Soap Comes Back To Base After Having Teeth Pulled And Is Not Expecting Ghost To Pounce The Second He

Thinking about being a little too good at getting Johnny off. The way he grits his teeth as he thrusts into your fist, whining and begging: “Not yet—fuck—please not yet.” Brain begging for one thing, body begging for another. Hmmm

I want retired!john with a bad knee and a pudgy belly who spends his time helping at risk youth because I love to imagine that john was a troublemaker in his youth who just needed a strong role model in his life

being his pretty wife who brings baked goods for their group sessions, you remember every face who introduces themselves to you. make all the kids feel seen every time you greet them at the youth center, asking how the test they were talking about last week went

even if they give john a hard time, they can’t bring themselves to be mean to their youth counsellor’s wife because she’s just so sweet

being the “safe” house in the neighbourhood, door always open for the teens who’d rather not go home. who don’t have parents they can ask for advice or a warm meal waiting for them tonight

is this too niche and boring? or is there something here?

it is kind of funny that Neil played Soap as a pretty laid back but straight laced, normal macho soldier type, and we all decided that hmmm nah that's a creepy weirdo pervert that has heart eyes for pussy and dick and can't be normal to save his life

• I love this trend sm!! 💫

short comic based off that one post where sevika first meets silco by mistaking him for a butch lesbian (idk how the timelines work don't think too hard abt the ages lol)

When you blow johnny and just keep gagging and choking he'll most likely laugh at you. But because you don't just let things slide–that man needs to be put in his place anyway–you pull out one of your dildos, and tell him to suck it. He laughs incredulously at first, though not totally opposedto the idea. But once he saw the expression on your face he knows you're serious. And he was never one to turn down a challenge.

Safe to say he's gagging like a bitch. Can barely take half the thing without tears stinging at his eyes. And if you're mean you tell him, "well, that's pathetic, baby." In a mocking tone. (lt makes his cock twitch dw) and if you're even meaner you decide to 'help out'. Forcing the toy down his throat with your hand. Do it over and over. Like he does when fucking your throat without consideration. He's a mess by the end, sweaty, eyes red with tears flowing from them, drooled all over the toy, down on himself like some mutt. But some time during it he came without even being touched.

He doesn't make fun of you again.

Price x Reader. Age gap. Divorced Price. Older BF Price. Vaguely smutty. Follow-up to this.

Price realizes you’ve never had a reliable man in your life exactly the second time he discovers you looking up DIY home maintenance for very simple projects.

It missed him the first time because he was deployed. You’d mentioned offhand how you were figuring out how to rebalance a ceiling fan, and he’d just automatically assumed that you were doing it yourself because he wasn’t there, so he simply praised you for your resourcefulness and lived for the next three weeks off of the way you’d absolutely glowed at his words.

But then he gets home, and one evening on the couch he catches you googling “how to fix a leaky sink.”

“What’s that?” he asks you, tamping down on the sudden feeling of masculine inadequacy that reared up almost immediately at the discovery.

“Faucet handle’s leaking all over my counter when I turn it on,” you say, not looking up from your phone. “Landlord’s out of town and can’t fix it.”

“I’m in town, ain’t I?”

You look up at him then, brows raised. You hadn’t even considered asking him, then.

“Oh—I didn’t want to bother you, John, you only just got back, and you’re tired…”

You trail off at the droll expression on his face.

Price has learned a lot of lessons from his previous marriage. The foundational one: just because he hasn’t been asked to help doesn’t mean he is believed to be unreliable. Adding that lesson to his knowledge base about you—young, modern, independent—calculates out an obvious answer that curtails any sour mood that might have sprouted up over the issue.

He puts his hand over your phone screen and lowers it down to your lap. “I’m fixin’ the sink,” he says simply.

He enjoys the way your eyes dilate at the assertion.

The next day, he shows up at your flat wearing old work clothes and carrying his heavy toolbox in his hand.

(You don’t live together yet—something he’s keen to rectify—but he has a toothbrush in your bathroom and permanent space in your bedroom drawers. He can be content for now.)

And you—you answer the door in the filmiest of sundresses, the ribbon tie on one shoulder hanging at a loose angle.

“Heard you need some plumbing done,” he says in the gruffest of voices, already understanding the game.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” you say, barely able to hide your giggle, “I’ve been so worried.”

He steps in close to you, close enough to feel the heat of your body radiating off of your bare skin. He has half a mind to put the charade aside and lift your skirt here and now, but another lesson helpfully springs to mind: anticipation of the act makes the finale all the sweeter.

“I’ll show you to the kitchen,” you murmur, looking up at him with warm, dreamy eyes.

When he gets under the sink, he finds the problem easy enough to fix—the cold water supply line simple isn’t screwed in tight enough, and when he wiggles the whole contraption by the valves he finds that nothing has been tightened up to standard. A couple of years knocking the thing around had probably loosened up the locknut.

He elects to fix the whole problem in one go, while in the meantime you stand off to the side, watching him. He feels your eyes on his legs, trailing up to the hair on his belly exposed by his shirt riding up.

“Sir, I’m sorry, I should’ve said before,” you simper, “but I’m not really sure how I’m gonna pay for this.”

His cock jumps in his jeans, and he feels your gaze move to it as if it’s a physical touch.

He levers himself out a little and meets your eyes, keeping a stern expression on his face.

“I’m sure you’re gonna figure it out,” he says. Looking down at his groin and then back up at your face might be a touch unsubtle, but clear communication had been the most important lesson of all.

He slides himself back under, and pretends he doesn’t feel you approach, or lower to your knees between his spread legs. He ignores your gentle hands falling on the closure of his jeans, the pop of the button coming undone, the parting of the zipper as you pull it down.

“Of course, sir,” you say, “I’m sure I will.”

The softness of your hand meets his growing erection, caressing the head of his cock with your thumb—followed very close behind by the wet, liquid heat of your mouth.

nosferatu is abt to be my number 1 hear me out. man said “you are my affliction” “i cannot be sated without you” “i am an appetite, nothing more” HELLO?????

thinking about toxic!ex!simon.....

The banging on the door is relentless, a pounding that vibrates through the frame and straight into your chest. It’s raining so hard that it sounds like the sky itself is cracking open, drowning out his muffled voice on the other side. But you hear him anyway, broken and raw. “Let me in. For fuck’s sake, please let me in.”

Your stomach twists. You don’t want to see him. You shouldn’t see him. But your hand moves to the lock on instinct, and when you open the door, the sight of him makes your breath catch.

Simon is on the edge of ruin. Rain streaks down his face, plastering his hoodie to his skin, his hair curling and dripping. His mask is gone, leaving him exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. His eyes—wild, bloodshot, hollow—meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you says a word. He's on the verge of self-destruction.

Then, before you can speak, he collapses to his knees.

It’s not graceful. It’s not controlled. It’s desperate. His body hits the ground with a thud, his palms catching against the threshold like they’re the only thing holding him together. You take a step back, expecting him to get up, to say something sharp or clipped, but he doesn’t. He leans forward, and...

He crawls.

He crawls inside like a wounded mutt, breathing ragged and uneven. His massive hands dragging against the floor until they find your legs. You try to move back, but he follows, until his forehead is pressed to your stomach, his massive frame trembling as he clutches at you. His fingers dig into your hips, holding onto you like he's drowning, his head tilting back to look up at you.

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens. “Don’t,” he growls, the sound guttural, primal. The look in his eyes is feral—something broken and starving and so goddamn human it makes your heart ache.

“Y'don’t get it,” he spits, his voice trembling. “I can't be sated without ya, love, don’t y'see? You’re in me. You’re fuckin' inside me, and no matter what I do, I can’t tear y'out.”

He buries his face against you again, messily planting his lips against any ounce of skin open to worship. “I’ll fuckin' beg. I’ll get on m'knees—between y'thighs—every night if I have to. Just—don’t leave me again. Please. I’ll fuckin' die without you.”

You inhale sharply, your hands hovering at your sides as his shoulders shake. The rain drips from him, pooling on your floor, but he doesn’t care. He clutches at you tighter, his voice dropping into something dark and guttural. “I'm an appetite, nothing more. I was made to need ya, to crave ya. And I can’t—” His voice cracks, and he presses his face harder into you, his breath hot and ragged through his sobs. “I can’t fuckin' live without you, baby—please.”

You should push him away, should tell him to leave, but instead, you stand frozen, overwhelmed by the storm of him—the raw hunger, the consuming despair, the way he folds himself into you, desperate to make himself whole again. He’s feral, ruined, a shadow of himself, and all of it is for you.

How could you deny him?

mlist

drabble , domestic simon who loves your tits & wicked 18+ gaslight king

"were you just singing?"

"negative."

"simon, we live alone."

the shower is scalding. his pale, freckled skin aflush under the stream and you yank your hand away, hissing, when you test the waters.

"so?" his stare is dissembling. leering. even more so as he watches you strip through the vinyl. he rubs soap over the dusty curls protecting his hefty softened cock. ruddy, bulbous head drooping under its own weight despite how he gripes it at the base.

gives himself a little tug when you pull back the curtain once more—hand tucked into your armpit, forearm braced over the fat of your tits; prudish, as if his teeth aren't branded into your cleavage—to test the now cooler water.

you cock an eyebrow at him, perplexed.

"it's just us that live here."

"a ghost then."

"our house was only built a few years ago," you snark—all bark, not nearly enough bite—just as his everlasting patience snaps. simon reaches over the threshold of the shower stall, curls a meaty hand around your bicep, and yanks you beneath the water. "how can it be haunted?"

"land, maybe," he supplies unhelpfully, pulling you flush against his front, the print of his dick pressed against the cleft of your ass.

simon hikes his chin over your shoulder—heavy grunts and groans against your ear—and uses his bar of soap as an excuse for his hands to roam over your chest and pinch your nipples between his index and thumb. then, pull.

"just admit you were singing wicked, simon."

his pause is so fleeting that you fail to notice—too caught up in the way he methodically massages your sudsy tits together by testing their weight and jiggle in his palms.

angles them directly into the heated stream, lip curling when you inevitably shudder in oversensitivity.

"was the bodies i buried in the garden."

now it's your turn to pause. jolt, in fact. you squint up at him. equal parts confused and suspicious. maybe it's another shit joke.

"what?"

"cornflowers needed fertilizer." he's dead serious. callouses scraping down your torso to cup over your cunt.

"fuckin' hell—bodies?" you're spitting and the corner of his mouth simply quirks up, his middle finger tracing across your seam, splitting your lips apart for him to notch a fingerpad against your slicked hole.

"only four."

"what?! why? who? the fuck is wrong with you?" your grip is a vice around his wrist, tugging his hand away from paradise. almost as fast as it appeared, simon's smile is wiped off his face.

too soon for him to mention the bodies of your shitty first dates, then.

time to backtrack.

"it was m'singing."

"no. no. why are there bodies buried in our garden?"

"defying gravity's my favourite."

nsfw

sucking and jerking simon off bcs he is too tired when he comes back from deployment but his dick cant help but be hard. all that time away from you makes him ache.

his head falls into the pillow and he lets out soft grunts and moans, he is half asleep but your soft hand on his big cock makes him stay somehow conscious. your soft kisses on hid jaw and neck make him feel warm, he is too tired to kiss you back, his mouth and tongue are not able to match your pace.

simon cums fast, but he is hard again. and you take good care of him until he cums 2 or 3 times, sometimes 4.

"i'll make it up to you..." he whispers before falling asleep, and he does. next morning, after a good sleep he wakes up ready to show you how much he missed you.