brain bugs moving and i just imagined captain price making you suck him off in front of all of the boys because that's where you learn how to be obedient boys.
tw: fuckass john price, boot rutting, being tied up, he's basically make her rut his boot in front of the boys and making her such his dick at the same time, he's mean. i like it like that ig
you don't know how you ended up on the floor, thighs trembling with want and pant pooling around you ankles, not even fully off, and hands tied behind your back with his belt, while you gushed through your knickers. eyes practically rolled back when his fingers dragged through your hair.
you were aware of the uncomfortable silence that the men worked around you with, your team mates basically.
your captain is a vile man, who knew how to put his subordinates back to their place. and perhaps a little too well now that you find yourself in this position.
between his legs, whimpering each time he thrusts his hips up, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. you wouldn't have thought that early this morning, that missing out on one paper work would lead him to fuck your mouth in front of all the men.
but then again it's captain, he's a mean fuck to you. never this mean, never so humiliating. perhaps mean in the sense he has you bouncing on his cock with the door unlocked, threatening that someone might walk in and see you getting off his cock.
rumours, he said, about how you worked up through the ranks just because you were such a slut.
but he knows that you're not like such, he knows it too well. losing your virginity to him, letting him have you whatever way, because it's your captain.
you need to be good for him.
it's humiliating, some of the embarrassment sits backs at your head, eyes teary because of it. but your brain gets fuzzy overtime as you try to make sense of it all when suddenly he presses the head of his boot to your soaking panties.
a squeak, that is mostly silence due to the fact your mouth is filled with him, the hairy happy trail over his pudgy belly rubbing against your nose as he forces you to stay still. you can smell the cigar he smokes, along with sweat and something musky that's making it harder for you to understand anything at all.
"come on doll," he encourages, let you hump at his boot a little, brain going mush when pleasure starts to build with each eventual shock as you grind yourself against him.
you can hear the way everything gets eerily silent, vision too blurry with tears of pleasure to actually make out what's happening around you. all you can feel is how your captain's hands caress your head and push you further down into him.
until he's cumming into your mouth, warm and salty that makes you choke and pull back a little, but he's hold you there, encouraging you even to still rut against his boot and get off.
it's a dirty sight, your panties sticking to your cunt and sticky slick over his boots shining. but there is this dull pleasure, knowing your team mates are watching you, perhaps the captain would allowed them to have you like such.
and you're still rutting, when he pulls himself out of your mouth, strings of spit dangling and you swallowing air.
you soon find yourself whining into his mouth, a kiss, aggressive as it can be, him mumbling about you being such a sweetheart, such an obedient bitch for him. until you're crying into his mouth, orgasm pooling into your under belly and hands curling up behind your back, where they are tied.
in my head simon is an absent husband who loves the way your body folds under him while you mutter how you love him as he beds you (what am i? a grandma?) i am also very delighted by the though of him simply not divorcing you cause you have a good cunt, and you moan good and having you means he owns something, you- the sweet bird handed to him like a golden trophy who would dig herself a grave if he asked you to.
thought about a mafia au where simon is a drug dealer, works individually and under the name ghost. it's his business wholly and price owns a fucking mob. they both know each other but aren't really acquainted or meddle in each other's business.
until you, the salty prostitute who works at the underground brothel bar and takes only exclusive client's because you're one of the customer favourite's caught simon's eye long back. i'd like to imagine something shimmering between you and simon, the general sexual tension where he won't really fuck you but book sessions with you just to talk about mundane things.
and people start to call you ghost's girl, cause some days he books long sessions and pays hefty to the owner and you.
and some days it get's on your nerves because you don't belong to anyone, specially this man who does nothing but speaks about things while you listen.
you can't help but wonder if he has any ulterior motives.
because you look sad, something which reminds him of something like a stray cat, and that you are. you get far too angry about things he speaks, annoyed by his presence in general, yet there is this gloominess about you and the room you are in, illuminated by the red and blue neons' that hurt both of your eyes.
there are some nights when simon does kiss you and does nothing more. maybe he holds back, maybe it's he way he kissed the corner of your eyes when you cried in front of him about everything wrong.
simon knows he wants you but you're not sure if simon does, because he leaves and comes back at days lenght.
and one day you catch price's eye because he saw you one day after your shift and decided you'd be his, in every way. because you looked far too good for this brothel and just for him, just for peace perhaps. for the way you snapped at him about your shift being over when he chose you one day out of the blue and you just walked out on his face.
or just john just being a possessive old man.
that's when price meddles in simon's business, i.e, ghost's girl.
over the dead sea, keeping you company.
simon ghost riley; smoke breaks with simon riley
he can hold his world between his palms.
a desire, really, mundane effects of being overly human for the past few days has him softened, edible in a sense. you can mold him into any shape you like, break his ribs a little, tear off his limbs. worship. vengeance. love. it's the latter one you'd believe, which lets him be an open book to you, with ink faded along time, unable to read except the few pages where the ink still remains strong.
the smell of cigarettes, an odor you have come to hate yet make peace with, it's stagnant in the air around you– you think it would have been better if you could start a coughing fit, fist over your mouth, making a dramatic face as you cough your lungs out. pulverise your sanity for this man, who's beside you, in his human skin even if he's something vile inside.
something that has made him believe that he's all rot and not enough flesh, decaying nerves and organic matter scattering his vicinty. the pungent smell of flesh, dead hangs in the air as he enters the room, you would have believed the same if the smell of earth and rot made you uncomfortable, made the insides of your stomach churn with bile and a strange auction of helplessness.
but you're as deranged as him.
or so you'd like to believe.
"stop smoking" you grumble, fingers wrapping around the small butt of the cigarette, a failed attempt to pull it off his lips. you would have pressed yours to his, maybe get him addicted to the stupid cheap flavour of your chapstick, or your own taste. you haven't reached there yet, it's a big cleft between you two and you don't think you'd ever cover it up.
fingers prodding at old wounds, salt being rubbed against the open gashes over his corroded skin. regret and formaldehyde sticks like sap over his being and he smells too strong of rage. fingers prodding at his wounds, eyes up at his, lips in a quirky smirk as his fingers wrap around your wrist to get you off. it's a mere thought, poignant wanton want of wanting him to snap it, the pain would be closer and much more rewarding that this fluttering ache between your heart.
"limits sergeant" he grunts, fingers digging into your skin, it will bruise, leaving an ache similar to the one between your chest, under your ribs, inside the small piece of flesh that accelerates its own speed each time he's near. it's very similar to your first meeting with him, annoyance lacing some kind of respect– a gun to your head as he tells you that you lose.
he's mean, because he thinks being mean makes him look stronger.
and perhaps, in a sense the world does see him as a monster more than human, eyes void of any emotions staring back at you all those months ago, something tangled inside your heart, a thought of being broken by him even if it may hurt you.
he's not a good man, and you're clearly not chasing good here.
you think you have known him life long, acrid need to be correct always.
you have known him. the cold kisses your skin, cheeks tinted pinks and lips turning down in a pout. he's not looking at you when his fingers unwind against your wrist and let your limb drop. the cigarette now crushed between his teeth, an annoyed downturn of his lips, clear displeasure on being touched by you.
a failed attempt.
as always.
a great star always needs to collaspe.
if life wasn't cruel to him, he would have been a better man if not this. whatever mangled being he has made himself into. it's cruel, in the way where you'd pity a dying wolf. it's cruel in the way you'd hold his face between your palms and tell him it's okay, but you can't.
the scant need to hold him against you is physically and metaphorically impossible in this world you both have built around yourself.
because at the end of the day, you're a replacement, some cheap plaster he's using to keep his heart intact. death has been an old friend, and it has taken him away in bits and bobs, chipped at the demons inside his head and ate him whole. it feasts on his grief and rage, his want to be more human than a monster that he claimed himself to be.
simon riley is a dying star, albeit failed.
he's the test subject of god, the experimental way of twisting a human just to have fun and see how long it takes from them to break, and simon does break, over and over again until it's all bones and bile for him and not much flesh to hold his heart. until his ribs crack underneath the rot and insect gnats eat him up wholly.
you're here, but you really can't stick around. can't hold him, can't wish to because this star will burn you and you're already fading.
"it's bad for you," you mumble, voice soft, too tender for the war hardened soldier military has made you into. simon gives you a look, something borderlining on ignorance, mock ignorance– he does this often, when he wants you away but not really. "lived long enough to know it won't woman" he grunts.
woman, the words echo inside your skull, more like an insult than a term of recognition.
woman, girl, child–
you're everything but those you'd think, in your head you're a vessel. silent. still. abandoned in the way women are. you could have named a few more, few more things that crawled under your skin.
would never see simon as a religious man, could see him in religious guilt in his mama's memory. god, i'm a sinner but imagining simon as a priest. religious imagery and widow reader with priest (father) simon riley.
simon riley who is the priest at the town's only church. he's the father, called holy by many. everyone believing that he's a good man; the man of god. he's everything but holy, with this putrid sense of morality in his head, enough blood for everyone's sins under his skin and bleeding into his mouth.
and then there is you, a widow. your husband dead in an accident, his body never found. you live a few steps away from the church, simon watches you dry clothes everyday from the courtyard of the church. he has thoughts, morbid in it's sense. a thirst bleeding into his veins; a taste of you.
you don't tell him how you saw him dragging your husband's body across the river. don't tell him how you found it odd that the ring that your husband wore now adorns father riley's fingers. you have seen him and his hungry eyes staring at you long enough to not acknowledge; and now it has become a problem.
a problem because he's at your house having tea, frowning as you mutter you issues. he can fix that, can take a bird with broken wings under him, can help you.
bird, just let me.
and he has got you underneath him, eyes rolling back your skirt bunches to your hips as his hands drags itself between your folds and hole, fingers soaked with your essence, his hands curving against your nape as he grunts how good he's gonna take care of you. it's filthy as he mouths your neck, bites, lustful: he's the son of god; he's the spawn of satan.
you arching around him, cooing so softly, It feel wrong father— , but whatever feels wrong is right. he has you in his arms, stupidly trusting a man who falsely claims that he's the man of god. he's worse, he's the experimental test subject of god, he's wrong.
there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.
tw: simon is bad at comforting so his next best option is fucking you? not a fic just a drabble, maybe a future fic. overstimulation.
something about simon fucking you while you're crying because he cannot comfort you. he's bad at that, what he's good at is making you cum over and over again over his cock and he's doing a great job at that.
"come on," he grunts, pushing your leg back to angle it at such a position that has you choking on your spit, legs struggling as you take him in deeper.
he has that grim look over his face, kind of concerned but none the less a faux satisfaction runs down his spine when you let out a whimper and look up at him, teary and all whiny while he fills you up over and over again.
one of his hands caresses your cheeks, colleting those droplets of tears and wiping them off while he runts into you and you let out another sob because whatever he had done wrong had dissolved into mind numbing pleasure with his finger over you pussy and dick hitting the sweet gummy spot over and over again.
"come on pet" he'd grunt, while picking up pace as your tears flow freely while you sob about being overly sensitive while he keeps on fucking you until you're have your n'th orgasm, shivering and choking as your mind goes numb.
brain bugs moving and i just imagined captain price making you suck him off in front of all of the boys because that's where you learn how to be obedient boys.
tw: fuckass john price, boot rutting, being tied up, he's basically make her rut his boot in front of the boys and making her such his dick at the same time, he's mean. i like it like that ig
you don't know how you ended up on the floor, thighs trembling with want and pant pooling around you ankles, not even fully off, and hands tied behind your back with his belt, while you gushed through your knickers. eyes practically rolled back when his fingers dragged through your hair.
you were aware of the uncomfortable silence that the men worked around you with, your team mates basically.
your captain is a vile man, who knew how to put his subordinates back to their place. and perhaps a little too well now that you find yourself in this position.
between his legs, whimpering each time he thrusts his hips up, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. you wouldn't have thought that early this morning, that missing out on one paper work would lead him to fuck your mouth in front of all the men.
but then again it's captain, he's a mean fuck to you. never this mean, never so humiliating. perhaps mean in the sense he has you bouncing on his cock with the door unlocked, threatening that someone might walk in and see you getting off his cock.
rumours, he said, about how you worked up through the ranks just because you were such a slut.
but he knows that you're not like such, he knows it too well. losing your virginity to him, letting him have you whatever way, because it's your captain.
you need to be good for him.
it's humiliating, some of the embarrassment sits backs at your head, eyes teary because of it. but your brain gets fuzzy overtime as you try to make sense of it all when suddenly he presses the head of his boot to your soaking panties.
a squeak, that is mostly silence due to the fact your mouth is filled with him, the hairy happy trail over his pudgy belly rubbing against your nose as he forces you to stay still. you can smell the cigar he smokes, along with sweat and something musky that's making it harder for you to understand anything at all.
"come on doll," he encourages, let you hump at his boot a little, brain going mush when pleasure starts to build with each eventual shock as you grind yourself against him.
you can hear the way everything gets eerily silent, vision too blurry with tears of pleasure to actually make out what's happening around you. all you can feel is how your captain's hands caress your head and push you further down into him.
until he's cumming into your mouth, warm and salty that makes you choke and pull back a little, but he's hold you there, encouraging you even to still rut against his boot and get off.
it's a dirty sight, your panties sticking to your cunt and sticky slick over his boots shining. but there is this dull pleasure, knowing your team mates are watching you, perhaps the captain would allowed them to have you like such.
and you're still rutting, when he pulls himself out of your mouth, strings of spit dangling and you swallowing air.
you soon find yourself whining into his mouth, a kiss, aggressive as it can be, him mumbling about you being such a sweetheart, such an obedient bitch for him. until you're crying into his mouth, orgasm pooling into your under belly and hands curling up behind your back, where they are tied.
tw: simon is bad at comforting so his next best option is fucking you? not a fic just a drabble, maybe a future fic. overstimulation.
something about simon fucking you while you're crying because he cannot comfort you. he's bad at that, what he's good at is making you cum over and over again over his cock and he's doing a great job at that.
"come on," he grunts, pushing your leg back to angle it at such a position that has you choking on your spit, legs struggling as you take him in deeper.
he has that grim look over his face, kind of concerned but none the less a faux satisfaction runs down his spine when you let out a whimper and look up at him, teary and all whiny while he fills you up over and over again.
one of his hands caresses your cheeks, colleting those droplets of tears and wiping them off while he runts into you and you let out another sob because whatever he had done wrong had dissolved into mind numbing pleasure with his finger over you pussy and dick hitting the sweet gummy spot over and over again.
"come on pet" he'd grunt, while picking up pace as your tears flow freely while you sob about being overly sensitive while he keeps on fucking you until you're have your n'th orgasm, shivering and choking as your mind goes numb.
tw: simon is bad at comforting so his next best option is fucking you? not a fic just a drabble, maybe a future fic. overstimulation.
something about simon fucking you while you're crying because he cannot comfort you. he's bad at that, what he's good at is making you cum over and over again over his cock and he's doing a great job at that.
"come on," he grunts, pushing your leg back to angle it at such a position that has you choking on your spit, legs struggling as you take him in deeper.
he has that grim look over his face, kind of concerned but none the less a faux satisfaction runs down his spine when you let out a whimper and look up at him, teary and all whiny while he fills you up over and over again.
one of his hands caresses your cheeks, colleting those droplets of tears and wiping them off while he runts into you and you let out another sob because whatever he had done wrong had dissolved into mind numbing pleasure with his finger over you pussy and dick hitting the sweet gummy spot over and over again.
"come on pet" he'd grunt, while picking up pace as your tears flow freely while you sob about being overly sensitive while he keeps on fucking you until you're have your n'th orgasm, shivering and choking as your mind goes numb.
would never see simon as a religious man, could see him in religious guilt in his mama's memory. god, i'm a sinner but imagining simon as a priest. religious imagery and widow reader with priest (father) simon riley.
simon riley who is the priest at the town's only church. he's the father, called holy by many. everyone believing that he's a good man; the man of god. he's everything but holy, with this putrid sense of morality in his head, enough blood for everyone's sins under his skin and bleeding into his mouth.
and then there is you, a widow. your husband dead in an accident, his body never found. you live a few steps away from the church, simon watches you dry clothes everyday from the courtyard of the church. he has thoughts, morbid in it's sense. a thirst bleeding into his veins; a taste of you.
you don't tell him how you saw him dragging your husband's body across the river. don't tell him how you found it odd that the ring that your husband wore now adorns father riley's fingers. you have seen him and his hungry eyes staring at you long enough to not acknowledge; and now it has become a problem.
a problem because he's at your house having tea, frowning as you mutter you issues. he can fix that, can take a bird with broken wings under him, can help you.
bird, just let me.
and he has got you underneath him, eyes rolling back your skirt bunches to your hips as his hands drags itself between your folds and hole, fingers soaked with your essence, his hands curving against your nape as he grunts how good he's gonna take care of you. it's filthy as he mouths your neck, bites, lustful: he's the son of god; he's the spawn of satan.
you arching around him, cooing so softly, It feel wrong father— , but whatever feels wrong is right. he has you in his arms, stupidly trusting a man who falsely claims that he's the man of god. he's worse, he's the experimental test subject of god, he's wrong.
there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.
Ghost x Hellcat!Reader | Dual POV | AO3
18+ | Dickheads In Love | wc 18.5k (so far)
cw: trauma, alcohol, ptsd, explicit sexual content, depression, mild blood kink, mild spit kink, stalking, no one is healthy, everyone is a bisexual disaster, guns
What happens when a loaded weapon (Ghost) meets a wild animal (you).
01. Kill of the Night (Part One)
02. Kill of the Night (Part Two)
03. Curse Me Good
04. Imposter Syndrome
05. I Don't Want to Be Funny Anymore
06. Wolves (You Got Me)
07. Calling All Skeletons
08. So Contagious
tw: simon is bad at comforting so his next best option is fucking you? not a fic just a drabble, maybe a future fic. overstimulation.
something about simon fucking you while you're crying because he cannot comfort you. he's bad at that, what he's good at is making you cum over and over again over his cock and he's doing a great job at that.
"come on," he grunts, pushing your leg back to angle it at such a position that has you choking on your spit, legs struggling as you take him in deeper.
he has that grim look over his face, kind of concerned but none the less a faux satisfaction runs down his spine when you let out a whimper and look up at him, teary and all whiny while he fills you up over and over again.
one of his hands caresses your cheeks, colleting those droplets of tears and wiping them off while he runts into you and you let out another sob because whatever he had done wrong had dissolved into mind numbing pleasure with his finger over you pussy and dick hitting the sweet gummy spot over and over again.
"come on pet" he'd grunt, while picking up pace as your tears flow freely while you sob about being overly sensitive while he keeps on fucking you until you're have your n'th orgasm, shivering and choking as your mind goes numb.
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