acid-gremlin

Latest Posts by acid-gremlin

Share with you my precious collection of his smirks🫰🏻♥️✨

This just ruined my life, thank you.

RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | AO3 . MLIST

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?

 It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity. 

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. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t 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 it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 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 you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve 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 it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony. 

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s 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. 

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 you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t 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 didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it. 

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 you’d 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. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised 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 you’re 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. 

You’re 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 can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s 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 they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t 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 you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way. 

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re 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 wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s 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 you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t 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 that’s 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 you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s 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 one’s 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 won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t 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 anchor’s 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.

It’s the kind of name you’d 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 TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s 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. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s 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. There’s 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 he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty 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 didn’t have to be war heroes. 

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything. 

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. 

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad 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 quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark. 

He’s 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 sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s 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. 

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re 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 that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t 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 disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s 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 letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter? 

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness. 

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 don’t care to name—excitement, 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 crackle—thin, 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. 

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him? 

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s 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. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve 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 won’t 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, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s 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 ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll 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. It’s 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 still…

 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, you’re 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. It’s chilling how easy it is. 

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not 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 you’d 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 arm’s 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. There’s 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, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago. 

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 reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – 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 doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

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 haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet. 

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 you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re 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 videogame—thick 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 to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— 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, you’re sure your life couldn’t 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. 

It doesn’t. 

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. 

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s 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 hadn’t 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. 

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 don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s 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. 

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 job—but 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. 

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 you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re 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.

You’re 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. 

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t 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 can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t 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 his—an 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. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

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 it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s 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. 

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far 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.

He’s 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 didn’t.

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 ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s 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. He’s 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.

It’s 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 you’re drowning, and he’s 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 he’s 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 doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d 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 didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure. 

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s 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. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends 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. 

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

 “Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

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 he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s 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 lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate. 

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“I have,” 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. “Won’t be as good as her.”

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 moment’s 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. 

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants.  “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes. 

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re 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 they’ll 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. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t 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 you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s 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.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before.  “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” 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. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs. 

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.

“Whinin’ already?” 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. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you. 

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.” 

“Yes,” 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. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” 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. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

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.  

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d 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. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like 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. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering.  “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

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 you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

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 can’t 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. 

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. 

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s 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. 

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 he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

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, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.” 

You could slap him. 

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.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

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.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

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.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

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. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him. 

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts,  “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t 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.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” 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.

 “Ghost,” 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 could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long. 

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” 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. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” 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.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” 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. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure. 

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. 

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to  “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” 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. 

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.

 “Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” 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. 

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls.. 

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 don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried. 

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house. 

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. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t 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.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

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. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” 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 there’s 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. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

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.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” 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.

“Simon—” 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 him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

"Odysseus" showed us how much Ody has truly changed.

He's compared to almost all monsters in the musical during that one song.

His name's chanting is the same as Polyphemus', and he acts a little like him when he decides to kill everyone.

Po - ly - phe - mus ("Enough")

O - dy - sse - us ("I. Have had. Enough")

He aims for the torches just like Scylla.

"Eurylochus, light up six torches"

"Keep your head down he's aiming for the torches"

He rejected forgivness just like Poseidon did.

"Maybe you could learn to forgive..."

"No"

"Old king our leader's dead. You've destroyed the serpent's head. Now the rest of us are no longer a threat. Old king forgive us instead, so that no more blood is shed. Let's have open arms instead!"

"No."

Also, there's an electric guitar in the song. It represents Odysseus' cunning and ruthless nature.

He IS a monster. But that's what got him home. And he'll embrace this side of him.

SHAKING VIOLENTLY

Edit hey if you like this post consider boosting and possibly donating to Mahmoud, or his brother in law Ahmed, to help them survive genocide.

now that the ithaca saga is out i'd like to just put it out there that, in the original text, after they reunite odysseus and penelope immediately run off to fuck - obviously (20 years at sea away from your wife call that the wettest dry spell mankind's ever seen). BUT while they're getting all hot and heavy, athena decides to put her owl motif to good use and wingman for odysseus by quite literally holding off the dawn until they're fully satisfied (od. 23.345-348). which is just. what a way to end off one of the greatest pieces of storytelling in human history

Thinking about how Odysseus carved the wedding bed out of an olive tree, which means the bed is rooted in the ground.

Thinking about the line “You don’t think I know my own palace? I built it!”.

Thinking about the fact that Odysseus built his entire palace around that olive tree, his and Penelope’s wedding bed, a symbol of their love.

Odysseus’ world is literally built around his love for Penelope.

…..i’m not crying, i just have an odypen in my eye.

can you do p links for the superfamily? 👉👈

Superfamily | p links

(Gotta be logged into Twitter for links to work)

nsfw 18+, bonus Wonder Woman cause I’m a whore <3

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:·

Clark Kent/Superman:

He always wants you on his face

Shower time fun

A daily occurrence, he’s a gentleman after all

Loves it when you ride him, he can shut his brain off and finally relax

When you both moved in together, you were so excited you had to just go to the bedroom right away

He loves playing with you after a long day

Kara Zor El/Supergirl:

Please sit on her lap, makes her weak every time

Likes to make you cum while standing so she can watch your legs shake

You bought her mood lights for her room, and she loves them <3

Loves eating you out, she loves to feel confident in her abilities (even if those abilities are making you gush into her mouth)

First time you fucked her, she felt like she was in heaven

You both were watching a film but…you got distracted

Conner Kent/Superboy:

Why are you on your phone? When you could be paying attention to him

Oh my god tease him like this and he’ll be yours forever

Has you like this before going out with your friends

Likes alt girls <3

Taking his frustrations out on you

Use your thighs if you wanna shut him up

Diana Prince/Wonder Woman:

How she fucks you <3

She can be a little mean, but it’s only because she knows how wet you get

How she eats your pussy when she gets back home

Demonstrating her strength

Was curious about vibrators, and you were happy to demonstrate

Entertaining her

Make Up.

Simon Riley watching you as you put on your make up. Tw. Mentions of his mother's trauma.

...................

"Wha's tha for?"

Putting your brush on the palette, you apply your highlighter. Tilting your cheek to show off the colour.

"Highlights my face, Si. You use it where the light hits your face."

He nods, taking it in.

"What's the sparkly stuff I got you for your birthday?" He asks after a minute.

You pull out some of your make up, a soft smile on your face as you explain your steps, watching him take it all in,a mental note to replenish anything you are low on.

"It's a skill, love. An artist with all that shit." He gruffs, an almost proud smirk on his face.

"It's taken me a long time to figure out what I like. I won't even tell you about thin brows, dream matte mouse or foundation lips." You laugh.

He looks at you, brushing a hair out of your face.

"You are beautiful, you know?" He says softly.

"With all the make up, without it all, I love seeing you do your thing."

You smile, finishing off your face with setting spray, beaming at yourself in the mirror.

"Love you too Simon."

He smiles back and squeezes your hand.

What Simon doesn't tell you is for years he had to watch his mother use make up to cover up bruises and marks, so to watch you be creative and use make up for something positive heals him a little, even if he doesn't know what half the stuff does.

"Love you too, sweetheart." He says instead.

@kaeyasfuturewife @xoxunhinged @muneca-lemon-steppa @gardenof-venus @soraya-daydreams @frudoo @renpodz @yesornowaitidontknow @thevoiceinyourheadx @shadowdark00 @lunamoonbby @incredible-walker @identity2212 @pukbadger @urbimom @corvid007 @wordsfromshona @shadows-empress @m00xy @canyonmooncreations @oniraki @evie-119 @havoc973 @kylies-lover-blog @ishipdabands @cmbghost @heckinspooks @midwesternwitchery @masterclassofescapism @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @skeletonsucker @ghost-soaps-shadow

people are making edits. everyone is getting shipped with everyone. there was cheering at the post credits scene. avengers tower fan fiction is being written. marvel is SO BACK

dude ur interrupting on the floor time with ur beautiful face STOP

masterlist ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ.

master list 2

simon riley ₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

nsfw - ddlg simon

sfw - butcher! simon

nsfw - pervy stalker! simon

nsfw - how simon riley fucks

nsfw - simon after a long mission fucking you

nsfw - humping simon’s boot

nsfw - size difference, big simon fitting inside you

nsfw - stalker and kidnapper simon riley

nsfw - nasty simon riley

nsfw - fucking blue collar simon riley

nsfw - simon riley’s barracks bunny

nsfw - begging simon riley to breed you

nsfw - overstimulation

nsfw - pussy drunk simon riley

nsfw - simon riley x bimbo! gf

nsfw - simon riley jerking off

nsfw - pussy drunk simon part 2

nsfw - deer! hybrid reader x hunter! simon riley

nsfw - how i imagine simon riley’s body

nsfw - older! mechanic simon riley fucking your mouth

nsfw - disgusting older! simon riley

nsfw - praises from soft dom! simon riley

nsfw - “i’m shy i can’t say it” reader x “need you to use your words” simon riley

nsfw - baby trapping

nsfw - sucking simon off

nsfw - simon riley’s controversially younger gf

nsfw - overstimulated reader x “we’re not stopping” simon riley

nsfw - hunter simon riley

sfw - domestic life with blue collar! simon riley

sfw - simon finding out you are pregnant

nsfw - “i have tattoos older than you swee’heart” simon riley x reader

nsfw - matching with dilf simon riley on dating app

nsfw - ddlg - rough sex and after care

nsfw - loser! simon riley unaware that he is largely endowed

nsfw - simon riley with a dick piercing

nsfw - older simon riley all soft after retirement

nsfw - simon worshipping you

nsfw - no panties in the house

nsfw - sugar daddy simon riley

jason todd ₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

nsfw - ddlg jason with somnophilia

nsfw - going into little space

nsfw - spanking with ddlg jason

nsfw - ddlg jason punishing you

nsfw - being kidnapped as ak! jason’s sweet doll

nsfw - dbf! jason todd

nsfw - daddy kink with mean! jason

nsfw - jason todd jerking off

john price ₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

nsfw - little rendezvous with john price

I don't know who needs to hear this but wanting attention is perfectly normal and not something to shame people for (unless they're doing in harmful ways). I'm sorry someone taught you otherwise

CALEB's Back

LaDs x non!mc , angst

non!mc idea where in every universe, in every timeline, you’re only there to watch one of the Lis fall in love with MC. you, as their closest companion, stuck by their side since the dawn of time, bare witness of a love story never for you.

and now we’re in the current timeline and you watch it happen all over again.

You've grown to watch silently, in the background. In the shadow of MC. Her beauty, her confidence, her kindness.

You've seen in all before, the way they look at her, love her, yearn for her; sucked into her gravity. And like your love for the Lis, you're pulled into too, forever following, watching, but never experiencing. 

You've mastered silent devotion, a writhing, numbing ache that you can never seem to rid. Heavy on the chest, suffocating to the heart. Since you couldn't  love them loudly like they do with MC, yearn them in the same way they yearn for her; you sit back and grow hollow, more empty. 

Even when tragedy strikes, perhaps a fatal injury by a wanderer, a horrible collision with a car, a terrible drowning, a freak accident; maybe pure exhaustion. You're left to revel in your own patheticness, of loving someone untouchable. 

In many ways, you're just like them.

Because, even in your final breath,  you think of them, and how much you love them despite all it all. 

Maybe the gods pity you, lord knows you've done enough yourself. Now reincarnated to a new world, our world. where Linkon is just some made up place in a game everyone’s been raving about on twitter. where you’re happy; whole; complete. 

Where you hold no memory of your past life. No memory of them. 

In your new life, as you play Love and Deep Space and design your MC the way you’d think the LIs would love. They’re looking at you. Really look at you, maybe for the first time since the duration of your friendship? relationship?

because after your death, something unspeakable till this day. they’ve finally noticed your absence. the silence. 

Unable to fill the hole you left, not with work, not with time, not with love. 

so when their phone lights up, months after your death, and they see you. Alive, and look it too. much more alive than they've ever seen you. Your face is so bright, almost glowing. and you bar a smile they have never seen. or at least, they don’t remember.

you’re alive and you’re happy.

Soon, they find the pattern of your appearance, when they’re phone lights up and your beaming face appears. and so they wait, daily, to see you again.

when you talk to ‘them’ through your phone, about your life, your troubles, your joys. they just sit and listen, listen to all you have to say.

Because their version of you isn't here anymore. They can’t hear your voice, see your face, feel your touch.

This time, they'll love you right, like how they should have all along. Pulled into the gravity that is, you. So they cling to you, through their  phone. 

Close enough to hear you, to see you, but never touch you.

have fun

Old Man!Price craves a pretty little housewife to waiting for him at home 🎀

As John gets older, he has this visceral urge to domesticate you that it also seems obsessive of him.

Hand in hand, John'll bring you back home to his cottage in the Cotswolds causing your eyes to widen at the home in front of you. As if your pinterest board has come to life, stained glass windows and a garden full of peonies. 

“God, this is exactly how I imagine my dream home to be like,” You say in awe before shrugging your shoulders, “Well that is if money wasn’t an issue.”

Your words earn a chuckle from John as he ushers you inside, giving you a tour of his home while you such over every little detail. 

‘Oh, that backsplash is literally my dream!’

‘Oh my god, a reading nook?!’

‘No way, you have a bloody walk in the pantry?!’

The smirk ever leaves John’s face as you continue to gush over his house well into dinner.

John is a very committed and detail-oriented man and that is why he needed to get everything perfect according to your Pinterest boards. He never leaves anything up to chance so all he did was look through your phone, browse your inspiration boards getting an idea of what you’d call home. 

His plan was coming into fruition. John had the house and now he had you inside of the house now all he has to do is to ‘accidentally’ get you pregnant. But there was a nagging fear at the back of his mind, a fear of potentially ruining an unborn child’s life with his obsession. As much as he wanted you to be at home taking care of his kids and tending to his house, John did not want to be a bad father. 

Every time he’d fuck you raw, John would try with all his might to cum deep inside of you over and over again until your pretty cunt could no longer hold his cum in anymore as it seeps out of you causing John to plug you up with his fingers. But every single time, John would back out at the last minute opting to cum on your back or something. 

He wanted to baby trap you but at the same time, he didn’t want you to blame him for everything that might go wrong in his life. The guilt will weigh too heavy for him to think that he ruined your chances of a better life without him. 

So when tonight you suggest for John to wear a condom because you forgot to pick up your birth control, John doesn’t hold back. He on longer has that stupid harpy of a voice in the back of his mind telling him not to ruin you and to ‘fucking not destory the one good thing in your bloody life, John!’

Rutting into you like a teenage boy who stuck his cock for the first time into an actual cunt, John thrusts were quick and deep bringing you to the brink of an orgasm over and over again only to stop his hips for a few seconds to once again pummeling into you, his cock bully your sweet, sweet insides. 

For once John is grateful for a condom, cumming inside you without a guilty conscience knowing that the condom didn’t let his cum paint your insides. He slumps against you, rolling onto his side as he holds your body flushed against his own, kissing your forehead and muttering words of thanks for ‘putting up with his old arse.’

It came to a shock when John sees the positive pregnancy test in your hands, the two blue lines mocking his efforts to not get you pregnant. A day later, he takes you ring shopping and proposes that same night. 

Now who’s gonna tell John that you were the one who poked holes in his condom?

Had a dream that this big sexy man rescued me from the snow and he shoved his fingers in my mouth to see if I was still warm and like I moaned and stuff and he was like ???? Then he put his fingers back in my mouth and I whined from how much I loved it lol but anyways…

I need to suck on Simon’s big thick fingers dude I need it so bad.

Like imagine you guys are baking together, something you finally got him to do since it made you happy, and he gets some batter on his hands and while you’re whisking he says “here, open.” Then shoves his batter covered fingers in your mouth oh my god 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

You keep eye contact with him and clean his fingers off, sucking on them for longer than needed but it’s just so fucking hot.

“Yeah that’s it sweetheart, clean them off nice and good for me. Just like that.”

Or you could be arguing, something dumb making him smug as fuck, so when you’re yelling at him he just slowly walks up to you and shoves his fingers in your mouth, and you immediately calm down.

“Little bird’s chirpin’ too much. Luckily all it takes is some fingers in that pretty little mouth to shut you up hm?”

God I can’t do it oh my God I need a big sexy man’s thick fingers in my mouth right now nearly gagging me from how- ok I need to relax…

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ masterlist

satoru gojo

big stretch spider!mangojo webs you up mwahs your tits video games after sex making out with rival!gojo gojo sucks tits when he's bored gojo and geto overstimming your tits desperate gojo deepthroating you wearing gojo's blindfold while he plays with your folds gojo masturbates over your photos overstimulation with gojo praise & degrade gojo loooves edging you just to see you beg shower sex

what a game threesome gojo's hands good kisser gojo gojo loves you and your dick sucking skills cumplay small or large he's good gojo misses your titties and fucks you later on softdom!gojo loves worshipping gojo IS the present male lactation LOL bad time? first time sucking him aftermath

happy trail gojo gojo's dick is pretty he knows how to use it gojo's dick hcs getting off to your reactions giving your bf gojo head gojo loves missionary bf gojo overstims you A LOT while eating you out tits, ass, or thighs? this man fucks hard aftercare with gojo making out & tits gojo loves getting praised so he'll do the favor right back gojo would not complain eating you out for a long time

bratty gojo mirror sex spooning sex late christmas shopping fucking i feel like gojo's top five positions on a certain day would be this p links #1 subby gojo handcuffed, laying on his back as you ride his face pegging gojo gojo with a pussy hanging by a thread he's all yours i miss gojo ☹ surprise fluff post sub!satoru thoughts another fluff post!! bathroom fun (this can go for really any character but i thought of him while writing it LOL)

actor!reader and actor!gojo has some fun in her dressing room

suguru geto

gojo and geto overstimming your tits bad time? pegging geto calm mean man tongue piercing suguru 1/3 tongue piercing suguru 2/3 tongue piercing suguru 3/3

kiyotaka ijichi

dry humping & making out

hiromi higuruma

higurama loves you and your cum!

takuma ino

soft dom ino

ryomen sukuna

fem!sukuna degradation

toji fushiguro

small titty worship toji just needs to eat out chubby!reader

choso kamo

tongue piercing choso 1/3 tongue piercing choso 2/3 tongue piercing choso 3/3 a silent mean man

kento nanami

polite teasing nanami (i can't write mean nanami it hurts me)

p links

gojo p links #1

oh my god

today I used the phrase "breasting boobily" in casual real life conversation and everyone was shocked asking how I came up with that and I had to explain it. ive been at the devil's sacrament so long that I forgot he wasn't god

Having an abusive parent is kinda funny in retrospect like mommy why do you have beef with me im 4 i love you

Simon x Pink! bimbo gf NSFW version🎀

CW:nsfw,dumbification,dacryphilia,daddy kink,mean dirty talk,degradation,spanking,rough!Simon,female reader,gagging,overstim.

Lets just say it took Simon a little while to get used to your wardrobe....or lack thereof

The first few months of dating consisted of him pointedly trying to not stare at the smooth planes of your skin that was always on display, hurriedly looking away after being caught which would leave him to have an internal battle with himself about being a gentleman

...And as your relationship progressed...that behavior definitely didn't last long, it was like a flip had been switched

Doing everyday tasks in the house become increasingly difficult due to how much his hands are on you, he has no shame and will casually grope your tits while youre doing dishes and shoves his hands in your panties. Which you half scold him for every time that obviously ....he ignores. He knows you love it just as much as he does

Sitting you in his lap is a easy favorite for him. Your head laid back on his shoulder with your hands secured around his neck, legs spread wide open on his thighs. Giving him unlimited access to your pretty body

Always starts with teasing your plump thighs while playing with ur tits that are bursting out of your top. Paired with sucking hickies on your neck and you're already a trembling mess on top of him.

Bonus if he does it in front of the floor length mirror he bought exactly for this purpose, he loves making you watch as he fucks you dumb with his cock or fingers :(. Telling you to watch yourself or you won't cum.

Watches himself slamming into you with ur skirt bunched around ur hips, boobs swaying with each thrust as you cry out because his fat cock is just too much for you. Calling you a teasing whore as he gets rougher because you know what your outfits do to him, and he doesn't stop till your cunt is stuffed to the brim with his cum and dripping down your thighs . Also fucks you in doggy in front of the mirror too. Holding both wrists in one hand while the other slaps your ass red :(. Drool escaping the corner of your plump lips becuz ur just his lil fucktoy.

Adores seeing you on your knees for him in one of your outfits. Wrapping a fistfull of your perfect Bow adorned hair in a punishing grip as he fucks your throat. Your mascara running down your red cheeks and lipstick smeared because reducing you to a disheveled whore does it for him.

Simon likes it messy. Drool dripping down your neck and soaking your top messy, gagging you on his dick till your eyes roll back in ur empty head :(. And if you're not crying he isn't doing it right.

Spills his load on your waiting tongue and makes sure you swallow it all,or he'll paint your face white depending on his mood <3.

Has a thing for you keeping on ur heels while your legs are thrown over his shoulders as he devours your slick pussy n the way they sink into his back.Skirt still around your hips. Spitting on your throbbing clit and sucking it into his mouth while broken gasps of his name leaves your lips. Thick fingers sinking into you as the unmistakable sound of your arousal echoes around the room :(. You're drowning in too much pleasure to care. Licks up every bit of your cum and will even overstimulate you right after an orgasm becuz that's what his girl deserves.

Dirty talk. He'll call you things like cocktease, doll, bunny or my pretty pink whore while he's slamming you into the mattress. Makes it a point to remind you that you're his little toy and his only :(, free for him to use whenever he wants because you're his. And that the only thing you should be thinking of is being pretty and taking Daddy’s cock <3

AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this because I wasn't too sure about it :p,bye and thanks for reading<3🎀

ditzy!reader and simon “ghost” riley having sex

you’re sprawled on your back, legs wrapped around simon’s waist, moaning like you’re in a goddamn soap opera. he’s slow tonight — grinding deep, eyes fixed on your flushed face, watching every little twitch of your brows like it’s his favorite show.

“feels so good,” you mumble, dreamy and soft. your hands are limp above your head like you’ve given up on existing. “wait… is this still missionary?”

he pauses.

blinks down at you.

“what?”

“like. technically. is this missionary? or is this—like—a variation?”

you squint at him, dead serious, like you just asked him to solve a math problem.

“cuz i think if your knees are up like that it changes the—”

“shut up.”

he says it fast, teeth gritted. “jesus christ, shut up.”

but he’s laughing. kind of. it’s all breath and growling and trying not to smile as he drops his head into your neck, biting down just a little too hard.

“ow,” you squeak, clinging to him like he’s your only life support.

“s-sorry! i was just wondering! i get curious!”

“you get bloody stupid, is what you get,” he grumbles, voice thick with that rough mancunian lilt. “askin’ me about positions while i’m balls deep. what’s next, quiz night?”

you giggle — all bright and breathy like a cartoon — and run your fingers through his sweaty hair.

“oh my god wait, do you think this counts as a workout?”

he stops moving.

again.

just stares down at you like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“…you takin’ the piss?”

“no, i’m serious!” you wiggle beneath him. “my legs feel all burny. like pilates. and you’re sweating. so it’s basically cardio, right?”

simon leans in, mouth by your ear now, dragging his hips so slow and deep it makes your toes curl.

“it ain’t bloody pilates, sweetheart,” he growls. “but if you keep talkin’ like that, i’ll bend you like it is.”

you whimper. immediately shut up.

sort of.

“you’re soooo mean,” you pout, clinging to his arms. “i was just sayin’! and i forgot what i was gonna say next anyway but still!”

“no surprise there,” he mutters.

“—but i know it was really important.”

he groans.

loud.

like he’s in pain.

“fuckin’ hell. i swear your brain leaks out every time i fuck you.”

you beam at him.

“probably does.”

and he just kisses you, hard and messy, dragging your hips back into his lap.

“dumb little thing,” he whispers against your lips. “lucky you’re cute.”

man with horns >>>>>>

Are we seeing this zayne girlies?!

AND THE BUSINESS PROPOSAL SCENE ?!

Jason Todd x f!reader

smut below the cut , im a freak

Jason's chest heaves under your palms, his shirt rucked up just enough to show the sharp cut of his abs, the way they twitch as you work him over. He’s leaned back, head tilted, mouth slack with pleasure, a low groan rumbling up from deep in his throat.

“You’re killing me, babe,” he rasps, voice rough and shaking. His hand fists in your hair, not pulling, just anchoring—like if he doesn’t, he’ll float away.

You hum around him in response, slow and deliberate, taking him deeper, letting spit and precum drip from the corner of your lips in thick, messy strings. His thighs tense. He’s so close—so fucking close—and you want it. You want him to lose it.

He jerks when you swallow him whole, when your throat tightens just right. A sharp gasp leaves his lips. “Fuck, fuck—’m gonna—”

You pull off just as he spills, thick and hot, catching every drop on your tongue, letting it pool heavy in your mouth while he groans through gritted teeth, watching with wide, wild eyes.

“Jesus…”

You crawl up his body, straddling his lap, one hand on his jaw to steady him as you lean in close.

And you spit it into his mouth.

Jason whimpers, eyes fluttering shut as he takes it—lets it roll off your tongue and onto his, messy and obscene and full of unspoken hunger. He grabs your hips, bruising grip keeping you pressed against him, cock twitching again between your bodies despite just finishing.

“You’re fuckin’ disgusting,” he breathes when you pull back.

But he kisses you hard anyway, deep and needy and filthy with the taste of himself still on your tongue.

“Mine,” he growls against your lips. “You’re so fuckin’ mine.”

Jason’s eyes are blazing when he licks his lips, tasting himself off your tongue—his pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon.

Then he flips you.

Fast. Rough. Your back hits the bed with a bounce, and he's already between your thighs before you can catch your breath. Hands gripping your knees, he shoves your legs up and apart, spreading you open like he owns every inch—because he does.

“You’re fuckin’ dirty,” he growls, mouth right against your cunt. “Spit my own fucking cum into my mouth and looked proud of it.”

He doesn’t waste a second—tongue diving in like a man starved, licking and sucking through your slick folds, groaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He eats you like he means it, nose nudging your clit, tongue fucking into you until your back arches off the bed and your moans turn into broken little cries.

And then—just when you think he’ll slow down—he doesn’t.

He pulls back with spit-slick lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s pissed about it. “Need to feel this pussy, baby,” he mutters, already lining himself up. “Already leaking for me, shit…”

One deep thrust—and he’s in, bottoming out hard enough to steal your breath. You claw at his shoulders, his name tumbling from your lips over and over like a prayer.

Jason bends over you, hand wrapped around your throat—not squeezing, just there, firm and possessive.

“You like feeding me my own cum?” he pants, rutting into you hard, deep, obscene. “Then you’re gonna love what I do to you next.”

You can’t even speak—just nod, whining, nails dragging down his back as he ruins you. His thrusts are brutal, unrelenting, thick cock dragging against your soaked walls again and again until you're sobbing his name.

He leans down, presses his forehead to yours, and his voice goes low—so tender it hurts.

“Should’ve told you sooner how much I love you,” he breathes, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’re it for me, baby. You own me.”

And then he slams into you again—once, twice—and you shatter around him, cumming with a cry that has him following right after, filling you deep, possessive and raw.

He stays buried inside you, forehead still pressed to yours, as he whispers soft, trembling, “Mine. You’re mine.” He licks the drool from the corner of your mouth like its the only drink he's had in months, "And I'm so fucking yours."

Oh, Jason lives for this moment—when you're completely wrecked beneath him. Eyes hazy, lips parted, skin flushed and dewy with sweat. Your limbs loose, twitching now and then like your body’s still trying to process the waves of pleasure he dragged out of you.

You're soft and silent, blinking slow, mouth open but no words coming. And he loves it.

“Look at you,” he whispers, brushing damp hair from your face with a surprisingly gentle hand. “Fucked you dumb, didn’t I?”

He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, letting his fingers trail down your trembling thigh, voice dropping to a low, worshipful murmur.

“Such a good girl for me. Took it all—my cock, my cum, my fuckin’ mouth on you—you let me own you.”

You whimper, just barely, and he groans like it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.

“You can’t even talk, baby. Can’t even tell me how good it felt, huh?” He smirks, presses a kiss to your pulse. “Don’t need to. I felt it. Felt this greedy little cunt choking on me, so fuckin’ desperate.”

He moves his hips just a bit, his cock still buried inside you, and you twitch violently with overstimulation. He shushes you softly, brushing his lips across yours like he’s soothing a fever.

“That’s it, baby. You did so good. Took everything I gave you. Let me feed that slit my cum like a good girl. Let me fuck it right back into you.”

His voice is tender, but filthy—soft praise laced with possessive filth that makes your body ache.

“This pussy’s mine now, y’know that?” he breathes against your ear. “So fuckin’ sweet. So fuckin’ perfect. Made to be ruined by me.”

He slides his hand under your ass, holding you close, cock still buried deep.

“Not lettin’ you go, not after that. Not ever. Gonna keep you like this—fucked stupid, filled up, pretty little mouth all open, eyes all glassy. Mine.”

You make a soft, broken noise—somewhere between a whine and a breath—and he kisses your temple with so much reverence it makes your chest hurt.

“I love you,” he murmurs like a secret, like a vow. “Even when I fuck you like this. Especially when I fuck you like this.”

Then he whispers, “Say it when you can, baby. I’ll wait.”

Jason melts the second he sees those tears.

Your breath hitches, body still twitching around him—cock still half-hard inside you, his release sticky between your thighs—and then your lip trembles. Just once. But that’s all it takes.

Tears well up, slide down your flushed cheeks, and Jason freezes.

“Hey—hey, baby, shh, it’s okay,” he whispers, instantly pulling you into his arms like you’re something fragile he’s terrified to break.

You’re still crying, too overwhelmed to explain, hiccuping softly, your whole body spent and limp. But he knows. He knows it’s not bad. Just too much. Too intense. You gave him everything and now you’re unraveling.

Jason cradles you, one hand stroking your hair, the other smoothing over your back. His voice drops to a low, gentle murmur—warm, reverent, soothing even as it stays just a little filthy.

“Sweet, pathetic thing,” he murmurs into your hair, kissing the top of your head. “Fucked you too good, huh? Made this pretty brain all fuzzy…”

You nod into his chest, tears still slipping down, and he sways you a little, grounding you with every whisper.

“S’alright. You’re mine, doll. I’ve got you. You don’t gotta think, don’t gotta speak. Just cry if you need to.”

He cups your jaw gently, tilts your tearstreaked face up to him, brushing a thumb under your eye.

“Still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, like it’s sacred. “Even like this. Especially like this. So fuckin’ good for me, gave me everything.”

Then he kisses you—slow, soft, just a press of lips. Like he’s sealing a promise.

“You don’t have to be strong with me. You don’t have to hold back,” he whispers. “You belong to me, and I’ll hold you through all of it. Even when you break.”

You let out a choked, broken sound and he hums.

“Shh… I know, baby. I know. Just breathe. You’re safe. You’re mine.”

And he rocks you slowly, murmuring sweet nothings while you fall apart in his arms—protected, loved, his.

He fucking hates it—hates the way your voice trembles, how your lashes flutter like you’re embarrassed. How you whisper, "sorry I cried..." like it's something to be ashamed of.

He's already looking at you like you just broke his heart.

He sits up a little, arms still wrapped around you, and his brows pull together—not in anger, but something worse. That kind of wounded softness that comes when the person he loves most doesn’t realize how deeply he cherishes them.

“No,” he says—firm, quiet, serious. “Don’t you ever apologize for that.”

You try to look away, but he gently turns your chin back, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. His eyes search yours, steady and full of quiet devotion.

“You cried because you felt everything,” he murmurs. “Because I pushed you that far, because you trusted me enough to let go. That’s not something you say sorry for.”

He kisses your cheek—right where your tears dried—and his voice goes softer.

“I want all of you, babe. The strong, the sweet, the messy. The part that sobs when it’s too much. That’s my girl. That’s mine.”

You swallow hard, blinking fast, and he shushes you—pressing your face into his neck, rubbing your back in slow circles.

“Next time you cry like that?” he whispers, lips at your temple. “I’m gonna tell you how beautiful it is. How much it turns me inside out knowing you let yourself fall apart in my hands.”

Then he adds, with a soft, sinful smirk you feel against your skin:

“‘Cause you crying on my cock? Baby, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You gasp, flustered, and he chuckles—low and warm, pulling you closer.

“Yeah, there she is,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “No more apologies. Just let me love you, every way you come.”

fun fact: i am the biggest whore for the spitting thing... like its just so fucking pathetic and UGH need it

MDNI 18+

jason todd x reader

older bf! jason todd is the biggest munch idc. this man hasn’t had pussy in so long, so the moment he gets a taste of yours he gets drunk. his eyes roll back from your taste, as he grips onto your inner thighs, pulling you even closer as he drenched your pussy, watching your arousal mix with his saliva. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t matter how many times you came, or pulled his hair he doesn’t want to stop. he inhales the scent, taking in the moment as if he was a caveman. he would give your pussy the upmost attention, his fingers knuckles deep as he lazily rubbed your clit, licking a fat stripe along your glistening cunt. it gets addicted to the point where you would wake up in the middle of the night with his head in between your thighs, devouring you. sometimes when your stressed he begs you to let him eat it out, “please baby? i’ll make you feel so good.” sometimes he would eat you out through your panties, the thin material turning transparent within a few seconds, giving him a clear outline of your pussy. when he’s done he would stay in that position, admiring your glossy cunt as your arousal coats his lips and chin with a sheer sheen of shine.

by far the hottest Jason Todd to ever exist, in nick robles we trust

Who I think the LADS men are for

Rafayel is for

• the escapism girls

• the romantasy girls

• the “no, it’s not perfect yet” girls

• the “always the artist, never the muse” girls

• the “yeah, i believe in soulmates” girls

• the “i’m my own worst critic” girls

• the “maybe one day someone will appreciate everything i have to give” girls

Xavier is for

• the “i wish i could catch a break” girls

• the “i’m so tired, but i can’t stop” girls

• the “i’ll take a break when i’m finished” girls

• the “oh, i forgot to eat again” girls

• the “i’ll be okay, i’m used to this” girls

• the insomniacs and chronic illness girls

• the “i don’t want to be a burden” girls

Zayne is for

• the “heartbreak songs remind me more of my parents than my ex” girls

• the “you don’t know the violence it took to become this soft” girls

• the “i’ll wait until i’m in the shower to cry” girls

• the burned out gifted kid girls

• the “i’m smart, but not smart enough” girls

• the poetry girls

• the “i don’t understand why i’m not good enough” girls

Sylus is for

• the eldest/only daughter

• the “i can handle it myself” girls

• the “i don’t feel a sense of accomplishment, just a mild sense of relief that it’s done” girls

• the “mature for your age” girls

• the “i’m tired of taking care of myself” girls

• the “my worth comes from my accomplishments” girls

• the “i wish someone would take the reins so i don’t have to” girls

Caleb is for

• the “i had to grow up before i was ready” girls

• the “why are you so loud?” girls

• the “no, i’m okay, what’s going on with you?” girls

• the therapist friend girls

• the maladaptive daydreaming girls

• the “i wish someone cared as much as i do” girls

• the “i don’t think i can do this anymore” girls

nice version

im laughing so hard because no matter what song you listen to 

spiderman dances to the beat

no matter what song ive been testing it and lauing my ass off for an hour