✎ masterlist of fics / drabbles coming soon...
do not translate, post, or put my content into ai tools. thank you <3
about ezzie
ezzie/ezrah/ez (any varriation is fine) | they/he/pup/paw | 22 | autistic
➢ this is my 18+ sideblog, my main is @kllrboyfrnd, so all my follows/likes will come from there <3
my guidelines
‣ i write primarily smut here! so, minors do not interact with my content!! this is an 18+ ONLY blog and i'd ask that you please respect that. i can't stop you from reading it, but please, for the love of God, don't interact with me. you WILL be blocked.
‣ what i write : smut + kind of dark content (this includes kinks such as CNC, however, it will be done respectfully and the before planning will be mentioned/included, as well as consent checks mentioned 'in the heat of it'. hard/extreme kinks like that, especially when written, need to be handled with the same care they are practiced with.), au's, fluff, perhaps angst, and lots of drables n' hc's
‣ fandoms i write for : cod and deltarune
‣ my hard no's : rape, incest (including step-cest), scat, vomit, beastiality, pedophilia, gore, fisting, raceplay, needleplay .
‣ i support (but don't write) the creation of dark/taboo content in fiction
Gaz having a partner who has a big collection of lip gloss and chapstick in every color and scent imaginable. And of course, you know he needs a kiss every day before he’s off to work.
And he knows what he’s doing. He’s torturing soap. Poor, terminally bitchless Soap can see the glisten and the glitter left on Gaz’s lips. If he sits next to him during a meeting, he can practically smell it. Vanilla, cherry, honey, strawberry, pumpkin spice, mango, bergamot, maple, raspberry…. Every single sweet scent that sends a jolt straight through his spine and into his cock. He’s close to pulling Gaz in for a kiss himself just to feel something soft and glossy again—
And Gaz may or may not also send Johnny a picture of all the glittery, shiny lip marks covering his hard cock after he gets home.
task 141 gets an emotional support therapy dog but make it a puppygirl!!!
18+ only, mdni!!! afab reader, 'good girl' as a pet name
price! who exclusively requests your services in his office. has you kneel at his feet and rest your head over his knee/in his lap. feeling your warmth there and reaching down to gently pet over your head from time to time is heaven to him. paperwork is a breeze, hard phone calls are less heated and snappy because you’re at his feet. he practically melts when your plush thighs are spread over his boot, chest flush to his leg as you hug him so tightly. not to mention the fact that you’re rutting against the leather of his boot so desperately. loves to spend his ‘paper breaks’ with his face buried deep in between your thighs, giving your already overstimulated cunt focused swipes of his tongue until you’re squealing and clawing at his t-shirt. fucks you so gently afterwards, placing sweet kisses all over your warm cheeks and down your jaw. always, always!!!, fills you up with his cum. thanks you for your services with a sweet kiss and a cunt full of his load. "thank you, sweetheart. you did such a good job for me."
soap! is one of two who loves to spend his sessions cuddling with you. pulls you to lay over his lap so he can run his fingers over the edge of your ears. soap always ends up adjusting your position, your face now in the crook of his neck so he can spread your pretty legs over his thighs. just rubs you over your clothes, giving your pubic fat a gentle squeeze and applying that perfect pressure to your clit. always teases you brainless until you’ve managed to wet his fingers through your shorts. only then does he let you get more comfortable, laying you back so he can spend all the time in the world eating you out. he’s so sloppy with it, leaving fat, sticky kisses over your slick lips, smearing his tongue through your labia, and sucking desperately at your clit. he's greedy with it, pulling orgasms out of you left and right until you're pushing at his forehead to get him to let up. "jus' one more, bonnie. c'mon, be a good pup f'r me, jus' one more." soap gets off on your pleasure, the dry sobs that pull from your chest are like music to his ears. the hiccups and moans go straight to his cock and with a few drags of it against the sheets, he's cumming in his jeans.
gaz! is another that likes to cuddle, but he mainly just prefers to have you in his lap while he does things. reading, paperwork, relaxing, doesn't matter to him. he loves running his fingers over the soft skin of your thighs and slowly dragging them up and under your t-shirt. one arm is slung over your midsection, pulling you as close as humanly possible just so he can whisper sweetness into your ears. "so pretty, my pretty puppy." he adores the little hums and sighs you let out at his praise and pets. plays the long game of ignoring the 'readjustments' you make, knowing it's an excuse to grind on his hardening cock. for sure is the one to make you ask for it. "what do you want pup, hm? use you words." pulls that line out over and over again, especially when he has you split open on his cock and barely able to speak coherently. slows down to an almost painful drag of his hips until you can finally get out a few words. "there we go, good girl. that wasn't so hard..." and then he's back to that perfect pace, strokes deep enough to make you feel like you're swimming. doesn't stop until you've at least come twice or get all sniffly. makes sure to fill you up and keep you nice and full on his lap <3
ghost! always requests you to accompany him at night. he invites you into his quarters and helps you strip down to just your panties, his hands rough against the soft pudge of your stomach and fondling the plush flesh of your hips. "so soft, m' pretty soft pup." he pulls you into bed, dragging your body closer to his and placing a gentle kiss on the nape of your neck. most the time, it's innocent enough (minus the groping that leaves your panties sticky). eventually, he'll slip your panties to the side and slowly ease his cock in, whispering on about "cunt feels so good, so good f'r me, pup." keeps you held close just to warm his cock most nights, giving a few lazy pumps just to pull some whines out before shushing you. when he does fuck? he for sure puts the muscles he has to use. manhandling you into whatever position he thinks will let him get deepest, grunting and groaning as your nails scratch at his forearms and back. "c'mon sweet'art, you can take it, yeah? be a good pup f'r me n take it." he's a mean bastard, slamming his cock so deep it for sure bruises your cervix. he for sure makes up for it when he has you sit on his face, crooked nose bumping your clit perfectly and leaving you squealing and pulling at his hair. you both always get a goodnights sleep.
i so badly need to write more in depth about how simon and kyle treat their sweet therapy pup. woof. two opposite ends of the spectrum i fear.
trying to force myself to finish this one simon riley one shot and i CANT. i haven't written in so long i feel like the gap will be noticeable when i finish it.
mean old man john price is eating at my brain wrinkles. ik that man is canonically no bullshit and to the point, ik he’s a little stern and mean with it.
ik he fucks MEAN. especially if there’s a brat on the receiving end. i truly think that man is at his happiest when he finally breaks an attitude streak with a couple well placed strokes of his cock and a some slaps. condescending dirty talk turning into actual praise once the snarky remarks turn to mindless, cock drunk babble. yeah,, just yeah. i’m also thinking this man gets off on his brat toeing the line of disrespect.. idk, something about breaking them down, correcting it, and then building it back up (and then the sweet gushy aftercare afterwards, DUH) is HOT. also firmly believe he’s into impact play corrections, some rough handling… mmmfm.
i need more mean price, and i have to write it, i will. i will expand further on these rotted ramblings eventually, i swear on it. maybe run through my personal hc’s for this man. he’s yummy in a way i cannot rationally explain. price whores get me, ik they do.
thinking long and hard about big guy tenna… mmfm need to crawl all over him like a bug, actually. like mario does to the queen bee in super mario galaxy 2… yeah
thinking long and hard about big guy tenna… mmfm need to crawl all over him like a bug, actually. like mario does to the queen bee in super mario galaxy 2… yeah
trying to get my cretive juices flowing again and i have brainworms, so have some gross pervert boss tenna. i need to make him cry so bad.
cw: disgusting pervert boss mr. tenna, gn!reader but referenced 'eating out', so take that as you will, mentioned blackmail (tenna receiving)
nsfw under the cut!
tenna who hires you to be his secretary because you're pretty. jerks his cock and tweaks at his dials with urgency after your interview, all because you called him 'sir'. he's constantly perving on you, calling you into his office to run through something, all while he's hard as a rock under his desk.
daydreams about laying you across his desk and eating you out until you cry. you'd pull at his antennas and shiver, calling his name and begging for him not to stop, he knows it. just by the way you say his name, he knows you'd moan and scream it so prettily.
constantly calls you pet names just to see you get all shy and flustered. doll, sweetheart, star, starlet, darling, gorgeous... all of them seem to rile you up and leave you tripping over your words. it's so cute he has to go pull at his wires and rub at his cock to the thought of it. god, he's so gross, and he knows it.
you always care for him, bringing him coffee and asking if he's feeling okay when he gets embarrassingly hard and flustered behind his desk. your concern makes him feel even more disgusting about touching himself when you leave, biting his glove to keep himself quiet. he'd rather die than let you know how often he thinks of you touching him and moaning about how good he makes you feel.
when you do finally catch on, he drops to his knees and pleads with you to not tell anyone (even though everyone most CERTAINLY knows because of how he stares). gets all sniffly and pathetic, begging you to forgive him. you're just so gorgeous, he can't help it! you have the upper hand, and even then he's hard as a rock thinking about how you could blackmail him with it!
he really is pathetic. a gross old pervert. i want to fuck him so bad it makes me look stupid. him and his stupid little sleazy ball ex-husband can get it.
sorry i haven't been active in... quite awhile. things have been a bit difficult in my life at the moment. lots of development here in ez land. i'm just going to officially go on hiatus for awhile, i might be back, i might not, i'm not sure yet. if you want to keep up with me on my non-cod-writing adventures, i'll be over on @kllrboyfrnd :3
depressed reader who feels like her life is going nowhere and desperately needs something in her life to change (she means like, new friends or a new hobby) x Ghost who's more than willing to bring some excitement into her life (read: drags her deep in the countryside and sets her loose in the woods so he can hunt her down unless she escapes first)
Simon asks you to take his virginity, just not in so many words. Or any words at all, really. 5.7 k
cw: virgin!Simon, PIV, oral sex f and m receiving, stop and start sex, lack of communication (typical Simon), poor writing, soft!Simon, hints at past trauma, contraception.
-
A Ghost shaped shadow falls over the table. Your eyes lift to find him standing there, the neck of his beer bottle held loosely in his hand. His mask is drawn down below his chin, revealing to you one of your favorite parts of him: his mouth. Simon has a pretty mouth, scarred though it is. Maybe you have such an affinity for it because it is so often hidden away from your sight, or maybe it’s what that mouth is capable of, being just as likely to crack a poor dad joke as it is to cut a grown man to the bone with just a few words.
He takes the seat across from you, the screeching of the chair on the floor lost to the ambient sounds of the pub. The others are playing pool (Gaz is taking all of them to task), and the place is packed with bodies, a cacophony of voices and laughter. Feeling overstimulated, you had sequestered yourself away to this little corner hoping to catch your breath and tether yourself back to the earth instead of spending the rest of the night in a dissociated haze.
The sight of Ghost is like a light slap to the cheek, rousing you from your stupor. Lights burn brighter. Sounds are sharper. If you wrack your brain you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve ever been singled out by Ghost, so you know whatever is about to happen is out of the ordinary. Leaning in, you lace your fingers together on the table top and nearly have to shout to be heard as you say: “What can I do for you, Ghost?”
“We should hook up,” he says. Then he takes a long drink from his bottle, eyes sharp and dark where they are narrowed in on you over the top. A sniper’s eyes.
“What?” you shout back, positive that you have misheard him.
He shrugs. He won’t repeat himself.
“Me—and you?”
He raises his brows, looking around the empty table as if to ask, Who else?
“Why?”
He takes another drink, and you see him mulling over his potential answers this time, sucking on his teeth as he thinks. What you wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall in his head. He’s got you on tenterhooks, leaning forward onto your elbows, fingers absently (anxiously) playing with a condensation ring left by someone else’s drink earlier in the night.
Finally, he says, “Why not?”
-
His hand rests low on your back as the two of you say goodbye to the others. You see the downright thunderstruck looks Gaz and Soap throw at each other at your announcement that Ghost is driving you home, but the deeper meaning hardly registers. Who cares if everyone knows that you’re taking Ghost home to fuck him? You’re both adults; you need no one’s permission. Still, as soon as you are outside, you press your palms to your heated cheeks, wondering how you will be able to face any of them in the future.
“You driving?” you ask him.
He lifts his hand, showing you the keys in his palm. He doesn’t open the car door for you—not that you had really expected him to. It isn’t as if this is a date. It’s just two adults hooking up.
Inside, he shifts the vents towards you and turns on the heat, soothing the goosebumps that had begun to bloom on your arms. He waits until you’ve buckled your seatbelt before backing out and onto the street. It’s only then that you remember what Soap says about Ghost’s driving. You wish you had a second seatbelt.
“So what brought all this on?” you ask, feeling remarkably shy in the passenger seat. You’re beginning to sober up from your drinks at the pub, not that you had ever been that drunk to begin with. Maybe this was a mistake. You’re already suffering from nerves, and you haven’t even gotten back to your apartment yet. How were you supposed to fuck Ghost without looking like a fawn, your knees knocking together coltishly, nauseous from anxiety?
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he admits.
Alright. Downright digestible news. Before tonight, you wouldn’t have even considered you and Ghost friends, necessarily. More like friend-adjacent, thanks to your mutual friendship with Johnny. It’s good to know that apparently you had caught his eye somehow, even if it was by being the only woman among a male-dominated group of friends.
You can’t leave it alone. “But why?”
“That’s what people do, isn’t it?” he asks, like he’s not a person, like he’s only ever heard about what it’s like to be one from a friend of a friend. “They think about fucking each other. Don’t you think about fucking me?”
Your mouth goes dry. You do. You think about fucking Ghost a lot than one might expect for how few minimal interactions you’ve had. Being perfectly honest, tonight is sort of becoming a dream come true. You’d had an attraction for Ghost ever since you’d met him, even before he’d taken the mask off and you’d seen that he has such a pretty face underneath.
You’d be willing to examine under a microscope your affection for aloof, seemingly unaffected men on a different day.
Ghost looks at you, trying to interpret your silence, the car swerving slowly into the other lane. You make a sound remarkably close to a screech and reach out to adjust the wheel, but he adjusts it before you do, batting your hand away softly.
“We don’t have to do this,” he says, eyes firmly on the road now. “I’ll just drop you off.”
“No, I want to,” you say. “It’s just—it’s been a while for me. I want to, though.”
Ghost casts you a doubtful glance. He pulls into your apartment complex’s parking lot and the two of you head up together. True to form, you feel his eyes taking in all the new sights: the man behind the desk who doesn’t even look up as you both enter, the elevator that was last inspected two years ago, the proximity to the neighboring apartments.
After you unlock the door but before he crosses the threshold, he reaches up and runs his hand along the top of the doorframe—and easily pulls away your spare key. For a moment he holds it between you both, staring. He seems nearly as surprised as you are by his own actions. Reaching out, he sets it down on the end table just beyond the entry and says: “You couldn’t find a better hiding place for that?”
“Goddamnit, Ghost,” you whine, slipping off your shoes. “You’re not here to assess my, my security measures. You’re here to fuck me. Will you get in?”
He comes in and makes a circle of the living space, his steps silent in a way you’ve never been able to replicate, not even here in your own living space. You cross your arms, wondering what he’s thinking. Does he think you a slob? A terrible interior designer? You told yourself that you didn’t care. The space was yours, and yours alone, and you liked it well enough. He could survive being in it for one night.
“What’s the verdict?” you ask after the silence stretches too thin.
“It’s nice,” he says. Then he amends, or perhaps adds: “It’s you.”
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment. Do you…want a drink?”’
“No,” he says, taking off his jacket and resting it on the arm of the couch. “Want you to c’mere.”
Your feet obey before your mind even thinks to question it, padding across the living room in your socks until you stand in front of where he has seated himself on your frayed, careworn loveseat. He looks up at you, eyes dark and all-seeing. His hands find your hips, testing the width of them, and he makes you feel like something small, something precious, something to be cradled in the palm of his hand like a gem or jewel.
“Sit down,” he says. So you sit beside him, close enough to breathe in his clean scent.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he says, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “As soon as you say you’ll let me.”
“I’ll let you.”
His lips are soft as they look, mouth warm and insistent as he coaxes you to part your lips and taste him—as if you need the incentive. He tastes like Price’s whiskey that he had sipped at the bar, like he would settle warm in your belly and everywhere else. His hand relaxes his hold on your chin, choosing instead to cup your jaw, suffusing warmth throughout your cheek.
It turns into the longest makeout session you’ve had since you were a teenager. You kiss until your jaw aches, until your lips are raw, until you’re throbbing between your legs. Each time you try to move things along, Ghost gently deflects your advances, seeming content to kiss you for ages. If this is how he fucks, it will be an all night affair.
“Ghost please,” you mutter against his mouth when you feel liable to burst, when he won’t even let you slip a hand beneath his t-shirt.
“Here,” he mutters, hauling you onto his lap. That’s headed in the right direction. Your thighs spread obscenely wide to accommodate him, lowering yourself until you feel that hard line beneath his jeans. Instinct has you lining yourself up until you can rub off against him, a choked sound rising up in the back of your throat at the blissful friction.
He sighs into your mouth, a trembling little exhale of air, his hands finding your hips and pinning you in place. Pulling back, he mutters: “None of that.”
“Why not?” you pant. “Feels good.”
“I’m trying not to embarrass myself. Work with me.”
The two of you move to the bedroom. You stand on legs that are already shaking, stripping clothes off along as you go: socks here, leggings there. The typical anxious thoughts have just started spiraling in your head—what underwear are you wearing? Have you shaved recently enough? Is the light flattering? When did you last change the sheets?—when Ghost catches you, looping his forearm around your waist and pulling you back against his firm chest.
“I wanted to undress you,” he says against the nape of your neck.
“I can put the clothes back on if you like.”
“Think I’ll just do the rest myself, if it’s all the same to you.”
His hands are remarkably gentle for his line of work as he helps you out of your shirt, your arms lifting obligingly to help him. The light from the lamp in the corner is actually quite flattering, casting shadows across you both in a way that is artful. His fingertips, calloused but careful, trace up the lengths of your arms and around to your back.
He fumbles a little with the clasp of your bra.
“I hate those things,” you breathe once he finally gets it figured out, coaxing the straps off your shoulders.
“Me too,” he says in that dry, bland way that you’ve come to associate with his humor.
All that’s left are your panties. He presses you back onto the bedspread and hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, peeling them off your thighs. Your legs try to close on instinct, but he is quick to wedge himself between them, thumbs finding the creases where your thighs meet your pelvis and stroking the sensitive skin until you don’t know whether to laugh from being tickled or cry from being teased.
“Fuckin’ pretty, aren’t you?” he murmurs, eyes on your pussy. Maybe he’s talking to it and not to you. “Want to get my mouth on you. Can I?”
God, how long has it been since you’ve gotten head? You nod, near frantic. Even if he’s no good, some effort will be better than nothing. Besides, a part of you has high hopes for Ghost as a lover; so far he has been thorough and careful, both points in his favor. He leans up and kisses you again, your nipples brushing against his t-shirt, reminding you that you are naked while he is still entirely dressed. He seems content, and as desperate as you are to see him naked, you’re even more desperate not to break this blissful little soap bubble you both have somehow managed to find yourselves in.
Nudging your head up and to the side with the tip of his nose, he trails his mouth down your neck, tasting your skin and searching for your most sensitive spots. When he finds them, he drags his teeth against them softly until your heels are digging into the bed beneath you, hips up and searching for any kind of friction, even if you have to rub yourself against his jeans to find it.
Ghost continues down over the plains of your chest, teasing first one nipple and then the other with his mouth and his hands, testing the heft of your breasts in his huge palms. He explores your body with an admirable single-mindedness, not the perfunctory, half-hearted way some of your past lovers had. His eyes are never far from your own, categorizing your reactions; for what purpose, you aren’t sure.
After kissing a line right over your navel, he grips your thighs in his hands and spreads you wide. That close to your cunt, he must be able to smell how desperate you are, must be able to see the way it drips from you. He ghosts a thumb along your slit, turns it towards himself until your slick catches on the light. That thumb disappears into his mouth, and it takes all your breath and all your thoughts with it. His hum of approval vibrates against your calves which are pressed to either side of his chest.
“Okay?” he asks.
You nod, unable to trust your voice.
He leans down and kisses your folds, chaste and sweet as he might have kissed your mouth. He uses the fingers of one hand to spread you open, and there is a rush of warmth as he lets the saliva pool on his tongue and then flood against your sex, leaning down to chase it with his mouth.
He is all merciful tongue and lips, no hint of teeth as he licks and sucks at that hidden knot of flesh at the top of your sex. He barely pays your entrance any attention—which is fine by you, honestly, his tongue is direly needed elsewhere—but shifts an arm free to sling it over your pelvis, palm resting over your mons, thumb pulling back that hood that seeks to keep your most sensitive parts hidden from him.
Your hands grip fistfuls of your bedspread, unsure if he’s willing to let you touch his hair. The noises—gasps and whines and choked groans—coming out of your mouth would have your soul leaving your body if only you could hear them over the sound of blood rushing through your ears.
He’s strong, fighting against your natural urges to clamp your thighs shut around his head. Instead he presses you open wider, leaving no where for you to run to or hide as the pleasure in your pelvis blossoms, swells into some sweet fruit that bursts all over his tongue, your back arching into a neat bow.
You find out then that Ghost eats pussy the same way he kisses. He seems content to lap you clean and continue sucking at your swollen flesh, and even though you don’t think you could cum again, it still feels good. You melt into the mattress, boneless. Against your better judgement, your hand finds his hair, tucking back the longest strands that just begin to tickle the tops of his ears.
His mouth stutters against you at the touch, losing its easy rhythm. He pulls back until he is out of your reach.
“Sorry,” you whisper, throat raw. Your hand falls to rest on your soft belly, feeling exhausted.
“You can touch. Just don’t pull. I don’t—“ he stops, like he is searching for the right words. “—I don’t want it to hurt.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Would you kiss me again?”
His only answer is to shift upwards so that he can meet your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue. His cock, still confined in his jeans, brushes against your thighs. One of your hands wanders down his firm chest, down his belly, til you can map the shape of his erection with your fingers. His biceps tense around you where he braces himself on the bed to keep from putting his weight on you, head dropping til his forehead rests against the juncture between your neck and shoulder.
“You should get undressed,” you remind him.
He lets out a breath through his nose that sounds suspiciously like a sigh, leaning back onto his haunches to tug his shirt off over his head. You stare, awed. He’s so thick, all over: muscles hidden beneath a nice layer of soft padding, chest hair broken up by the odd scar here or there. You reach out toward his belt but he stops you.
“I can do it,” he says. He stands and strips himself naked in one fell swoop, like ripping off a bandaid. He’s thick here too, just as you had suspected: thighs and cock included. Already you can feel the phantom stretch of him between your legs and in your jaw. It burns away the last bits of sleepiness your orgasm had given you.
Throughout your perusal, he stands still, at attention, mouth turned downward in its most comfortable frown, meeting your eyes with an almost obstinate persistence. You kneel up and crawl to the edge of the bed, letting your legs dangle off of it.
“Can I touch you?”
“Alright,” he says.
You start at his shoulders, tracing over the broad width of them. Everything about him displays his strength. Even his scars, which some might consider signs of failure, only showed his persistence for survival. You ran your hands across his pecs, pausing to toy with one pale, pink nipple, so soft beneath your fingers. With each breath he takes, his abs are thrown into sharp relief.
“God, Ghost,” you mutter, tracing a line down to his cock.
“I know,” he says dully, though what he knows, you’re unsure of. “Condom’s in my pants.”
“We don’t need one.”
“I don’t want any surprises.”
“You won’t get any. Here.” You take his hand and guide it to your upper arm where your implant sits just beneath the surface of your skin. He flinches, unsure what he is touching. “It’s my contraception.”
“That’s horrifying,” he mutters.
“Do what I do—don’t think of it.”
“Right.”
You shift backwards up into the bed, thighs falling open invitingly. Instead of filling the space between them, he lays next to you, rolling you til you both face each other.
He runs his calloused palm up the length of your leg and grips your thigh, tugging it up and over his hip until you are spread open for him. There’s a question in his eyes, a slowness to his movement that gives you ample time to deny him this if you don’t want it—but you do. God you do. You ache for it—for him.
He reaches down and slips two fingers into you, easy as anything in your wet, relaxed state. The fullness is divine, even more so when he decides you’re ready for that third finger, the one that stretches your entrance and makes you hiss a breath through your teeth.
Ghost doesn’t even fuck you with them, just leaves you stuffed full of his fingers while he kisses you more. He waits until you’re the one shifting and thrusting against his touch before pulling out and wiping your wetness across your tender folds.
He grips his cock, guides it to your entrance. Hesitates.
“Please,” you mutter, face flushed with heat, hoping he doesn’t want you to beg. You’ll debase yourself, but it will be painful.
Whether or not it was your word he was waiting for, he slips inside you, a near-unbearable fullness and pressure that has you burying your face in his chest. His own breaths are stuttered, shallow as he sinks as deep into you as your body will allow and no deeper. Once he’s inside you, he seems to relax, like some great race has been run, some threshold has been crossed and now he can rest.
“Let me know when I can move,” he says, running his hand up and down the length of your back, down over the curve of your ass.
“Not yet,” you beg. “Feels like you’re in my fucking throat. Jesus, Ghost.”
His cock twitches. You both suck in a breath.
“Don’t say that shit,” he mutters, breathless, fingers digging grooves into the soft flesh of your hips. “Lean back. I want to look at you.”
You uncurl yourself away from his chest, tilting your chin up towards him. The last twinges of pain in your cunt have receded until all that lasts is that ceaseless fullness. He moves at last, laying down his arm so you can rest your head on his bicep. Only then are you aware of how painfully intimate this position is. There is nowhere to turn away to, nowhere to hide. You’ve had sex with partners less intimate than this.
“You can move,” you assure him, hoping for a distraction.
He takes a breath so deep his chest brushes your own. The pace he sets is downright agonizingly slow, less thrusting and more of a solid grind against you that has you a shivering mess in his arms. There’s little chance you could cum at this pace, but it feels good, and all of it is strangely secondary to him.
There’s a look in his eyes. You don’t understand it. Is it tenderness? Genuine affection? Gratitude? You’ve never had sex with this much eye contact before, never felt like breaking that gaze could take you out of the hazy headspace you’re in. Ghost finds your hand and grips it—doesn’t lace your fingers together but instead holds them like a tiny bundle of sticks in his giant hand.
He rests his forehead against your own. His eyes fall shut for just a moment, and it gives you the freedom to examine his features freely: the low brow, the curve of his nose, the pink scars tinged pale purple in the low light. You feel like you’re seeing him for the first time. You feel like you’re the first person to ever see him.
That strange thought starts a domino effect in your mind, sets off a chain reaction, slides a dozen puzzle pieces into a Ghost shaped puzzle and all at once it hits you.
“Ghost—stop.”
He stills, eyes opening. Reverses, withdrawing from inside you. “What hurts?”
“Nothing,” you assure him. “But—I’m sorry. You’ve done this before, right?”
He doesn’t respond. He’s meeting your eyes, but he has that obstinate, pained look again, like he’d rather be looking straight at the sun.
Your voice pitches upward with a hint of panic. “Ghost??”
“Fucking hell,” he groans, rolling onto his back, cock slipping free and leaving you feeling bereft. The mattress dips, making you sway toward him. You shift away. “What gave me away?”
“Oh my god. You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Bloody wish,” he mutters, arm thrown over his eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“The fuck would I tell you for?” He sounds genuinely baffled.
“So I could—I don’t know! So I could have known!”
“Didn’t want you to fucking know,” he says, letting his arm down so that he can glare at you fiercely. At the sight of you huddled at the other side of the bed, naked, arms wrapped around yourself, the fury seems to melt out of him. His shoulders sag. He palms at his eyes briefly, like a headache is brewing.
“Fucked it,” he mutters to himself, going for his jeans and sitting on the edge of the bed to put them on. “Fucked it all.”
“You didn’t,” you offer hastily, though it does feel a little fucked. Suddenly you realize that your chance to fuck Ghost is slipping through your fingers like so much sand. What had started as a dream come true was turning into a nightmare, and you couldn’t bear the thought of letting him leave. Not like this.
At your words, he tosses you a look, and how a human can fit so much skepticism in a single expression is beyond your belief.
“Really. I just wish I’d known so I could have been better for you.” You don’t realize the truth of the statement until you say it. The last thing you wanted was for him to look back on this moment with disappointment.
He shakes his head and mutters: “You’re mad.”
“We could still—you know.”
He stops, jeans halfway pulled up his thick thighs. “What, fuck?”
You find a loose thread on your bedspread and twist it around your finger, shrugging. Aiming for cool and missing by a mile.
“You want to.”
“Well, yeah.” You abandon the thread, feeling too exposed. Tucking your legs up toward your chest, you wrap your arms around yourself. “Like you said in the car. I’ve been thinking about it.”
“About fucking me.”
“Are these questions?” you ask, face warm. “Yes, I think about it. Thought about it. I have thoughts.”
His lips twitch, a ghost of a smile, gone before you can imagine what a full-fledged grin would even begin to look like. “You’re serious.”
“Really serious,” you offer, sensing that he might be coming back around to the idea himself. Though you’re no vixen, you let your body unfold just to watch the way his eyes drop to look you over. You never knew eyes could be hungry. “Pants off? Please?”
He’s still and quiet for several long moments, but at length he shoves them back down his thighs, naked once more. He’s only half hard, but no less intimidating in this state. You eagerly shift to the edge of the bed and off, back down onto your knees in front of him, palms against his thighs.
“Is this okay?” you ask, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, aware that this is one of your most flattering angles.
“Go on,” he says. He sounds doubtful. You are too, unsure if you can find the same rhythm you both had going before. Unsure if you want to, now that you know him better.
You take one of his hands and coax it into cupping your cheek, then slide it back and up into your hair. “Don’t pull. No pain, right?”
Something hard in his expression softens marginally. His fingertips scratch gently at your scalp, a silent praise as he agrees: “No pain.”
Leaning forward, you nuzzle at his cock. It is velvety soft against your cheek. His scent here is more concentrated, masculine and warm. Above you, he sucks in a breath through his teeth.
How much you enjoy giving head usually directly depends on your partner, and Ghost is brilliant to suck off. Some might find him stoic or unaffected, but his expressions are just understated. When you place an open mouthed kiss against his shaft, his fingers twitch in your hair. When you take the tip past your lips to rest heavily against your tongue, he lets out a shaky exhale. By the time he’s nudging the back of your throat while you work the excess inches of his cock in your fist, he is grunting in between in sharp breaths. You find yourself becoming hyper attuned to his reactions until each minuscule motion feels exaggerated to your brain. A twitch becomes a caress. A sigh a moan.
“I’ll cum in your mouth if you don’t stop,” he grits out.
You pull off, jaw aching, lips slick. “I’d rather you came inside me.”
He pulls you to your feet and kisses you. All the kisses tonight, and this one has been the most honest, the most needful, the most raw. Had he never even kissed anyone before tonight? you wonder. It’s hard to believe that the answer might be yes. The way he kisses melts your brain, fizzles your thoughts.
“Ghost,” you breathe when he gives you a moment to come up for air, his mouth dipping low to your collarbone where he sucks softly.
“You know my name,” he says, mouth against your skin. “Use it.”
Simon. You have to say it in your mind first to get used to it. Simon. Simon. Then he finds one of those sensitive spots in the crook of your neck and you are whispering it, voice trembling more than you’d like: “Simon.”
“I like the way you say it,” he admits. “You’ve got a pretty mouth.”
“So do you.”
He snorts softly, shaking his head, like you have said something very silly.
“Up.” He grips your waist and helps you up onto the bed. You scoot back, making room for him between your thighs, and he fills the space so fucking snugly. His cock nudges at your sex and reminds you of how you ache all anew.
This time when he slips inside you, it punches a sound out of you that is remarkably close to a whine, your toes curling.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” you gasp, hands scrabbling for purchase against his broad shoulders, careful not to scratch him.
His head drops, forehead resting against your own, eyes shut. “Fuck’s right. Not a chance I’ll last after being in your mouth.”
“Wait for me,” you choke out, working one hand between you both until your fingers can find your clit. The angle isn’t the best, not with him so close, but it’s made up for by how blissfully full you are, by how Simon’s arms are trembling where he holds himself up above you. Briefly you let your fingers take a side trip, teasing his cock where he stretches you open, and Simon groans. Fuck, it goes right to your head. It makes you feel like you could walk on water.
You find his mouth and kiss him, kiss him til your head is light with lack of air, kiss him til your thighs are shaking with how close you are from your own expert touch.
“Fuck me, now, fuck me please,” you beg into his mouth.
He draws back until just the thick head sits inside you, giving your fingers room to work for a moment before he thrusts back in slow and smooth, pinning your fingers against your clit and that simple pressure—it’s enough. Your body bows against him, choked sounds lost against his mouth as he swallows them whole, fucking you so softly through the peak of your pleasure.
Simon stiffens not a handful of moments later, cock twitching inside you. The burst of warmth is pleasant, making you shiver. He drops down til his chest presses against your own, careful not to crush you with his weight.
“Don’t pull out yet.”
His softening cock twitches inside you. All he says is: “Alright.”
You hum, warm and sated. Sleepy. “You sleeping over?”
“Didn’t plan on it,” he murmurs, lips against your shoulder.
“But the walk of shame is a valuable part of the experience.”
“‘M not ashamed of fucking you,” he says.
You’re strangely touched. “Me neither.”
“Did you fake it?” he wonders.
“I’m no good at faking,” you admit. He leans up so his eyes can scan your face, looking for any hint of deception. Whatever he finds must satisfy his curiosity because he lowers his head back to rest against your shoulder.
He rolls you both onto your sides, and his soft cock slips free with a rush of seed. You make an unhappy sound in the back of your throat. Afterward is always your least favorite part, when you feel so empty.
Simon hushes you as he slips from the bed. “Bathroom,” he tells you.
“Through there.”
“Not for me, for you.”
“Why?” you whine, tired and petulant.
“Because pissing afterward is a valuable part of the experience for you. Can you walk, or did I break you?”
When you don’t answer, he grips one of your ankles and pulls you toward the end of the bed. You shriek, rolling onto your belly, but it’s no use. Looping his arm around your waist, he tosses you over his shoulder and carries you to the bathroom like you weigh nothing more than a sack of potatoes, which is patently untrue.
“Are you going to watch me go, too?” you ask.
“Kinky,” he says, already disappearing into the other room.
By the time you clean yourself up and take care of any “valuable post-sex experiences”, Simon has dressed himself. His clothes are gone from the floor in your bedroom. You can’t help but feel disappointed; a part of you really had been hoping he’d stay. Slipping on your panties and a clean shirt, you chase after him hoping he hasn’t left only to find him toying with your spare key at your door.
The way he reaches for your hand and draws you to him soothes some of the ache of seeing out. He thumbs your pulse and says: “I have to be ready to leave for work at a moment’s notice or I’d stay.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’re lying,” he says, pressing his thumb more firmly against your wrist. “Don’t lie to me, or I’ll know. Do you want tonight to happen again?”
“Are you seriously copping a feel of my pulse to see if I’m being truthful?”
“Evading the question,” he says, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Thanks anyway, for tonight. I’ll see myself out.”
“Yes! Alright, yes. Of course I do.”
His mouth quirks upwards, his grin a little crooked thanks to the scar, but no less precious. His thumb strokes softly. “I don’t need your pulse to tell when you’re lying. I just like to feel it racing when you look at me.”
You groan, burying your face in his chest. How embarrassing is that?
“Next time, I’ll stay,” he promises. “Alright? Repeat it back to me.”
“Next time you’ll stay.”
“Next time,” he murmurs softly, turning away. He takes the stairs.
i’m giggling. this whole thing was just so so so fucking cute. first times are supposed to be kind of awkward and weird, that’s what makes them hot!!! i also love how simon gives off this “i’m totally a sex god, what do you mean?” energy. even when the illusion starts to crumble for the reader, it really doesn’t for him and i’m all over that. it wrapping up so nicely with the teasing between the two is just a cherry on top. (also, the softness and tense moments ebb and flow so perfectly im a SUCKER)
kate laswell x f!reader | ~3.6k words
tags: alcohol, age gap (Kate is in her late 40s, Reader is in her 30s), cunnilingus, fingering, slight mommy kink, x2 'good girls', x1 'brat', porn with a dash of plot
a/n: kate isn't married in this. reader has hair long enough for kate to grab. happy pride.
Forty swipes deep into dating app hell and down to the dregs of a beer, the bartender exchanges your glass for a tumbler. Face smushed into a palm, you stare incredulously at the liquor. You definitely didn’t order whiskey. Definitely can’t afford it. Even at a dive like this, your budget demands whatever’s on special, tonight being Rainier.
You’re quick to correct the bartender. No way you’re overdrafting again. “Hey–I didn’t order this.”
A knowing smile curves his mouth, and he jerks his head over a shoulder. “No, but she did.”
It’s a surprise your neck doesn’t snap when you look and a second that your jaw doesn’t hit the counter on its way to the floor. The she in question sits at the corner with her arm draped over the back of another stool. Older than you, maybe by a decade. She looks like a suit or off-duty fed, with a dress shirt undone to the top of her sternum, a blazer draped over her seat, and sandy hair pulled into a bun. Your eyes linger on the triangle of skin below her neck, and heat rushes up your neck when they pan to her face.
Though the color is difficult to discern in the dim light, they’re half-lidded and fixed to you over the rim of her glass. She taps the top of the empty seat beside her—as if the free drink wasn't a clear enough invitation.
Not your usual type, but a drink is a drink. It’s polite to respond.
Your thumb swipes the app shut, and you pocket your phone, scooting off your stool on an invisible leash. A warm ball of excitement tugging you across the sticky floor, slowing time in your head. You ferry the whiskey like it’s some grand gift, desperately not wanting to spill a drop and make a fool of yourself in front of whoever the hell this woman is.
Her eyes drop, appraising you on the approach. You think you might be buzzing as loud as the lights.
“Hi,” you pass behind as her arm lifts off the stool, allowing you to sidle into the gap between and hoist yourself up. You set the whiskey on a coaster and tap it with a finger. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Hope neat’s alright.” She replies, head tilting slightly, body turning angling toward you. “Bad day?”
“Bad night,” you correct sheepishly. “I, uh, had a date but they canceled at the last second.”
Her tongue clicks, setting her glass down to undo the cuff buttons of her sleeves. “That’s bad manners. Their loss, though. You’re a knockout.”
The way she says it so casually, oozing confidence you only dream of, momentarily stuns you. You’ve been called ‘cute’ and ‘pretty’, but—Your brain short circuits at the sight of her deftly rolling her sleeves. Slight tan, a dusting of freckles, and a couple of interesting scars. Your eyes flick to hers, an amused smile telling you she’s caught you ogling for the second time.
“Thanks. That’s kind of you to say.” you finally reply, taking a sip of the whiskey in a move you hope exudes poise.
She tucks the fabric to one elbow and starts the other. “It looked like you could use something stronger. Thought a finger or two would help.”
The whiskey nearly shoots out of your nose, but you swallow after an embarrassing choke.
She merely chuckles and extends a hand to pat your back gently. “Of bourbon, that is.”
“Y-Yeah, no, I know,” you sputter and pluck a cocktail napkin from a stack, wiping your mouth and praying for a spontaneous, you-sized sinkhole to open beneath your seat.
“I’m Kate.” She rubs a slow circle near the top of your spine, then flattens her hand to rest her thumb on the nape of your neck. It brushes over the skin once when you give her your name. She repeats it, lifting her glass. “I’ll take their place for the night, unless you object?”
The assertiveness is a stark contrast to your fumbling and the coy indecisiveness of women you typically attract. The question hangs off her tongue, dangling like a worm on a hook. She wants you to bite, you feel it in the heat of her gaze, and let her in. She must be a fed with a focus like that; no way she’s corporate. You’ve lived in the DMV long enough to spot them. Can’t throw a rock without hitting one, anyway.
You smile, feeling the warmth of Kate’s palm through your shirt. “I’d like that.”
“Yeah? Good.” She sips, shifting further until her knee skims the outside of your thigh. “Tell me about yourself, kid.”
That does something for you, and you file it away for later. You mirror Kate’s posture, turning so your knees interlace. You know how intimate this must look to the handful of other patrons, to the bartender, as if you’re already a couple. Yet it feels natural, like you’re supposed to meld into the complete stranger because she bought you a drink. A breath slips out when her hand leaves your back, the angle too far to be comfortable, and drops to your kneecap. It’s like a game of chicken, all these small touches, and you kind of want to lose.
You prattle off the basics. How you moved to D.C. two years ago for work, how the city’s grown on you, and on a tangent, that you’re actually pretty lonely. It spills out of you freely, unable to look away from the steel blues seemingly hanging off every word. It’s the most attention you’ve received outside of work in a long time. It’s that and the whiskey, must be, why the butterflies in your stomach migrate to your chest, evolving into the thrum of a bird’s wings.
To your quiet delight, her attention isn’t the only thing she gives you—it’s her interest. She hums and affirms. She asks questions. Digs into the meat of the story you spout off about your shitty landlord. And she squeezes your knee when you share how you spent the last holiday alone in the city. You try to turn it around once or twice, though you abandon that line of questioning after she tells you she’s a ‘contractor’.
Before you know it, you’re finished with a second whiskey and incredibly warm and wanting.
Kate hits you with the Let’s get out of here and loops an arm around your waist outside the bar. In the cab, you let her slide her hand up your leg, stopping in time to eat up your pathetic whine with a languid kiss. Though she pays the fare, you leave a big tip—an apology for the makeout he couldn’t’ve missed through the rearview.
You float through the hotel lobby in a haze of alcohol and lust, barely appreciating the swankiness of the place. Whatever ‘contractor’ really means, it pays well. She practically lassoes you into the elevator with one arm, her suit jacket draped over the other.
“You can back out anytime.” She says, punching the button for her floor. “No hurt feelings.”
The blood in your veins itches with need as you grab her waist and haul her closer. You unabashedly stare, glossy-eyed. This woman, who’s been nothing but kind and attentive and generous—you want to return the favor. Tenfold. Something about her draws it out. “I don’t want to,” You whisper, the elevator softly dinging with each passing floor. “I want more.”
She smiles, hand fitting over the nape of your neck again like it belongs there, and reels you in for another kiss. It leaves you gasping when the lift stops.
Her room is a suite, another token of her apparent success. The best place you’ve ever stayed at came with a coffee maker. There isn’t much of a chance to admire it, though, since she plants you on the wall the moment the door clicks, latching it shut with her free hand. It’s a long, heated stumble further into the room, most of your clothes coming off with each step. It doesn’t hit you until she holds you at arm’s length to sit on the edge of her bed. She smirks up at you, tugging on the waistband of your underwear. Not to take them off but as direction.
You kneel between her open legs without a second thought.
“You still want more?”
Hours earlier, when your date texted a poor excuse to cancel, you didn’t think this was where the night would go. The weight of Kate’s gaze is heavy, almost as intoxicating as the whiskey lingering on your tongue. The anticipation is electric, and the view is…Well, you could get used to sitting on your knees if it’s her holding the reins.
You lay your hands on her thighs and feel the muscles beneath her pants shift. It’s heady, knowing someone this composed and enigmatic wants you, too.
“Yes.” You finally manage, hands sliding up to unbutton her fly and curling over the band to tug them down along with her underwear. Above, Kate chuckles, lifting her hips to allow you to peel them to her ankles. God, how desperate you must look when your eyes whip from her face to the patch of hair before you. Your mouth hangs open, drool already gathering on your tongue.
“You’ll catch flies like that.” she teases.
Her hand lands atop your head. No pull or pressure. Yet.
“But good answer,” Her fingers flex against your scalp. “Show me how good that pretty little mouth of yours is, shall we?”
Yes ma'am.
Without hesitation, you press open-mouthed kisses to Kate’s spread thighs, relishing the sigh of relief from above. You lay another on the hair above her pussy, inhaling her scent appreciatively, then give a few exploratory licks to her labia, avoiding where she wants you to wind her up. Something about a woman in control that makes you want to pick at a frayed edge and unwind her, even just a little bit.
The hand in your hair tightens after more teasing, a silent Get to it. You still spare a couple more wet kisses, then lick a stripe over her hole before slipping it in. Her hips jut toward your mouth, pressure finally applied to your skull. You oblige her, searching for more of the vinous taste coating your tongue. You think it might be the best night of your life when she moans, your hands joining your mouth to gently spread her open.
“That’s it, just like that…” She rasps, voice thin and shaky. “That’s a good girl.”
Your chest bursts at the praise, heat doubling in your cheeks. It cracks your eyes open, vision glazed. The sight of her, brow furrowed and lip caught between teeth—you did that.
You dutifully continue, responding to each jerk of your head with soft groans, each one a direct line to your cunt. Pressing your thighs together, you feel how soaked you are, the cotton sticking. By the time you drag your tongue up to her clit, her legs shake, thighs trembling and bumping against your ears. Kate’s trying to keep them still; the tension beneath your hands charged and telling. When you wrap your lips around her clit to suck, you watch her eyes roll back and square your shoulders to keep her open.
“Atta girl.” She grits between her teeth, the fingers in your hair tightening to pull you snugly against her pussy. Her other hand fists the comforter, the fabric crinkling in her white-knuckled grip. “Don’t stop,” It’s almost a whine, bitten back and forced into a grunt. You could die here, nose buried in her bush and tongue stuck to her clit, chin slipping through her wetness. Drown or suffocate. It’d be a hell of a way to go.
But she comes, eyebrows pinched and mouth wide, going stock-still and rigid until the tension snaps. Kate shakes through it, letting all of one moan loose before clamping her mouth shut, baring her teeth to hiss instead. Her hips buck, and you carefully move with her, intent on catching everything she gives, greedily lapping at her until she tugs your head back.
A wet sheen paints your upper lip to your chin, possibly your throat, and you stare, hands on her knees, up at Kate. Her chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, her eyes dark and color high on her cheeks. Mild carpet burn bites your knees, but you don’t dare move.
It’s like that for a few minutes. Her hand loosens its grip to pet your hair, her breathing gradually leveling out. Her scent permeates the air and your skin. God, even if you never see her again after this, she’s a part of you now.
“Up,” She suddenly says, standing and gesturing to the bed. “Take off the rest, then on your back.”
You scramble, wincing at the pops of your knees, but she doesn’t seem to notice. The clasp of your bra works with you, unfastening easily, and you shiver when the damp gusset of your underwear slaps wetly against your thigh on the way off. She grabs bottled water from the nightstand instead, drinking deeply, looking away at the curtains covering the windows.
Turning around, she twists the cap and sets the water aside, licking her lip free of a stray droplet. The pink tip of her tongue enough to expel a sharp breath.
Peculiarly, she leaves her shirt on but joins you, crawling onto the bed with a smile that might’ve passed for soft if her eyes weren’t so sharp. She leaves barely any breathing space, draping a warm leg over yours and pulling it toward her. Her elbow rests beneath her, propping her up with a closed fist to her temple. Her other hand drifts from the crease of your thigh, over your stomach, and between your breasts. Head tilting, her tongue darts out again in apparent study, drinking you in. Her attention to the physical is just as reverent as it is in conversation.
You cannot bring yourself to speak, afraid you’ll break the spell. But you twitch once, when her fingers ghost over a hard nipple, and she smirks.
“Yes?”
“Please,” You whisper, not too proud to beg, and reach for her hand. “Please touch me. I am so fucking—”
Kate tuts, freezing your hand’s approach, then softens it with a hushed laugh. “Impatient. If that’s what you want, then let me work.” She pinches the bud between her fingers, slowly maneuvering to her knees. “You were so sweet at the bar. Don’t tell me I’ve brought a selfish brat home.”
A frustrated groan slips out, stuttering into a whimper as she withdraws to sit on her heels. Your teeth catch your lip to silence another when she moves between your legs, not sparing a single glance to her prize. Her hands spider up your shins and down your calves. It’s torture, and she’s incredible at it.
Never in your life have you been called a brat past childhood, and certainly not in the bedroom. It pokes at that earlier inkling, urges it out into the open, but you stubbornly smother it. Maybe you are—but you don’t want to be for her.
“Kate, please,” you plead again. “Please, I just–I just got worked up when I–”
“Shh. I know. I’m being awfully rude. I’ll take care of you, pretty thing.” Kate purrs, finally lowering her gaze to your dripping center, and her lip curls. It’s calculated, the glacial speed with which she approaches your cunt. Situates herself nice between your spread legs, returning the favor of littering your shaking thighs with kisses, adding teeth into the meatiest parts.
Her nails lightly comb south through your thatch of hair, two callused fingers tracing over either side of your sex. A third finger teasing a trail through the wet, before dipping into the first knuckle. “Fuck,” she gaps, marveling at the ease. “You weren’t kidding.”
Surely you’d think of a smarter comeback other than the nonsensical babble you stammer instead.
Your stomach twists into knots as a second finger joins the first, easing deeper, thumb hovering over your clit like a trigger. Her fingers move slowly and deliberately, but within seconds you’re taking them to the webbing. They crook and drag against your inner walls, coaxing a stream of needy sounds from your lips.
“Wish you could see yourself,” Kate rasps, voice a hair lower. Brow narrowed with rapt attention. “Think you can take three?” She chuckles at the breathy little in a minute you force out. “Good girl, telling me how it is.”
Her fingers start to scissor and stretch, thumb occasionally tapping your clit to see your hips jolt. Your eyes are rolled back into oblivion when her tongue makes contact, and they snap open so fast you need to blink away black spots. Your hands hover over her head, unsure if she’s—fuck, if she’s—
She unlatches from your clit, giving it a peck before nodding at your outstretched palms. As if all business, she sinks back into your cunt mouth-first and closes her eyes with a groan. Your pussy squeezes at the sight, a needy whimper accompanying your fingers as they thread through her hair, ruining her bun.
Kate alternates between devouring your pussy and tongue-fucking your hole, showcasing an almost animalistic side to the controlled woman who charmed you at the bar. The sounds muffled by your thighs, so hungry and urgent, it’s almost too much. You suck your lip into your mouth as the heat flooding your abdomen steadily migrates.
“K-Kate, fuck, I’m close.”
With a wet pop, she lifts her head, face flushed and mouth drenched. Though you quietly protest, your orgasm dancing out of reach, you let a curse shrivel on your tongue. Her fingers slow to allow a third to prod at your hole. It’s a stretch, even as slick as you are. The two of you groan as she feeds them into you. She drops a kiss to your thigh once they’re in, gaze flitting up to read your face on the first languid push and pull.
“Yeah?”
“Y-Yeah, oh, oh fuck.” Your answer turns stupid at the insistence behind Kate’s renewed thrusts. The lewd, squelching sound drowns whatever shreds of coherency and possibly dignity you have left.
Her mouth returns, sawing your clit back and forth, applying pressure in tandem with the plunge of her fingers.
If she minds the number you’re doing to her scalp, she doesn’t show it. Her hair comes undone under your desperate hands, trying to fuse your cunt to her jaw. Tit for tat, though maybe she thinks as you do, finding a warm and wet pussy a suitable demise.
With deliberate timing, her fingers bury themselves, bullying through the tight clasp of your walls, and teeth graze your clit. They sever the last thread of control, and your vision whites out. Head tipped against the pillow and heels digging into the bed, you shatter, voice unrestrained and echoing through the hotel room. A sliver of embarrassment stitches through the silence after, the neighboring suites an afterthought.
Kate cleans you in the afterglow. Your legs twitch uncontrollably as a towel dips between your legs, brain too muddled to appreciate her undoubtedly flattering words.
She climbs into bed after that, tucking the pair of you underneath the sheets. You guess you’re staying the night when she folds around you in a spoon. She sighs, deep and satisfied, breath tickling your ear. “Good?”
“Better than good.” A tired giggle ekes out, snuggling into the bedding. Your eyelids droop, your head blissfully swimming from the faint smell of Kate on your lips. You swallow, unable to stop yourself from sleepily asking, “What’s after this?”
Her lips press to your temple in a prolonged kiss. Long enough to make you think you made a mistake. Then she whispers. “Sleep. A shower. Then room service in the morning.” She must sense your unease, though, as she adds, “We’ll talk then.”
You nod, half-lost to slumber already, savoring the figure eights she traces on your side.
In the morning, you wake to an empty bed and a knock on the door. One foot in post-sex sleep-induced delirium, you find a robe in the ensuite and greet an amused-looking hotel employee at the door. Cart in tow, they breeze past you, lifting a cloche from a mouth-watering breakfast and a small carafe of coffee.
“Do I need to…pay for this?” You ask, head as scrambled as the eggs on the plate.
“No, it’s being charged to the room.” The man says as he unloads the cart onto the room’s table. He delays his departure, though, and you get the message. He leaves with the last of your cash, and you spot a note tucked under Kate’s pillow.
Sorry to leave you like this. Duty calls. Take your time with the room. No one will bother you beyond delivering breakfast. You can reach me at this number if you need a finger or three, again. - Kate
You snort and shove a piece of bacon into your mouth to distract yourself from the ache between your legs.
Later, you consider adjusting your age preferences up a bracket across your dating apps before deleting them altogether. You send a text, and it’s under a minute that three dots appear.
Thought I'd send in a drabble request. (It totally doesn't have to be in the SDJ universe, whatever you want!) But I'd love to see your something where Soap and Ghost are just chilling together, maybe having a smoke or watching some new recruits be stupid in the distance. Talking about stupid shit (or reader). I dunno I just really love how you write their interactions. It feels really authentic.
“Sleep any, lately?” Johnny’s voice is accompanied by the crunch and roll of gravel under his boot, as he leans against the fence with Simon and digs the toe of his shoe into the ground.
Through the mask, Simon scratches at his eyebrow with the knuckle of his thumb. Why does he get so itchy when they’re talking about sex? Must be the phantom bugs.
“Still havin’ the dreams. Gets worse when I’m home.”
Johnny just nods, pulling a cigarette out of the box in his hand, then thinking better of it and shoving it back. “You think about what I said at all?”
Simon makes a very Ghost sort of grunt, letting the cigarette continue to burn between his fingers because some runners have come into view, and he doesn’t want to raise his mask just now.
“She’s pretty,” Johnny continues, in an off-handed kind of way.
“I know she’s fucking pretty.”
Johnny shakes his head a little, flipping the cigarettes upside down and tapping his fingers against the box. “Just think it’s one of those vicious cycles. You want her, so you dream about her, so you scare yourself—”
“I’m through talking about this. It doesn’t fucking matter, cause I can’t fucking do it.”
Johnny takes his time selecting a cigarette from the box, then just turns it between a finger and thumb, examining all the innocent angles of paper and tobacco in the retreating light of sunset at their backs. “You should have some fucked up sex.”
Simon turns his entire head to look at him, eyes narrowed behind his mask.
“Clowns…” Johnny drawls, pushing the cigarette back in with its friends. “Tickling… I don’t fucking know. Weird stuff that you’d never associate with him.”
Simon blows out that breath he does, when he’s slightly amused but pretends he’s annoyed instead. “You’re fucked in the head.” He watches his cigarette burn up towards his fingers, waits until the last possible second to drop it to the ground before his skin takes heat. They both watch his boot grind it down to nothing.
Johnny’s eyes stay pointed at the ground, wishing he had a better answer. He knows what the real problem is, because Simon’s said as much one night, after gasping awake in a puddle of sweat. How can he expect someone to trust him, when he can’t trust himself?
i really love you and your writing style. especially in the guideline, you mentioned that you don't write rape and incest. i swear to God, you have a room in my heart.
some writers(?) write rape and when we react, they blame us and say that we are weirdos. they think rape is a fetish, but no it's sth that should be fixed by a therapist.
i just wanted to thank you. and sorry for my English if I did any mistakes bc it's not my first language.
💜💜💜💜lots of love.
first, thank you for your compliment! i'm really glad you enjoy how i write, it warms my little ol' heart <3 i've got some more works cooking that i'm like clawing at the walls to get finished.
second, i simply don't write things of that nature just because i'm not comfortable with it. however, i hold nothing against writers who do. they're entitled to write whatever they please and if it's something i don't enjoy, i move on and don't interact with it. writers have the freedom to write whatever they want and we as readers also have the freedom to not read it, yk?
i just wanted to make it clear where i stand on that, ig. creative freedom is important to me, even if the thing that's been created isn't for me. i may not write dark content, but i support blogs and creators that do. for any of the other blogs that follow me and write things of that nature, i love you. keep doing you and i'll support you <3
