Archive of Our Own ^beta

Simon stood with his chunky black leather boots planted firmly on the concrete, watching the crowd writhing in time with the bass like some grotesque, beating heart. His eyes looked bored, drooped slightly with the weight of alcohol in his veins. The cigarette clung stubbornly to his cracked lips, half-burned and hardly his first of the night. He tugged it free with scarred fingers, exhaling a ribbon of smoke in a long, weary groan that blurred into the thrum of music.

Beside him, John Price - an old friend and occasional fuck-buddy - leaned against the rusted railing. A cigar of all things smouldered between his fingers as he watched Simon with that lazy interest of his.

"What's got your knickers in a twist?" He questioned, just loud enough over the thudding bass of the music, something cheeky in his tone as he examined the cigar in his calloused hand.

Simon was nothing if not straight forward. He rolled his shoulders, vertebrae clicking as he stretched his neck. "Just need to fuck something. Get my frustration out."

Price huffed a laugh, shaking his head. The creases around his eyes intensified, crow’s feet etched deep into his skin from too many late nights. "Didn't you get it out of your system last week?"

Simon’s eyes followed the glow from the strobes skating across the rim of Price’s bottle before it disappeared against his mouth. His reply came out flat, mechanical, like a ledger entry. “Pretty, but he came too fast. Passed out right after.”

Price tipped the bottle back, shaking his head as though the verdict were inevitable. “That’s a shame.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, smoking, watching the pit of bodies undulate below. The crowd pulsed - half-naked women swaying on shaky heels, men moving with careless rhythm, all of them caught in the baselines chokehold. By now, Simon thought, the police should’ve raided the place. Two in the morning, an abandoned warehouse practically glowing like a beacon. Still, the music went on.

The crowd of moving bodies had radiated the whole building, heat pressing in despite the September cold outside. Simon rolled up the sleeves of his black compression shirt, uncaring as he bared his scarred, tattooed forearms to the world.

He felt John lean into his personal space, smelling like tobacco and a woodsy aftershave.

“Anyone catching your fancy?”

Simon let his eyes roam the pit again. On the far side, against the cold slab of concrete wall, two figures lingered in conversation. One scrolled his phone between glances, a cropped black tee hugging his frame, muscles shifting beneath warm brown skin each time he readjusted his stance. Attractive, sure - but it was the other one that made Simon’s pulse tick up.

He was tall, maybe six foot, six-one at most. Still shorter than Simon’s six-four, which only made it better. Pale skin flushed from heat, a shadow of stubble darkening his cheeks, and a mohawk that somehow suited him perfectly. In one hand he nursed a cup of something dark, wrist catching the strobe lights with the flash of a silver bracelet. His shirt clung indecently, fishnet panels giving teasing glimpses of his torso. Black jeans framed his legs - frustratingly opaque - until Simon caught the faint gleam of metal at his chest. Silver. Pierced nipples.

“Christ,” Simon muttered, pointing him out to Price. “Dunno how I didn’t notice him until now.”

Price drew on his cigar, eyes following the line of Simon’s finger. When he found the guy, his brows shot up. He let the smoke curl lazily from his mouth before giving a low whistle. “Fuck. If you’re going for him, I’m takin’ his mate. Gorgeous, that one…”

Simon stubbed out his own cigarette, before stealing Price's beer and finishing it with a swig. Price only laughed, swatting the back of Simon's head with easy affection as they abandoned the railing and slipped down to the stairwell.

The bass was a physical thing down there, a relentless pulse that rattled in their ribs as they wove through the press of bodies. They stepped over a girl kneeling on sticky concrete, coaxing water into her slack-jawed friend; brushed past a couple grinding against each other so shamelessly it was almost comical; sidestepped four more bent over an old bin, snorting lines like they hadn’t a care in the world.

Price shook his head with a nostalgic laugh. “Feels like I’m back in the bloody '90s.”

Across the pit, the two from the wall hadn’t moved much - still in their own orbit despite the chaos around them.

The crop top guy - with dark eyes and a careful smile - was laughing at something mohawk had said, head tipped back in genuine amusement. But when his gaze slid down and met Simon’s, the laughter cut short, curiosity sparking in its place. Mohawk followed his friend’s line of sight, grin faltering for just a heartbeat before returning.

Price nudged Simon with his elbow, low enough that only he could hear. “Looks like they’ve clocked us.”

Simon hummed, the sound drowned beneath the bass, and pushed forward until they closed the distance, slipping into the same slice of space along the wall. He gave both men a nod in greeting before turning his attention squarely on the one with the mohawk. Price, predictably, was already angling toward the other.

Simon leaned in just enough to be heard. “What’s your name? I’m Simon. Saw you from up there - thought I’d say hello.”

The grin that spread across mohawk’s face was quick. “John. Nice to meet you.”

Simon clicked his tongue, jerking his chin toward Price, who was shaking hands and laughing with Gaz - Simon later finds out - like they’d known each other for years. “Hm. This one’s John too. That’s gonna get confusing. Mind if I call you Johnny?”

Johnny arched a brow, his grin widening as he lifted his cup. Up close, Simon caught the sheen of sweat clinging to the line of his neck, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Normally I’d tell you to fuck off,” Johnny said, voice carrying a teasing lilt as he sipped slowly, blue eyes never leaving Simon’s. “But you’re ridiculously hot, so I’ll allow it.”

The words did nothing to halt the throbbing that'd become noticeable in Simon's clit. He felt his mouth pull into a smirk before he even thought about it. He stepped in closer, boots edging into Johnny’s space until there was no mistaking his intent. “You want to be forward, huh?”

Johnny tilted his head, “I don’t like beatin’ around the bush.”

“Mm. Me neither.” Simon dipped his head, close enough that the heat of Johnny’s skin brushed against his lips as he angled to his ear. “Those piercings of yours are giving me ideas, you know that?”

Johnny turned just enough that their faces nearly brushed, his mouth curling as he met Simon’s gaze head-on. His eyes glittered with flirtation, daring Simon to follow through. “That’s the point.”

A groan rumbled out of Simon before he could stop it. His hands slid onto Johnny’s waist, fingers pressing into warm skin through the thin mesh. The fishnets bit faintly against his palms, heat radiating from Johnny until Simon could feel it bleeding into his own chest. “You lookin’ to get fucked tonight?” he asked, voice pitched sultrily low.

Johnny’s grin faltered just a fraction. He shifted closer, lips parting with something more cautious. “‘S long as you’re okay wi’ fuckin’ a trans guy…” The words carried a hitch of nerves, defiance laced through them like he was bracing for rejection.

Simon actually laughed - short, surprised, genuine. “I’m usually the one asking that,” he said, mouth tugging into something softer than a smirk. “You okay with bein’ fucked with a strap?”

For a moment Johnny only stared, eyes wide, before his mouth dropped open in disbelief. “Holy fuck- yes. Christ, I never would’ve guessed.” The laugh that followed was breathless, giddy, like tension snapping off his shoulders in a single break.

The grin that spread across Simon’s face was nothing short of feral. “Finish your drink, love. I’ll get us a taxi to mine, yeah?”

Johnny’s expression flickered into something sly. Without a word, he lifted his cup and drained it in one long pull - never breaking eye contact. The muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed, deliberately slow, a thin trickle of liquid slipping past the corner of his mouth. He caught it with his thumb and, with a show of shamelessness, dragged it across his lips before slipping the thumb between them and sucking.

Simon stared, pulse thundering. Blood quickly rushed south, fast enough to make his hands twitch where they rested on Johnny’s hips. There was no irritation in him, only raw hunger when he breathed out: “You fucking whore.”

Johnny blinked up at him with a mock-innocence, eyes wide and guileless - ruined instantly by the way he rolled his hips once against Simon’s, a small, pointed thrust that was nothing but a request.

Simon let out a sound closer to a growl, shoving his thigh between Johnny’s legs as he bent to kiss him. It wasn’t neat - messy, teeth clashing, the taste of cheap alcohol and cigarette smoke tangling between their mouths. Johnny unabashedly ground against Simon’s leg, denim frustratingly thick between them, a high-pitched whine slipping from his throat and vibrating into Simon’s mouth.

Simon’s fingers dug hard into Johnny’s waist, greedy, pulling him in tighter. His tongue swept hot against Johnny’s with a flicker of desperation, and when he caught Johnny’s bottom lip between his teeth, the soft whimper it earned nearly undid him. He had to tear himself back with a harsh breath, chest rising and falling like he’d just gone a round in the pit.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “C’mon. Let’s go before I get us charged with public indecency.”

Johnny laughed, breathless, nosing along Simon’s neck before straightening beside him. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing to be charged with,” he teased, but he followed willingly, hand brushing Simon’s as they started for the door.

On the way, Simon’s gaze snagged on Price. The old bastard had Gaz pinned against the wall, making out with him like a teenager. Price’s snubbed out cigar lay on the floor, forgotten, while Gaz clutched his shirt with one hand and cupped his chin with the other, dragging him deeper into the kiss. Neither of them spared Simon or Johnny more than a flicker of awareness as they passed.

Simon leaned just enough to tap Price on the shoulder, jerking his chin toward the exit. Price’s eyes were hazy, unfocused, but he smirked when he registered who it was.

“Text me in the morning to let me know you’re alive,” Simon muttered.

Price waved him off with a grunt that sounded vaguely like agreement before Gaz pulled him back under. Johnny snorted at the sight, shaking his head as Simon tugged him toward the stairwell and out into the night.

The bass dulled the second they made it outside, traded for the bite of cool night air and the distant hum of city traffic. Johnny shivered once, then leaned into Simon’s side, the adrenaline and warmth of inside clinging to both of them like static.

“Taxi?” Johnny asked.

“Taxi,” Simon confirmed, already pulling out his phone. He glanced at Johnny sidelong, unable to help the smirk tugging at his mouth.

Unsurprisingly, Simon’s flat was dark and moody. The walls were painted in a deep burgundy, shadows gathering in the corners where the low amber glow of a single lamp didn’t reach. A heavy leather sofa dominated the living room, a wool blanket thrown haphazardly across the back. A few framed prints - abstract, black and white - hung unevenly on the walls, offset by a stack of new looking books and empty bottles on the coffee table.

Johnny barely had a chance to take it all in before Simon was on him - rough hands guiding him through the room, pushing, pulling, groping. One palm slid brazenly down the back of his trousers as Simon’s mouth found his neck.

“What gets you goin’, love?” Simon murmured against the heat of his throat, words vibrating against his skin.

Johnny’s breath hitched at the sharp sting of Simon’s mouth at his jugular, heat racing down his spine in a sudden rush. He moaned, head tilting back, baring himself without shame. “Treat me like a slut.”

The words tore something primal from Simon’s chest, a guttural noise that sent Johnny’s head spinning. He dragged them into the bedroom, barely sparing the space a glance. The room was exactly what anyone might expect of him - dark, utilitarian, stripped bare of warmth. The bed was large, low to the ground, dressed in plain black sheets. A dresser stood against the wall, cluttered with little more than a half-burned candle, a bottle of whiskey, and an ashtray crowded with stubs. Heavy curtains choked out what little city light might have bled in, leaving only the faint glow of a lamp on the nightstand, casting them both in a dim amber haze.

Simon’s hand slid under Johnny’s fishnet shirt, fingers pinching hard at the glint of metal in his nipples. He pulled a needy gasp from Johnny’s throat, his pale skin flushed hot across his chest, sweat catching in the web of the fishnets. His mohawk was mussed from Simon’s grip, dark stubble shadowing his jaw, lips kiss-swollen and shiny with saliva.

“Tha’s what I want to hear,” Simon growled, eyes dragging slowly over Johnny’s body. His hand left the hot press of his chest only to shove flat against his shoulder, forcing him down with deliberate push. “Suck me off then, slag.”

Johnny hit the rug at the side of the bed, knees spreading automatically. He looked up through his lashes, expression split between obedience and defiance, chest heaving under the stretch of fishnet. His hands fumbled only for a second before he had Simon’s belt undone, dragging trousers and briefs down in one hungry pull.

What met him stole the breath from his lungs. “Bleedin’ Jesus…” he groaned, hoarse with awe. Simon’s thighs were thick with corded muscle, every shift flexing under Johnny’s grip as he dug his nails into the pale skin. But it wasn’t just the strength of him that made Johnny’s mouth water - it was the fat, swollen t-dick between wet, flushed folds, framed by neatly trimmed hair.

Johnny leaned in without hesitation, tongue dragging over Simon’s clit. The taste hit him instantly—sweat, salt, something distinctly masculine—and he whined into it, the vibration making Simon’s thighs twitch under his grip. Simon’s hand found the back of his mohawk, rough fingers curling tight, guiding Johnny’s mouth closer.

“Fuckin' faggot,” Simon rasped, hips canting forward as he rutted against Johnny’s tongue. He drank in the sight of those spit-slick lips wrapped around him, the way Johnny’s eyes glazed over at the degradation.

Johnny whimpered, sucking harder, cheeks hollowing as he pulled Simon’s clit between his lips with messy devotion. Sweat-darkened strands of his mohawk pulled tight under Simon’s grip, the sting sharp where his hair was tugged.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Simon groaned, head tipping back before snapping forward again, unwilling to miss a second of it. “You like bein’ a whore f’ me, huh?”

Johnny moaned in answer, muffled around Simon’s heat. One hand dug into the thick muscle of Simon’s thigh, nails carving crescents into pale flesh, while the other slid shamelessly down between his own legs. He palmed himself through the denim, rocking against his own touch like he couldn’t stop, couldn’t help it. The sight punched the breath out of Simon, a rough sound tearing up his throat as he shoved Johnny’s face deeper, forcing him flush against his crotch. Johnny’s nose pressed into his pubes, eyes glassy and blue as they looked up at him—wrecked and wanting.

Simon bucked shallowly into his mouth, riding the hot wetness of his tongue, before he yanked him back by the hair, forcing his head up. Johnny’s lips were swollen, chin wet, panting for air as Simon shifted his grip from hair to jaw, fingers digging in, squishing his cheeks.

“Where are your manners?” Simon drawled, dark amusement evident in his tone.

Johnny’s voice cracked around a whimper. “Thank you- thank you for lettin’ me touch you… please fuck me, I’ll be good, swear.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” Simon mocked, tilting his head. He slapped him suddenly across the cheek. Johnny moaned at the sting, shuddering, pupils blown wide.

Simon released him, hands sliding down, catching the hem of his fishnet. With one rough tug he stripped it up and over Johnny’s head, baring his flushed chest beneath - nipples pierced and hard, sweat running down the defined lines of his torso.

“Jesus,” Simon muttered, pushing Johnny onto the bed. His own shirt came off in a careless drag, tattoos and scars thrown into the lamp’s glow, his chest rising and falling as he panted with the weight of his arousal. He shoved his trousers and briefs the rest of the way off his legs, kicking them off.

Johnny’s hands flew to his own jeans, fumbling with the button before shoving them down, underwear with them. His pierced clit glistened, the small barbell catching Simon's attention immediately, t-dick swollen and dripping.

Simon all but came on the spot. His breath left him in a rough groan. “You’re fuckin’ filthy.”

Johnny’s cheeks burned, but the flush only made him look hungrier. He spread his thighs wide, unapologetic, smirking through his wrecked expression. “That I am.”

Simon was on him in the next breath, climbing onto the bed and bracketing him with his arms. Their bare chests slid together, Johnny's piercings scraping against Simon's skin as their lips met again. He could taste himself on Johnny's tongue, and it made him salivate, turning the kiss sloppy, filthy.

His hands clamped down on Johnny’s waist again, bruising grip, holding him in place as he rutted forward. Simon’s clit slid wet against Johnny’s, swollen head catching on the piercing with sparks of stimulation that made both of them moan.

Johnny’s cry was high pitched and pathetic, his hands flying up to Simon’s back, nails digging hard enough to leave welts. His hips bucked desperately, grinding back against Simon’s thrusts, chasing the rhythm with greedy little rolls.

“Needy little slag,” Simon mumbled against his mouth, sweat dripping down his temple. He shifted, angling his hips to grind harder, clit catching over and over against Johnny’s piercing, each drag making his stomach burn with pleasure.

Johnny’s head tipped back, mohawk damp and sticking to his forehead, his mouth open and wrecked. “W–want your cock- fuck, please fuck me-” he begged, voice breaking into a whine.

Simon huffed against his throat, his breath hot against his skin. His hand slid down between Johnny’s spread thighs, teasing his soaking entrance with two fingers. He circled lazily, gathering wetness, before pressing just inside. “How much can this cunt take, hm?” he murmured, tone cruel.

Johnny barely had time to moan before Simon shoved both fingers in to the knuckle, filling him fast and deep. The sound Johnny made was nothing short of sinful - half choke, half whimper - as his body jolted. Simon crooked his fingers upward, stroking over that sweet spot until Johnny’s thighs trembled, his chest heaving.

“I asked you a question,” Simon rasped, curling his fingers again, forcing another broken cry out of him. “I’ve got a five, six, or seven inch. Choose.”

Johnny’s nails carved desperate crescents into Simon’s back, his whole body shuddering under the relentless touch. “Aah- seven! Please- seven-” he gasped, words ragged and near incoherent.

Simon smirked down at him, pulling his fingers free with a lewd wet sound that made Johnny flush somehow harder. He brought them to Johnny’s mouth, tapping against his lips until they parted. “Clean ‘em.”

Johnny sucked his fingers greedily, eyes fogged, tongue swirling around the taste of himself. The sight made Simon groan, the throbbing in his t-dick only intensifying.

“Fag,” he muttered, sliding off the bed just long enough to grab the strap from his drawer. Black leather, well-worn, fitted with a thick silicone cock. He strapped it on with ease, buckles cinched tight across his hips. Johnny’s shifted against the bed, hips rolling like he couldn’t help himself, thighs spreading whorishly in anticipation.

Simon climbed back over him, broad shoulders blotting out the lamp’s glow, the heavy weight of the cock dragging against Johnny’s slick entrance. He leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of Johnny’s ear. “Since you begged so nicely-”

He gave no further warning. The first push was sudden but steady, the fat head stretching Johnny wide. His body arched off the bed instantly, a strangled cry ripping from his throat as his fingers clutched at the sheets.

“F–fuck, you're huge-” Johnny wailed. His walls fluttered, clenching around the toy as Simon fed him more inch by inch.

Simon smirked, one hand locking down tight on Johnny’s hip to keep him in place. “Aw... can’t take it now?” His voice dripped with mockery, though the groan tearing out of him betrayed his own arousal at the sight.

Johnny’s eyes fluttered, glassy and desperate as he looked up at him. “No- no, I can, I want it- fuck, fill me up-”

Simon pressed deeper, relentless, until Johnny was trembling under him, stretched wide around every thick inch. The bulge of the cock showed faintly under his stomach, and Simon ground down deliberately, making Johnny see it, feel it.

“Look at that,” Simon rasped, pressing his palm to Johnny’s lower belly where the outline pushed against him. “Stuffed full. Greedy little hole, takin’ all seven like a slut.”

Johnny sobbed out a moan at the pressure, clit piercing catching against Simon’s pubic bone with each grind. His thighs shook, spread wide and quivering, nails raking down Simon's back. “So- so big- fuck, I’m full, I’m so full-”

Simon leaned down, teeth grazing the flushed column of Johnny’s throat before sinking in, rutting just enough to keep him stretched on every thick inch. When he spoke, his voice softened into a cruel mockery of sweetness, dripping with false innocence. “Aw, poor thing… is my cock too big for you? Hitting all those deep spots and makin’ you cock-dumb already?”

The tone alone sent Johnny spiralling. He nodded frantically, eyes glassy, tears pricking at the corners as the pleasure blurred into overwhelm. A broken whimper ripped out of him, so loud Simon bit down on his bottom lip to stifle it, his mouth wet and bruising.

Simon pulled back just enough to look down at him. Johnny’s face was wrecked - red, wet with tears - his body arching desperately into every thrust. The sight sent a full-body shudder through Simon, a groan rumbling deep in his chest as his hips snapped forward. The strap slammed home harder, rougher, the force of it jolting Johnny against the mattress.

“Christ, look at you, so fuckin' hot,” Simon panted, overwhelmed with arousal. He dragged the strap nearly all the way out before driving it back in to the hilt, the stretch forcing another cry from Johnny’s throat.

Each thrust pressed the base snug against Simon’s own clit, and coupled with the sheer filth of Johnny’s face - eyes wet with tears, mouth slack, expression so obscene it could’ve been pulled from a porn mag - something inside Simon snapped.

With a guttural sound, he shifted his weight, planting himself on his straddled knees and hauling Johnny’s trembling thighs up over them. The new angle left Johnny spread open and helpless. Simon’s hands clamped around his throat, not quite cutting air but holding him in place, a collar of heat and strength.

He rutted in - fast, merciless, fucking into him with such force that Johnny’s whole body bowed off the mattress. His eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering, a gasping sob breaking free of his throat.

“Just a toy, aren’t you- fuckin’ fleshlight f’ me…” Simon’s words trailed off into a moan, hips snapping harder, sweat dripping onto Johnny’s chest.

Johnny clawed weakly at Simon’s forearms, his grip faltering with every brutal thrust. Tears streaked down his flushed cheeks, his voice cracked open around the plea. “Simon- fuck- too much, too good- I’m-”

Simon’s hands tightened on his throat, grounding him in that rough grip. His hips bucked deep, burying every inch to the hilt. “Cum on my cock, Johnny. Like a proper little slag.”

The command broke him.

Johnny’s body locked tight, thighs trembling violently as the orgasm ripped through him. His whole frame convulsed, muscles clenching down around the strap as wetness spilled hot between them, soaking their skin and the sheets beneath.

Each thrust pressed the base hard against Simon's clit, dragging him toward his own release. He ground in deep, chasing friction, eyes glued to Johnny’s tear-streaked face as he came with a deep groan. His body shuddered violently, hips stuttering as his orgasm flooded him with pleasure.

After a few moments of panting, Simon finally loosened his grip, letting Johnny collapse back onto the mattress, chest heaving, hair plastered damp to his forehead. He looked wrecked, ruined - and fucking pleased with himself.

Simon leaned down, brushing his lips over Johnny’s temple, throat hoarse. “Good boy. Good fucking boy, holy shit.”