Papa Price

Sleepy Price commission for @oasislake76 💤

Valentines day with Price and the Missus

Happy Valentine’s Day my lovelies! I hope you all have a lovely day, if you’re celebrating today or if it’s just like any other day for you, either way I hope you have a wonderful day💕And enjoy this valentine’s fic of Price with his Missus.

(Btw I hyped this up and got people excited for it and now I’m scared it’s shit🙈)

Cw: male and female receiving oral

The feeling of heat between your thighs has you stirring in your sleep, the early morning sunrise bleeding in through the slight gap in the curtains, an orange glow taking over the room.

The movement underneath the covers snags your attention. Lifting up the edge to take a peak underneath, a head of brown hair littered with short greys is nestled between your legs.

Price has made himself quite comfortable with a leg over his shoulder and his arm wrapped firmly round the other keeping you spread wide for him, as he continues the trail of hickeys that he's started on the inside of your thighs. Not even bothering to look up at you from his position between your legs.

The purplish bruises litter the inside of your thighs. There's loads of them. Big and small covering the tender flesh in different shades of purples and blues.

How long had he possibly been down there for? If the hickeys were anything to go by it has clearly been quite a while.

"J...John" You mumble out a hand drifting down to lace through his hair, giving it a slight tug release a groan from deep in his throat.

"Good morning, love" John mutters between the kisses he's now placing on your thighs. his thumb aimlessly tracing over your hip bone back and forth, the feeling comforting. "Happy valentines day, my darling" His coarse facial hair scratching against your inner thighs as he hooks a finger under the waist band of your pyjama shorts, pulling them down round your hips and up over your thighs, discarding them some where in the room.

Your pussy now bare and exposed to him waiting and aching for him to bring his warm mouth to your aching core. His lips come down to wrap around your clit, sucking the bundle of nerves into his mouth hard.

His fingers dig into the fat of your thighs (most likely leaving more purple bruises on your body). His tongue lazily circling your clit flicking it before sucking it back into his mouth. Your loud moans fill the room, all filthy and lewd as you whine out.

"J..John, oh god...fuck!" Your back arching off the bed, thighs shaking as they rest on either side of his head.

Dipping down into your cunt, his tongue flattens against your folds before he's lapping at your slick. Your hips rising from the bed and pushing into his face tryna get more from him. Desperate to coat his face in your cum. Wanting to see your slick coat his facial hair in a slight sheen.

"Shh, shh, shh, almost done darling" John coos pushing your hips back down into the bed. The tips of his thick digits press at your sopping entrance, pushing their way through and stretching your tight little hole out. Fingers curling up to hit that spongy part of you that will have you toppling over the edge.

Fingers thrusting in and out of you at a slow and torturous pace, fingers hitting that spot deep inside of you just as his mouth continues to flick and suck on your swollen clit.

Your hands find their way underneath your pyjama shirt, pinching and twisting at your nipples. The added stimulation has heat building inside you, your stomach twisting into knots as that pleasure builds up ready and waiting to explode.

John rises up from underneath the covers, his lips meeting yours sloppy and wet as teeth clash together in the desperation of his need for you, his tongue pushes its way into your mouth, dancing with yours, as the taste of yourself on his tongue overwhelms your sense.

His fingers continue to pump in and out of you, the palm of his hand brushing against your swollen and sensitive clit with each pump of his fingers. Your moan being swallowed down by his mouth on yours.

“Cum for me, love. Come on give it to me” John says as he nips at the skin just below your ear. His fingers pumping faster his palm brushing harder against your clit. Your hips grinding up against his palm, begging for more friction against your poor aching clit.

Your walls clenching down on his thick digits as you spasm around him, your orgasm coming in waves as you reach the peak of your arousal. Removing his fingers from inside of you, John brings them up to his mouth so he can suck your cum clean off them. Making sure not leaving anything behind.

“Good morning” John remarks a smirk plastered across his face before pecking a kiss to your forehead. Rolling his body off of yours to lay next to you, the mattress creaks in protest at his weight.

Laying your head on his chest he wraps an arm around you pulling you in close. “Enjoy yourself?” John asks clearly chuffed with his morning activities.

“I could ask you the same question” You pant out still recovering from your recent orgasm. John lets out a chuckle as his fingers automatically start running through your hair.

“Hey John” you mutter as your hand trails down his chest, over his stomach and down his slight happy trail towards his cock, that lays half chubbed up under his boxers.

A grunt from deep in his chest is all you’re met with as you slip under his waistband, gripping a hold of his cock.

“Can I return the favour?” You ask mischief in your tone. As you run your hand up and down his length, the precum escaping his red aching tip acting as a lube for you to use.

“Always” He mutters as he crosses his arms behind his head and closes his eyes. Relaxing into the soft mattress and pillows making himself comfortable.

Raising his hips so you can pull his boxers down onto his thighs, freeing his cock from its confinement. His cock springing free slapping against his stomach.

Taking it in your grasp you work his cock up and down, it now being fully firm in your grasp. His red angry tip profusely leaking beads of clear sticky precum as you work him from base to tip.

You take him into your mouth swirling your tongue around his tip before you’re guiding him deeper down your throat.

"oooh, look at you, darling. You take my cock so fucking well" John grunts out hips rising, pushing himself as deep as he can go into your throat. His large hand coming down to tangle in your hair, slightly pushing down just so he can hear your gag and sputter around him as his tip rams against the spongey skin at the back of your throat.

John watches you through hooded eyes as his cock continuously disappears down your throat. Your other hand cups his balls, giving them a slight squeeze as John loves when you do that.

A string of animalistic grunts and growls escape from deep inside John as you pull his cock out from your mouth with a pop, dragging his tip over your lips coating them in his precum before you place a kiss to his tip, your tongue drags across his slit, tasting the salty liquid that escapes from it.

"You keep doing that and I'll coat that pretty little face of yours, darling" John says through gritted teeth. His thighs shaking underneath you, he won’t last much longer and you know it.

Swirling your tongue around his tip one more time has him cumming all over your face. Warm creamy spurts of cum coat your face in a glimmer of his pearly release.

(Here's your reminder @kamlicious, enjoy🤭)

Captain Beanie. (｡◕‿◕｡)

Knight!John Price x Princess!reader

inspo - honestly shameless , i wanted this

werewolf smut werewolf smut

contains chasing to fuck , monster fucking , cnc (if you squint) & knotting

The moonlight slashes through the dense treeline like a blade, silver and cold and watching.

Sir John Price, noble knight captain and sworn protector of your kingdom’s bloodline, stumbles against a tree, his breathing ragged, uneven. His armored gauntlet splits against bark as claws push through, twisting bone and sinew. His growl isn’t human anymore.

You shouldn't be watching.

But gods, you are.

“My lady,” he rasps, voice strangled and wet with the growl curling in his throat. “Run.”

You don’t. Can’t. Your eyes are locked on the way his jaw cracks open, lengthening, sharpening, his teeth catching the moonlight. His armor creaks and groans under the pressure of his expanding body, the beast beneath the steel.

He snarls, turning away from you, fangs bared to the forest, to anything that might distract him from the scent of you.

“I said run,” he growls again, lower this time, desperate, trembling. “I won’t be able to stop. If you stay—if I catch your scent again—I’ll take you.”

There’s a flash in his eyes. Hunger.

Your heart slams in your chest. You take a step back.

His ears twitch.

“I need you to run,” he groans, clawed hand gripping his chest, as though he could anchor the man inside a body that’s no longer his. “Please, princess. You need to run.”

You whisper his name.

His eyes snap to you. Glowing. Predatory. Wicked.

Another heartbeat, and you’re sprinting through the trees.

Behind you, metal crashes to the ground, followed by a guttural howl that shatters the stillness. The kind of sound that promises teeth on your throat and hands gripping your hips.

You don’t dare look back.

Because if he catches you—

—no knight in the world could save you from what he’s about to become.

And he will catch you.

Of course he will.

You're fast—gods, you're fast—but you're not him. Not with your skirts bunched in your fists, breath burning your throat, heart thundering like war drums in your chest.

The woods blur, and still you run.

But you feel it when he gets close.

The heat of him. The thudding weight of paws behind you, impossibly silent for how large he must be now. The low growl that slips into the wind and curls around your spine like a hand.

And then—

You're gone from the ground.

A cry tears from your throat as you're swept off your feet, tackled into the moss with shocking gentleness for something that had sounded like a monster moments ago. You're caged beneath him—bigger now, broader, his skin half-shifted, half-wolf, glowing eyes staring down at you as his claws press into the earth on either side of your head.

He pants above you, chest heaving, sweat and fur and musk curling thick in the air. Drool drips from his snarl onto your cheek.

"You should've run faster," he growls, voice rougher now, lined with hunger, with need.

"Y-you caught me..." you whisper, breathless, trembling beneath the weight of him.

He leans down, nuzzles his nose to your throat, a low, rumbling growl vibrating through your skin.

"You wanted me to."

And gods help you—

—you did.

There's no pretending anymore—not for him.

Not with the way he snarls low against your throat, like he's trying to taste your pulse before he even sinks his teeth in. Not with the way his claws dig into the dirt, holding himself back by a thread, trembling from the effort. He's not even fully shifted—can't be, not with how badly he wants to feel you with his hands, not paws. Not with how badly he wants your skin on his, not fur.

He’s not gentle. Not after all that. Not after the chase.

He ruts against you, desperate, grinding hard through the layers between you, shuddering when you squirm—when you press your hands against his chest, not to push him away, but to pull him closer.

"Tell me no," he growls, but his hips say something else entirely—rolling down slow, then slamming forward hard enough to make you gasp.

You whimper something—maybe “stop,” maybe “don’t,”—but your legs are already spreading, traitorous, trembling, welcoming.

Your nails bite into his arms. You turn your face like you don't want this—but your body arches into him, not away.

"Don't lie to me," he snarls, voice shaking with the strain of holding back. His fangs are bared, but his mouth is at your ear, and you whimper when his breath hits your skin. "You're mine, princess. Say it."

You don't. Not with words. But your hips tilt, just enough, just right.

He growls like something unholy.

You love this. Even when you act like you don’t. Even when you cry and whine and call him a monster.

Because you're the one who's still clinging to him.

You're the one who's dripping before he even claims you.

He’s got you flat beneath him, skirts shoved up around your waist, your thighs trembling against his sides. His hands are huge, rough from years of sword and steel, and now they’re claiming every inch of you like you’re a battlefield he owns. One stays planted on your hip, the other cradling your jaw, thumb dragging over your lip like he's daring you to bite.

"You're gonna scream for me, sweet thing," he mutters, voice rough and ragged, half-man, half-creature. "Not because you're scared—because you're mine."

He starts slow, grinding against your slick heat through your ruined underthings, just to feel the tremble, the way your breath catches. Then he pulls away—and spits in his hand, like a brute, slicking himself up before dragging the head of his cock along your folds.

Not pushing in. Not yet. Just teasing.

“You’re gonna remember this, princess. Every. Fuckin'. Inch.”

And when he does finally sink into you?

He’s ruthless. Long, hard thrusts that force breathy gasps out of your throat. No soft kisses. No gentle words. Just the slap of skin, the growl in his chest, and the slick wet sounds of him fucking you like he was meant to.

He uses one hand to pin both your wrists above your head, the other sliding down between your thighs—finding your clit with practiced fingers.

And when he hits just the right spot, when you squirm and cry out and your walls clench tight around him, he leans down, growling into your mouth:

“There she is. There’s my good girl. Scream for your captain.”

And god, you do. You scream his name like it’s the only thing you know.

Which, by the time he’s done with you, it just might be.

"What would the king think? Seeing his little princess be such a whore?"

He’s not asking—he’s taking, like his body’s driven by instinct and the only thing it wants is you.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, dragging you down onto his cock with a growl that rumbles through his chest. You’ll feel him for days, the deep ache between your legs, the ghost of his fingerprints on your skin. When you cry out, he smirks, and his hand slides up your throat, thumb pressed gently beneath your jaw, just enough pressure to remind you who’s in control.

“Look at you,” he rasps, hips snapping into yours so hard that you swore the earth would split beneath you. “Takin’ it so well. So desperate for your captain’s cock, aren’t you?”

You nod, gasping, but it’s not enough for him.

“Say it. Say you want me to ruin you.”

And when you do—when you whimper out that you want him to break you—he fucks you for real. One hand on your throat, the other gripping your thigh and pressing your knees back, folding you open for him.

“You’re mine,” he snarls into your ear. “Say it again. Say it while I breed you full.”

And you do, because how can you not? When he’s buried so deep, when every thrust punches the air from your lungs, when your entire body is his—yeah, it’s rough, claiming, filthy. And you love it. Even if you act like you don’t. Even if you cry a little. Even if you’re already begging him not to stop.

He doesn’t just want to make you scream, sweetheart. He wants to make you remember.

When it happens—when the last shred of control slips and the shift fully takes him—it’s violent. Bones crack, skin tears, fur bursts across his body like wildfire. His snarl becomes a growl, low and guttural, vibrating through your chest as you lay beneath him. His eyes glow gold now, no trace of the man you once knew… but gods, he’s still inside there. Still watching you. Still wanting you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He’s bigger now. Stronger. His claws scrape the ground on either side of your head, holding himself over you, caging you in like prey. His muzzle brushes your throat, and you feel the heat of his breath, the tension in his jaw as he fights not to bite—not yet. Not until he’s claimed you properly.

His thrusts are deeper, more forceful, hips snapping into you with inhuman power. You cry out, nails digging into whatever part of him you can reach, but he just growls in approval. The slick, obscene sounds of him inside you echo louder now, more primal, more filthy. Every motion screams mine.

“You should’ve run faster,” he huffs, voice distorted and monstrous but still his. “Would’ve probably gotten away.”

But he doesn’t regret that you didn’t. Not one bit.

Because now? He can knot you. Fill you. Mark you inside and out until there’s no question who you belong to.

And when you sob his name—when your body breaks open for him again and again—he howls, the sound shaking the trees, the sky, you.

You're his. Forever now. And he’s going to make damn sure everyone knows it.

At first, you think he’s done. His pace slows, almost tender for a fleeting second as he pants above you, still trembling with the aftershock of the shift. But then—then—you feel it. That slow, thick swell at the base of him starting to press insistently against you.

He growls when your body tries to resist it, claws digging into the earth beside your head as he forces himself deeper. You cry out, overwhelmed, stretched too wide, and he groans—deep, guttural—as the knot pops inside. Locked. Stuffed. Filled.

“Shhh,” he rumbles, voice animal-thick, muzzle nudging at your cheek, “s’alright. You’ll take it. Gonna keep it all in, yeah?”

The stretch, the burn, the way your walls flutter helplessly around him—it’s too much, too perfect. He can feel everything, and so can you. That throbbing knot pulsing against your insides, his release locked deep where it’s meant to stay.

No escaping now. Not for hours.

You whimper his name, and his voice rumbles with satisfaction: “Good girl. That’s it. Take my knot, princess. Take every bloody drop.”

And you do. You have to.

tagging my favorite sicko - @goatgoesmbe

Small continuation to this. @nightunite @beloveds-embrace I remember your interest in Price’s divorce, so here we go

Thinking thoughts about ex-husband John, who’s never there, who’s married to his work in the best and the worst sense of the phrasing. He misses birthdays and Christmases and Valentines and everything in between.

He promises-promises-promises, kisses the crown of your head, eyes tired and deeply seated in the web of his crow’s feet — dark blue of his irises so unreachable it feels like choking when you try to even try and touch the bottom of it.

Pressure changes, pressure threatens to burst your eardrums, pressure promises to make you sorry for trying to push through it.

John sighs and turns away, shoulders a rough square, tension already lacing through him because yeah, of course, luv, not like he doesn’t know that he’s missing your anniversary.

Yes, he knows. Yes, he gets it, sweetheart, he really does, but didn’t you know who you are marrying?

He is not even angry, exasperation of his tone slicing through your chest and it almost feels like condescension — the way he keeps patting your head and trying to kiss it better, like a spare kiss and a kind word would suffice for everything he didn’t live up to.

Like it can reinstate your trust in him after another cancelled date and another lonely dinner when he swore he’d get a day off and never did.

Honestly, he has no one but himself to blame and all things considered some people would say it’s a miracle you lasted this long with him.

It’s wonder you loved him so much you forgot that you need some love too. A true miracle you always loved him and never looked the other way, god knows he had to fight a lot of potential suitors for your hand before you decided you want him.

Angry, stubborn, moody and controlling him.

You picked him up as an explosive sod in his mid twenties and made him the man he is now, carefully manoeuvring through the triggers of his and making him smile when it all felt like a big load of shite.

Why did you even settle for him?

Why does he now feel like you settled for him — a closed off git who spent his whole life proving that he’s worthy of respect and his rank and responsibility.

And you.

God, it’s been years and he’s still not sure if he really is worthy of you.

John stares down at the divorce papers on his desk and feels something very similar to hurricane unfurling in his chest, rage pounding inside his head, panic icing our all warmth that was there, ring on his finger suddenly so slippery he has to curl his fingers into fist.

Can’t risk losing it. Not when he’s already losing you.

Simon watches him sometimes, John notices, but Ghost never says anything or perhaps, he does, just not to John. Small mercies.

John can’t help but feel a twinge of acidic envy at Simon getting along with his bird so well — his pretty partner picking up the behemoth of 141’s lieutenant.

Simon’s partner who always murmurs something in his ear and Ghost’s eyes crinkle in the corners.

Simon’s partner who seems content with how things are and with how often Simon is absent and Price just doesn’t bloody get it.

Simon works almost as much as he does, Simon is always away, Simon is never home for holidays.

And yet Simon’s partner says “yes” to a proposal and grins like the happiest person in the world whilst standing at the altar.

And yet Simon’s now spouse is bringing him snacks and is kissing his jaw and doesn’t fucking plan to divorce Simon.

Drives John right up the fucking wall, it does.

But there is no way he’s going to ask his lieutenant why his marriage isn’t failing, why his spouse seems to still love him. Why John’s doesn’t.

John drags his feet through the whole proceeding, John watches you with heavy bottomless eyes but stays stubbornly silent because okay, that’s your choice.

You want to get rid of him so badly that even wedding vows aren’t stopping you? Off you go then, he’s not gonna tie your leg to a kitchen table and lock you in the house.

John just scoffs and looks away but still hides your car keys in his fatigues so you don’t leave after another fight.

John murmurs “alright then”, but doesn’t sign the fucking papers because “I’m sorry, love, I lost them” and asks for the seventh copy.

John nods and says he’s letting you go if that’s what you want, but he doesn’t take off his ring and shakes his head when you offer to give him back your engagement one.

Yeah, it was his mom’s but it’s yours now, alright, love? Always yours.

He’s yours.

John is the wickedest man there is because he says one thing thinks another and does the third one.

And never never admits what the fuck is going on, because he can’t, because there has to be something wrong with him if even his lovely spouse is running.

Because John must be sinking if even his better half doesn’t think it’s worth staying and he doesn’t say anything but just stays in the kitchen while you are shuffling around the house.

Drinks the same cup of earl grey for hours on end, twirling spoon in it mindlessly, nervous tremor to his left wrist getting harder when his head gets a little too dark.

You hover in tne doorway, eyes deep with something he isn’t sure how to reach and it would be so easy if you said something like always. If you made the first step so he doesn’t have to.

But you just stand there, awkwardly shifting weight from one leg to another before you finally leave upstairs to get ready for bed.

Feels just like another defeat for John and at this point he is not even sure he knows how to play.

His tea gets cold the longer he sits on a wooden chair, lower back aching in protest but he just stares out of the kitchen window in the darkness of the night.

John says he can do this, John says it’s nothing, John says that he will sign it all.

John promises-promises-promises and still crawls in your bed, wrapping arms around you and breathing in your scent.

John whispers sweet quiet things in your skin, pleads you to reconsider, murmurs that he can’t do it without you.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder and scoops you up in his embrace, covering your whole body with his (come morning, he’ll pretend to be thoroughly asleep when you pull yourself out from underneath him just to be able to leave the bed).

Price still kisses your temple before work, press of his lips to your skin is more of a ritual than a routine, a second nature of his to love your whole being.

Price sits at his desk for a good hour before realising he hasn’t been writing a single fucking thing, he just can’t.

Not when his stomach churns at the thought of you right now packing up your things.

Of you leaving the house and leaving him.

Simon watches him carefully and at this point, it’s bloody annoying, can’t a man at least go through the divorce in peace?

Ghost huffs air out, rolls a fag between his teeth, tilting his head to the side — eyes heavy bottomless nothing, eyes the colour of graveyard soil, eyes-dark-holes that lead to a darker place of Simon’s head.

“Thought you didn’t want to divorce ‘em.”, Simon hums out like it’s a fact, like John hasn’t been missing every important date and important thing for the past few years.

Like John has been a good husband that deserves to have good things and deserves you.

Truth to be told, even before he became captain, John never fucking deserved you.

Could have lived a thousand lives and never earned the right to call himself your husband.

Still did though.

(Doesn’t matter if he deserved it if he really fucking wanted it, right?)

John rubs his eyes, pressing the heels of his palms down until the kaleidoscope of his ganglion cells doesn’t start to dance with flashes of colour.

Fucking hell, what is he even doing here? How did things turn to be so complicated?

“I don’t.”, he doesn’t realise he has said it out loud until he pulls his hands off his face and Ghost is still watching him with the same unnerving intensity.

He will get his lieutenant sunnies on one of these days and will never have to deal with this headache of a gaze.

“Then why do you?”, Simon asks like it’s simple, like it’s a fucking fairytale that Price can fix with a snap of his fingers or a kind word or a kiss of true love.

What’s the point of his true love if he’s not sure you can even feel it?

“How do you do it?”, John asks instead, words tasting like acid in his mouth, scraping his tongue and tender insides of his mouth, bleeding down sickening weakness down his throat.

His father would have smacked the taste out of John’s mouth if he heard the way he sounds right now.

But Ghost is not his father, Ghost just watches him silently, the only indicator that he even heard the question is a raised eyebrow of his. This cunt.

“Your spouse.”, John adds grumbling, dragging his feet through the whole conversation because god, he hates having talks. “They seem to be happy. Mine’s aren’t. ‘ts like I’m snuffing out their fire”, admitting it is even worse than thinking.

Admitting it is his personal defeat, his biggest flaw, his grandest fuck-up. Admitting it is a weakness.

Yeah, he deserves this fucking divorce all right. Miracle you put up with his arse for this long.

Ghost watches him with annoying understanding, with something almost akin to amusement, the same way you watch a dog run into clear glass doors repeatedly and then whimper on the porch in confusion.

“When’s the last time you talked?”, the question catches John off guard because it is so…normal? He honestly expected more silence or something more obscure but instead he is just awkward again.

But before John even gets to answer, Simon adds “Actually talked, John. Not snapped at each other like a pair of miserable toads”

Price has half a mind to tell Ghost to go fuck himself and his fucking talks but coincidentally Ghost is the one of them who is not going through the divorce, so John shuts his fucking gob.

“Think when you two actually connected like people. You’ve been together longer than some live in our line of work, sir”, Simon presses a cigarette butt down the ashtray, thin thread of smoke still rising off his desk.

“But when you are together this long you start forgetting that the other party can’t read your bloody mind. Goes for both of you by the way”, he chuckles, crossing arms over his chest, muscles rolling under the dark sweater of his.

“Reckon it’s third time they’ve been wringing you through it, isn’t it? Why’d you think they won’t back down now? What changed, eh?”

Price keeps rolling this pep talk on repeat the whole day, his mind a broken record speaking with the voice of his lieutenant and watching him from inside out with your eyes.

When was the last time you talked to each other?

When was the last time he asked you about the book you were reading? When was the last time you asked him about the op he came back from?

What changed?

John rubs his face, anxious sharp coils crawling up his arms to his heart, tremors getting worse before he has to physically force himself to stop and take a breather.

Not as young as he has been once, can’t just power through it anymore.

John shifts his weight from one leg to another, standing in front of the front door to your house and hates his own arse because what is even going on with him.

Price doesn’t want to think about the possibility of house being empty when he steps inside.

He will burn this bridge when he gets to it.

John gets inside and slowly pulls the heavy boots off, carpet cushioning his steps to the kitchen, warm glow of it welcoming him the same way your arms usually did.

You sit with his cup already filled up, steam rising off of his Earl Grey, something in his chest clawing from inside out in the open.

You don’t say anything but just raise to your feet and get ready to leave. So he can have his evening sit down with a cup until you fall asleep.

So you can hover for a moment longer in the doorway like the ghost of your own marriage before taking your leave and pretending later that you don’t melt into John’s embrace. That you don’t curl into him at night.

Price watches you, eyes heavy and dark, fingers of his right hand twitching involuntarily.

Here it comes. Now or never, John.

“Would you…do you want to have a cuppa with me? I bought these biscuits you seem to fancy, saw them on my way home, I—”, oh for fuck’s sake and now he’s rambling. This is just prime, John, that’s exactly how you were supposed to sound.

He coughs in his fist trying to mask the embarrassment, available hand still gripping the poor baggy of biscuits like it might run if he doesn’t do it.

What does he even think he is doing, offering his spouse fucking biscuits halfway through their divorce? He’s gone mad, that’s for sure.

“You are probably tired though. Must have had a long day with…everything.”, he adds softer, eyes down in his cup. Giving you an out.

Giving himself an out.

No need to have all these awkward conversations with your emotionally inept husband if you get divorced, right?

He’s a fucking coward when it comes to you. Always has been. Maybe that’s part of his “charm” you bought into?

“I can stay for a cup.”, you murmur quietly and plop himself down next to him. No cup in sight, John’s cheeks aching in a way that feels entirely too unnatural but your eyes crinkle and god, you are the prettiest, aren’t you, sweetheart? “Gonna make me one or you plan to stand there and look handsome?”

Teasing snaps him out of it, force of his smile just getting harder and he must be beaming at you like a proper idiot. But you don’t seem to mind too much.

Maybe you still like him after all.

“Just a moment, love”, John says, kiss to your cheek making his heart flutter, warmth spreading in his chest when you ravage through the baggy and bite off half of the biscuit.

Got them right this time, didn’t he? Seems like he’s still good for something.

John spends his whole life proving to himself that he deserves you and never asks whether you think he does or no.

John knows how to make your tea since your third date and knows what kind of biscuits his love fancies since the second one.

John decides he’s going to marry you on the first date you two have.

There is something bittersweet in brewing tea for a spouse he will always love and will always fail.

Because that’s what he does, because he never learned how to talk it out and he isn’t sure a daft old dog like him can learn any new tricks.

Coward’s way out.

No need to watch him claw his chest open and present you the infected wound of his heart if you get divorced, right?

Yeah, he never deserved you. But he always wanted.

John presses a dozen kisses to your face while he moves around the kitchen.

Each one a haste warm thing, more of a breath on your skin then actual touch.

That’s as much as he can muster up of actual tenderness without crumbling at your feet and swallowing his pride.

It all feels like a dead end. Like there is nowhere to go from here, he’s looking straight in the wall and he’s never been one to barrage through the obstacles.

Maybe that’s what was lacking. Maybe that’s why Simon’s spouse still loves him.

“You are thinking awfully hard there”, there is no malice in your voice, only quiet laughter and it spreads through Price’s achy bones like hot bath water, bubbles raising to his thorax.

Prettiest fucking thing you are with laughter like a hundred bells. Absolute darling.

John hums quietly, eyes meeting yours and he has a thousand different blunt questions that wary in degrees of hurt and confusion but you are still here.

Sitting in your kitchen, sipping tea he made for you, wearing his bloody sweater.

His spouse, his love, his partner for life.

“I got really lucky, didn’t I?”, it’s a rhetorical question, but there is choking tenderness the size of Jupiter in John’s mouth and he isn’t sure how to tell you that he’d kiss the soles of your feet every day the same way he kisses your forehead.

That bathes with you felt holier than any baptism, that he was closest to god when he was with you, your fingers combing through his hair like he’s something precious. Like he’s something you love.

John doesn’t know how to express the enormous amount of love he feels when you smile at him, when you yell at him, when you push back and snap your fingers in his face, his cheeky treasure.

John doesn’t think he earned the right to pleadask you to reconsider.

“I got more than most people ever did”, he murmurs softly and laces his fingers through yours, softly squeezing — callouses of his hands rubbing on the skin of yours.

There is a small twitch in the muscle of your jaw, your eyes intense enough to make him sorry if he tries to push harder and reach the bottom of your head.

“What’s that?”, your voice cracks the same way it usually did when you’d catch flu, cough ravaging your throat, rasp weaving itself in your vocal cords.

John looks at you for the first time in a very long time and there is no exasperated condescension in his eyes, crows feet of his eyes melting into a smile so gentle you feel like crying. This bastard.

“You.”, he murmurs, thumb circling the knuckle of yours, eyes soft in a way they haven’t been in forever and this is so unfair, he could ask you anything and you could never say no when he does it like that. “I got you.”, he adds quietly and his smile gets gentler. “Even if I never deserved to, I just want you to know that I always wanted it. Always wanted you. Always will”

John holds you like your are precious fragile thing, his skin warm from holding his cuppa, palm cupping your face when he angles your face up and kisses your brow.

Like it’s a goodbye.

“You deserve to be happy, love. You deserve to feel loved, not just know that you are”, Price says and wipes away a stray tear of yours, his eyes creasing in the corners to hide the redness of them, sharp lashes wet with something he would never admit.

Weakness that bleeds down his throat and chokes him out. Tenderness he never learned because men aren’t about the sappy talk.

John thinks one thing, says another and does the third one so he never mentions that he knows you have the stack of copies of divorce papers in your nightstand and never mentions that he left a signed one on top of them.

You deserve better than silent signature and stubborn husband.

You deserve better than him. But god, if it doesn’t kill him to admit it.

Just one more thing John Price will never talk about.

Okay so is this kinda inspired by my own wishfull thinking? Yes absolutely. Do I give a damn? Absolutely not. Warnings? Age gap (reader 23/John 35) / Reader lives at home / kinda rushed because I want it out of my system :)

Ever since covid you and your friend had a Tinder Night every two weeks, to help you with your never-ending singleness. And when she moved across the country to move in with her boyfriend, the Tinder Nights got digital. And by now you've also broadened your horizon to Hinge.

But one evening bored out of your mind by the selection of boys, your friend — plus her boyfriend who tries not to be invested but is failing very badly — and you decide to up the age to 30 to 40, for shits and gigs of course.

And after an evening of swiping and giggling about the creepy dudes who put their minimum age to at least 23, you kinda forget to put the age back to your five-year rule. Until you get a notification of Hinge a couple of nights later.

John has liked your photo! Match to continue the conversation.

You hesitate at first. From the small picture, the notif gives you you can see that the guy isn't 25 of something. Opening the app, you scroll through his profile.

He's... handsome. You're not going to deny that with short brown hair and a pretty mighty moustache and beard, he kinda gives you puppy vibes as his eyes radiate kindness.

His profile says he's 35 and in the army. Pretty tall too. And his prompts are pretty hilarious too. At least... you think so.

You send a screenshot to your friend of his answer to:

I'm totally obsessed with: Sleeping in a freshly washed bed.

You: Oh he's... like ADULT adult Your friend: That answer comes across as if he is going to give you tips about the airfryer

And against your better judgement... you match with him.

The conversation is awkward at first (from your side at least) but slowly and surely you start to warm up. His jokes are horrible and dad-jokey but make you smile anytime he sends them. He's the first person you text and the last one from whom you check if you have a message before going to sleep.

After a week he asks you out to dinner. He wants to meet you and see if you match each other in real life. And you agree.

So that Friday, after work, you get all dolled up and you ask your mother to drop you off so you can drink a cocktail or two and don't have to worry about driving.

When you walk into the restaurant your breath hitches. There he is, waiting patiently for you. He's wearing a simple white button-up with the sleeves rolled up his arms and dark slacks. Effortlessly handsome.

John rises from his seat when you approach and hugs you, a wide smile on his face. He pulls the chair out for you, like the gentleman he is, and asks about your day.

To your surprise, this is the first date you truly enjoy. John is attentive and seems to really pay attention to you and what you say. He asks about you, your job, and your life. Of course, you do the same. he's a very interesting man and his job is just amazing. He explains he's a captain in the British Army but that he's on desk duty until his injury from his last deployment has healed. He can't say a lot about his job as a Captain, but what he tells you sounds all so brave.

Without even realising hours have passed and the restaurant staff is not so subtly urging you to pay and go home. You want to grab your purse to split the bill. But John gives you a stern look and pays instead.

"You really didn't need to do that", you say as he drives you home, feeling kinda guilty that he paid the bill.

John gives you the same look as before. "Darling, my mother raised me right. And she would give me a stern talking to if she knew I would let a lady pay on the first date."

"Fine", you huff, "but next time I pay!"

"Next time huh?" He gives you a cheeky smile.

You feel your face heat up and choose to say nothing, opting to look out of the window.

John stops in front of your house and gets out to open the car door for you. He walks you to the front door and you hesitate for a moment with the key in your hand.

"I would love to invite you in for tea but..."

He nods understanding. "But you have roommates that are probably asleep by now. I get it."

Pursing your lips, you embarrassingly scratch the back of your neck. "No... I still live with my parents."

John's eyes widen with shock for a second before he masks it. "Ah. I see."

This is it, you think, I've blown it.

"It's a bit too early to meet the parents, isn't it?", he jokes and you let out a sigh of relief. You nod in agreement, a smile forming on your face.

Standing up on your tippy toes, you press a kiss against John's cheek. His beard prickles your lips but you don't mind it.

"Thanks for tonight. And thanks you for driving me home", you smile softly. "Text me when you get home safely?"

John nods and you wait before entering your home until John's driven away. Once inside you sigh deeply.

How are you going to explain to your parents that you're dating a guy who's seriously twelve years older than you?!

second part

Part three of CEO!John Price

Part one | Part two

CW : smut, oral sex, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, mating press, little power imbalance, reader is a female

After you read the note that John left for you on your table, you are left feeling quite nervous but also excited. You were prepared for this. When you were getting ready for work this morning, you put on your favorite underwear. Lacy pink panties and matching bra that made your tits look great. You put on a lot of perfume, the one John had bought for you. You wore your best outfit, and you felt sexy and confident. You wanted to impress John, yesterday took you by surprise, but now you were in charge. When the time for his lunch break came, you were ready, so when you went to his office you knew what you wanted. You wanted him.

You find John sitting behind his table, working on his laptop. He looks good, so fucking hot without even trying. When he realizes that it´s you, who just walked in, he immediately shuts up his laptop and his full attention is on you. “Suddenly my day just got a lot better” he says and walks to you.

He gently places his hand on your cheek, and he kisses you. It’s nothing like the kiss you shared yesterday. This one is soft and gentle, like now he has time to taste you properly. He takes his time kissing you. When you try to touch him more, he pulls away. “Not now sweetheart, we have plans don’t we”. John walks out of the office with you. His hand on your back walking you through the whole floor like you’re his wife and not his secretary.

You’re confused. You expected a quick sex in his office, just like yesterday, you expected him to just pull your skirt up and fuck you on the desk. But now he is taking you somewhere in his expensive car and you’re wondering what the hell is going on.

You don’t know how John is feels about dating. You always thought that he was the type who just had casual sex with different partners. Since you started working for him, he didn’t have a girlfriend, but you heard from your colleges that he enjoys a company of beautiful women. Sometimes the relationship lasts longer but mostly there were a few weeks hook ups.

You stop in front of some Italian restaurant. He opens your door for you and like a true gentleman he helps you to get out of the car. The restaurant is lovely, there are only a few people inside and it looks really cozy. After you order your food he asks about your day, how did you sleep and what are your plans for the evening. He acts like you’re on a normal date and not on a business lunch. “I can see that something is bothering you, you don’t like it here?” John asks you after he notices how out of the place you look.

You tell him that you don’t understand what is going on, why are you here and what are you doing. “Well, I know that you don’t go out for your lunch break, so I wanted to take my girl out, take care of you.” He says it is not a big deal. “Your girl?” you ask. “What did you thought that I’m just going to fuck you in my office, when I am will be bored? John asks and your face goes red. That is exactly what you thought he would do. “I take care of my partners. I want to spoil you. Since you started to work for me you have been such a good girl, making my life so much easier. Now it is my turn.” You’re left speechless.

After the lunch, he takes you back to the office. His hand is on your thigh while he drives and it’s making you insane. Yes, you do like that he took you out but you’re so horny. The whole morning you imagined what he would do to you, and you were excited. And now he is teasing you with his fingers lightly brushing over your skin and each time he goes higher and higher.

At one moment when John’s hand is almost all the way under your skirt you moan. He looks at you with a playfulness in his eyes. Now he is teasing you on purpose. He continues to drive while his hand is slowly making its way in your panties. “Fuck love, you’re soaked, you could tell me that you wanted me so much.” Gently he starts to circle your clit and you’re opening your legs more for him.

He slowly puts two of his fingers inside you and after a while he starts to move them. You’re almost at the office building when he makes a turn and starts to drive in a different direction. “Where are we going?” you ask. “I made a promise to you yesterday, haven’t I. Were not fucking in my car. I am taking you to my place, so we don’t have to worry about some of your colleagues catching us fucking. We would want Janice from finance to see how good you take my cock. Am I right?”

To be honest you don’t care if Janice saw you. You’re so close and you can feel your orgasm approaching. John still casually drives while his fucking your pussy with his fingers. When he pulls his fingers out of you, you’re desperate, you just need a little bit more and you know that he knows it too. “You will come on my face in a minute don’t worry” John says.

And he is right the drive to his house is short and you both quickly get out of the car. When the door to his house closes behind you, he is immediately on you. Kissing you passionately and lifting you up so your legs are wrapped on his hips. He walks with you up the stairs not letting you go.

 “Everything off, I want to see you” he says when he lays you on his bed. You’re quick with your clothes and now you lay before him in nothing but your panties. “Fucking beautiful, and I bet you taste even better than you look.” “Spread your legs for me, sweetheart, let me see you” he gently pulls your panties, and he shows his head between your thighs. You’re already so wet and when he finally starts to lick your pussy your gone. You arch your back, and you can hear him whisper fucking perfect for me.  

When his tongue finds you clit you’re gone. He looks up at you and you can see your wetness on his beard and it’s the hottest thing you have ever seen. He quickly brings you to your orgasm and as he promised you to come on his face. When you finally come down from your orgasm you can see him taking his shirt off. He unzips his pants and quickly takes them off. He is on you naked, and you can see his hard dick leaking precum.

“I want to see your face this time, I want to see how pretty you’re going to look when I make you come on my dick.” He slowly pushes in you. “You were made for me honey, youre going to be the death of me.” he growls, and he starts to move in you. John is a big man and the way his stretching you is amazing. You can feel him everywhere and you are full.

It’s completely different than the sex you had yesterday. This is slow, his thrusts are hard, but it’s not rushed like the last time. He plays with your nipples, and you can feel that your second orgasm is approaching. “I am going to cum” you tell him, and you can feel that he is close too. He pushes your legs to your chest in a mating press and you can feel him so much deeper. “I need to come in your sweet pussy, please sweetheart be a good girl and let me” he says and you just nod. His fingers start to rub your clit and your orgasm hits you. He follows shortly after you spilling his seed into you. When he pulls out of you, he pulls you to his chest and he holds you so tight. You just lay there and you on his chest and his hands holding you.

You don’t go back to work that day, you stay at his place the night and the next day he drives you to your apartment. He tries to convince you to take the rest of the week off, so he can enjoy your company, but you tell him that he is the boss, and he needs to work, and he can’t take a vacation just because he is horny.  You go to work and when you go to your desk you see a note there, just like yesterday. But this time it says: My office now! And loose your panties on the way.

Masterlist

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 ]

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.

What if for dads bsf, he comes on a family trip to the beach with you and your father.

You in your bikini, the sneaked glances when your dad isn't looking. MAYBE have him apply sunscreen on you!

dadsbf!old man john price in his late 40s n young, innocent sweet fem!reader who’s 21

you’ve always been a mountain lover, sunny countryside and green lavish trees filled you with the warmest joy, but just like he would any other summer, your dad has forced you to come to the beach with him, stating that ‘vitamin d is important’, but what convinced you is that you can just lay down, read your book and sip chill cold cocacola in peace, especially since your dads best friend john price is coming with you

laying happily under the cozy shadow of a colorful umbrella, heart shaped glasses and a book in your hand, your reading is cradled by the gentle hum of the wind moving through the waves, but you find it hard to focus on the lines on the paper as your eyes keep moving towards him — his muscular, buff, hairy chest is wet, burly and decorated with a few scars, his dark, graying hair and beard kissed by the sun as he shook his head, thin drops of water falling over the sand.

you take a shaky breath, feeling your cheeks grow warm and red, brighter than the sun, and quickly look away, blushing hard and feeling bad for staring so much — but gosh, he’s the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, so bulky and mature, aged in the most handsome way.

you toss over the towel, shifting position and continuing reading, already too caught up in the book to notice the looming and lurching shadow above you, that covered the sun rays — you tilt your head, and there he is, bundle of muscles, thick beard and intimidating, pure masculine energy.

“enjoying your book, love?” he asks playfully, his voice rough and low, quirking his brow as he let his eyes travel down your figure, shamelessly staring over your legs and adorable, vintage style bikin, all frills and ribbons — he sets his warm eyes back on your face, “what are you reading, Lolita?”

your cheeks are burning like flames, and you feel like you’re steaming with the hot air around you “m not, sir,”

he only laughs, a short, deep chuckle, before he tilts his head towards the water behind him “not gonna take a swim, doll?”

“dont think so, haven’t put on sunscreen yet..” you nibble on your bottom lip, head elsewhere, before you reach out to heap your bottle of coke “was waiting for someone to help me open this, can you help me sir, please?”

you give him big, doe eyes, your puffy lips parted slightly as your dolly features look up at him with such a tender, innocent look he needs to ignore how uncomfortable and suddenly tight his wet shorts feel.

“of course, doll face,” he takes it from your hands, opens it with a tiny, effortless twist of his large hand and hands it over to you, giving you a slight wink — you flame up under his gaze, and quickly bring the bottle up to your lips, mumbling a shy “thank you, sir”

the first sip is the best one, cold and frizzy bubbles running down your throat as you savor them — you let your eyes mindlessly set on him as you drink, almost choking with the coke when you notice how his own sharp ones are stuck on your lips wrapped around the bottle.

you swallow, placing the bottle down — your dad is swimming cluelessly back in the sea, near the limit of the string of buoys marking the swimming area, out of sight and of reach.

“need me to put sunscreen on you, princess, can’t have your delicate skin get burned now,” he says it almost like a command, stating it like you don’t have a voice in the matter and that makes your heart flutter — he brings his authoritative, caring and dominating attitude everywhere he goes, even when he’s not working, he’s a soldier in control of his surroundings inside and outside of the field.

“don’t wanna bother you sir, but thank you, alright..” you just blink, carefully placing your book down next to you and laying on the sandy towel, practically giving and serving yourself to him. he almost grunts at the sight, you, so young, too young, sweet and modest in your bikini, always dainty and refined.

“never bother me, sweet girl, stay still for old price, good girl” he grips — yes, grips — the sunscreen hardly and bends over one knee, applying it on both hands before starting to smear it over your skin, your arms, your legs and then your thighs. you almost gasp at the contact, his hands have always looked calloused, rough and scarred, like sandpaper, but they feel so good, warm and large against your skin.

he remains silent as he lower his hands and gently squeezed your thighs, a silent request, which you immediately followed by parting your thighs to him, still laying on your back — his hands apply the sunscreen on your inner thighs, close to where you ache the most, where you want him, but your bashfulness prevents you from addressing this need.

his thick fingers distractedly brush over your clothed clit, making you let out a soft, tiny sound, that sounded like a strangled whine and a little sigh — his eyes shoot out, completely and utterly in control, but when he spreads more cream next to your needy spot, you involuntarily buck your hips against his hand, making him clench his jaw and mutter down a restrained, growly “careful, doll, be a good girl and don’t move, said stay still”

you swallow back your embarrassment, your cheeks red and bright, whole face on fire as he shifts his hands on your tummy, caressing it and smearing more white cream on your flat chest, between your tiny, small boobs that are raising and falling with every hard breath.

“feel good, doll?”

you nodded, unable to say anything, but you wanted him to kiss you, to just take you however he pleased “yessir”

“good, on your tummy f’me now, come on” he pats your leg, and you quickly turn around, closing your eyes when you feel his large hands on your back, applying your cream — you arch your back against his fingers, earning a deep, amused chuckle from him.

“look at you, love, stretching yourself like a bunny, huh?”

you nod again, but this time, your eyes shoot open when you feel his thick mustache and beard pressed against the skin of your shoulder, pressing a light, small and tickling kiss — he lowers his hand and playfully pats your bottom, caressing it before drifting back. “done, love, all nice and safe.”

you’re left like this, blushing and wide eyed, watching him take a sip from your bottle of coke, and you can’t help but let your romantic mind think this is an indirect kiss.