july, over nineteen, she — her, nsfw blog, english is not my native language, enjoy your stay here and be nice.
my personal links — main masterlist and quidelines.
— 𝘔𝘠 𝘔𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛, 𝘚𝘐𝘋𝘌 𝘉𝘓𝘖𝘎.
Anonymoussent
pls do ghost with reader that's insecure about being too tall
dmitrienereplied
there are people who tend to take out their complexes on others, touching any living place, only to make you feel just as insecure and withdrawn into yourself, and this did not pass you by, your height, to be more precise, such an insignificant thing that it seems unnecessary to pay attention to, has become a justification for the men in your life to make offensive comments about the fact that you were a head or two taller than them, until simon ghost riley came into your life.
it is always very easy to become a victim, not only something physical, but also mental, and in your case, these were words about what long legs you have, which you started to hide over time under pants and short soled shoes, that no one will look at you, because men like it when a girl looks delicate, petite, and your image does not allow this in any way, no matter how you really feel inside, but the way simon looks at you, his unwavering gaze mapping over your figure with almost childlike admiration, makes you acutely aware of something warm crawling up your shuddering spine.
you’ve never been with a man so completely enamored with you, but simon is there, present as ever, and his nearly every breath is made to make you happy, aware of just how gorgeous you are, how breathtaking he finds you, a new revelation, he’s a man usually described as distant and aloof, with eyes that hardly catch any light, but he looks at you with pupils of ebony that are blown wide, hands twitching with the desire to touch, cradle and squeeze and kiss until you laugh directly into his biting mouth, bending your head just a little bit, but it’s enough to make him all thrilled.
it’s a part of him that was yet to be discovered, just how much he’s into women who can stare him straight in the face, meet his sharp gaze straight on, pat over his stubbled cheek as though petting a dog, make him feel so enamored with you that his knees might buckle under his weight, finding a new duty to be at your feet and press kiss upon kiss against your long, gorgeous legs, nuzzle in against the tender inside of your thigh, look through the sooty, pale wisps of his eyelashes on how you gaze down to meet him staring dazedly.
you’re so used to hiding and doing everything to seem less imposing just because of something you can’t control, simon has experienced himself in his line of work on multiple occasions, and having the opportunity to make you feel better about your looks, he grasps at it with long, calloused fingers, worshipping you by saccharine purred words and suffusing warmth of his kisses upon your skin, your legs, tingling from slowly blooming bites, are spread wide to dangle over his stretched out shoulders, rippling and twitching as he teases you on.
holding you steady and dripping sweet rivulets of slick down your tensing, trembling thighs, cunt pulsing, gaping around nothing, if not for the fat, drizzling tip of his cock resting against the entrance to your aching, too-empty hole, short of breaching in and filling you until you are left with nothing to do but babble slurred nonsense and broken prayers of his name, but not until simon hears you repeating every cooed word of affection he puts in your mouth with his licking tongue.
inspired by @suimon thought.
cw: filth, cum, really pussydrunk simon.
simon ghost riley had decided to grow a moustache, the change of appearance, albeit sudden, seemed like a good emough idea to him during his next shave, he had only recently returned home from deployment, and his patchy stubble had grown enough to form a small beard, surrounding his lips and running up his sharp jaw, covering his pale skin with darkish, coarse hairs, the shaving of which was a relief, refreshing his face, however, when he had only a small part above his upper lip to trim, his hand lingered in the air, and he changed his mind.
“you look silly, si”
was the only response you offered, which wasn't actually true, on the contrary, his smooth, well groomed, and thick mustache enhanced his appearance, making him look even more stern and rugged, stirred a certain lump of feelings within you, compelling your legs to cross in response to the warmth that began in the pit of your belly and radiated outward, suffusing your limbs with a gentle, yet insistent heat, kindling in your cheeks, making your eyes flicker across his face and body with a familiar, bashful anxiety that simon recognized all too well, his thinned lips curling into a broad, sharply fanged grin.
simon is sure that he can convince you otherwise, or at the very least, acknowledge the reality that you have been keeping buried beneath your rapidly expanding ribcage, which will eventually turn out as sporadic keens and whimpers tumbling from gasping mouth, because it is not at all that difficult to nudge his face between your trembling thighs, lay down between your spread legs, calves gripped by his tightly grasping, scarred fingers, not allowing them to snap shut, his lips preoccupied by being put against your cunt.
parting your folds with his tongue, already soaking and slick with ooze of your arousal, tangy, sweet lasting taste smearing against his moustache, hole fluttering against the tip of his curling tongue, teasing over the pulsing entrance, no words remained in your thoughts or mouth, devolving into clear, need brimming hiccups, hips spasming, grinding down to meet the pistoning of his tongue, the ocassional mouthing on the exposed, soft skin of your thigh, quivering beneath at the rasp of his facial hair, before you were arching into his open lapping mouth again, slowly falling apart at the unraveling seams, panting for more, not enough, too good.
it'll leave the tang of you on his tongue and face for a long time, drench him in the cum and sweat, syrupy sweet, unwilling to scrub it off, a permanent reminder of the way you taste, which simon shares with you, crawling up to plunge his still slick coated tongue in your waiting mouth, making you swallow, gasp and moan around insistent, swirling muscle, mapping around, grunting around the weak sob you let out, sound wet with spit, and pulling away to meet your dazed, bleary gaze properly, he knows the mustache would have to linger.
Anonymoussent
GIRL OMG OMG OMGGGGGGG YOU WRITE DI LEON SO WELL OH MYYYYY IK YOU FOCUS ON COD MEN MOSTLY BUT MECHANIC LEON??? IVE GOT HEARTS IN MY EYES OMG PLS TELL ME YOU’LL WRITE FOR HIM AGAIN
dmitrienereplied
anon.. hearts in my eyes because of your words, i’m so happy you enjoyed my writing, especially because it’s was so long since i wrote for leon! i promise to look at the idea of writing something more for him either as a mechanic or in a different setting ‹𝟹
cw: smut at the end, age gap if you squint, di leon appearance.
mechanic leon scott kennedy, a man well known in the area for his wretched past, as well as the fact that he chose a more comfortable and tranquil lifestyle over becoming an agent many had anticipated him to be, preffering to spend the majority of his time undercarriage, tinkering with broken, unfortunate pieces of iron, cars, motorcycles, and trucks, getting covered in layers of machine oil and grease.
years of military service did him good, even though he is no longer so young, brown hair has darkened and grown out in messy layers, his round, ruddy face has become sharper than a knife, sporting a rough, silvering stubble that gives him a certain charm, he still maintains excellent physical condition and good control over his body, shoulders are broad, tapering down to large, beefy biceps, body is chiseled, displaying every muscle to ogle over, the ribbed tank tops he tipically wears doing well at properly highlighting all contours of his body, fair skin reflecting the intense sun, pale painting of scars that criscross over the arms catch the sunlight.
the thing is, leon is quite aware of his looks and how women react to him, more often than not, without concealing his own qenuine interests beneath a facade of coy smiles and sidelong, appreciative gazes, he's just a man, after all, so he enjoys his modest popularity without compunction, and when you pull up to his workshop with a smoking hood and eyes full of desperate panic, he greets you with a cautious smile and a soft reassurance on his lips, stretched into a smile that balances on a sharp fanged grin, which diverts your attention from the squint of his blue, all consuming eyes, not letting you see the almost perverted excitement there.
your eyes are rounded and nearly shiny like polished glass as tears well up in them, this is a brand new car, and it's unexpected and sudden breakdown cannot but frighten, because the price was big, and the repair itself can end up costing a pretty penny, and you've saved up so hard for it, but all your panicked, nearly choking speech can't help but amuse him just a little, poor, sweet thing you are, so stressed up over an issue he can repair in less than a day, yet he has to confess, leon enjoys being able to soothe you and convince you that everything is good, he won't charge you too much, and you shouldn't worry about the vehicle to the point of crying, just trust him and watch him work.
leon doesn't work for the money, but for the pleasure he derives from seeing young, sweet girls like you entangled in his weight, clothes ripped apart to expose their tender skin, bruised from passionate kisses, throat raspy from pitched keens as he dives down to press his nose into a spot that makes them pull at his hair and legs spread wider, cunt oozing and pulsing, pressed against his eagerly devouring mouth, and when he glances to the side to check where your gaze is wandering, he is not surprised to meet your wide eyed gaze tracing over his flexing muscles, the curve of his hip as he shifts his weight to one leg, rolling his broad shoulders, making you turn away, charmingly embarrassed, and he is not at all surprised, actually quite pleased, to see your thighs clench.
you weren't supposed to end up in your own car, pressed against your own seat, with your legs dangling over leon's shoulders, muscles flexing beneath with the time your toes curl, each jagged exhale turning into a reedy, gasping moan, panting, keening in a quick, capturing kisses he presses against your wide open, round shaped lips, cunt fluttering spread around the sheer girth of his cock, long and throbbing, dissapearing fully into the perfectly tight, sopping heat of your pulsing, clutching hole, hips snapping to bruise, make you feel each thrust, spill down your little whines, dazed on the sensations, head lolling back.
and if you leave his workshop all disheveled and with legs trembling, weak hands that can hardly hold the wheel beneath your fingers, restless in your seat due to the dampness in your panties from the cum that drips out of your still gaping cunt, soaking the thin fabric of your underwear, it's because his service was satisfactory, and the innocently teasing kiss that he plants on your flushed cheek, prickling the sensitive skin with his stubble, means that he will eagerly wait for you to, perhaps, visit him again.
cw: smut at the end, age gap if you squint, di leon appearance.
mechanic leon scott kennedy, a man well known in the area for his wretched past, as well as the fact that he chose a more comfortable and tranquil lifestyle over becoming an agent many had anticipated him to be, preffering to spend the majority of his time undercarriage, tinkering with broken, unfortunate pieces of iron, cars, motorcycles, and trucks, getting covered in layers of machine oil and grease.
years of military service did him good, even though he is no longer so young, brown hair has darkened and grown out in messy layers, his round, ruddy face has become sharper than a knife, sporting a rough, silvering stubble that gives him a certain charm, he still maintains excellent physical condition and good control over his body, shoulders are broad, tapering down to large, beefy biceps, body is chiseled, displaying every muscle to ogle over, the ribbed tank tops he tipically wears doing well at properly highlighting all contours of his body, fair skin reflecting the intense sun, pale painting of scars that criscross over the arms catch the sunlight.
the thing is, leon is quite aware of his looks and how women react to him, more often than not, without concealing his own qenuine interests beneath a facade of coy smiles and sidelong, appreciative gazes, he’s just a man, after all, so he enjoys his modest popularity without compunction, and when you pull up to his workshop with a smoking hood and eyes full of desperate panic, he greets you with a cautious smile and a soft reassurance on his lips, stretched into a smile that balances on a sharp fanged grin, which diverts your attention from the squint of his blue, all consuming eyes, not letting you see the almost perverted excitement there.
your eyes are rounded and nearly shiny like polished glass as tears well up in them, this is a brand new car, and it’s unexpected and sudden breakdown cannot but frighten, because the price was big, and the repair itself can end up costing a pretty penny, and you’ve saved up so hard for it, but all your panicked, nearly choking speech can’t help but amuse him just a little, poor, sweet thing you are, so stressed up over an issue he can repair in less than a day, yet he has to confess, leon enjoys being able to soothe you and convince you that everything is good, he won’t charge you too much, and you shouldn’t worry about the vehicle to the point of crying, just trust him and watch him work.
leon doesn’t work for the money, but for the pleasure he derives from seeing young, sweet girls like you entangled in his weight, clothes ripped apart to expose their tender skin, bruised from passionate kisses, throat raspy from pitched keens as he dives down to press his nose into a spot that makes them pull at his hair and legs spread wider, cunt oozing and pulsing, pressed against his eagerly devouring mouth, and when he glances to the side to check where your gaze is wandering, he is not surprised to meet your wide eyed gaze tracing over his flexing muscles, the curve of his hip as he shifts his weight to one leg, rolling his broad shoulders, making you turn away, charmingly embarrassed, and he is not at all surprised, actually quite pleased, to see your thighs clench.
you weren’t supposed to end up in your own car, pressed against your own seat, with your legs dangling over leon’s shoulders, muscles flexing beneath with the time your toes curl, each jagged exhale turning into a reedy, gasping moan, panting, keening in a quick, capturing kisses he presses against your wide open, round shaped lips, cunt fluttering spread around the sheer girth of his cock, long and throbbing, dissapearing fully into the perfectly tight, sopping heat of your pulsing, clutching hole, hips snapping to bruise, make you feel each thrust, spill down your little whines, dazed on the sensations, head lolling back.
and if you leave his workshop all disheveled and with legs trembling, weak hands that can hardly hold the wheel beneath your fingers, restless in your seat due to the dampness in your panties from the cum that drips out of your still gaping cunt, soaking the thin fabric of your underwear, it’s because his service was satisfactory, and the innocently teasing kiss that he plants on your flushed cheek, prickling the sensitive skin with his stubble, means that he will eagerly wait for you to, perhaps, visit him again.
inspired by @suimon thought.
cw: filth, cum, really pussydrunk simon.
simon ghost riley had decided to grow a moustache, the change of appearance, albeit sudden, seemed like a good emough idea to him during his next shave, he had only recently returned home from deployment, and his patchy stubble had grown enough to form a small beard, surrounding his lips and running up his sharp jaw, covering his pale skin with darkish, coarse hairs, the shaving of which was a relief, refreshing his face, however, when he had only a small part above his upper lip to trim, his hand lingered in the air, and he changed his mind.
“you look silly, si”
was the only response you offered, which wasn't actually true, on the contrary, his smooth, well groomed, and thick mustache enhanced his appearance, making him look even more stern and rugged, stirred a certain lump of feelings within you, compelling your legs to cross in response to the warmth that began in the pit of your belly and radiated outward, suffusing your limbs with a gentle, yet insistent heat, kindling in your cheeks, making your eyes flicker across his face and body with a familiar, bashful anxiety that simon recognized all too well, his thinned lips curling into a broad, sharply fanged grin.
simon is sure that he can convince you otherwise, or at the very least, acknowledge the reality that you have been keeping buried beneath your rapidly expanding ribcage, which will eventually turn out as sporadic keens and whimpers tumbling from gasping mouth, because it is not at all that difficult to nudge his face between your trembling thighs, lay down between your spread legs, calves gripped by his tightly grasping, scarred fingers, not allowing them to snap shut, his lips preoccupied by being put against your cunt.
parting your folds with his tongue, already soaking and slick with ooze of your arousal, tangy, sweet lasting taste smearing against his moustache, hole fluttering against the tip of his curling tongue, teasing over the pulsing entrance, no words remained in your thoughts or mouth, devolving into clear, need brimming hiccups, hips spasming, grinding down to meet the pistoning of his tongue, the ocassional mouthing on the exposed, soft skin of your thigh, quivering beneath at the rasp of his facial hair, before you were arching into his open lapping mouth again, slowly falling apart at the unraveling seams, panting for more, not enough, too good.
it'll leave the tang of you on his tongue and face for a long time, drench him in the cum and sweat, syrupy sweet, unwilling to scrub it off, a permanent reminder of the way you taste, which simon shares with you, crawling up to plunge his still slick coated tongue in your waiting mouth, making you swallow, gasp and moan around insistent, swirling muscle, mapping around, grunting around the weak sob you let out, sound wet with spit, and pulling away to meet your dazed, bleary gaze properly, he knows the mustache would have to linger.
sunsettsamsent
okayyy hello hello gorgeous!!! i saw that you were taking rq's for arthur morgan sooo...
i wanted to request maybe something along the lines of the reader having an allergic reaction to something and her face gets all chubby/puffy and has a panic attack because they don't think they're pretty anymore but arthur quickly comes to the rescue and comforts them? (need him so baddd) <33
dmitrienereplied
cw: allergy, many tears and comfort, not fully described panic attack, small smut at the end.
something is wrong with the dish that sits in front of you in a slightly uneven wooden bowl, something has changed in the taste, and you clearly feel it in the spices that are swirling around on your tongue, because usually, pearson’s food is relatively bland, but not today, and either he was lucky with the dish, or he fell in love and instead of overdoing it with salt decided to try something new, but not daring to complain, you take a full spoon of potatoes with meat and place it in your mouth behind both rounding cheeks, full of food that warms your stomach and beyond.
your cheeks are tickling from the rolling heat, and you chose to attribute this sensation to the fact that the dish is freshly cooked, it’s warm outside, so putting all this together, it appears to you that your body is most likely just slightly warm, not knowing that your skin is beginning to swell and become covered in small spots and rashes, pouty lips, with the broth pouring down them, becoming bigger, swelling, reflecting your face more and more, which you don’t even notice until someone tugs on your shoulder with a delicate squeeze, compelling you to lower your spoon into the practically empty bowl and turn to the side.
abigail looks at you with a hint of concern in her own brightly piercing eyes that have been softened in concern, you know something is wrong, of course, but you’re not quite sure what it is, until she leans in closer and dares to touch your cheek with the back of her hand, the delicate knuckles of her fingers giving you a slight chill, making you realize how surprisingly warm you really are, scalding hot, as your own hand comes up to feel over your face, breath catching in seizing panic at the unfamiliar texture of raw, uneven surface of once clean skin, before you leap up from your seating spot.
arthur jerks his head into direction of the sound, finding you with a wide, worried glint of a sharp gaze, and before you can turn away with your whole body in time, he notices the state of your face, but you already flee from your place with a dull, choking sob and run towards the mansion, stumbling and gasping raggedly, resisting the way your chest aches in uncontrollable panic, clutching and mashing on all the insides and fragile bones, as you finally reach the doorway of the mansion and stumble down the narrow hallway to your room, eventually pulling the door in your direction and dashing inside, grasping at the rusty key stuck in the lock, turning until it clicks sharply.
only then do you allow yourself to calm down, get your erratic breathing under control, approaching the old bedside table on wobbling, newborn fawn unsteady feet, a small mirror resting there reflects enough of your face to make you sob out in a manner of a wounded animal, disgusted by what you see, a swollen, unattractive reflection that has obviously had an allergic reaction to something, and is gradually getting less puffed, but you still turn the mirror away and slump on the edge of the bed, gripping the hem of your dress with shaking, twisting fingers, body bowing forward, crumpling in a vulnerable curl, as your back ripples with the force of brimming hiccups.
the door trembles under the pressure of someone else’s weight outside, and the handle twitches once or twice, causing the old, nearly rotting wood to shake and almost fly off its hinge to open the way into your room, you can tell that arthur is outside, hear it in the uncontrolled, worried swearing mixed with the growl he lets out under his breath, the faint sigh he uses to soften his own voice before asking, purposefully softly, as if approaching a doe
“darling, please, open that door for me”
inspired by @suimon thought.
cw: filth, cum, really pussydrunk simon.
simon ghost riley had decided to grow a moustache, the change of appearance, albeit sudden, seemed like a good emough idea to him during his next shave, he had only recently returned home from deployment, and his patchy stubble had grown enough to form a small beard, surrounding his lips and running up his sharp jaw, covering his pale skin with darkish, coarse hairs, the shaving of which was a relief, refreshing his face, however, when he had only a small part above his upper lip to trim, his hand lingered in the air, and he changed his mind.
“you look silly, si”
was the only response you offered, which wasn't actually true, on the contrary, his smooth, well groomed, and thick mustache enhanced his appearance, making him look even more stern and rugged, stirred a certain lump of feelings within you, compelling your legs to cross in response to the warmth that began in the pit of your belly and radiated outward, suffusing your limbs with a gentle, yet insistent heat, kindling in your cheeks, making your eyes flicker across his face and body with a familiar, bashful anxiety that simon recognized all too well, his thinned lips curling into a broad, sharply fanged grin.
simon is sure that he can convince you otherwise, or at the very least, acknowledge the reality that you have been keeping buried beneath your rapidly expanding ribcage, which will eventually turn out as sporadic keens and whimpers tumbling from gasping mouth, because it is not at all that difficult to nudge his face between your trembling thighs, lay down between your spread legs, calves gripped by his tightly grasping, scarred fingers, not allowing them to snap shut, his lips preoccupied by being put against your cunt.
parting your folds with his tongue, already soaking and slick with ooze of your arousal, tangy, sweet lasting taste smearing against his moustache, hole fluttering against the tip of his curling tongue, teasing over the pulsing entrance, no words remained in your thoughts or mouth, devolving into clear, need brimming hiccups, hips spasming, grinding down to meet the pistoning of his tongue, the ocassional mouthing on the exposed, soft skin of your thigh, quivering beneath at the rasp of his facial hair, before you were arching into his open lapping mouth again, slowly falling apart at the unraveling seams, panting for more, not enough, too good.
it'll leave the tang of you on his tongue and face for a long time, drench him in the cum and sweat, syrupy sweet, unwilling to scrub it off, a permanent reminder of the way you taste, which simon shares with you, crawling up to plunge his still slick coated tongue in your waiting mouth, making you swallow, gasp and moan around insistent, swirling muscle, mapping around, grunting around the weak sob you let out, sound wet with spit, and pulling away to meet your dazed, bleary gaze properly, he knows the mustache would have to linger.
sunsettsamsent
okayyy hello hello gorgeous!!! i saw that you were taking rq's for arthur morgan sooo...
i wanted to request maybe something along the lines of the reader having an allergic reaction to something and her face gets all chubby/puffy and has a panic attack because they don't think they're pretty anymore but arthur quickly comes to the rescue and comforts them? (need him so baddd) <33
dmitrienereplied
cw: allergy, many tears and comfort, not fully described panic attack, small smut at the end.
something is wrong with the dish that sits in front of you in a slightly uneven wooden bowl, something has changed in the taste, and you clearly feel it in the spices that are swirling around on your tongue, because usually, pearson’s food is relatively bland, but not today, and either he was lucky with the dish, or he fell in love and instead of overdoing it with salt decided to try something new, but not daring to complain, you take a full spoon of potatoes with meat and place it in your mouth behind both rounding cheeks, full of food that warms your stomach and beyond.
your cheeks are tickling from the rolling heat, and you chose to attribute this sensation to the fact that the dish is freshly cooked, it’s warm outside, so putting all this together, it appears to you that your body is most likely just slightly warm, not knowing that your skin is beginning to swell and become covered in small spots and rashes, pouty lips, with the broth pouring down them, becoming bigger, swelling, reflecting your face more and more, which you don’t even notice until someone tugs on your shoulder with a delicate squeeze, compelling you to lower your spoon into the practically empty bowl and turn to the side.
abigail looks at you with a hint of concern in her own brightly piercing eyes that have been softened in concern, you know something is wrong, of course, but you’re not quite sure what it is, until she leans in closer and dares to touch your cheek with the back of her hand, the delicate knuckles of her fingers giving you a slight chill, making you realize how surprisingly warm you really are, scalding hot, as your own hand comes up to feel over your face, breath catching in seizing panic at the unfamiliar texture of raw, uneven surface of once clean skin, before you leap up from your seating spot.
arthur jerks his head into direction of the sound, finding you with a wide, worried glint of a sharp gaze, and before you can turn away with your whole body in time, he notices the state of your face, but you already flee from your place with a dull, choking sob and run towards the mansion, stumbling and gasping raggedly, resisting the way your chest aches in uncontrollable panic, clutching and mashing on all the insides and fragile bones, as you finally reach the doorway of the mansion and stumble down the narrow hallway to your room, eventually pulling the door in your direction and dashing inside, grasping at the rusty key stuck in the lock, turning until it clicks sharply.
only then do you allow yourself to calm down, get your erratic breathing under control, approaching the old bedside table on wobbling, newborn fawn unsteady feet, a small mirror resting there reflects enough of your face to make you sob out in a manner of a wounded animal, disgusted by what you see, a swollen, unattractive reflection that has obviously had an allergic reaction to something, and is gradually getting less puffed, but you still turn the mirror away and slump on the edge of the bed, gripping the hem of your dress with shaking, twisting fingers, body bowing forward, crumpling in a vulnerable curl, as your back ripples with the force of brimming hiccups.
the door trembles under the pressure of someone else’s weight outside, and the handle twitches once or twice, causing the old, nearly rotting wood to shake and almost fly off its hinge to open the way into your room, you can tell that arthur is outside, hear it in the uncontrolled, worried swearing mixed with the growl he lets out under his breath, the faint sigh he uses to soften his own voice before asking, purposefully softly, as if approaching a doe
“darling, please, open that door for me”
inspired by @suimon thought.
cw: filth, cum, really pussydrunk simon.
simon ghost riley had decided to grow a moustache, the change of appearance, albeit sudden, seemed like a good emough idea to him during his next shave, he had only recently returned home from deployment, and his patchy stubble had grown enough to form a small beard, surrounding his lips and running up his sharp jaw, covering his pale skin with darkish, coarse hairs, the shaving of which was a relief, refreshing his face, however, when he had only a small part above his upper lip to trim, his hand lingered in the air, and he changed his mind.
“you look silly, si”
was the only response you offered, which wasn’t actually true, on the contrary, his smooth, well groomed, and thick mustache enhanced his appearance, making him look even more stern and rugged, stirred a certain lump of feelings within you, compelling your legs to cross in response to the warmth that began in the pit of your belly and radiated outward, suffusing your limbs with a gentle, yet insistent heat, kindling in your cheeks, making your eyes flicker across his face and body with a familiar, bashful anxiety that simon recognized all too well, his thinned lips curling into a broad, sharply fanged grin.
simon is sure that he can convince you otherwise, or at the very least, acknowledge the reality that you have been keeping buried beneath your rapidly expanding ribcage, which will eventually turn out as sporadic keens and whimpers tumbling from gasping mouth, because it is not at all that difficult to nudge his face between your trembling thighs, lay down between your spread legs, calves gripped by his tightly grasping, scarred fingers, not allowing them to snap shut, his lips preoccupied by being put against your cunt.
parting your folds with his tongue, already soaking and slick with ooze of your arousal, tangy, sweet lasting taste smearing against his moustache, hole fluttering against the tip of his curling tongue, teasing over the pulsing entrance, no words remained in your thoughts or mouth, devolving into clear, need brimming hiccups, hips spasming, grinding down to meet the pistoning of his tongue, the ocassional mouthing on the exposed, soft skin of your thigh, quivering beneath at the rasp of his facial hair, before you were arching into his open lapping mouth again, slowly falling apart at the unraveling seams, panting for more, not enough, too good.
it’ll leave the tang of you on his tongue and face for a long time, drench him in the cum and sweat, syrupy sweet, unwilling to scrub it off, a permanent reminder of the way you taste, which simon shares with you, crawling up to plunge his still slick coated tongue in your waiting mouth, making you swallow, gasp and moan around insistent, swirling muscle, mapping around, grunting around the weak sob you let out, sound wet with spit, and pulling away to meet your dazed, bleary gaze properly, he knows the mustache would have to linger.
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