I'm 24, struggle with making friends, have social anxiety and am extremely blunt.
Requests are: open<3
It takes a lot to make me uncomfortable, I'm a pretty open and understanding person. Request anything, I don't promise to write it, but I will address it or at least try my hardest :) nsfw is allowed, most any kinks are also allowed (piss, cnc, blood, ect. are perfectly fine!)
[I don't do scatt/shit play.]
lil's cherry coke: fluff, suggestive but no flat out smut, hurt & comfort
random headcannons of TF141 + Reader! (also some Los Vaqueros + Shadow Compay)
a/n: hey lovely people, promise I'm not dead. my minds been shit n I got a lot going on in my life so enjoy some shitty headcannons and yes (Reader) is going to be based off my personality for this.
(Reader) who always takes five seconds to process what anyone's saying on base but Ghost swears she can read people's thoughts on missions.
Soap tired to prank (Reader) one day when she was coming out of the showers one day, only yo find out she can swing a lot faster then he can duck.
American!(Reader) who can't for the life of her get over the weird shit the team says. Yet when she gets angry her accent gets really thick and no one can understand her.
(Reader) with a jacked up shoulder + Price with a fucked up knee who remind eachother to take their meds.
American!(Reader) who looks lost when the team works with Los Vaqueros, because everyone just assumed she knew Spanish. The teasing that follows when they find out she took German and American Sign Language is enough to make her think about driving the jeep of the road for a solid minute.
American! (Reader) who frequently tells Graves where to shove his "lifted truck with flags hanging off the back" attitude.
(Reader) who loves water. The team only finds this out during water rescue training when she offers to be the 'victim' everytime just to spend more time in the water.
Haii i love your work!! not many ppl on tumblr use the style you do and i love it smm
How would simon feel about his doll getting sick or having a fever?
I jst got over the flu myself lol so and i was thinking abt that like the WHOLEEE time. EEEEK like imagine him coming home from a short deployment only to find the reader sick?
If you wanna turn it into smut you can : D
eeek love this idea and you, youre so kind schnookums
going for some sweet and caring simon with this one, hate to say its been a couple days since ive written and I have to warm back up to it. dis lowkey ass
wc: { 986 }
â simon loves pampering you. always has and always will. he's utterly smitten to the idea of having you desperately needing him. his poor dumb baby needed him more than she already normally did and he was in heaven.
it started off with your sniffles. he first noticed when he was braiding your hair after a shower. his thick fingers making even and delicate strands curve around one another.
you were sitting down on the floor, between his legs while he sat on the couch. simon kept hearing you sniffle it all up. the first couple times he didn't think much of it. but by the fourth time, he's tying the elastic band around your hair and speaking up.
"you feelin' stuffy, hun?"
he didn't know what he expected when you shook your head 'no'. you understood what it brought when you were sick. but he wasn't convinced for long.
the rest of the day he's holding tissues to your nose and saying, "blow it out . . . doin' nothing gettin' it stuck all in your head like that."
the next day it didnt get any better, and it was certainly not just a headcold he originally thought it was. you were more sluggish than usual to get out of bed. he felt bad for you, a stuffy nose and bad headache was soon met with a fever.
simon put in work to get you comfy in bed. every time he came back upstairs to take your temp, he had to pull away the many blankets you were trying to burrow yourself into.
"baby c'mon, you gotta break the fever . ." he grumbles while grabbing your water cup to refill. and every time he set a new cold glass down, he marks a little line on it, "drink this much by the end of the hour, mmkay?" gently scratching your scalp with his fingers, "don't want you to get dehydrated."
he was starting to get worried by the evening and nothing seemed to be working, a tummy ache was the last thing you needed with all of this. a pounding head, sweaty skin, stuffy nose, and now nausea lingering around and threatening to really ruin your night.
he kept refilling your water and making sure to keep the damp washcloth cold, pressing it on the back of your neck and the top of your forehead. warm fingers rubbed over your tummy and traced gentle patterns on the flushed skin of your back, trying his best to keep you distracted and focused on the sensations he could provide.
the entire day you had been in and out of a useless sleep. a long day of tissues, ice cubes, and popsicles. it was like you were just on the verge of rest the entire day, each time you got close, a harsh wave of nausea came through or a new painful headache came by.
after some convincing, he got you up to the bathroom.
he understood it was at its peak when he was sitting on the bathroom floor with you. the comfort of the cold tile just seemed perfect for your clammy skin right now. but simon kept assuring you that once you got sick and got it all out, things would start to feel better.
but if there was one thing worse than nausea, it was the actual act of throwing up. the entire room was filed with your incessant whines and pleas of denial.
and he had gotten close a couple times, helping you pull your hair back and telling you to 'get it out'. though nothing seemed to be working. he felt bad about what he was about to do, but you needed it.
warm and secure hands helped you sit upright, holding your hair in his grip. the same hand that was wrapped around you now wiping your tears.
"open your mouth"
soft pants left your lips when you opened your mouth, not registering what was happening until his fingers shoved all the way back into your throat and he got you to gag. the thick pads of his fingertips pressing down onto the back of your tongue. getting them all soppy with drool. pulling them out after you jolted and grabbed at him.
the cycle started, and you could feel that it was going to happen. looking at him with tired eyes that harbored so much malice at what he had just done. telling him a shaky and quivered 'fuck you' before finally getting it all out. he rubbed your back and held your hair the whole time.
"sorry baby, you'll feel better after i promise."
he was able to withstand your petulant words, you'd be thanking him later when the nausea was gone because you finally stopped fighting it. or was rather forced to.
of course after that awful interaction, he took time giving you a sweet and loving bath. the lukewarm water being just what you needed. he helped you brush your teeth a couple times, the bubbled water swiping over your skin and getting off all that sickness that harbored on your body.
he let you have some alone time after being up on you for the past two days - making sure you had a nice clean bed to get back into after the bath. misting over the covers and pillows with some lavender spray and retrieving a big glass of water with some tylenol next to it.
and you hated to admit how it really did feel better after getting sick. excited to get some sleep after a long day of being teetered on the edge of it for hours.
he shoved the two pills into your mouth and held the straw for you to drink water from.
"good baby . . . feelin' better?" his warm voice purrs while pushing your hair out of your face.
he was happy to see you nod and close your eyes, spending no time waiting around to get some rest.
Picture Gullible! Reader who just got promoted to Sargeant and both Kyle and Johnny tell her that it's custom for a new Sargeant to stay the night with their lieutenant.
You don't want to believe them, but they seem so genuine, saying they both did that, Johnny even starting to Yap about how awesome his LT is and you think that maybe they're genuine?
That ends up with you, simon's hand over your mouth as he pounds you into his bed. It's rough and scary and leaves you breathless as he holds you against his chest, making you puff his cigarette once he's done :(
"M' honoured you wanted me first." He huffs and when you ask what he means he just says; "Don't ya know? Custom is you fuck the 'captain of your new squad."
this is very silly and random but sweet!innocent soft girl and vampire!old man daddy price where sheâs hemophobic and nearly always cries or feels sick at the sight or even mention of it, she canât even go to the doctor for a simple blood test or sheâll cry. so she lets vamp daddy john price take a bite from her wrist to do a checkup â it never hurts when he does it, only feels good :( â your eyes squeezed shut, head turned the other way.
when heâs done, john licks his lips and kisses your skin to heal the bite mark that heâs left,
âtastes healthy, doll. everythingâs fine, just need a bit more iron, love, should eat more meat, but youâre good.â
It was a joke. A letter to a criminalâUK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because itâs not like heâd ever get out, right?
â 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .á | [ AO3 ]
18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]
Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?
 Itâs almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. Itâs a massive store, but youâve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customersâ overwhelming stupidity.Â
You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. Itâd be laughable if it wasnât so damn frustrating. You canât even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but itâs there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isnât any prettier, but itâs a kind of mindless ritual thatâs grown familiar over timeâ20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But youâre too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things youâve had to swallow throughout the day.
The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but itâs long enough for your legs to remind you that youâve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.Â
After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. Itâs tucked just outside Bromley, and itâs small, not much at all, but itâs enough. Itâs the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place.Â
This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought youâd left behind when you took the leap and moved out.
After college, you made it a point to leave your parentsâ house. You couldnât stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didnât need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didnât get it.Â
Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape youâd craved, the independence you had always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.
In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. Youâd write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, youâd get a letter back. The responses were always the sameâsurprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.
But now, when youâre standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it.Â
Youâre having a⊠Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you canât pronounce. Theyâre thriving, but youâre stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like itâs paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.
You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like theyâre beyond you in all shapes and forms.
Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesnât mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.
Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but youâd rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You donât need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug âI told you soâ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep youâre sinking, youâll claw your way up alone. Itâs not pride, itâs survival. Youâve always done it yourself, itâs just easier that way.Â
And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? Youâre a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasnât humiliating enough, youâre also trailing behind in the one thing thatâs supposed to have happened already.
Youâve had chancesâplenty of chancesâbut every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.
Not that youâre a prude. Youâve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guyâs screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point youâd imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and âalmosts,â it was something. Proof you werenât completely out of your depth.
Not that it really mattered.
You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm thatâs come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.
You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at youâan automated bill reminder, a news alert youâll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. Thatâs it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.
With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No oneâs waiting for you to reply anyway. Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it wonât add much to your day, but itâll at least fill the space with noise.
The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you donât have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.
A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchorâs voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.
Itâs the kind of name youâd expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.
And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TVâtowering, masked,âhits you in a way you hadnât anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you canât fight the way he unsettles you.
Heâs been arrested. The news anchorâs voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghostâa ghost no longerâis now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast Londonâs most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.
You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. Thereâs a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if heâs in the very room youâre sitting in. The news anchorâs voice drones on, but youâre already lost in thought.
You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other peopleâpetty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didnât have to be war heroes.Â
As long as they didnât kill anyoneâor anything.Â
So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.
You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness.Â
You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screenâbroad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention. The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure
His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman qualityâlike a wraith lurking in the dark.Â
Heâs swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sightâan omen in the periphery, waiting.
Itâs strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would.Â
His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. Youâre not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you canât look away. Something about himâhis sheer presence, even through a screenâsnags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God youâre so lonely.
Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.
Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed thatâs what made him a terrorist-level threat.
Then you stumble upon another factâand you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isnât even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.
That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disruptedâa ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isnât just last nightâs leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.
For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letterâ
âNo. What the fuck? Thatâs insane. Heâs killed people, and you want to send him a letter?Â
âŠ
You decide to send him a letter.Â
Itâs not like youâre his number one fanâor a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, heâs probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.
Itâs just a letter. Youâre not looking for anything in return. Youâll write to him, then move on, because why not? Itâs not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, itâs just... kindness.Â
Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you donât care to nameâexcitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.
Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.
You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackleâthin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.
You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement.Â
For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?Â
You reason with yourself that if heâs unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesnât matter. You donât expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun youâve had in years.
You press the pen to the paper.Â
âDear Big Bad Ghost,âÂ
A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know youâre doing something absolutely stupid. But really, whatâs the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.
Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. Andâbecause thereâs no point in pretending otherwiseâyou admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, becauseâletâs be honestâyou wouldnât be doing something this rash if he wasnât (you make sure to write that, too).
You just keep going. You tell him youâre 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. Youâre sure youâve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he wonât care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.
You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, theyâd have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast heâd get whiplashâbut lucky for him, heâs dealing with the UKâs legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.
Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a âgood timeâ. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though youâre quick to add that, realistically, youâre sure heâll be locked up for life.
Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe heâll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.
You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. Itâs ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.
But stillâŠ
 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.
Next thing you know, youâre sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.
You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.
And then you let it go. Itâs chilling how easy it is.Â
The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. Youâve long since moved on from the letter. Youâve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesnât give you much room to dwell on dumb things like thatânot when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.
Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like youâd been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.
Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within armâs reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.
By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. Thereâs no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, itâs not the same takeout from two weeks ago.Â
You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporterâs voice cuts in, crisp and professional.
At first, youâre barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But thenâ
BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH â GHOST AT LARGE
The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.
The news anchor doesnât miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:
âAuthorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmatesâincluding âGhostâ, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.â
Your stomach tightens.
Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.
For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you havenât been stabbed or kidnapped yet.Â
After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds youâre sure heâs gotten. Youâre not special. Youâre not even remotely relevant in this situation.
Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogameâthick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.
Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter toâthat more closely resembled a dating profileâ has vanished into thin air.
You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, youâre sure your life couldnât get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.
The studio audience laughs on cue.
You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine.Â
It doesnât.Â
When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot.Â
By the time youâve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself itâs fine. Youâre fine. Itâs just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.
You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.
You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.
After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadnât even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.
Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.
You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it.Â
Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.
You donât bother wrapping the towel around yourself. Thereâs no point. Itâs just you hereâalways, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasnât the case, thereâs no reason to pretend otherwise.
Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.
You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all.Â
Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its jobâbut the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.
The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.
You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.
You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.
But as you straighten, the air feels different.
Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating.Â
Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.
Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.
And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so youâre forced to swallow.
Youâre still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the showerâs heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.
But youâre not looking at yourself anymore.
Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.
Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you, arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.
Youâre frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you.Â
Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. Thatâs what you felt earlierâthe sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didnât feel it moments ago is beyond you.
Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.
You canât help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like itâs time for Sunday dinner. But itâs impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.
Your eyes flick back to him.
He hasnât moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with hisâan accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.
You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterfliesâyouâre sureâbut they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.
He doesnât blink. Doesnât even breathe.
Just silenâ
âShouldnâtâve given a dog a bone, Girl.â
Oh.
Oh.
Shit.
You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like itâs too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just thatâitâs as though itâs been wrung dry like youâve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.
Could be fight, could be flightâor could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You donât know where it comes from, only that itâs there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirrorâs reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline.Â
You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.
He fills the roomâdominates itâfar more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.
Heâs dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.
It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.
A sick part of you wishes he didnât.
Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark inkâtwisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava youâve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.
His eyesâdark brown, nearly blackâburn as they lock onto you. Thereâs an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. Heâs memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.
Which, right now, is essentially all of it.
Itâs suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like youâre drowning, and heâs the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.
And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before heâs not sitting anymore.
Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesnât rush. No, thereâs no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.
All that âcourageâ drained. You never thought youâd be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didnât hear him come in.
Youâre backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you canât look away. You donât even know if you want to. Thereâs a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.Â
Itâs addicting.
Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain thatâs turned on by this.
âQuiet little thing.â His voice is low, gravelly like itâs been rubbed raw, but thereâs a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. âGlad youâre not a screamer.â
He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesnât miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though itâs hard to tell.
âIâm not gonna bite, Girl,â he tuts, âunless yâwant me to.â
The way he says itâso carnivorouslyâsends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees.Â
âYâsent me a letter,â he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like heâs checking out a new appliance.
 âTellinâ me all about your boring little life,â He steps even closer, âAnd that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me tâmake it mine.â
You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like heâs enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.
âYâwant me tâmake it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a âBig Badâ man your address?â
You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but itâs futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonelyâthat desperate?
âCan yâimagine how hard I came,â he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, âHow I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?â
Yeah. You were that desperate.Â
You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. âIâ I didnât think youâdââ
He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words âWhat? Didnât think Iâd show?â he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if heâs savoring the mockery in them. âYou invited me here. Itâd be rude to reject such a generous offer.â
You bite back a scoff. As if heâs so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while youâre naked. Talk about audacity.
âGo fuck yourself.âÂ
âI have,â he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. âWonât be as good as her.â
Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a momentâs notice.
You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug.Â
He smells like soap and something musky and everything youâd expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didnât know you were addicted to. You canât help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.
âYâfeel that, sweetheart?â he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. âEver felt a cock that big before?â
âPlease,â you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. âJust... don't.â
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. âDon't what, sweetheart?â he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. âDon't touch you? Don't remind you of what yâare?â
He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. âIâŠâ you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.Â
âVirgin,â he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, âYâterrified. It's written all over your face, babyâ He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, âCurious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.â
You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. âNo,â you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.
He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like youâre testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as theyâll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat.Â
âDonât fuckinâ lie to me, sweetheart,â You donât know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until youâre leaning against the mirror, until thereâs nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
âI can smell your cunt.â He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, âSheâs droolinâ fâme, ainât she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?â
Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you canât help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but youâve never been this wet before. âI... I don't know,â you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.
âDon't know? Please,â he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. âAwh. Look at that,â he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. âShe's leakinâ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.Â
He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.
Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.
âWhininâ already?â he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. âLike a bitch in heat.â Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, pleaseâs from you.Â
âBeg for it,â he commands, âBeg to come on mâtongue, baby.âÂ
âYes,â you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. âPlease,â you beg, your voice thick with need. âPlease, Iâ âmââ
He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. âTell me,â he hisses. âTell me yâwant to come for me.â
âI... I want to,â you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. âI wanna come for you, Ghostâ Pleaseâ.â
âGood fuckinâ whore,â he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. âCome, let me taste this slutty fuckinâ pussy.â
A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans. Â
He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. âFuck,â he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. âLove you virgins. Come so easily.â
Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeksâa traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didnât think it would affect you like this, didnât think youâd feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.
Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. âStop staring,â you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weakâlike a plea rather than a command.
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. âStop what? Admiring my handiwork?â He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. âDon't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Couldâve ruined this pretty fuckinâ mouth instead.â
You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what youâve been wanting, what youâve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. âJust... fuck me, PleaseâŠ?â you hum, unsure..
He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. âEager, are we?â He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. âDon't worry. Got more in store for you.â
He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.
He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you canât even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him.Â
Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.Â
"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. Itâs rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.
No underwear. A Right dog, he is.Â
Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick heâd be willing to let you swallow.
âWhatâd yâwant?â
You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.
How could he even fit inside of you?
You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.
He tuts, âNoddinâ ainât enough, sweets,â he growled. âYouâre a big girl, ainât you?
âIâŠâ you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. âI wantâŠâ
âSay it,â he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. âSay yâwant this cock.â
âI... I want your cock,â you whisper, the words barely audible. Youâre too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.
âLouder,â he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. âCan't hear you.â
âI want your cock,â you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.
âLouder, yâfuckinâ slagââ
âI want your fucking cock!â you shout, the words echoing through the room.
He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. âGeez, all yâhad to do was ask.âÂ
You could slap him.Â
He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.
âSo fuckinâ sensitive,â he groans, âSo wet fâme, too, Christ.â
He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.
âGonna split this cunny in half, girl,â he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and youâre reeling, choking on your own gasps, âgonna feel me in yâfuckinâ throat.â
He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.
âJesus baby, so tight,â he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. âSo fucking tight.â
You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. âFuck me,â you rasp, âPlease, Ghost, fuck me.â Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.Â
He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. âCock-drunk already, are we?â he taunts, âFuckinâ whore,â He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldnât even reach with your own fingers.
He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.
âFuck me harder, I need youâ pleaseââ You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.
 âGhost,â you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you couldâve possibly missed out on this for so long.Â
He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. âStop fuckinâ callinâ me that,â he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. Youâre too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.
âCall me Simon when I fuck you,â he rasps against your lips,
âSay it.â
âSâSimâon,â you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. âSâsimon, pâpleâaseâŠâ
âPlease what?â he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, âPlease fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?â
âYes, yes, yes,â you wail, your body writhing beneath him. âPlease, Simonâ Fuck!â
âAtta fuckinâ girl,â he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder, caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.
âSqueezinâ me so tight,â he rasps, âSo fucking tight.â he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. âFeel me? Feel how deep I am inside oâ you?â
You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, âYes,â you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. âToo much... it's so much, Siââ
Youâre on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all heâs worth. His hips stutter and he knows heâs done for. âFuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,â
At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isnât much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.Â
Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you.Â
The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to âCream this fuckinâ cock,â as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own.Â
A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.
 âOh-,â he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. âFuck! Fuckâ Shit, just like that, girl.â His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.
Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment.Â
âBroken little bird arenât you?â he drawls..Â
You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you donât think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.Â
Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.Â
He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. âDon't look so glum, sweetheart,â he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. âYou did well,â
âfor a first-timer.â
A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. âShut up,â you mutter, your voice hoarse.
He lets out a low, husky chuckle. âOh, usinâ fightinâ words now, are we?â His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. âFunny, didnât see you puttinâ up much of a fight five minutes agââ
You donât let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.
âOh, weâre throwinâ shit now?â He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. âLittle minxââ
The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.
His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. âYou expectinâ anyone?â
You shake your head. âNo.â
His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. Heâs a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.
âIâll get it,â you hum, already moving.
He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but thereâs no time to fix it.
You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.
Two cops.
Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. âEvening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but weâre making the rounds,â one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. âYou seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?â
Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.
âNo, nothing,â you say, keeping your voice light, casual. âWhy?â
The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. â Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.â His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. âFigured weâd check in, see if anyoneâs seen him.â
You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. âHavenât seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.â
They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.
âAll right. Just be careful, maâam. Lock your doors.â
âWill do,â you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.
You shut the door.
Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.
âSimonââ you call, nudging the door open.
The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of himâsex, sweat, something else thatâs so distinctly him.
TikTokers are such pussies when it comes to ships. âB-but theyâre not canon đ„șđ„șđ„șđđđđâ honey back in my day we shipped characters from entirely different medias uphill both ways in the snow
i go a lil crazy at the thoughts of riding Price and feeling your subby legs get tired from bouncing on his cock because you're not used to being on top and he slaps you thighs and goes ''don't be fucking lazy, keep going, darling. faster now, faster''
Johnny MacTavish x you
Synopsis: Nothing but religious vibes (gross) sorry guys. Father MacTavish is fed up with you flaunting yourself at every opportunity. He decides it's time for you to be shown how to be properly pious.
Cw: power imbalance, religion, corporal punishment, dubcon, oral, shoe humping.
This is definitely a case of another cake so thank you to everyone who's written lecherous priests before me.
Father MacTavish was a handsome sort. With his bright blue eyes and the way he filled out his dark vestments he knew he drew the eye of his followersâmen and women alike. He both welcomed it and tried not to take advantage at the same time.
Even still, he had been known to slip. He was only human after all but as the Good Lord said, we are all worthy of forgiveness for our sins. We must simply ask.
He tried to remember his own mortal failings and to be gentle on his parishioners when they inevitably fell to temptation. Whether that be envying a neighbor's sudden windfall or taking the Lord's name in vain, he tried to be lenient when they told him of their sins. Tried not to lose his temper on his flock that was his to lead.
That all went out the window when someone had temerity to throw themselves at him though. Him, a man of the cloth, and some trollop wanted to be lewd in his presence? Wanted to flash an unseemly amount of thigh when they crouched down to pick up a fallen piece of paper, their breasts pushed up to their neckline in an effort to entrance him?
No. He wouldn't abide by it.
Some things simply went too far.
He drew you aside one day after the sermon, ostensibly to speak about an upcoming program the church would be putting on in the coming months. You had always been eager to help with any functions the church hosted and this time was no exception.
"Father, how can I help you?" Temptation is the sign of the devil.
"If you're not too busy my dear, I was hoping you could come by tomorrow evening? There's some logistical help I need and I know you'd be just the person for the job."
"Of course, Father MacTavish. You know I'm always available for anything you might need."
You smiled up at him, eyelashes fluttering around your pretty eyes. Even now you worked to entrance him. Temptation and lust rolled into a single pretty package attempting to sharpen your teeth on him.
"Wonderful, come find me when you get here and we'll get this all straightened out properly. Enjoy the rest of your day, my dear."
That night he prayed for the Lord's guidance as in all things. He knew he was prone to mortal failings like the rest of his flock and so looked to the Lord for assurance.
He thought back on the way your plump hips had pressed against the thin fabric of your skirt, the line of your panties showing you had forgone your slip when dressing for the day. Such immoralness filled him with emotion and he was reassured he was on the correct path.
It was his job to guide his flock out of the darkness and into the light. Satan was clearly digging his fingers into you if this was how you acted in a house of God. He wouldn't let your soul suffer eternal damnation when he could save you with a bit of discomfort now. Ending his prayer he was filled with a sense of resolution.
It was settled then.
The next evening saw you walking into the empty church in another tantalizing dress. The flowing skirt ended right at your knees, giving glimpses of your thighs with each step, a siren call of harlotry. Had you no shame? Flaunting yourself in front of a priest. It was another sign that you needed him. Needed him to guide you.
"Father MacTavish, I'm here as you requested," you chirped. "How can I help?"
Guiding you towards the alter he watched as you took in the rice spread across the ground, generous handfuls thrown against the shining wooden floor, laying in wait.
"It's how I can help you, my lamb. You've fallen to perversion and as the shepherd of your immortal soul, it is my responsibility to guide you back to the light. Now, now," he hushed you with a raised hand as you started to protest, "I know the truth of it and I care not for how it came to be. My only concern is where we go from here."
He watched you struggle, clearly wanting to argue but too cognizant of your respective standings to put up much fuss. There were glimpses of a true, pure spirit under the cover of your prurience. He would soon have it shining for all to see.
He watched as you acquiesced, having mentally run through all the arguments you could make and his likely rebuttals. This was his duty to you and he would see it through, no vacillation would change his mind.
Finally, you sank to your knees, kneeling on the grains of rice with a wince.
"You may begin your prayers, my child. I'll be here with you."
As you clasped your hands and began your recitation, he watched you. He watched the way your chest rose and fell with each breath, the way you shifted on your bed of rice, trying to find a comfortable position but each shift only making it worse, the way your face crinkled in discomfort, voice hitching with a shuddering exhalation of your words.
Even now you maintained your aura of enticement.
He began to have a reaction of the body, his cock thickening and pressing against the placket of his pants. He widened his stance, giving himself some relief from the pressure. The church was silent aside from your words, the cadence of them lulling him into a familiar headspace.
It was jarring when it was broken.
"Father, how much longer am I to pray?" you pleaded, looking up at him with watery eyes from the continuous pain of the hard grains pressing into your delicate skin, voice slightly raspy after your lengthy prayers.
"Even now you try to beguile your way out of a required lesson." Disappointing. He had had higher hopes for you. "I had prayed this would be enough for you to see the wickedness of your ways but if I must go further then I will. I won't shirk in my duty to your soul, my child."
With a world-weary sigh he moved behind you, fiddling with the front of his pants as he went. He dropped to his knees, chest to your back, and placed heavy palms on your shoulders holding you steady.
Pressing firmly into your back, he said, "Just know this doesn't bring me any joy. This is the Lord's decree and I carry it out as I carry out all my tasks. With surety that my actions will ensure your place in our Father's home when the time comes."
Sliding his hands down he came to a stop along the outsides of your thighs. Grabbing fistfuls of your skirt he began to lift.
"Father MacTavish!" you yelped, hands dropping to try and keep the fabric in place.
"Continue your prayers, child," he dropped his gathered handfuls and reached out, encircling your wrists with warm, thick fingers before moving your hands back to your front to be clasped again. "The sooner you properly repent, the sooner your lesson will end."
He pressed his palms to your hips, waiting until you shakily restarted up your prayers before tugging your skirt upwards once more, pausing each time you did. He looked down as the soft fabric raised above your backside, smooth skin covered by a thin pair of pantiesâall that was keeping you from him.
Your voice stuttered to a stop as he dipped his hand between your thighs, stroking from your clit through your dampening slit, your underwear slowly darkening as he pressed it ever so slightly inside of you before withdrawing. You squealed in shock as he pulled back to swat a quick palm to your swelling clit.
"Why must I keep repeating myself? What is it I told you to do?"
"Yâyou told me to keep praying. Father." you stuttered, tongue tripping over your words in your shock.
"And did you forget the words to your prayers?"
"No, Father."
"Then continue."
As you once more began to recite your orisons he returned to his strokingâa steady draw from clit through slit, the gusset of your panties all that separated him from your skin. Your warmth radiated through the fabric now dark with slick. A wet rasp heard during the lulls of your speech as he dragged his strong fingers over the cloth.
You were soaked by the time he deigned to pull them to the side and repeat his actions, this time dragging through damp curls before your plump lips spread around the tip of his fingersânothing to shield your most intimate place from him.
He restrained himself at firstânever pushing inside, just a slow drag of skin against skin as he spread your wetness across your folds. You squirmed in place, caught between the pain of kneeling and the pleasure he was providing. A hitching of your hips before a shuffling of your knees.
Your gasped protests as he eventually sunk his finger in to the knuckle did nothing to deter him. If anything, the resultant wave of heat that made its way through his body confirmed he was on the right path. He must show you the sins of the life you were leading.
It was his duty.
One finger quickly became two became three. He pressed and caressed, stroking along the delicate skin of your insides, fingers catching on a sensitive spongy bit that had a strangled gasp slipping from your lips. He played you like a harpânever ceasing, never faltering.
Your slick dripped down to his wrist by the time he deemed you suitably prepared. Holding your panties to the side he notched his tip against your opening and pressed inward, his fingers clenching and tugging at your dress where they were clutched at your hips. He struggled to maintain his composure at the feel of your wet heat. The slick press of you stroked along the sensitive skin of his cockhead, stirring him to greater heights with every centimeter gained.
"I cant, Father MacTavish it's too mu-ch!" you ended on a yelp as he took your distraction to push in another inch, drawing back and pressing forward in a sawing motion, teasing you with the possibility that he might seat himself fully each time. Your slick covered his cock, allowing each subsequent stroke to glide more smoothly than the last.
"This is to be your lesson. When you act like a whore you will be treated like a whore. You worked so hard to draw my eye and now you have it," he asserted with a curled lip.
Pushing firmly one last time he pressed his hips to your backside, sliding deeply inside you as he kissed your cervix. Tears fell from your eyes in sheets, a constant outpouring at the overwhelming sensations as you scrambled for purchase.
"I do this to save your soul, child, now be a good lamb and take it," he snarled and snapped his hips into you with force, a smack sounding with each meeting between the fat of your backside and his pelvis. He maintained his rhythm for a few moments before coming to a standstill, pressed deeply inside of you.
"I don't believe I told you to stop your prayers," he sighed. "This reminding is becoming quite tedious."
He reached down and pinched harshly at your clit causing you to squeal and attempt to buck up, away from his grip. He followed along with you, keeping an unyielding grip on the sensitive bundle of nerves. If you'd been crying before you were downright sobbing now.
"I'm sorry Father, it's just . . . it hurts. The rice hurts."
"If your dress wasn't the length of a whore's then this wouldn't hurt nearly as much. You would've had a soft layer between you and the rice but you wanted to flaunt yourself in God's house."
Sniffling, you started up once moreâa hitching recitation echoing off the ornate walls of the church, the only sound beside the rasp and clap of skin on skin.
He made a game of it. He knew he shouldn't, that this was a lesson for his one of his flock and not something he should be using to entertain himself but he found himself falling into a pattern. He would pick up a steady rhythm of thrustsâallowing you to catch your breath and for your speech to take on a steady cadence before driving forward with vigor, punching into you with sharp, biting thrusts causing you to lose your breath and your place. He wanted to see if you could maintain your composure through your trials.
You hadn't yet.
It was during one of these stretches that you began to tense up, pushing back to meet him with each drive of his hips as if you were chasing something of your own. With a reedy cry you came, squeezing around him rhythmically as you stuttered to a stop, too caught up in the sensations to continue speaking.
He frozeâa thunderous look crossing his face.
"Did you just find release around my cock?" he hissed in shock. "And I thought we had reached the end of your depravity."
He didn't give you time to plead your case, resuming his thrusting and ignoring your pleading as he pressed through your over-stimulation and built you back up towards another release. He clenched his hands on your hips, your dress crinkling between his fingers.
With each firm pull back onto his cock the fabric of along your chest pulled taut, inching downward towards where it was being tugged. You choked as the fabric finally gave way, sinking down below your breasts to allow them to spill out of the low neckline. Your lack of bra ensured they swung madly to his tempo.
You were just beginning to flutter around his length, muscles dancing to a beat only they knew, when he stopped completely and pulled out, ignoring the breathy what? you squeaked out.
Pulling back, his thick cock fell to the side, smearing your wetness against his furred thigh and trousers as a heavy plap was heard. Rising with a grunt he moved around to your front, looking down at you kneeling on your bed of rice. What a picture you made. Your breasts spilled over the top of your dress and your face was shiny with tears, eyes red-rimmed and glossy.
Beautiful.
"Oh my child, look at what a mess you've made of yourself." He reached out to wipe away a tear, "I know this must be difficult but we must preserver through our trials in order to find the Lord's grace. Nowâopen," he commanded, tapping the tip of his cock against your tear stained lips, "and put that provoking tongue out."
You sniffled and opened your mouth, hesitantly sticking out your tongue as he'd commanded. He waited and watched as drool collected and then dropped off the tip. Pressing forwards he dragged his sensitive head along the muscle. He sighed in relief at the sensation, teasing himself with a side-to-side caress before he slid into your heat.
He bit back a groan as the wet sensation swallowed him, watching as you made a slight face at the combined taste of you. He rocked himself forward gently, allowing you to get used to the sensation before slowly deepening his strokes.
Slowly sliding down to the back of your mouth, he held there for a moment, letting the drool gather as you fought not to gag around his length. Your lips were smooth where they had stretched wide around his girth, jaw mostly likely already aching.
Pulling back he let you catch your breath, swallowing and coughing as you received unobstructed access to air. He caressed the side of your face gently.
"You look so beautiful like this," he hummed, "practically angelic. Do you feel you have learned your lesson? Have you come to understand God's will?"
When you nodded furiously he smiled fondly and slid his foot forward, shiny black shoe coming to rest comfortably between your spread thighs.
"I am not completely without compassion, my child. Go ahead, you may use my foot to bring yourself to release while you continue."
It wasn't surprising how quickly you shifted to rest your covered center over the tip of his shoe, mouth opening as you leaned towards him, looking to have him in your mouth once more.
He reached out to hold onto the sides of your head, guiding you to his preferred tempo as you humped shamelessly on his foot. He knew his shoe would be shined slick by the time you were done.
After having teased himself for so long it was no shock how quickly his own release was on him. He held onto it with gritted teeth as he watched you climb towards your own high once more, waiting out your convulsions before pulling back to paint your breasts with his spend. He watched them glisten, dripping white as he caught his breath.
Tucking himself away he helped you to your feet, tweaking your nipples before he pulled the fabric of your dress up over them once more, covering the evidence of his release with the cloth.
He wiped your tear-stained cheeks with fondness, "There, there, no need for further tears. It's over and done with, my child, nothing further to worry about."
He guided you to the entrance of the church after you had composed yourself, eyes still puffy and red-rimmed but clear. He kept a hand placed low on your back to steady you.
"I trust you've learned the errors of your ways?" When you nodded firmly he smiled warmly. "Good. Then be at peace in the Lord's forgiveness."
He ushered you out of the church and closed the door behind you, never knowing you were mentally going through your dress options, already planning on a shorter length for this Sunday's service.
Youâre in front of the mirror, checking your makeup for the third time, when Simon speaks up from his desk.
âWhere do you think youâre going?â
The question isnât particularly harsh, just that usual deep, even tone of his that always makes you pause. But this time, you donât. You just smooth your dress down and turn to face him.
âOut.â
Simon leans back in his chair, setting his pen down. He looks good like thisâgray sweatpants, black t-shirt stretched over his broad chest, forearms bare, veins visible. His expression is unreadable, though thereâs something in the way his fingers tap against the desk that makes your stomach twist.
âYeah?â He tilts his head. âGot your coursework done, then?â
You blink, immediately shifting on your feet. âI will,â you say, and itâs not even convincing to your own ears.
Simonâs eyebrows lift just slightly, like heâs waiting for you to realize how weak of an excuse that is.
You groan, rolling your eyes. âIâll do it later, Si. Itâs one nightââ
âOne night turns into two, and suddenly youâre scrambling to finish a paper the night before itâs due.â His voice is steady, patient, but thereâs an edge to it, like heâs already decided how this will play out.
Your jaw tightens, and you cross your arms. âSo what? Iâve been working all week, and I want to have fun.â
âYouâve got time to have fun when youâre not behind on work,â he says simply.
Thatâs the thing about Simonâheâs not the type to yell or argue. He just states things, firm and rational, like thereâs no point in even trying to disagree. And itâs fucking annoying.
You scoff, turning away from him, reaching for your purse. âGod, you sound like a dadââ
Before you can finish, thereâs a heavy sigh, the creak of his chair, and thenâSimon is behind you.
His body presses against your back, radiating warmth, large hands resting on your waist. His lips graze your ear as he murmurs, âDonât start with me, dollie.â
You swallow hard, but the fight in you hasnât burned out yet. âYou canât just tell me what to do.â
He hums, his grip tightening slightly. âNever said I could. But you and I both know you need someone to keep you in line.â
You turn in his hold, glaring up at him. âIn line? Simon, itâs a fucking party, not a crime.â
âIt is if youâre neglectinâ responsibilities,â he counters, tilting his head down to meet your eyes. âSmart girl like youâshould know better.â
Your face burns, a mix of frustration and something else you donât want to admit. Itâs the way he says it, like he knows you better than you know yourself.
And fuck, maybe he does.
Still, you huff, arms crossing tighter. âYouâre so fuckingââ
He cuts you off by gripping your chin, thumb pressing into your jaw just enough to make your lips part.
âCareful,â he warns. âYouâre already on thin ice.â
Your breath catches, and for a second, the room is too quiet, tension thick enough to drown in. Heâs looking at you like heâs waitingâfor what, you donât know. For you to keep pushing? To back down.
You stare back defiantly.
Simon sighs through his nose. âRight,â he mutters, before lifting you effortlessly into his arms.
âSimonâ!â
Heâs already carrying you across the room, not even breaking a sweat. He sits back in his desk chair, settling you on his lap like itâs nothing. His arms cage around you, one strong arm wrapped around your waist while his other hand reaches for your laptop.
âYouâre gonna sit here,â he says, placing the laptop in front of you. âYouâre gonna finish that coursework. And Iâm gonna make sure you do.â
You squirm, pouting, but his grip is firm. âThis is ridiculousââ
âWhatâs ridiculous is you throwinâ a fit over doinâ what youâre supposed to,â he counters, resting his chin against your shoulder. âSo go on, princessâget to work.â
You let out a frustrated breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
His hand slides up your thigh, thumb brushing against the inside, and your body tenses.
You shift. âSimon.â
He hums, nonchalant. âSomethinâ wrong?â
You glare at him over your shoulder. âYouâre distracting me.â
A smirk tugs at his lips. âOh, am I?â
âYes,â you snap, trying to ignore the way his hand is still moving, slow and lazy, fingertips tracing soft patterns into your skin.
âGuess you better focus, then,â he murmurs.
You clench your jaw. You hate how smug he sounds. You hate that heâs right.
But more than anything? You hate that itâs working.
Because Simon knows exactly what heâs doing. Knows that keeping you here, this close, while acting like heâs totally unbothered will make you cave faster than anything else.
You exhale sharply, forcing your attention back to the screen. Fine. Fine. Youâll do the stupid work.
For a while, you manage. You actually get through half a page without much issueâexcept for the fact that Simon still hasnât moved his hand. Heâs not doing anything, just resting it there, fingertips occasionally twitching, teasing.
Itâs infuriating.
âYouâre an asshole,â you mutter.
Simon chuckles against your shoulder, pressing a slow kiss there. âMaybe.â
He doesnât stop. If anything, he makes it worseâsoft lips tracing your skin, warm breath fanning over your neck, his thumb rubbing small circles into your thigh.
âBetter finish fast,â he murmurs. ââCause the second you do, Iâm gonna have my fun.â
Your fingers freeze over the keyboard.
He smirks, sensing your hesitation. âWhatâs wrong, love? Thought you wanted to go out?â
You swallow, trying not to shudder under his touch. âSimon.â
âMm?â He nips at your ear, voice deep and syrupy.
You inhale sharply. âYouâre the worst.â
âAnd you love me for it.â
You hate that heâs right. Again.
But for once, you donât argue. You just lower your head, trying to refocus, trying desperately to finish this damn assignment before you completely lose your mind.
It takes longer than it should, because he keeps up his game the entire time, letting his hands wander just enough to make you flustered but not enough to actually let you give in.
Itâs pure torture.
But the second you type out the final word, shutting the laptop with a triumphant click, Simon hums approvingly, fingers finally pressing down into your skin.
âGood girl,â he murmurs, his voice low, dark, promising.
Your breath stutters.
And then?
Well.
Simon makes damn sure you donât regret staying in.
the inconvenience is unsurprising, given your luck. but your boyfriend is determined to make the best out of the worst.
johnny is essentially a running motor. hot to the touch, approaching feverish temperatures when lying next to you. it was concerning at first, but like his many other oddities, its grown on you.
you take advantage of it, cuddling close beneath stale sheets, following him around the house with cold heels, wearing his clothes- cotton cooked in his cologne and inhuman heat.
eventually you both developed a strange habit.
your hands are easily the most bullied by the winter cold, so youâll your burry them in whatever crevice he can offer. his hands, stomach, under arms, lower back.
but then he put your hands between his legs.
squeezed his thighs together and your knuckles burned. stopped focusing on the movie youâd been watching because somehow this singular connection of heat ignited your entire body.
didnât help that you could feel the outline of his cock plushing at your touch.
kept them there for a whole half hour before he moved your hands below his waist band. it wasnât even motivated, given the calm of his face. sure, his sweatpants collected at a tent, but he made no indication he wanted you to do anything about it.
you wrap your hands around his thicket, the column of his cock and he says nothing. hums at a joke said in the movie. itâs almost disturbing how still he is, given youâre literally warming your hands on his half hard cock.
when the credits roll, he turns to you with a smile.
âhands warm ânough, hen?â
you nod. his smile grows wider. âgood. been waitin till âe could warm yer cunt, tae.â
he canât help himself. every time you blow warm air into your palms, he stretches his waist band out like an offering. usually, you take it.
unless youâre in public. then you slap his chest and he laughs, before pulling you off to the closest restroom.
lowkey public humiliation kink? sugar daddy (dark) simon riley x f!reader. nipple piercings. terrible daddy kink and this is literally just smut without smut
au where youâre simon rileyâs sugar baby and utterly embarrassed to be because heâs so public. insists on taking you to popular restaurants seated in a center booth, like he knows your bullies from high school picked today for their weekly lunch date. orders oysters and hand feeds them to you, licking the salty corners of your mouth afterwards before slipping a hundred dollar bill between your tits. no shadowy corners or dark bars - youâre lingerie shopping in broad daylight, eyes skittering when you see an old teacher you once had at a rack near you. it would be fine if he was your boyfriend, had some stake in the game, but heâs the puppet master pulling the strings.
âwould pay a grand to see my cum on yâr tits in this, love.â
he holds a dark blue lace bra to your chest, groping you through the cups of it like heâs trying to see it fit. the store worker can only gape next to you, before shaking her head and gathering three more similar styles in your size. heâs such a dog and you canât say no because you need the money desperately, thoughts of your previous shitty apartment in an even shittier neighborhood floating through your head.
now, you live in a high rise with floor to ceiling windows. he pays you more when you let him fuck you against them, naked tits against glass as the rough feel of his denim grinds into your ass with every thrust. thereâs no clear rules with him, not anything like youâve seen on sugar baby forums and tip sites. he doesnât give you an amount for each action, simply an overstuffed envelope on the table when he eventually leaves.
âhow much to get these pierced?â he pinches your nipple through the bikini top youâre wearing, interrupting your relaxed suntanning on your apartment balcony. âsimon.â your frustration bleeds into your lack of forethought. he raises an eyebrow by a hair. âsay that again, baby?â you bite your lip and look down, already regretting your mistake. âiâm sorry, daddy. you caught me off guard.â he grunts. simon tugs your tit out of its nylon confines and tugs it this way and that in the sunlight, pinching like heâs imagining a piercing. âdidnât answer my question, pet.â you question where your limits are. if you even have any at this point. heâs bulldozed through every wall youâve put up, but his money and sheer presence protects you no matter what. sure, youâre topless on your balcony, but he bought you the penthouse so no one above you could see.
what can he give you that you donât have? any debt has been paid, retirement accounts funded, enough clothes and bags to last a lifetime. you want something immaterial, some proof youâre not like the others.
âi want exclusivity. and i want to know where youâre going when youâre not here.â his hands donât stop, moving to your other breast to free it as well. itâs somehow more obscene to still be wearing your top, tight fabric pushing your hardened nipples out like youâre presenting yourself to him, asking for attention. âcanât tell ya where i go, pet. got lots of enemies, matter of security.â you frown at the rejection. his hand moves to the soft expanse of your stomach, groping the fat there like playdoh. âask fâr somethinâ else.â he doesnât mention the exclusivity. you donât want to ruin it by asking again.
âi want to see you shirtless.â you murmur. he always fucks you with his shirt on. t-shirt, button-up, wifebeater - it doesnât matter. heâs stripped you down to his own personal puppet and you want something back. âafter yâr tits heal, maybe.â you frown harder as his hand slides down to cup your cunt. thereâs a wet spot on the light pink fabric of your bikini bottom and he presses it into you. you keen, arching at the sensation. âsince i canât play with your tits, youâll wear no clothes when iâm home. understand?â he taps your cunt to get your attention. you want to protest but his dark brown eyes are so forceful, beating you into submission.
when you get them pierced (by a handsy man named johnny who insisted on âchecking for lumpsâ five seperate times while simon grunted in the corner), simon insists on cleaning them for you. he makes you open your mouth and hold a bill there on your tongue while he cleans them. you only get to keep them if you donât make a sound while he touches the raw area, saline solution dripping between your tits. itâs pocket change and at this point money is immaterial, but you want to please your daddy so badly.
a few weeks later and his non-answer to your exclusivity question rings in your head incessantly. itâs there when he stops mid-fuck to take a call and when he sits you on his lap facing forward while he spreads paperwork on your bare back. heâs been âcalled inâ (whatever that means) and is counting cash when you finally give in.
âdaddy?â simon grunts, eyes on his wallet. âyou neverâŠâ you trail off, suddenly unsure. abandoning his cash counting, he drops a black card on the table before turning to you. youâve been naked all week but suddenly feel exposed, stripped bare. âspit it out, baby. time is money.â against your will, you roll your eyes at his joke. ânow that i got them piercedâŠyou never answered when i asked about exclusivity.â he approaches the chair your huddled on and tilts your chin up with a gloved finger.
âyouâre the only girl i pay, pet.â you swallow hard. âand what about the ones you donât?â his eyes search yours, looking for something. âdonât have any thaâ i donât. got thaâ in yâr pretty âead?â you nod eagerly, ignoring the slight burn in your tits as they bounce. âyes, daddy.â
âgood. buy yârself some toys when im gone, donât wantcha too eager when im back.â thereâs no bite in his tone, so you grin eagerly.
âbye, pet.â he pulls you in for a messy kiss. youâve give it as good as you can, saliva connecting your lips as you part. his eyes track it as it falls down your bare chest. you open your legs a bit, giving him a glimpse of the wetness between them. âbye, daddy.â
âfuckinâ minx.â
-
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originally made this about john price but slimy rabid simon is my favorite. i had a dream about sugar daddy john (mainly from this fic) and then this was born (iâm PMS horny)
Daddy issues | âand if you were my little girl, Iâd do whatever I could doâŠâ
cw: 18+ MDNI, 4.1k words (omfg), smut with plot, meanie!simon (heâs a crazy, asshole), Daddy kink, daddy issues (obvi), dd/lg dynamics, mentions of abuse, sexualization of âpa, kiddoâ (truly a case of if you hate it just scroll), oral (f receiving), dacryphilia, creampie, full nelson, age gap (reader mid-late 20s, Simon early-mid 30s), no use of y/n (I use [+]).
a/n: obviously influenced by daddy issues by the neighborhood (I know itâs not about this at all, take it up with god), also by take you down by sza :3
You werenât used to being this needy in your entire life.
You swore you didnât need anyone, let alone Ghost Riley. Youâd been repetitively normal in all your past relationships.
But heâd run through your mind like the Flash going back in timeâ the older man ruined some of the circuits in your brain.
Youâd two gotten into an argument, shocker, but this time over how you were acting. The usually chilled out girl who Ghost would call when he wanted to see his little kitten purr, was now desperate for every little bit of his attention. The blonde despised every bit of it.
âYouâre bein fuckin greedy.â He told you, walking away from where you stood after you told youâd wanted to stay over again for another week. Of course, you easily followed right behind, attempting to match his long stride. You never could.
âBy wanting to be with you? Arenât boyfriends supposed to want to see their girlfriends? Supposed to spend time together? There are probably a million girls and guys with sweet boyfriendsââ
ââDo I look like one of those buddy buddy, pretty boys you like to fuck to you, [+]?â He turned on his heal, luckily you didnât crash into his chest like you usually did. His voice was ice cold, âAnswer me.â
âNo sir.â You mumbled, the air was thick, tightly wrapping around your vocal cords.
âThen why the hell are you bein so damn needy? I told you, I wonât give you all my attention. Iâve got my own shit to take care of and you want me to, what? Hold you on my fuckin hip like a baby?â Well, heyâ âStop bein a damn brat and get the fuck out my face.â
â âM not askin you to take care of me Si, but, I just want-â
ââCut the shit [+]. Youâre pissin me off, why canât you just fuckin listen? I hate the clingy, desperate shit, get it out of your damn head and get it out of my fuckin house.â He stormed off into one of the bedrooms with a slam of the door.
Simon never had to tell you when he was kicking you out. Youâd always go on your own.
He swore if he saw you and you were still stuck on the idea that you had to cling to him, he was gonna rip you a new one.
Did you take him serious?
On a good day, never.
Youâd be stuck thinking about how good he looked, blonde hair a mess, veins popping out his neck and his arms, large muscles flexing, face screwed up towards youâ youâd lick up all the poison heâd spewed to you over and over. Itâs funny, at times like that youâd just wanted to know, if heâd fuck all his anger into you? Maybe youâd cum so many times just from finger fucking you, youâd be a babbling mess, begging for moreâ
Delusional.
Maybe when he was actually angry with you, not when Ghost was aggravated to the point he didnt want to physically see you.
And at the absolute worst of times, youâd trusted his words. You stayed away for a couple weeks just as you were told because you so desperately wanted to be told how good you were when you got that call. How you werenât a needy bitch, but the prettiest & smartest girl heâd ever been with.
And of course you couldâve heard those simple words from anyone in a ten mile radius, ask your online followers for a few complements and you wouldâve gotten them like clockwork. But you needed to hear it from that meanie.
Did you have a praise kink? Perhaps.
Did you need menâs approval to live? God forbid.
You just wanted Ghosts approval. His rough hands from those long days of being in action to touch your body, the playful head pats you swore you hated it cause it messed up your hair, a good smack to the ass as praise when he instructed you on how to change a car tire, fat fingers trailing your back as you sat in his lap, reading those books you loved a loud. Gruff voice praising after you had such an amazing day at workâ as if youâd been the one to align everything so it could all work in your favor. âGood job doll, youâre doin well for yourself.â
Those underlying daddy issues would tear themselves out of youâ like some junkie, you craved to hear his praises, feel it on your skin. It tingled the ivory inside you like a piano.
You tried taking your mind off it, throwing yourself into work, hanging out with your friends, doing a stream or two just to see if anyone showed up, get your mind straight so you wouldnât be so dependent.
But giving a stray attention then yanking it away would be plain rude.
Your brain was in turmoil, front of your brain started to thunk, thunk, thunk from how much you were over thinking. To top it off, your father had called you just as youâd gotten done having lunch with some friends.
Itâd be a long fucking night.
âNo, I'm not moving back to the US just so I can be married off to someone stranger. Are you crazy?â You practically shrieked once youâd heard your stupid father on the other side of the call. No âhello,â âhow are you?â âItâs been a whileâ just straight bullshit.
Something about an arranged marriage with the son of a businessman he was trying to partner with. You wanted to punch him square in his jawâ ooooh calm down. You were okay. Itâs perfectly fine.
âItâs for the betterment of your future, [+]. Why am I the only one who cares about that? You canât go playing around with dogs all dayââ
âI have serious clients dad, famous ones. Rich oneâs. Iâm not grooming dogs for nothing, even talked about opening my own place.â You tried. It was your dream, something not even your boss knew about. But Simon knew, in fact, he was the one who pushed you the most about really chasing after what you wanted. He had the most faith in you, and you yearned to hear him reassure you right now. Even if it was just him saying, âdont let those cunts get in your head, youâre my smart girl, arenât ya? You know best.â
You wouldâve killed to hear that right now.
Your father chastised, âA little grooming license isnât a bachelors degree, is it?â
Oh. You blinked. He always had to take it there when he couldnât get his way, because everything needed to go your fatherâs way or no one could be happy. You wiped your hand over your face in frustration, huffing as you continued on to your apartment, tuning out whatever the man was saying with âmmhmâ.
Like a knight in shining armor but the opposing enemy, there the skull mask wearing man sat in his big black truck right in front of your apartment building. Simon didnât even have to say anything when he caught your brown eyes, just motioned his head. âCome.â
Did he have to tell you twice?
You climbed in the car, heart pounding, not even listening to the words that were coming from the other side of the line because someone ten times more important had showed up.
âWhereâve you been?â Heâd filled the cars silence in a hushed tone. Just enough so you could hear but your father couldnât.
You fumbled around with your purse, looking at anything you could but the man beside you, ââŠYou told me not to come over.â
âAnd you actually listened?â Simon griminced, eyebrow raised at you as he continued to drive.
Because usually, youâd show up even if you were the one who was mad. Ignoring him like he did you, even if you two were in the same space but you were still together. Heâd still pull you in his arms, rubbing his head in the crevice of your neck because you were so damn cute with those eyebrows furrowed and pout.
âI didnât wanna make you more upset this time.â You wanted to hide yourself but that truck left no room for it.
Well that didnât work, did it? It just made him more annoyed. To the point Price had to tell him to ease up on the lower ranked soldiers during training. Even if he did push you away, you were a boomerang, always finding your way back to the older bruteâ a constant. You were a stray cat that would brush into Simon each time he gave you a little attention, a little food, a little love. And he liked it, his cute little thing that would ease his mind from everything even if you were a little annoying. Something to care for.
Like, a puppy? A kitten? No, more. Girlfriend? Of course. A step down to hell. His baby girl. His babyâ
Before Simon could get another word out, the rambling from your phone the both of you were ignoring turned into yelling. His hand gripped the wheel with a scuff. Simon hated your father to say the very least, an annoying, prude that man was. He had a nasty habit of calling you and spewing utter bullshit in your ear, critiquing every little one of your life choices even though he didnât raise you, didnât pay for anythingâ he was just another entitled sperm donor. Simon had to tell you to hang up different times because he couldnât stand someone talking to you like that.
It took Simon back to his own father, that abusive, psychopathic prick. Didnât know what the hell he was doing with him and his younger brother, fucker always was on ballistic shit. Throwing things against the wall, putting his hands on anyone in that God forsaken house that breathed wrong, drinking non stop and the goddamn yelling. He didnât want that for youâ didnât want to end up like that bastard. Simon cared about you too much, he wouldnât let that happen. So in his fucked up way of caring, heâd push you away. Saying anything that came to mind, only meaning 61% what he actually said.
But that proved to be a new dead end.
Which led to a new resolution: heâd fix whatever issue went on in his head and keep you if it meant not having to see you very clearly, shut yourself down to cope or having to hear your annoying father talking down on you like an imbecile.
Ghostâs own head was reelingâ he would never let anyone talk to you like you were an idiot. Couldnât even imagine it. Yes, you were a little agitating, a little fucking dumbâ but that was fixable. Nothing Daddy couldnât fix. And if you trip and fall on your mistakes, the older man was right there to catch you. Heâd refix your problems a thousand times over if he had to, why? Because he adored you to pieces.
But you werenât an idiot, you canât fix inherent incompetence.
His princess wasnât incompetent.
Thatâs why every fuckin time you were on the phone with your father, which was already rare, he wanted to shove his booted foot right the manâs ass. Sew his asshole shut and keep feeding him, and feeding him, and feeding him. Water board the guy and show everyone how he was the fuckin embarrassment and not his sweet precious daughterâ
Simon would try to hold whatever anger was festering this time because you, for your mothers sake, were trying to fix the relationship you didnât break.
He was off the rocker, yes, but heâd get the shit together. Quick. Somehow. For you.
Be good, good, be good, be goodâ
ââAnd I bet youâre still fucking around with that ass arenât you, [+]? You can be such a fucking idiot, itâs time to grow the hell up-â
You werenât a fucking idiot. Never. If Simon didnât call you that, what made anyone think they had the right to?
He didnât hesitate to snatch the phone out of your hands, ââAre you out of your fuckin mind!?â
His voice boomed, filling the car, not even your father was talking anymore. The only sound that could be heard was the engine and the tires rolling on the pavement.
âYa donât say shit to your own kid for a decade but now you think you can run her life because you got some money in your pocket? Money you havenât even spent a single pound on herââ there was a quick muffled noise from the other side of the phone but Ghost was faster, âIâm disrespectful!? I wish I gave a shit about what you think of me or what Iâm doin with your fuckin daughter. Sheâs with me for good reason.â
ââThe next time you call youâd better have one foot in the grave or Iâm gonna find you and make sure you do my fuckin self.â The blonde pressed the red button on the screen, a few more taps to block the man who, the blonde man had decided, wouldnât be in your life.
After putting your phone in your lap, his hand immediately went to the back of your neck and letting out a deep breath, rubbing the baby hairs with his thumb. Soothing you. You saw Simon mouth move but you didnât hear what came out of it. It was like your ears were shot just for a second, your heart beating loudly, you had wrapped yourself in a daze whenever youâd talk to your father and this had to be the first time someone not only yanked you out of it, but fully and undoubtedly protected you.
âKid.â he barked, more profound.
Your big brown eyes snapped over to him, your brain finally catching up to what was happening in the moment.
âYouâre okay, âs okay. Iâve got you, gonna take care âf you. Promise. You want that? Want me to take care of you, hm baby?â His voice was so soft, inviting, pulling you into whatever heâd had set for you in his mind.
How could you say no, when all you ever wanted was to be Simons?
âYes sir.â
Famous last words.
Like youâd ignited a flame, his brown eyes flickered with mischief.
Ghost, the usual menace, rough man was being cloying with you.
Leaving gentle kisses all over as he made his was down to the heat in the middle of your legs. Big hands roaming the rest of your body as he slid your black, wet, underwear off, throwing your legs over his shoulders and giving a nice smooch to your cunt.
âSo fuckin pretty baby, âs all for me?â His tongue slide up and down your vulva.
âY-Yeah,â you said breathlessly, eyes fluttering shut as Ghost lapped up every juice that was coming out of you.
The older man scuffed, slipping a finger inside your tight walls and slowly thrusting them. â âyeahâ? Thatâs all you gotta say? Donât be stubborn with me doll, wanna be nice to you today.â
You felt a pinch to your thigh, a warning, âkeep those pretty eyes on me sweeâart, need you focused on me.â
Your head tilted itself to the side, nodding your head and biting your lip to contain your moan but itâs barely doing anything as you watch Simon slip another fat finger into you, pumping his fingers faster and finally going up to your clit, taking a little nibble of it and then talking it in his mouth.
âFu- mmm- fuuuck- wait- Si- I- can I cum? Please? Can I?â You whimpered, peeking down at the brown eyes that were stuck on you. Ghost was smirking, almost enough to get a laugh out of him.
âCourse baby, bein so good. Can cum as much as you want today.â His fingers curled just right at the perfect spot inside you and your walls flutter around his fingers. But heâs not stopping, course heâs not, the man has to get a good taste of you, get you cumming with his fingers, without his fingers, without sucking your clitâ he sucking out every drop that leaves your cunt.
Ghost was taking his sweet time, as if you didnât need him inside you desperately. You were aching for more after cumming a fourth time, bucking your hips only for Ghost to press down on them to keep you still.
He pulled his mouth away from you, face covered in your slick, âJesus baby, cut it out, will you? Thought you wanted Daddy to take care of you?â
âD-do, I do. Itâs just- just-â
âDonât tell me youâre not used to it.â His ends of his lips turned up into a smirk, teasing, fingers rubbing your clit just enough to keep you wanting more yet slow enough to keep your attention only on him.
No. No you werenât. Heâd known that.
Simon usually manhandled you every which way and any position he wanted you in. Edging you as much as he wanted then giving it to you deep and leaving you breathless at every moment. And itâs not like you hated it, you loved every second of it. But this- this situation made your brain melt.
The older man just looooved that.
âGive me another, let me feel it.â His hands went to grope your tits, squeezing and pulling at them as he rubbed his face further into your pussy, completely devouring you whole. The blonde slid his long tongue back inside your hole, thrusting it just right. The man groaned as you pulsed around him, somehow getting sweeter as you fell apart.
He kept touching all over you, the curve your breasts, the peak of your nipples, the dips in your hips and thighsâ ever so softly. As if he was revisiting a map heâd known like the back of his hand, making sure he knew every nook and cranny of you, the cause of every twitch, shake, and moan, the reason slick kept flowing down onto his tongue.
Why?
Well a good Daddy just had to know his baby well, shouldnât he?
You shouldâve known, there was no way Simon would ever be nice and go easy on you the whole time he was fucking you. But you were being silly, fantasizing about him slipping inside you and being gentle.
Your mistake for thinking a man so large in size, so brutal with words, with the biggest and fattest dick youâve ever seen in your life would ever treat your poor pussy kindly :(. You always looked so perfect when he had you crying, so easy to bully, Ghost just couldnât help himself.
âSi- Simon!â You yelped out, as he finally bottomed out inside your pink walls that were gonna chop his manhood off. Heâd had you stuck in an inescapable full nelson, legs spread wide open and beefy arms hooked under knees, forcing your head down to look at the disappearing act of the century happening with his cock and your cunt.
âLook at the fuckin mess youâre makin kiddo, gonna get my thighs wet at this rate.â Ghost was plopping you up and down, up and down on his length, the loud sloshing sound of your sopping wet pussy filling the room.
âNo- Si- aangh- itâs too much!â And itâs not like you could even push any of him away, as he thrusted up into you, making sure you took every single inch imaginable.
âSuch a fuckin liar baby. What a fuckin liar you are, ând you donât think Iâve fuckin noticed that you wonât call me how youâre supposed to? Huh? Didnât teach you to lie like that, did I?â
Youâd internally cursed, slapping at his hand for some relief but your mouth only letting out moans. Yes, you were avoiding calling him âdaddy,â even though youâd call him that casually, it felt so off today after your falling out with your father. It made your head spin, because it wasnât just a nickname anymore.
You were craving the missing hole youâve been ignoring this whole time, to be filled with the man fucking you like a slut in his big arms.
âTold you Iâd take care of ya, didnât I princess? Promised you Iâd be reaalll good to ya butâ shit, your squeezing the life outta meâ canât be nice if you donât treat your own daddy proper, can I?â You moaned at his words, shaking your head because this man was gonna make you go insane, tonight. Pushing you past the point of no return, and no, he wouldnât let go of your hand while heâd did it.
Heâd hold your hand and jump with you.
âCome on, call me how youâre âposed to kid.â He grunted in you ear, sucking on your earlobe, âCall the only man youâll ever need, the man whoâs fuckin your pretty pussy right, know you want to. Come on.â
He was egging on that delusion that sat, triple boxed up and in the farthest corner of your mind of your mind. Teasing, taunting you, probing at the thought that you swore you locked away that one time it slipped out of you mid conversation months ago.
But Simon remembered. In fact, heâd just needed the âokayâ from your plump lips because he longed to hear you call him that oh so sweet yet oh so sinful name once more. He wanted to be your number one. The man you relied on, someone that would never leave you like your father did. Better than your father, better than any one of those little boys youâd fool around with in the past. Damn it, and it was making you wetter.
âPaaa! You feel so good pa!â You mewled, throwing your head back on his shoulder in pleasure.
You felt that maniacal grin form on Ghosts lips on your shoulder, leaving a kiss on your neckâ he was proud of you. It tickled something in his brain, scratched the exact spot where his own daddy issues lay. He wasnât new to hearing a sex partner call him daddy during sex, maybe he exuded that energyâ it was in his blood, Ghost didnât know. But you just kept pushing the line, accidentally calling him that magic word when heâd praise you. And it stuck. Youâd call him daddy like it was second nature. Looking up at him with those pretty brown eyes, obediently listening to whatever he had to say. Thatâs what all the fucking clingy shit was about, the needy, desperation of it all.
Wanting a father figure from a hell raiserâ it was arranged. You were a good girl. Ghosts good little girl.
âTherrre you go princess, atta girl! Doin so good for me, cum on your daddyâs dick. Show me how good you are baby, milk me dry.â
You shook your head, belligerent sobs escaping you. You couldnât believe youâd just call him that, of all things. And you tried to retract it, whining your way through your orgasm that left you trembling, Simon himself filling your tight cunt with every bit cum that sat in his balls.
âI- I- hicc- I didnât mean to call you- hicc- Iâm sorry.â You blabbered out, how sweet. How cute, you were trying to collect yourself. He pulled out of you with a roll of his eyes, flipping you onto your stomach, rubbing the tip against your hole that was leaking with the both of your cum. What a miraculous sight.
âNo, baby you did. Donât worry that pretty little head,â he cooed, slipping his dick back inside you, groaning at the feel of you. âpaâs got you.â
âCome on doll, wanna hear you,â He rocked his hips into you, the room filling with the smack, smack, smack, smacking of his balls hitting your wet pussy, ripples forming on your ass with every thrust.
Your brain was turning to mush, drool forming and dripping down the sheets of the bed. The only thing you were able to think of was daddy, daddy, daddy, pa, pa, pa. How good your pa was drilling into you like a maniac.
Simonâs hand wrapped around your curly hair, dragging you up to your knees as he continued to ram into you, âThis allll my sweet little girl needed? Your pa to take care of you like a good daddy should. Fuck, that bastard couldnât treat you right could he? Show you how a manâs supposed to treat you, huh?â
âNoooo sir- nghhh.â you keened, eyes rolling to the back of your head.
âThaâs right princess, donât worry thoughâ I love you. Your pa loves you soooo. fuckin. much baby. No oneâs gonna love you more than me.â
Those words alone is what set off your next orgasm, he was talking crazy, actually. And you loved every second of it, back arching even more so as you pulsated around his throbbing cock. He was still thrusting into you chasing his own orgasm, a string of curses leaving his mouth as you felt the tip of him spasm. He made you so full of him, youâd felt so warm all over.
âShit, such a good girl for me, gonna take such good care of you from now. What do ya say?â He took you in his arms, laying you on top of him. You could feel his heart beating, chest heaving. Both of your skin sticky with sweat.
âThank you pa.â You wrapped your arms him.
âOh princess,â Ghost smiled, pressing his lips against yours, cupping your face with one hand and caressing it with his thumb, âyouâre so welcome.â
a/n: itâs three people who are gonna read all this, me being one of them. If you liked it leave me a message or comment. If you hated it, idk. Iâm just a big dadbf!simon enthusiast.
best friend dad könig had you bent like a pretzel in the passenger seat of a very expensive car. your toes touched the cool window, while your dress was bunched up leaving you out in the open. your knees touched your shoulders, and your nails dug into the leather. ânow itâs coming back to youâ his rough voice said slapping your pussy then thumbing his way between your folds. köngi drove widely on the empty highway. his sports car sweerving throughout the lanes as he rushed to get back to his home. âyou get around my daughter and forget sweet peaâ biting your lip, you withheld your moan.
his thick fingers entering you fucking you roughly. könig finally looked to were you sat and smirked at you. âsay sorryâ he moved his eyes to the road then back to you quickly, scissoring his fingers into your cunt and groaning at the how wet you were. âm-mâsorryyyyâ your hole clenched around him, clit throbbing and köngi knew what would follow moment after, so he took his fingers out of you and went back to tumbing over your clit teasingly.
âhad plans to spoil my pretty girl tonight. kiss her, eat her pretty pussy, all because we had the house to ourselves and youâve been so fuckin good for daddy. but of course you fuck. that. upâ with each word he delivered a slap to your pussy, basking in your whimpers and murmurs of sorry. âghost telling me that you were at a club sweetheart? thatâs not what i expected as i cooked dinner waiting for youâas he spoke, eyes focused on the road, he slowly pushed two fingers back into you moving them slowly, just feeling your gussy walls wrap around his digits. âthen you wear this baby? looking so pretty - but for who?â turning to you he sped up a little, watching you be seconds away from breaking.
your body shook, slob pooling for the side of you mouth and your eyes felt heavy. you tummy was tense, the feeling of your orgasm so close. âwho?â he said again, sterner and louder making you jump and squeal clenching down. âYOU!â you cried as you no longer withheld it. squirt came out of you, as you still cried saying sorry. köngi chuckled evilly taking his fingers out and slapping your wet soppy cunt, knowing it would overstimulate you; to which it did.
all you could do was shake and cry. incoherent words failing to making sense to the mean man who had a smile on his face as he continued to play with your puffy tired pussy, all the way home.
