsed.

He reached his arm up to gently caress your inner thigh, squeezing and kneading the fat of it, just how you like him to. You felt your stomach tighten, and the pleasure clouding your mind as your arousal covered his tongue.

He hadn't stopped his pace until he knew you were down from your high, standing up and letting you lean on him. 

You pulled back a little to look up at him. "I know you didn't want to come to this. But I'm really glad you did." You smile, gripping his arm.

"You're just saying that because I gave you an orgasm." He laughs, gently rubbing your cheek with his clean hand.

"No. I'm serious." You laugh. "I know you don't want to label this, but-"

"I want you to be my girlfriend." He says, tucking your hair behind your ear.

"Really?" Your eyes widened in surprise. "What changed?"

"Just came to my senses." He confessed. "And the thought of you with any other guy doesn't make me so happy." He smiled.

You smile back at him before your eyes widen again. "You'll have to meet my uncles. Don't worry, they're great." You say as you grip his shoulder to slip off the sink. 

"They work with my dad." You confirm as he fixes your dress.

"Oh, maybe I know them. What are their names?" He casually questions. 

"Simon, Johnny, and Kyle." Your eyes beam. "They're the best!"

"I'm so fucked." He sighs. 

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taglist: @artemis-b-writes @yuenity @sceletaflores @starsofang

Quiet Confidence || One Night Stand!Gaz

Rating: E Words: 2.7K~ Pairing: ONS!Gaz x ONS!F!Reader CW: smut, cunnilungus, protected sex (implied), piv (implied), nudity. tags: you/your pronouns, afab!reader, one night stand, reader and kyle are both confident, kyle garrick is a munch, morning after talks. a/n: the gifs used do NOT reflect the reader's skin tone of physical appearance. / the original poster of the gifs below is @unstablecryptid but I could *not* get the gif search bar to fucking show me the gifs of elliot knight.

In all the units he's been in, be it the Duke of Lancaster's Regiment, or when he joined the SAS, or when he was doing resistance to interrogation training with the Marines, or, now, in the 141, one thing's for certain: Gaz is the worst person to have as a wingman.

Not because he doesn't know what he's doing. No, Kyle absolutely knows what he's doing. The issue is precisely that. He's a handsome lad with a playful demeanor and natural charisma. He fails at getting his mates a girl because the girl ends up wanting him.

And so no one asks for his help any more... and he stopped offering too.

But that doesn't mean that he stopped trying to get girls for himself.

Price, Ghost, Soap and Gaz sit around a table in the corner of the packed pub, chatting amidst themselves.

It's become somewhat of a routine, before they all ship back home: they get together at a bar or pub, huddle around a table and each of them pays for a round of drinks before they part ways.

It's, in a way, a moment to decompress, unwind, and clear their heads, while also allowing them to be amidst civilians for a moment and 'turn off' the soldier mentality before they go home to see family (or whatever Ghost does).

It's always the same routine. Ghost pays the first round. Stops at the bar while the lads locate a table (or at least a wall to lean on), then marches back with four pints balanced perfectly on stiff arms. He's clinical, methodical. In, out. Goes to the bar, comes back.

Soap gets the next one. Goes to the bar, swaggering past the other patrons, shooting coy looks and little smirks at the women (and men) that catch his eye. Leans against the bar and takes his sweet. fucking. time. Spends longer chatting up the other people waiting for drinks and even the bartender than actually ordering and waiting. Then, he swaggers back. Sometimes empty-handed, sometimes with a number/username or two on his phone.

Price gets the next one. Just like Simon, he doesn't meander. He goes up to the bar, places his order, pays, and leans on his forearms while he waits. If he sees a pretty woman, he might side up to her and exchange a couple words. It rarely goes anywhere. But he doesn't seem to do it for the same reason Johnny (and Kyle) do. Mostly just to pass the time.

Kyle doesn't even put in effort at this point. And he's not even bragging when he says that. More often than not, when he's at the pub with his team, he's not there to look for a bird to spend the night with, he's there to say farewell before they go on leave. And yet, there's something about Kyle that makes women flock to him.

He finds himself being approached as he leans on the bar, eyes fluttering around the room, taking in the bottle and glasses on display behind the bartender, the patrons, the TV showing a football game high on the wall... And without fail a pretty woman will side up to him and try to make a move, give him her number...

Kyle would blame it on the fact he has a 'pretty face' as one of his ex-girlfriends would say, or maybe his shower routine, the fact he actually makes an effort to look and smell good, because it makes him feel good... But as one of his one night stands in the past year made a point to point out to him, he, allegedly, exudes a 'quiet confidence' about him.

Regardless of the cause, Kyle always returns to the table with hands overflowing with drink/pint glasses and his phone holding a handful of new numbers or instagram/snapchat handles... ones he does not plan on contacting.

-

You're sitting across the pub from the 4 men in the corner booth. They're in regular clothes but, from the way they sit and act, you can tell they're soldiers from the base a few kilometers away.

Your eyes keep finding their way to the pretty, dark skinned bloke that sits on the edge, his left side turned toward you, his lips pursed as him and his friends discuss whatever it is that soldiers do when they come to a pub. Probably sports.

"You know if you keep staring at him like that, you'll probably burn a hole through him." Your friend quips beside you, causing you to scoff and roll your eyes.

"And what do you suggest I do instead? Just walk up to that Adonis and go 'Hey, handsome, wanna get out of here?' in front of his mates?" You retort with a cocked brow.

"Yeah? You've done worse than that." She tells you. You go quiet again, your gaze returning to the handsome lad.

He sits with his back against the leather back of the booth, shifting his weight around on his ass and sliding down the seat a bit, legs spread apart, one foot kicked up and off the cover of the table, more so in the way, to potentially trip someone.

Your friend is right, of course, you've done worse than go up to a pretty man and ask him to go home with you. In fact, you've done much more nerve-wracking and anxiety-inducing things... But that bloke is easily one of the calmest and most confident ones you've seen in a while, not to mention he's not alone...

Pondering for a moment, you decide to just go for it. You finish the rest of your drink first and get up, walking over to his table, your mind already conjuring the perfect string of words to say in order to get him to come home with you. Hell, you don't normally have any trouble charming lads either.

You stop in front of the table and all four sets of eyes turn to look at him, one of them behind a balaclava, directly across from the man you want to speak to. You had nearly missed that one in the shadows of the pub.

Looking directly into the eyes of your target for the night, you feel the words you had kind of come up with escape you, as well as your last working neuron, and you find yourself feeling a bit flustered under his scrutinizing gaze.

He has the prettiest brown eyes you've ever seen, which stare up at you like a baby cow, eyebrows knit, wide and inviting and warm...

Taking a deep breath, you simply reach your hand forward, palm facing up and you wait, eyes locked on the beautiful man sitting on the booth before you.

His eyes flutter down to your hand and then back up at your face, an eyebrow scaling up in intrigue and confusion, but he lays his left hand atop yours, his warm, calloused palm against your own. No wedding ring. Good enough.

You nod at him and turn away again, pulling him along as you begin to step away from his table. The lad's head immediately shakes, looking around at you, and at his mates, in confusion, but he has no choice but to follow you.

He stands and shoots his friends a confused but amused look, smirking a bit at your mere audacity. You can hear one of them make some comment behind your back as you drag the pretty boy away, but you don't catch it between his thick accent and the music and chatter inside the pub.

-

You made it from the bar to your elevator and to your door in near complete silence, no small talk other than to exchange names and ask about protection, no hesitation.

Getting lowered onto your bed, Kyle's lips were mashed against yours, his arms caging you in, his long, nimble fingers gripping onto the back of your head and nape.

Your legs spread to either side of his hip, your feet plant themselves on the bed, your knees squeezing lightly around his hip over the fabric of his black boxer briefs.

Kyle ruts his clothed bulge against your core, humming under his breath, the sounds he makes dying against your lips.

Your hands slide down from around the back of his neck over his pecs and down his abs, feeling how hard and defined he is. "Mmmm..." You purred as your nails gently slid down his dark skin.

"You like my muscles, hm?" He murmurs after breaking the kiss, diving in to kiss down your jaw and neck, then over your collarbone and onto the swell of your breasts in your bra.

"Maybe." You reply, which causes a rumble of a laugh to escape him, his hands pulling you up and off the mattress so he can undo the back clasp of the bra, before slipping the straps off your shoulders, and throwing the garment aside.

"Maybe, eh?" Kyle teases and leans up close, his large hands cupping the flesh of your breasts, squeezing them them together while his thumbs glide over your pert nipples, rubbing them in circles.

"Mmmm... Maybe." You agree with a chuckle of your own, a hum of appreciation falling through your lips from his touch, at the same time as you grind your clothed cunt against the bulge in his underwear.

The man above you smirks at you, letting you continue to grind yourself against him, while his head dips down to catch one of your nipples between his lips, giving it a slow lick and a greedy suck, his fingers still squeezing the flesh of your tits around them.

After a moment of giving them some attention, his mouth glides down your stomach and over the mound of your pelvis, toward your pussy, his body leaving the bed and kneeling on the floor in front of it, his face lining up between your thighs.

His fingers run over your slit, the man purring at the feeling of the soaked patch you wore into the fabric, before hooking a finger around the side of the gusset, pulling the fabric aside.

Kyle's face leans up close and he wastes no time attaching his plump lips to your wet cunny, his tongue seeking out and finding your clit after letting go of your underwear and spreading your folds with his fingers.

His nose buries itself on your mons and your legs twitch slightly as he gives your clit the attention it deserves, licking and sucking the sensitive bud, pulling it behind his teeth with greedy sucks, the obscenely wet sounds of his sucking filling the room and making you, somehow, whine more than the actual feeling itself.

"K-Kyle-" You whine as your hand finds his head, your legs trembling on either side of him, twitching against either side of his head and squeezing against his ears, like you're desperate to close them.

Kyle's big brown eyes look up at you with a spark of mischief and he grabs both your thighs with his large hands, forcing them open again and holding them against the mattress, leaving you splayed on the bed as his tongue laps furiously at your clitoris.

"I know... I know..." He coos at you as you whine and tremble, your hip bucking a bit as you both seek more of his pleasure and less of it, feeling your climax rearing its head over the horizon as Kyle sends you barreling toward it with just the feeling of his tongue.

Then, his fingers join in, two of them, carefully plunging inside your leaking hole, moving slowly and deeply, curling up to find your G-spot, his lips once more making the most obscene of sucking sounds as he eats you out like a man starved.

You whine and your head falls back, your body thrashing atop your bed covers as you climax, leaking your juices over his long digits and pushing his head away from you, your clitoris overstimulated and feeling raw.

You struggle to catch your breath, feeling hot and covered in sweat, the man kneeling at the foot of your bed looking at you with his pretty brown eyes and a smirk on his lips.

"Don't look at me like that!" You complain, feeling flushed, both from embarrassment and from the recent climax.

"Like what, sweet thing?" He asks you, raising his brows and lifting himself off the floor, crawling back atop you, and settling his hip between your parted legs.

"All cocky and smug-like." You retort, hearing him chuckle again.

"Not smug at all, poppet." He tells you in earnest before leaning down and kissing you slowly again. "Just happy I made you feel good. You used to blokes who don't make you cum, hm?" He asks you.

"No, they make me cum." You reply, and, truly, you're saying the truth. But this feels different either way.

"Good, then," Kyle adds and smirks, rolling your hip and legs to the side, his fingers hooking over the edge of the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your thighs. "'cause I plan on making you cum on my cock next."

-

The next morning, you wake up past 11 a.m., bleary-eyed.

You rub your eyes, yawn and stretch along the bed, your arm hitting a warm and hard body beside you.

"Morning to you too, poppet." Kyle's voice murmurs from beside you, causing you to turn to look at him.

You lock eyes with his ass, first and foremost, your eyes widening for just a second.

Kyle's lying on his stomach, his elbows propping him halfway up on the pillow as he scrolls through his feed on some social media.

"Hi..." You murmur and chuckle softly. "You know, most lads would've left by now, hm?" You quip.

The man next to you hums and chuckles before shrugging. "Most lads aren't me." He says simply.

Looking toward you, you can't help but smile a bit at the sight of his warm eyes, shaking your head in amusement at his (over)confidence.

"Did you sleep well?" He asks you.

"Mhm... Like a baby." You nod and stretch your arms again. "What about you?" You return.

"Slept well, yeah..." He retorts. "Don't know why I asked, there's no way you could not, after the way I tired you out?" He teases and winks at you.

Scoffing, you roll your eyes. "Oh shut it..." You murmur, arching your back and stretching your spine out.

You're acting nonchalant about it, but the delicious soreness between your thighs and the sticky warmth of the sweat you shed last night speaks volumes. He's 100% right.

"I ordered you food," He says before rolling toward you and reaching over your body to the bedside table, retrieving a water bottle, still cold, meaning he went to get it from the fridge for you.

"Thanks." You murmur once he hands it to you. You open it and curl your head up to sip some water. "I've never had a bloke order me food the morning after." You quip.

"Well, I'm not an animal... I ate you out last night, only fair I feed you in return, hm?" He quips, causing you to scoff again and groan at the stupid comment.

Cheeky fucker, and the worst part is he knows how bad that was, and is still smirking down at you all smugly...

A notification from his phone makes him yelp softly and he rolls away, rising from the bed. "Food's downstairs." He announces.

Your eyes are drawn to the way he looks as he collects his clothes from the floor of your bedroom, tugging them on over his body, his cock, especially, hanging low against his thigh before he fixes it inside his underwear and tucks it all into his jeans.

The memory of how he pounded into you with reckless abandon last night, the tip of his cock hammering past your gummy walls at a neck-breaking pace, hearing you cry out in delight every time it kissed your cervix, comes flowing back.

Kyle notices you eyeing him up just as he's putting on his boots and glances at you with the same smug smirk he's shot you so many times in the last 12 hours together.

Stopping at the door of the bedroom while turning his shirt right side out, ready to put it on, he winks at you. "Don't worry, I'll give you a round two after we eat."