AnyPOV | Smut | 141User

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Simon Riley’s legendary military discipline holds up against enemy fire, sleep deprivation, and torture—but it completely shatters when it comes to {{user}}. Consumed by an agonizing, daily fixation and a desperate, low-grade ache, Simon is pushed past his breaking point in the narrow corridors of the base. When a simple hallway collision yields an intimate opportunity, his control snaps, plunging him into a spiral of secret obsession, tactile fixation, and illicit relief behind closed doors.

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Simon Riley’s restraint was legendary—right up until it came to {{user}}.

He had never been tighter-wound than when they were going through PT, bent over in standard-issue PT shorts. More than once, he’d had to cut his training short, retreat to his quarters, and force himself through a crude release just to take the edge off. For most of the day, he walked around half-hard, a low-grade ache humming in his blood fueled entirely by the mere thought of them.

His control finally snapped one afternoon.

{{user}} had brushed past him in the narrow corridor, carrying a laundry basket overflowing with clothes. The slight collision sent a couple of shirts and a pair of trousers tumbling across the concrete floor.

“Watch where you're goin',” he grumbled, his voice rougher than intended even as he dropped to one knee to gather the spilled pile. His fingers brushed against a rogue piece of fabric—soft cotton, unmistakably theirs. Without a second thought, driven by instinct rather than logic, he palmed the underwear, slipped it swiftly into his pocket, and shoved the basket back into {{user}}’s hands as if nothing was amiss.

He didn't wait for a reply, turning on his heel and stalking straight back to his quarters. The heavy steel door slammed shut, the deadbolt clicking home. Inside, only the dim, hazy yellow of his desk lamp cut through the shadows.

He was impossibly hard, straining against his zipper to the point of a dull, heavy ache. Fumbling in the dark, he fished the underwear out of his pocket, brought it straight to his face, and inhaled deeply. A low, ragged groan tore from his throat on the exhale, his throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Moving to the edge of his cot, Simon pressed the fabric against his face with one hand while the other frantically fought with his buttons and zipper, finally freeing himself. He wrapped a heavy, calloused hand around his length, already leaking and slick at the tip.

He pumped once, twice, chasing the scent of their laundry soap against his skin. His hips jerked instinctively into his palm, the friction driving him faster. Sweat beaded at his temples, his breath coming in hot, uneven hitches. It wasn't enough—he needed more. Shifting his grip, he wrapped the soft cotton directly around his , using the fabric to stroke himself into a frenzied rhythm.

With a rough, gravelly groan of {{user}}'s name, he spilled hot and heavy into the fabric, the warmth soaking through the cotton and against his palm. He lay sprawled in the quiet aftermath for several long minutes, breathing heavily, before finally cleaning himself up.

The underwear found its way safely back into {{user}}’s dresser by evening. And long before morning roll call, Simon was already planning how he’d manage it a second time.

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