#Evie Whores | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gloomwitchwrites · 9 months ago

Text

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: canon-typical swearing, angst, possessive!Simon, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal fingering, overstimulation, praise, hand job, dirty talk, aftercare

Word Count: 6k

A/N: Part Eleven of Ink & Needle

An argument becomes a moment of understanding. Certain carnal urges are fulfilled.

Chapter Ten // Chapter Twelve

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

“Tell me why your hands are shaking.”

Are they? Is that what you’re feeling? You didn’t notice.

Bringing them up to waist level, you observe their gentle tremble. Elbows pressing lightly into your sides, arms angled inward, you curl your fingers toward your palms in an attempt to cease the shaking. They continue to quiver as if the signals from your brain to your hands fall off the trail, losing themselves amongst the millions of constantly firing neurons.

What stops the trembling are Simon’s hands.

Your palms face the ceiling and the tops of your hands are aimed toward the wood floor. Simon slides underneath, fingers delicately encasing the stuttering shake. Tattooed and large. Rough, but dry and warm. Like a light switch being flipped, you are suddenly calm. Peaceful.

Simon said he wants to talk. He wants to know. He is asking you for understanding, to allow him in even if what’s inside isn’t all that pretty. There is no obligation you’re holding him to. No standard. Simon draws up his own, presents them, lays them out flat in fan before you like a deck of cards.

It’s your move. Your opportunity to select one.

But the quiet is shattered as Adam’s voice returns, bashing against your brain like waves crashing against rock.

Whore.

Fucking whore.

The trembling begins again and Simon’s hold on your hands tightens, his large frame shifting forward into your space, creating a protective cocoon that you desperately wish to lean against but don’t.

“I’m sorry,” you stammer. The inhale you take is fractured, splitting like an atom, the energy inside you roaring into an explosion that rings loudly in your ears.

Everything is fucked. Everything is torn apart. Ripped to bloody ribbons.

Wrong and twisted and broken and just wrong.

Evie’s in-laws do not forgive easily, and Adam is the worst of the bunch. On the surface, he is ever the gentleman, but underneath is the serpent hiding in the leaves.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. “I shouldn’t have let him touch me. I didn’t want him to. Simon—I promise. I—”

One of his large hands releases you only to grasp the side of your face. He forces you to look at him. Forces you to gaze into those dark eyes that you could drown in.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But—”

“Don’t apologize for someone else’s poor behavior,” interjects Simon. Your wraith’s thumb brushes away the tears staining your cheeks. “He had no right.” Simon’s voice is nearly a growl, as if the memory of Adam placing his hand on your thigh personally hurts him.

Simon doesn’t understand. He has no context to why you were even there to begin with. Seeing you and Adam together wounded him. While sitting in your chair, watching your wraith as he confronted Evie’s brother-in-law with such fury, you knew you made a mistake.

But how do begin to explain everything? How do you start to detail Evie and Archie’s lives together? How do you slot the pieces into a picture that Simon will understand? How do you tell Simon that Archie’s entire family is fucking awful?

How? How?

All Simon witnessed was you and Adam sitting together in a dark pub. All Simon saw was Adam placing his hand upon your thigh. All he heard was that one little sentence at the end. That’s it. Simon knows nothing else.

“Yet he did it anyway,” you exclaim. “And you’re angry.”

“With him,” growls Simon. “Not with you.”

Yet that fails to explain Simon’s behavior after his friends escorted Adam out of the building. As far as you know, they could have taken Adam down a side street and broken his nose. Perhaps punched out a few teeth. You hope that isn’t the case. You hope they only took him to his car.

And you’re still seething about the way Simon treated you after. The shaking in your hands isn’t simply a reaction to Adam’s inappropriate behavior. It is also a response to Simon’s rough protectiveness.

“You’re not angry with me yet you drag me around by my arm. Herd me like a fucking farm animal.” You attempt to remove your hands from his grip, but Simon is having none of it. His fingers only squeeze a bit tighter. “Is that why you were so rough with me? Because you weren’t angry?”

Your voice is rising. The need to defend yourself is insistent. Pulsing. A driving force.

Yes, Adam had no right to touch you. But Simon also had no right to handle you like he did. That too is wrong.

Simon’s shoulders heave, every muscle in his body tensing. He abruptly drops your hands. Withdrawing. Pulling away. Stepping back.

“That was,” he begins, but pauses, gaze dropping in subtle shame. At his sides, his hands form fists. “Wrong of me.” Simon glances up, and the fire returns, your wraith a burning inferno that might combust. “I saw him touch you. Heard what he said. I snapped. And I shouldn’t have.”

The apology is genuine, and while half of you eagerly accepts it, the other isn’t nearly as pleased. Maybe it’s because you’re protective of Evie, and Simon’s interference with your conversation with Adam might have ruined so much for her.

“Yet you did it anyway.”

It’s one last bite. A final sting. You try to keep it in, but you’re so goddamn frustrated.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. Even defeated, Simon is large, a looming figure you’re force to look up at.

While you’re frustrated, you know this isn’t really Simon’s fault. Sure, his behavior after the fact was fucking garbage, but he stood up for you. He defended you, was ready to toss Adam right out of the pub if you had told him to do it.

The grievance isn’t with Simon. It’s with Adam.

“It’s fine,” you sigh. It’s—”

You rub your lips together, running your hands over your face. Breathing is best. Breathing is good. The swirling pit inside your stomach is quickly rising to squeeze your chest. You need to calm down.

“It’s complicated,” you finish, not knowing what else to say.

Simon’s fists unclench. He hangs there, gaze pinned to your face, shifting slightly like he’s studying your features. “I told you to talk. I’ll listen.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

Simon takes a step forward, breaching your personal space. One black boot lands between your feet, forcing you to open slightly. You attempt to back up, but Simon is insistent, moving with you.

“Simon—”

His hand goes to the back of your neck, halting your escape. Your own hands go up to push against his chest, using his solidness as a point of support to create space. As if knowing your intention, his other hand quickly snags one wrist and then the other, trapping them in the very spot you intended to place them.

Simon’s voice drops, almost to a whisper. Yet there is heat and a blooded blade beneath it that lends itself to innate instinct. “Does he mean something to you?”

“What?” you gasp, disbelieving.

Is Simon serious? Does he truly believe that?

“Are the two of you—”

“Stop,” you say, flattening both hands against Simon’s chest. “Just stop.” Simon begins to speak again but you’re putting an end to this like tearing out a thorn from your thumb.

“Adam isn’t anything to me,” you snap. “He’s Evie’s brother-in-law.”

Simon goes quiet. The silence stretches and you aren’t sure if you should fill it with more talking or just keep your mouth shut and wait for Simon to say something.

His brow hardens, the middle of it scrunching together. “He’s not—”

“Fuck, Simon. No,” you mutter, leaning forward to rest your forehead above the spot where your hands are joined.

Simon’s hand slides away from your neck and drops to your lower back, his fingers splaying wide, pressing against the slight curve. He releases your wrists too, only to run his fingers down your arm and to your waist. You do not drop your hands nor do you draw back from him.

Simon is warm. He smells of black tea and mint with the faintest hint of smoke. You breathe deep, burrowing closer. It sends you right back into memory. This is how he smelled when you first met him at Riot Room. You liked it then, and you love it now.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs.

It’s not a question. Simon isn’t asking. And it feels right, like a good pair of jeans or perfectly brewed coffee.

You’re mine.

Sounds nice, even if you are still a bit mad at him.

“I met him at the pub instead of Evie going,” you mutter against his chest. “He wanted to talk. I knew it wouldn’t be anything pleasant.”

Simon’s hand at your waist lightly squeezes, urging you to continue talking.

“I lied. Told him that Evie’s supposed to be on bedrest for the reminder of her pregnancy. He believed it.”

“What did he want?” You hear the restraint in Simon’s voice. He’s still upset, still angry.

“That’s the part that’s complicated.”

“Tell me what you can.”

What can you tell him? How do you formulate this in a way for Simon to understand but keeps Evie’s privacy intact?

You’re silent for far too long. Simon arms around you squeeze and then release, his large chest drawing back enough that you’re forced to look up at him.

“Come with me,” he murmurs, and you comply so easily.

It is nothing but your hand in his as he leads you to the couch. Simon removes your coat and gently sets it aside out of the way. Then, he’s guiding the two of you down onto the sofa. He reclines, leaning against the arm, pulling you into his lap. You drape yourself over him on your side, facing the blank television. Resting your head on Simon’s shoulder, you place your hand on his chest. His hand is quick to follow, encasing it, clinging to it. His other arm drapes over waist, creating a bit of support so you don’t sink into the cushions.

The two of you stay like this with Simon not saying anything and you simply thinking. Bravo is in the hallway near the bedroom, head resting on his paws, alert but still at rest. When Simon breathes in, your own chest rises slightly. You close your eyes, sink into the slow expansion and retreat of his lungs, imagining yourself weightless and floating. Fingers slightly digging into the front of his t-shirt, you snuggle into the crook of his neck, leaning into his embrace.

Simon remains neutral like a rock resting in a garden bed. He is simply there, propping you up, awaiting the moment you finally decide to crack open like an egg. In these brief moments, you drift off, the stress of the evening wearing you down like a nail file.

“Evie’s in-laws don’t like her,” you mumble, voice slightly strained with sleepiness. “They’ve never liked her. They’re old money and she isn’t.” You shrug but it’s more a shifting of your shoulders. “Now that her husband is gone, it’s worsened their relationship.”

Your eyelids open slowly. Leaning your head back, you seek out Simon’s eyes. He’s staring ahead, but when you shift, he immediately turns his head as if knowing what you need.

“Her due date is coming up quick. Less than two weeks.” You sigh and rest your chin right below his collarbone. “She’s always crying. Worrying even when she’s happy. I didn’t want them talking.”

This is what you give him. It isn’t nearly enough, but you can’t detail the threats or their constant push of trying to seize Archie’s assets. They want to leave Evie with nothing. They want her out of their life. It’s like they don’t care that she’s carrying Archie’s child. It’s a waste. But it’ll only make it easier for Evie to completely cut them off.

Simon delicately rotates your wrist, presents your palm to the ceiling like an offering. He brings it up to his mouth, tenderly pressing his lips against it through the balaclava. Gently, he guides it away, runs his thumb over the expanse of your palm.

His gaze tracks over every line and dip before flicking over to your face. “You’re smiling,” he observes, voice slightly husky.

“Am I?” and you hear the lightness in it, like fluffy white clouds on a summer day.

Simon brings your hand back to his chest. Releasing it, he guides those fingers to your chin, lightly pressing with intention, drawing your gaze to his. “Call me next time.”

“You don’t—”

“I want to.” Simon nods toward the now snoozing German Shepard. “I’ll even bring Bravo.”

“Bravo is too good a boy to make anyone scared.”

You know Simon is grinning because the balaclava stretches backward, pulling toward his ears. “He’s got bite.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Simon’s fingers still linger on the underside of your chin. They sit there, then slide along the jawbone, trailing up to the ear, and back down again. It’s a gentle caress, a soothing song that causes your eyelids to flutter.

“Simon.”

“Hm?”

Your fingers reach, toying with the edge of the balaclava. The arm he originally draped over your waist curves to your hip, squeezing, grabbing more ass than actual hip. Those fingers of his that so delicately touched you are hungry creatures, creating a necklace around your throat.

“What do you need?” he asks.

“You,” you breathe, the desperation burning like starving embers in your lungs. “I need you.”

Underneath the balaclava your fingers slip. They move in tandem with your body. Together they shift. Legs straddling hips. Chest pressed against chest. Lips finding lips the moment they’re able.

You and Simon are hunger personified, meeting and meeting, melting. Grasping the sides of Simon’s exposed cheeks, you use the leverage to push him against the couch, trapping him beneath you in a perfectly pleasurable illusion. Simon is much stronger than you. With only a quick shift of his muscles, Simon could easily pin you beneath him.

But you’re the one on top. You’re the one whose hips roll against him. His fingers dig and drag up and down your thighs, over the curve of your ass, and to the very top of your hips before he repeats it all.

There isn’t any sweetness to it. It’s not tart like lemon candies or sticky like toffee. This is overindulgence. Decedent. You and Simon are teeth and tongue and lips and endless endless gasps of air between it all.

It is the spaces between, the pause beneath where the two of you linger before coming together again. That’s the perfect part. The brief flash of separation. It is then that your wraith gazes on you with lust and something dipped in ancient longing.

Atoms calling to atoms.

Plants in orbit. A small object giving way to the larger mass.

Simon sucks on your bottom lip, lightly biting. “Mine,” he murmurs, drawing you back into a fierce kiss. “You’re mine.”

His.

Yes.

You like it. You want it.

You want him.

Your wraith.

Ghost.

Simon. Always Simon.

He grabs hold of your thighs, guides your legs further out and up to his waist. In seconds you’re on your back, Simon’s large frame pressing you into the cushions, his mouth on you in moments, tasting lips and tongue, traveling over and down, tracing the line of your jaw and the curve of your ear.

And Simon’s hands never stop. They never stop consuming.

Until they do. Until you’re whimpering for him to return his hands to your body. But Simon resists, keeping you trapped beneath him but not willing to bring your bodies together.

His head dips, lips brushing lightly over yours. “Pick a number between one and ten.”

“What?” you laugh, confused.

“Do it. One to ten. Pick.”

You nibble on the inside of your cheek, thinking. “Three?”

Simon only stares.

“Four?”

Again, he remains impassive.

Is Simon trying to herd you to a specific number?

“Five?” you reply hesitantly.

One eyebrow rises slightly. Finally, a reaction.

“Fine,” you laugh. “Seven.”

“Sure about that, love?”

You cock your head and playfully smack his chest. “Eight. Happy?”

“Final answer?”

“Yes, Simon. That’s my final answer.”

Simon nods, gaze quietly assessing. In the next moment, he’s dragging you up against him, bringing both of you to standing.

“What are you doing?”

Simon starts to back away, placing roughly an arm’s length of space between the two of you.

“Bedroom,” he purrs, the word a singular command.

Reaching down with one hand, Simon grasps the front of his belt. With expert quickness, he unbuckles it and then removes the belt from the loops with a fluid tug.

“No clothes,” he continues. “And on your back.”

“Simon—”

“Now.”

You’re being herded again, but this time you like it. This time it is from a place of desire, or a desperate yearning for another. This isn’t anger driving Simon, and it’s certainly not driving you.

Simon glances over his left shoulder at Bravo. The dog immediately gets up, trudging off somewhere. Stepping to the side, Simon makes space for you to slip through. He is right there, on your heel, entering the dark bedroom with you.

Once inside, Simon shuts the door behind him, cutting of the light from the living room and kitchen. The only source of illumination comes from the windows. The blinds are down, and only slightly cracked. It allows for lines of fractured moonlight.

Simon is mostly in shadow. Just an outline in the dark.

“What are the numbers for?” you ask, your eyes adjusting to the dimness.

“Get those clothes off, love. Then I’ll tell you.”

He moves closer, your wraith one with the darkness, silently slinking into your radius. Simon is near enough to touch you, to assist in the undressing, but he doesn’t. He only watches, his chest rising and falling, an imperceptible change in the shadows.

The outer layers are easy. It’s when you’re down to your underwear, bra, and top that you hesitate.

“Everything,” he repeats.

“What do the numbers mean?”

Again, Simon doesn’t answer. Instead, his hands rise, hovering just shy of your upper arms. They pause there before shifting down to slide underneath your top, to seek out the back of your bra. With ease, Simon unhooks it. Now he helps. Now he guides your top over your head, tossing it to the side. Straps loose against your shoulders, it takes Simon no effort to guide them down your arms.

You don’t resist. His touch is gentle but purposeful.

What do those numbers mean? What does he have planned. Is the number the amount of times he’s about to fuck you? The very thought of submitting to him like that makes your pussy clench.

You’re standing in just your underwear. Simon is fully clothed.

It doesn’t seem fair.

One large hand lightly brushes over your stomach, lingers right above the delicate, thin cotton. It’s nothing fancy. Nothing flashy. Simple and comfortable. And yet you’re not embarrassed by it because Simon clearly doesn’t seem to care either.

“These can stay,” he murmurs, fingertips lightly brushing against the cotton before withdrawing.

With his other hand, Simon reaches up and grasps the top of his balaclava. He tugs. Pulls. Removing it from his head.

But your wraith is in the shadows. You do not see his features. What you can see it just the soft sweep of his hair, and a brief flash of bone structure.

“The numbers,” he says. “They’re the orgasms I’m giving you.”

“You—what?”

“You’re going to count each one, love.” Simon stands so close your bodies are nearly touching. “Mess up. I start over.”

“Simon—”

“Are you mine?” Simon is gripping your throat against, pulling you taut against him, faces close, lips closer, but not touching.

Are you his?

Yes. Always yes.

“I’m yours.”

That hungry mouth of his lightly caress the corner of your mouth. “I want to mark my territory. I want to relearn your taste. Hear those gorgeous moans I’ve been missing.”

Greedy. Simon is greedy.

The possessively primal tone sends a delicious tingle through your limbs. It remembers him. It is your body crying out again, wanting to call him back home.

“On your back, love.”

You promptly fall, butt landing on the edge of the bed.

Your wraith still stands. Is still a looming shadow.

As he takes one step closer, you lean back onto your elbows. Simon’s fingers brush against the tops of knees before sliding between, easing your legs apart, guiding them wide for him to move between.

His rough hands are soft brands against your inner thighs. They slide further toward your sex, only to purposefully pass over it instead to grasp waist and stomach, seeking other tender spots that ache for his touch.

Simon places his knee on the bed, forcing you to scoot back a bit. It also forces your legs to stay open as Simon’s hands fall to either side of you. He adjusts, leaning onto one elbow, his other hand roaming across your skin.

He studies the curve of your hip, the softness of your belly, the places where you think there is too much and not enough. Simon worships it all, leaving nothing untouched. This room is a church. You are the alter. And Simon is one of the starving flock seeking salvation.

Hovering at your breasts, his tongue passes over a nipple. It promptly hardens, reaching toward him. Simon meets it, nipping lightly, teasing the bud until it’s aching. Moving to the other, he gives it the same attention. Your fingers dig into the bedding beneath you, and your head falls back as Simon’s lips press a kiss to the valley between.

One hand returns to your hips, slides over inner thigh, hooks a finger at the edge of your underwear, pulling it to the side. The air feels oddly cold against the warmth. A shiver passes through you and Simon’s sharp inhale is enough to draw forth a bit of danger.

“First one. Ready?”

The moment your mouth forms the agreement, Simon’s thumb hovers at your entrance where your slickness pools. He draws it up to your clit, presses, swirls. It’s a sharp tug. A sudden burst. You gasp, back arching slightly as Simon continues to play with that sensitive bump. His fingers aren’t even inside you. It’s just his thumb teasing. But you’re wired, strung out from the conversation with Adam, the argument and subsequent discussion with Simon, and now this.

You are Orpheus seeing the Sun again, giving into the joy, turning back to rejoice with Eurydice. And this time there is no punishment. Eurydice doesn’t disappear. Simon, your wraith, is still here.

And you are falling apart, fingers clawing at his shoulders, hips flexing into his touch as your body clenches. The moan is choked, suppressed. Simon knows, and grins against your throat.

“Count.”

“One,” you croak, knowing you’re not going to make it seven more times.

“Good,” he purrs, wrist rotating, his middle finger sliding through your new slickness.

Simon adds a finger, begins fucking you with it while he shifts up to press his lips to yours. You open for him, and Simon slides his tongue inside the moment he inserts a second finger. Using the knee already resting on the bed between your legs, Simon guides your legs wider to completely settle between them.

Spread wide, all you can do is cling to him. You have little control, but it’s good. It’s nice. It’s fucking perfect.

Simon releases your mouth and roughly kisses down the length of your neck only to run his tongue over your left nipple. Your hips buck, and Simon meets with a thrust of his hand. His thumb on your clit is relentless and it isn’t long before you’re clenching again, this time mewling softly, trying hard to relax but failing completely.

“Two,” you gasp as Simon’s teeth lightly trap your nipple between them.

He tugs softly. Releases the nipple. Kisses it.

Fingers slipping from your body, the loss comes instantly. It is momentary. A length of a breath. Simon is already moving down your body leaving nothing untasted. The knee between your legs disappears as Simon moves onto his knees in front of the bed. His arms slide under your thighs and curve up to lock onto them. With a sharp tug, you’re dragged to the very edge of the bed.

Simon turns his head and nips his way down the inside of your thigh. His breath is warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your legs to the tips of your toes. You float in coiled anticipation. Fingers drag up and down your thighs. Simon’s mouth hovers close, but not enough to make actual contact.

You don’t dare break any of it. You don’t dare make the first move.

You are the frozen mouse staring down the cat.

Simon sighs heavily, but as it tapers out, it becomes a growl. Drawing back, Simon’s fingers curl around the edges of your underwear, bringing it into his fist. It takes only two quick tugs for Simon to tug them down your legs. They disappear into the dark as Simon guides one leg over his shoulder while the other is pushed even wider.

You’re presented to him. A gift.

Communion offered by a holy hand.

Starved like a sinner seeking confession, Simon descends, parting your pussy with a slow swipe of his tongue. With the afterglow of two orgasms in your system, your body responds to Simon’s tongue like a gunshot. Like the crack of a whip, Simon swirls up, teasing your clit with just the tip, and that is enough to make your shake, for your back to come off the bed.

Without thought, your hands seek him. One slides through his hair, tangling, twisting, anchoring yourself as your hips roll against his mouth, riding his face. The other claws, gripping his shirt, snarling the fabric in your fist.

Simon sucks your clit into his mouth and it’s over. The leg not over Simon’s shoulder snaps up, wanting to trap his head between your thighs. But Simon is strong and insistent, pushing it back down, forcing you wide again to take his tongue without resistance.

“What number is that?” asks Simon.

Your lips part to answer, but Simon returns his tongue to your clit, swirling just the tip against it. It steals your clarity.

Crying out, the hoarse noise becomes a whimper as he continues.

“Number,” he growls.

“Three!” you gasp.

His smile is brief and so is your moment of peace. Simon returns, tasting and tasting until you come off the bed, your own strength and Simon’s arms keeping you in place. Everything in wiggling, itching to escape and yet desiring more.

You won’t make it to eight.

Simon places a kiss against your pussy before he guides your leg off his shoulder. It is not for rest or to give you a break. Instead, Simon’s hands begin at your knees, sliding down to your inner thighs. He finds a solid grip, guides them wide, and returns to eating you out.

That tongue of his is a viper, and you are unable to avoid its bite.

Your thighs quiver, and your legs jerk, attempting to close yet again. Meeting resting, the muscles quiver, unable to do anything else. Like your legs, your arms are at your sides, palms pressing into the bedding, fingers digging into the bedding as if you’re trying to crush fruit.

“Fuck,” you groan. “Oh—fuck. Simon. Si—”

Small death. A burst of light. So cliché and yet so true.

“How many is that, love?” purrs Simon.

Though your eyes have adjusted to the dark, it is not enough to glimpse his features in any detail. Frustrated, you focus on what you can see in the dark: his eyes.

Moonlight cuts through the room like silver steel. Sometimes when Simon moves, you see the faintest hint of brown. Fleeting. But important.

Simon is staring you down, mouth poised just shy of the curve of your pelvis.

“F—four.”

“Sure about that?”

“Yes.”

Simon nods. “That’s my good girl.” His mouth returns. “My good fucking girl.”

No return. No reversal. You are forever Simon’s.

This is not a simple exchange. This is a claiming. A “marking of territory” as he put it.

Your wraith isn’t fucking you. He’s not asked anything for himself. This is about you, and his control over you. In this, you will submit. In this, you will allow him to take the lead. Because, with everything going on in your life, letting go for a bit is a cleansing.

“Five” eventually leaves your mouth but it is fractured and shaky. Simon has to prompt you three times before it falls from your lips.

When his mouth returns for another round, Simon brings his fingers with him. You remember saying “seven” but “six” is lost like a rock thrown into a lake. Simon doesn’t correct you, but keeps going, returning to his task with just as much enthusiasm as all the rest.

On this one, Simon gently eases your thighs toward your chest, keeping them close but not touching. Using some of his body weight, Simon keeps you locked into position. His tongue runs lazy trails up and down your pussy, dipping inside before trailing upward again. You cannot reach him and you opt to hold onto the backs of your legs, your fingers layering over his own that hold you in place.

Overstimulation has been your companion since number three. You don’t know where you are. You are beyond that. Lost. Gone. Adrift.

The eighth and final orgasm brings tears to your eyes. They are clawed from your sockets, ripped from you in wet lines that leave you trembling and sensitive. Simon does not ask for the count right away. He guides your legs away from your chest, bringing them to rest against the bed.

Around you, the bed sinks as Simon shifts forward, pushing off his knees, crawling over you until the two of you are face to face. Your chest heaves and Simon’s lips are slightly parted. In the small slashes of moonlight, you glimpse the glossy shine on his lips.

Without speaking, without signaling to the other, the two of you meet. You taste yourself on him, and you hardly care. Your hands might be shaking but you reach out for him, touching him like he did you. One large hand comes to rest next to your head. The other slides up the bed.

Your hands go lower, pushing open the front of his pants.

Simon has to be aching. You want to give him some relief. You want to please him. It’s not a feeling of obligation but a deep desire to show him how much you crave him too.

“What are you doing?” he asks, breaking the kiss. As your fingers reach for him, Simon’s hips flex backward, retreating from your touch. “You can’t handle that, love. Not right now.”

“Simon,” you beg. “I want to.”

He shakes his head, lips returning to yours momentarily before leaving again. “When I fuck you, it won’t be like this. I can fucking promise you that.”

Simon’s forehead presses against your temple and you slightly turn into him, noses brushing. “Can I touch you. Just touch. That’s all.” With extreme care, your fingers find him, wrapping lightly in case he says no.

His breathing hitches, and you see that as sign to keep going. Your grip on him isn’t great, but Simon helps, easing his pants down enough that there isn’t any clothing creating an obstacle. Simon is hot and hard in your hand. It’s clear that he needs release, and though everything in you fucking aches, you want to give him this.

It’s not pretty, but you start to pump him in short strokes. Simon groans, leans into the movement, his hips thrusting shallowly to meet your hand. Softly smiling in victory, you shift your legs a little wider, sliding them up to hook over the backs of his knees. The sound Simon makes is feral and deep.

His thrusts lengthen, and you keep your hand in place, allowing him to use it as he needs. Somehow, this is so much more intimate than if he were inside you. Simon is draped over you, trapping you against the bed, and yet your legs are locked over his, keeping him in your own web. His forehead is still pressed against your temple.

You know he’s near because his grunts are slowly tapering off at the end into short moans. It’s your turn to talk to him, to guide him toward that finish line.

“Where do you want to finish?” you ask softly.

“My hand?” You lightly squeeze his cock as he thrusts and this snaps a guttural groan from out his throat.

“My tummy?” you offer.

“My thighs?”

You lick your lips. “Do you want to finish in my mouth?”

Simon’s hips stutter.

“Or inside me?” You emphasize your meaning by pressing your heels into the back of his calves, urging him closer to your pussy.

The move is so sudden, it startles you. Simon’s hand around your throat is a vice but he doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t cut off your air.

He still thrusts into your hand as he speaks. “I want your cunt dripping with me.” He shakes his head. “Not there. Not yet.” Simon keeps his hand around your throat but his hold eases.

Every thrust is stuttering and slightly off.

“Fuck,” he growls. “Your thighs.”

Though your muscles cry out in protest, you release him, dropping your legs back to the bed. Simon shifts into position, his hand falling away from your neck to draw your legs closer together. Watching is the most pleasurable part, seeing his release coat the tops and insides of your thighs. You imagine it inside you, filling you up, marking you as his.

That thought lingers, even as Simon retreats, going to the bathroom. The door is slightly ajar and the light inside only gives you a brief glimpse. There isn’t skin or a face reveal. You glimpse Simon’s hair, and seeing it almost feels wrong, like you’re witnessing something you shouldn’t.

It’s…blond.

No.

Brown?

That’s not right. Maybe it’s both or just a trick of the light. It’s hard to tell.

But the light shuts off, and Simon returns with a warm, damp cloth to clean you up. He is so careful, so delicate and gentle with the way he takes care of you. There isn’t conversation and you’re deeply thankful for that. You probably couldn’t talk even if you wanted to. The exhaustion is setting in, and with Simon’s return to the bathroom, you start to drift.

When he returns, Simon reaches up with one arm, pulling off his shirt in one go. His pants go next, and it isn’t until he’s dragging you into his arms and tossing the top sheet and comforter over your bodies that you realize Simon’s nakedness.

The two of you are on equal ground here.

Yes, there is the dark. But Simon is just as bare as you, and there is no balaclava.

Leaning forward, Simon kisses the curve of your shoulder once…twice…three times. You curl into his touch and Simon drags you even closer.

You hear it, even though it’s so quiet that you don’t think Simon intended you to hear it.

“Mine.”

Mine.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @spicyspicyliving @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @lialacleaf @theshrikeandcanary @coffeecaketornado @wren5650 @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @creamwhxre @pearljamislife @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @cinnabeanz @berarenado @rogerrhqpsody @c0pernicus @josephquinnschesthair @corvusmorte @saoirse06 @therealbloom @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf @knight4xmas @jupiternighties @darling006 @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @carma-fanficaddict @beebeechaos @enarien @xxkay15xx @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @mudisgranapat @heeheehoohoohahahihi @miss-mistinguett

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annewithaneofthegreengable · 11 days ago

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Kinktober - Day 25

The previous day I The next day I Kinktober masterlist I Main list

25th — humiliation, Mark Webber

Your cheeks burned, mouth parting in a whimper of his name. Mark was posed in his chair, with you knelt at his feet. You were waiting for the next words to come from his throat, gaze flickering anywhere but his face, “I want you to say it.”

Your lips trembled, tears pricking your eyes, “I.. I’m nothing without you.. I’m just your stupid little whore..” You could hear the low hum of approval he let out, and even if you hated it, the heat blooming through your veins grew, blood rushing to pound against your needy sex, “And?” You didn’t want to disappoint him, so again, you spoke, “And.. and.. I’m worthless.. ‘M only good at taking your cock..”

You were feeding into his ego, and you knew it. You could tell by the lazy trace of his hand against the growing tent in the crotch of his pants. Another hum of approval pulled from his chest, and he motioned you closer. You did as he asked, shifting forward on your knees until you were level with his spread thighs. You continued to look up at him with teary eyes, and slowly, he cradled the side of your face, fingers pressing against the meat of your cheek. His hand pinched your face, smushing your face enough for it to hurt, “You’re pathetic..” You nodded against his hand in agreement, mouth parting in a little whine. He hummed down at you, before removing his hand and leaning back in his chair once more. His lean thighs parted again, mouth pulling into a mean grin, “Unbutton my pants.. Unless, you’re too stupid to do it yourself.”

Taglist:@formula1-motogpfan@iamafootballfanmiasanmia@arian-directioner@annimausi@mythicalmaven@lucycowr@hamilton-mount @Chuxk-leclerk @landosgirl @Kikiaaaay @iluvvmeeee @stars4me @starz4me1 @fxrmuladaydreams @Ashleyo1611 @ln-fours @cloud-55 @neo-stay @mysteriesincorporated @nzygftoji @dinodumbass @qxeenjen @lilmacabe @9fi @sya-skies @toriiez @jud-3 @ryl-xoxo @fandomz-queenie @gracie23x @kr1sblog @b-law @F1fan24 @taylorsdoratheafr @missevrythingg @salma @cherrypopsicle @toasterpiastri @uhhvictoria @01rrdbull @aracelys-stuff @horseymchorse3 @lou-ghoul @unknownmystery22 @thisbitxhs-blog @toxicdreamer296 @maxivstappen @si1ver06 @mendes-bae @bestgirlie @mbioooo0000 @depressedgiftedburnout @lieslostinsilence @chaoticversion @kaydesssssssss @maryelizaart @milkyymelanine @bisrae @carlando4 @mystichandspruneshark @sweetwh0re @larastark3107 @fiveyjustin @moonchildlec @bicrazybabe @maximumflaps @sainzwife @i--sa @liviav @nitonan-blog @moodymoony71 @horrible-decision @verstappenluv111 @Meyla123X @bea-stilinksi24 @Hayley125 @imjustme-n @elizamoe133 @bernelflo @evie-likes-stuff @anne1444444 @celtis--vr @rockytheluver @orlafitz1664 @aliceespector @ricciadosredbull @novelant @briannamh07 @oliveswiftly @hotlapshottakes @sinners-98-world @ramenblutte @fallenlunar @little-nando14 @fore45fore @importantduckhumanoidpatrol @eroselless @strabunny @sydneyhlove @jkdaddy01 @multi-fandom5 @f1-hoff @kittylolly4 @reguluscrystals @uhhvictoria @arian-directioner @forza-dolce @dukeofjjune @vimayxo @ilove-tswizzle @peachapat119

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novashelby · 2 months ago

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I'm Not Your Wife, I'm Your Daughter-Father!Tommy Shelby x Daughter!OC-Angst

Pairing: Father!Tommy Shelby x Daughter!OC-Evelyn (but honestly, Evie has a little bit of everyone. So, you are welcomed to be Evie...we are all Evie)

Warning: Death, swearing, violence, mentions of sex, very sad

Word Count: 2,761

Summary: Evelyn comforts Lizzie as Ruby gets sick in the hospital. When Tommy neglects his family, his daughter has some choice words for him

I am so proud of this. For the first time in a while, I feel really happy with something I wrote. So, please please please consider commenting and letting me know what you think. I know likes are easier, but I'd really appreciate some comments.

The childrens’ tuberculosis wing was a dark road. In fear of contraction, no one was allowed past a certain point. It reminded Evelyn of the road to hell, but she was older then. She knew better to speak the words in her head. So instead, she said nothing as Lizzie and her stared down the corridor that only seemed to get darker. A simple hand on the shoulder was good enough, whatever that was…good enough. They knew nothing was good. So, perhaps, it was just enough.

No longer able to bear looking down where they took her, Evelyn turned, letting out a large exhale. Out of everyone, she had to be the strong one, the present one, the mature one. There was no room to lose herself. Without looking at Lizzie, her hand searched behind her until she felt the ridges of her checkered coat. Her fingers hooked around the sleeve and tugged. But she was stubborn. If anything at all were to change from then until the end, Lizzie was determined to be there.

“Go home,” she told Evelyn, not unkindly. More so lack of any emotion. But she’d be damned if she left. Evelyn looked at her step-mother, or mother, she was never really sure what any of them were. The woman was young-only eleven years older than she, but her eyes were sunken in and her cheeks lost all and any color. It would have been nice and too easy to blame it all on grief. Evelyn knew better. Her father sent everyone to an early grave.

She shook her head. “No way home at this time.”

Lizzie softened a bit, giving a short head nod. “Very well-”

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. There was nothing left to get. Lizzie needed no more coffee. The two women shared a look of understanding. Lizzie stepped forward and hugged Evelyn; her arms squeezed around her, head tangled in her hair. Stiff at first, Evelyn was taken aback. Her own arms slowly wrapped around, hands hovering for a moment over the woman’s back. While neither were ever affectionate as mother and daughter, Evelyn was bonded to Lizzie by one mutual understanding. One was birthed by a whore and one was a whore. “It’s not going to be okay,” Evelyn said, resting her hands against her back. “It’s going to be horrible.” She could tell the woman was crying from how her shoulders twitched and chest heaved.

“I know,” she said, furiously nodding. “I know, I-I know….” Lizzie did her best sniffing, and wiping the wetness from her face, but Evelyn grabbed her hands. It was okay to cry. Everyone did it. Especially when life handed you a reason with no explanation. “I’m, I’m fine-”

“Let’s sit.” Evelyn walked Lizzie to an empty waiting area that was just as gloomy as the corridor. They were quiet for a while, studying everything there was to study; paint chipped wall, door frame, the chairs, and a lopsided painting of the Dover cliffs. But when Evelyn turned her head, eerily sat next to her was a teddy bear. It was a faded brown with a worn out face. Dried tears left specks of crusty, hard fur. It and her stared at one another for far too long until she turned and found something else to get lost in. “He’ll come-”

“He loves you,” she commented, slowly looking at her. “Out of everything in the world, he loves you more than anything-”

“No.” Perhaps it was true, but Evelyn couldn’t afford Lizzie going down that direction. “No, he loves everything the same, Lizzie. If it was me in that room, he would have been just as conveniently occupied-”

“He’s affectionate with you-”

“My father’s affections are spread thin.” Evelyn looked at Lizzie, forcing a small, thin smile…lips pressed and face tight. She shook her head. “We all fight for what isn’t there. You, me, Charlie. If I was older and wiser, I would have told you none of it was worth it. Him, it, us…none of it.”

Lizzie for the first time allowed herself to laugh. It was awkwardly placed among the hospital grounds, but nonetheless, it was a laugh of sorts. “I would have been just as stupid-”

“Well, if you look at it this way,” Evelyn snorted. “Married John and you still would be without a husband.” As the words came out of her mouth, she regretted it, but Lizzie laughed trying to soak up any humor she could in distraction. Shortly after, they went back to sitting in silence, soaking up their thoughts. Perhaps trying to numb themselves in the midst of it. Evelyn felt so much she was numb.

Sometime around midnight, Ruby had been moved to a different room. One where the family can see her under precautions. Lucky for Evelyn, she had received the vaccine as a child unlike Ruby. They had come out just in 1921 and just a short year later, made their rounds. Lizzie had fallen asleep, slumped in the waiting room chair. She almost woke her up, but decided against it, wanting to slip into the little girl’s room herself for a short moment.

And it was a short moment because Evelyn couldn’t bear to look at such a small life withering away. She slid in the room. It was the first time she saw Ruby for a few days and even then, she’d been thinner looking. Her feet stopped under the threshold, feeling her heart sink down to her stomach. “Ruby,” she whispered, not knowing what she could expect back. The last time the two sisters chatted freely, it’d been about fairies.

First, it was a sneeze and Evelyn helped her blow her nose. Then it was a cough and Evelyn went into her little room with some water. Finally, it was the fever and after the fever, the infection spread over her little body. Both were too busy. Evelyn would never tell a grieving mother, you were also too busy. Her father was too busy neglecting family for work and Lizzie was too busy caring for a man who neglected her. When the fever got too high, she called the doctor. Funny enough, they were home. Both of them in their own world. Own repeating cycle. Tommy had asked why didn’t you tell us? Who could between all the drinking and yelling? But that was then when they were naive of it all.

Evelyn pressed by the threshold and quietly sat down on the edge of the bed. The young girl slept still, head lifted. She’d never seen a child so drained of life; pale and almost tinted blue. Her breaths were spread out and wheezing. Sometimes they’d be like little gasps for air, trying to cling onto whatever was left. Affectionately, Evelyn rubbed the girl's legs to get some circulation moving and propped her up better. She was still fashioning the braids from a few days ago. “You look so pretty, Ruby,” she whispered, sliding to the floor to kneel at the bedside. “I wish I brought a blue bow…I’ll put one in your hair for you’ll always be wearing a blue bow.”

Evelyn thought back to the time she took her shopping in Birmingham. Ruby had just turned five. Look, they have a pink one for your hair. She would have looked so cute with pink. Ruby had taken one look at the pink satin ribbon and turned, pointing to the blue one, I want the blue one. “I’ll always get you the blue one,” Evelyn said when the memory ended and she was left staring at the still girl. Tears leaned heavy on her eyes waiting to fall down her cheeks. It would be the first time Evelyn would have allowed herself to cry, but not for long. She placed a lingering kiss on the girl’s cheek before leaving. When she opened the door, Lizzie had just reached for the door knob. But they only shared a quick glance before Evelyn went back to the seating area.

The bear had seemed to been moved, so when she walked back in, it’d been staring at her like the devil. “Fuckin’ ‘ell,” she groaned, swiping it off the chair before sitting down.

Sometime between then and whenever Tommy came, she fell asleep. He peeked in before sliding into the waiting area, kneeling by her sleeping side. Despite being twenty-four years old, Evelyn was still short and able to make a makeshift bed out of chairs, curling up. He was his girl. His baby still. After everything, Tommy still looked at her as he did when she was eight. His calloused, shaking hand rested against her cheek for a moment, his thumb making circles. “Love,” he whispered, placing kisses on her forehead.

Evelyn jumped awake a bit, propping herself up with her elbow. In a tired voice, she said, “you should have been here-”

“I know-”

“No, dad.” Dad. Tommy felt that knife go through him. It had always been daddy, but never dad. “You should have been here!” The words came out like hisses through clenched teeth. She sat up, ignoring the cushion imprint on her cheek. Tommy couldn’t argue with that. He knew. Tommy looked down, swallowing, nodding.

“I had work-”

“Work,” she scoffed. “Ruby is in the hospital…she’s-.” Evelyn stopped talking, noticing the red puffiness around her father’s eyes. She knew then. “Why are you here with me? You should be with your wife-”

“You should go home-”

“You’re deflecting-”

“You should go home,” he repeated, tone a bit more serious. “I’ve called Isaiah to pick you. If you want to have a fight, we’ll have a row when I come home later. Alright?”

Evelyn shook her head. “No.” She was incredibly tired of his shit. “No, dad, nothing is alright.” She slid from the chair and draped her coat around her shoulders, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

Tommy looked over at her. “Remember when you were eight, and you told me something.” Evelyn paused at the door, rolling her eyes to herself before tiredly turning to her father. He was still kneeling at the chair. “You said…you said to me, do you remember? We were laying in the field and it was the first time I had taken you on the caravan-”

“What are you getting at? Huh?” she rushed him, fixing her bag on her shoulder. “I know, we went up north…it was the edge of the season and the mist…we got really wet laying in the grass. But I don’t understand what any of it has to do with you not being here!”

He got up, striding over to her, pointing, “you said…daddy, it’s me and you-”

“Because at that point, you were all I had,” she snipped back. “But guess what, I’m older now and my circle is bigger. I have other people, and in fact, out of everyone…it seems I have you less.”

Tommy cocked a brow. “No, no…you said, in some shape and form with your little girl words…daddy, it’s me and you, and no matter what you do, I will always be by your side.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You did,” he said, pointing. “You said that…it was misty and in September of 1918…In fact, I had adopted you just a month later. Shortly before that, I had came home from France-”

“I was eight,” she sighed. “You can’t hold something against me from when I was eight-”

His hand reached up and massaged her cheek. “I’ve held people for less-”

“Well, you fucking know what, dad.” She swatted his hand away. “That promise wears off when you start to neglect the only people who still love you. And quite frankly, loving you, it’s hard…it’s fucking tiring. Exhausting. You never know the meaning of accountability. You know what you do?” Tommy swallowed, his hand instinctively gripping her wrist. Perhaps deep down he was afraid she was going to leave. Go somewhere further than home. Somewhere he could no longer grab her.

Tommy closed his eyes and sighed. “You don’t understand…no one hates me more than-”

“No one hates you, daddy,” she said. “We're just tired. Everything we have was not worth the cost of what it took. Everyone else is gone.” In one way or another, everyone else was gone. She slipped from his wrist and started to leave.

That is when he said, “I’m glad it wasn’t you-”

“That's an awful thing to say right now,” she whispered. “That was my sister-”

“I loved her…love…and my heart hurts so much right now,” he explained. “But if it was you, I’d be better off dead-”

“And that’s why I mean.” Evelyn had to choke down the tears. It was years of stress and trauma coming forth. Discreetly, she held onto the door frame. “You don’t understand…it’s too much! Daddy, it’s too much…I’m your fucking daughter! But after Grace died, I became everything! I became Charlie’s mother, your wife, your sister, your fucking mother! I became your nurse, your caretaker, your therapist, your fucking everything. It’s been ten fucking years, daddy, and I’m tired…I’m so fucking exhausted!” She walked over to, her hands gripping his arms. “I’ve lived through every stage of life for everyone, but myself…”

Tommy was hardly impressed. He knew what she was saying, but couldn’t accept it. Because he was selfish. “Have I not given you everything you’ve ever wanted? That is your problem, Evelyn, I raised you spoiled…and I will continue to fuckin’ spoil you because it’s too fuckin’ late. So what? I asked you when my wife died to help with your brother? Huh? Is that it?” He pinched her chin. “Do you not remember how you’d sneak out all the time? Get in trouble? Party and drink? I’d have to come pick you up from some random fucking house at three o’clock in the morning! So, don’t give me that bullshit, Evelyn…you lived your youth just fine. You know what I did with mine? Worked and then I went to fuckin’ war…So, I’m sorry, out of all your fun times, I asked you to hold a tad bit of responsibility. Go home-”

“Aunty Polly was always right about you,” she scoffed in disbelief. “You lack all sense of accountability. I had to sneak out because that was only time I was free-”

“And I never once punished you for it,” he interjected. “Never striked you, grounded you, hardly ever yelled at you…Out of everyone in my life, you are the only fucking person I’ve forgiven without consequence.”

Evelyn pushed away. “That’s because everything else has been a punishment. My friends from school are married…I was supposed to go to university, but you needed me home. All the men who wanted to marry have found other wives. Daddy, I am left behind because I’ve devoted my whole life to being your emotional lap dog, and what's sad is, you don’t even understand!” She paused to swallow, taking deep breaths. Tears had dripped down her cheeks, falling to the ground. “Daddy, you only have three people left…me, Uncle Arthur, and Aunty Ada…and some of us already have one foot out the door.”

Tommy nodded, rolling his eyes slightly. He dug into his pocket for a cigarette. “Maybe my curse is my ambition.”

“And mine is that I love you too much,” she replied. “I love you so much that I’ve never left and I probably never will. So I will suffer until you die…I will watch you kill yourself little by little, drink and smoke, and sleep with women you can never afford to love. I will stand by and watch you wear people down until they die, and then have to put you back together because you realize your guilt. It’s a fuckin’ cycle.” Evelyn took a deep breath, fixing her coat before turning away. “Daddy, I love you, but I promised you that when you were making illegal bets on horse races. Not neglecting us for politicians.”

“What do you want me to say, Evelyn?” he asked.

“Nothing. I want you to say nothing,” she said. “But I fucking swear to God, if you bring that blonde headed bitch back to our home and fuck her like you did the night Ruby went into the hospital, you’ll see a side of me you’ve never seen-”

“Daughters don’t get in their father’s-”

She looked at him once more. “I’ll fucking cut her head and stick it on the pillars of the bridge in London like 1600. And with her blood, I will write your fucking name….”

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wickedlvst · 8 months ago

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this isn't remotely what evangeline expected would happen when she decided to go from door to door at the trailer park, trying to convert its inhabitants to her religious faith, wanting to give them some solace in their depressing life. in her naive world view, she expected nothing more than be invited in for some tea at best, have a door slammed in her face at the worst. never, not even in her wildest thoughts, would she've expected to be bend over some dingy couch in front of a trailer, some dirty, calloused fingers probing at her hole. but when he hinted at considering converting to her faith and going to church on a regular basis if she showed him how good it could feel to be close to god, wasn't it her christian duty to do everything that was necessary to safe his soul? even if it meant breaking a promise she made to god. "it's going to be my first time", the blonde manages to breath out, words quickly interrupted by a drawn-out whine when he plunges a second finger into her tight hole, feeling already stretched further than she'd ever ever thought possible. she's never allowed her boy-friend to try more than to insert his much slimmer index-finger, always backing back out as soon as he wanted to try more by reminding him that they're supposed to keep themselves pure for marriage. "and you're fingers are already much bigger than what i'm used to.

muse: tripp. owns & runs a mechanic shop & trailer park. pinterest here. plot: tripp is the true epitome of trailer trash; malnourished, illiterate, loose morals and a lengthy criminal record. most people tend to stay out of his way and eye line unless they need something — but for one reason or another, your muse has ended themselves there and let's just say he's not known for his self control. connections: any & all. current or past situation-ship, employee, customer/renter who couldn't afford to pay, customer/renter who came to him with a complaint of some kind, someone who knocked on his door for some reason (needing directions, selling something, campaigning for a political candidate, religious person trying to convert people), (step) relative, in law, friend’s sibling/kid, etc.

"just quiet the fuck down, would ya?" there's annoyance in his voice, brought forth thanks to the sounds that had only continued to slip past their lips, unnecessary in his own mind despite the finger probing at their hole. it's a lovely sight, one he doesn't get often — a sweet and pretty little thing bent over the arm of the couch, clothing dropped around their ankles in order to leave their lower half exposed to his greedy hands and eyes. "you always this fuckin' whiney?" though now his annoyance mingles with amusement, a second digit joining the first and plunging into them without warning, groaning out in satisfaction as the pads of his calloused left hand grip at their contrarily soft hips. "fuck...that's gonna feel good wrapped around my dick, isn't it?" digits curling to brush at their inner wall before easing back out.

#ok so i couldn't resist when i read the 'religious person trying to convert' connection lol #like the idea of evie sacrificing her oath for the excuse of wanting to safe his soul while a part of her actually just wants to get fucked #and a lil humiliated for being a whore? too good to resist #but totally ignore me if this isn't a direction you want (or for any other reason lmao)#also pls excuse that tiny piece of godmodding about their conversation but i needed to give her some motivation #evangeline x tripp #thedcvilherself #dubcon tw #noncon tw

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caernua · 11 months ago

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give assassin’s creed to the girlies i am so serious right now. i’ll make basim of respectable dilfing age and romanceable. i’ll make elise de la serre playable in unity and elise lafleur romanceable in liberation bc you know aveline has the assassin gene of being a whore for redheads. in fact i’ll make unity with milf aveline as a mentor and she’ll bond with arno over their beloved elises. connor shows up too. siege of paris, eivor joins the assassins bc she realizes she’s already been fighting their fight for so long and glory is worthless. we’re bringing ciara back to ravensthorpe. dawn of ragnarok gets deleted we’re getting a devastating dlc in which alfred destroys ravensthorpe and eivor flees to vinland bc she has nothing left. then another dlc with hytham expanding the british brotherhood. we’re getting a bayek sequel but really it’s an aya sequel bc she deserves to be a protagonist. we’re getting the kassidas romance. we’re getting the shao jun game. we’re getting the paola game and using the persona system to the max. we’re getting the persona system from liberation in every game actually. syndicate now has the main missions equally split between evie and jacob. we bringing juno back to serve some more cunt. we’re doing math before estabishing a character’s age. get in bitches

#last day of the year time to bring all my deranged ideas togethee #and i refused to leave out the whorish ones #.txt #no bc if this basim incident doesn’t prove how disjointed and messy and frankly silly the lore and overall story is…

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3vieswhoreh0use · 5 months ago

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Don’t you want to touch them, Sir?

Suck on them, spit on them, slap them?

I will take whatever you want to give?

#Evie whores #bd/sm babygirl #bd/sm breeding #bd/sm bunny #bd/sm dynamic #bd/sm kink #bd/sm little #bd/sm master #bd/sm mommy #bd/sm puppy #bd/sm relationship

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sassassins-creed · 3 months ago

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ever wanted to jump around rooftops with your lover?

well, now you can. hi, i'm nosferatu. i like assassin's creed, you like assassin's creed. i like writing porn, you like reading porn, we complete each other.

i write for characters from the games i played, i have a few more but i still need to get through them one day. yes, i write for templars too. i'm a whore.

assassins i write for:

ezio auditore

edward kenway

ratonhnhaké:ton/connor kenway

jacob frye

evie frye

templars i write for:

cesare borgia

lucrezia borgia

haytham kenway

charles lee

shay cormac

maxwell roth

other characters i write for:

kaniehtí:io (i love her.)

#assassin's creed x reader #assassin's creed #ezio auditore #edward kenway #ratonhnhaké:ton #connor kenway #jacob frye #evie frye #cesare borgia #lucrezia borgia #haytham kenway #charles lee #shay cormac #kaniehtí:io

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norizzsainz · 6 months ago

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🌶️ NFY : IS THAT WHY HIS DAD'S A BITCH?

[ carlos sainz x singer!fem!reader ]

[ summary ] carlos' and y/n's breakup comes as a surprise to many of their friends. no one ever thought the couple would ever break up, but alas, y/n was always ready to do whatever was best for the love of her life — even if it meant breaking up with him.

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evita-shelby · 9 months ago

Text

A Dull Party

Aka Eva/reader gets invited to the russian orgy and tommy gets pegged fic

Tommy x Eva/reader x Tatiana Petrovna

Cw: smut, nudity, unhealthy lifestyles, debauchery, a threesome, male receiving anal, pegging

Mdni/ 🔞

When he confessed to having considered sleeping with May, he should’ve known you wouldn’t just deny him sex until you felt better about it.

Tommy had seen the new lingerie and assumed you’d add salt to the wound by prancing around in it to remind him of your one rule.

If you fuck a whore, I will fuck a man before I leave. You hurt me, I will hurt you worse, Thomas Shelby.

This you had vowed with your hands wrapped around his prick to get your point across.

You promised him the world at a very low price, monogamy.

Easy, he’d been monogamous before. Greta had been the only woman he’d ever been loyal to until he met you.

And until he found himself alone with May lying about his marital status when she assumed he was unmarried, Tommy had never considered betraying you like that.

He hadn’t done it; he’d almost done it before you called telling him Arthur and Michael had been arrested and framed for Billy Kitchen’s murder.

You hadn’t known until you got it out of him when Tatiana Petrovna set her sights on you.

“The Duchess invited me to the orgy you neglected to tell me about, honey.” Your falsely sweet tone tells him he’s going to sleep in a guest room tonight. “Imagine my fucking surprise when I learned it from the Russian twat, dear husband of mine.”

“And have them leer at you and paw at you all night, I’m there for business, not pleasure, Evie.” He responds reminding you he doesn’t share either.

“So, am I, do you think you’re the only one of us involved in this mess?”

It’s not the end of the trouble, it is merely the beginning.

All the jokes die when the Russians demand you undress just as John and Arthur had.

Tommy’s this close to taking the offered vodka and making a poor man’s bomb out of it when she kneels and takes the knives in your garters sensually.

You keep your eyes on him with a wicked red smile as the Duchess continued her show, thinking you have a boring sex life.

The sapphire always looks better nestled between your bare tits, something he knows better than the affluent people here. If they knew the sort of games the two of you play, they’d throw a better party.

“Such beauty, you cannot even tell she gave him two children already.” The duchess caressed you, playing with your nipples and forcing everyone to see how she turned you on with the finesse of a maestro.

“These may stay on for now.” The mad woman reached the too short knickers made entirely with see through tulle and lace. “She won’t need them later, right, Mr. Shelby?”

Temptation in the flesh, so tempting Tommy briefly considers fratricide when his brothers are forced to see what only belongs to him.

They’re only half-joking, he’d told Arthur. This was a test of his commitment to the cause, a fucking cause he knows isn’t worth the money they’re getting.

“Your orgy would have been a failure if I didn’t lose every stitch of clothing, your grace. The last orgy I attended left me in such a state I left with one of my conquest’s underwear.” You answer for him driving the Russians’ attention back to you, you love being naked, a thing he only enjoys when it’s just for him.

Tommy has no idea if you are shitting with him, or you were as crazy as these fuckers are.

Both, your smile says, always both, darling.

You have not seen this sort of debauchery since you hosted a drug and alcohol fueled orgy during the summer solstice of 1918 to celebrate the Xochipilli and Xochiquetzal.

Of course, yours was much more tasteful and none were coerced, underpaid, and mistreated servants. No wonder the Communists were so thorough in their takeover.

The people stare and try to get your attention, but Tommy stakes his claim on you by refusing to let you wander away no matter what Tatiana tries.

“Once you marry a Shelby, you belong to them until you die.” Tommy said and the duchess believes him.

“The more the merrier then.” She said with that mad look in her eyes and allows you to dress again.

You’ve met people like her, drunk on their power and money until they die in a crash of pretty glass and blood on the cobblestone below a high balcony. In fact, you had aspired to be the beautiful and tragic creature dead on the ground.

But now your eyes have opened and the dense fog in your head has cleared.

And now that you’ve arrived at the stronghold with the jewels, you are even less impressed by these parasites with worthless titles.

“Couldn’t trust me to be professional, eh, Shelby? Had to bring your posh wife too?” Alfie is more interesting than the phony jewels they’ll offer.

“Oh, Mr. Solomons, can’t call it a party unless I am here, and I won’t be leaving until I get another Fabergé egg for my collection and have a good fuck in this dull party.” You bare your teeth through your smile, already tasting their fear in the air as they present you with paste instead of stone.

They just had to ask, didn’t they?

“It’s quite dull, much like the jewels, I am afraid. My husband won’t let me fuck anyone but him and now perhaps I shall punish him to be bored with me, dearest Tatiana.” You say lounging in only your tiny drawers and the sapphire now accompanied by a gaudy paste thing they tried to pass off as real.

“Might make an exception to share him with you, if you show me something that will make it worth the new lingerie.” You are resting your naked legs on your husband’s lap as you eye Tatiana, knowing exactly how you will get the night you came here for.

She wants to fuck your husband; all people want to. You don’t share, your selfish and spoiled ways from before the war have never left and you don’t plan to leave them now.

Now you were shown the only good place for an orgy in this old shell of a house.

The private chapel in all its glory.

Nothing gets you wet like mocking the god in whom you do not believe.

“Better?” the unhinged Russian noblewoman says as she shut the door behind the three of you.

And it was.

“Haven’t fucked a woman since ’18, and my dear husband refuses my offer of adding one to the mix, you know. Thinks I might leave him for her if he does.” A lie, Tommy just thinks it’s a test of his loyalty.

“And would you?” Tatiana asks, dark eyes glittering in the candlelight as you take the initiative and show your husband this is a one-time offer only.

One night to give into their fantasies with the Russian twat and leave him in a state where he will be glad you don’t share.

“Women are too wet for me; men are so nice and dry.” You giggle and pull her into a kiss relishing the way your husband looks on to this sordid entertainment.

Been so long since you’ve tasted lipstick and felt the softness of a woman against you. If the night ends better than it began, you might consider letting Tommy add May or even whichever woman crosses his path next have one taste of heaven before you send them to hell.

“Have you ever fucked a man like man fucks a woman, Mrs. Shelby?” the story of the priest in Tsibli forgotten in her need to appear much more interesting than you, who are nothing more than another dime a dozen wife.

Oh, how wrong she is, but you let her interest you as she reaches for a box holding the most beautiful set of dilators, carved to look like the real thing and one even resembled Tommy’s cock.

Even better it came with the harness you’d tried in Mexico, the one that let a woman fuck another with the wooden cock. A thrilling thing, the reversal of power where you are given the position of a man.

Something you have been dying to try out with Tommy after you discovered you were not the first to explore his asshole.

There is a clear no in Tommy’s eyes, but if this business were to go without a hitch, especially now that Tatiana wanted to change things up for the thrill of it, they must go along with it.

“I’ll be gentle, I promise.” You say repeating the words he told you when he convinced you to let him fuck your ass. You had enjoyed it, you were far more adventurous in bed than him, and those few times he wanted to do something different were never disappointing. “You can even fuck her to your heart’s content in exchange for this one little measly gift, my love.”

He nods as if he ever had a chance to say no.

Maybe if you hadn’t opened your wicked mouth the two of you would be pretending erotic asphyxiation was new and exotic. But you had and now you feel your toes curl at just the sight of Tommy fucking Tatiana against the prie-dieu and his most sacred hole exposed to your devilry.

Nothing you’ve done before can ever match up to this, you think as you fuck your husband as he rails the woman no longer speaking English at the merciless pace you’ve set.

A religious experience in every sense of the word.

“We’re never doing this again.” Tommy vows in Romani as you leave the place wearing someone else’s dress and the mink coat Tatiana gave you in exchange for your diamond encrusted knives.

“And we won’t, I promise.” You say knowing you’ll receive a perfect replica of Tommy’s cock and a harness tailored to your measurements once the Duchess leaves for Austria with her cut of the money.

#eva smith shelby #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby x wife! reader #tatiana petrovna #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby fanfic #evacore #peaky blinders smut

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