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I am so tired of short-attention-span, trim-the-fat culture.
All writing advice these days is for how to write like Chuck Palahniuk. "Cut 'think', cut 'feel', cut 'wonder' - only action, only pushing forward, show and move and move and move." What if I could emulate this style, and still don't want to? What if I want to write like Henry James, with three paragraphs of introspective musings between each dialogue line?
The music advice is, "make it shortform, make it Tik-Tok compatible, make it punchy, hit the refrain as soon as possible." What if I want that 10-minute prog rock piece? What if I want that symphony? What if I want it slow and luxurious and lazy?
Movies. Series. Poetry. Bodies. Everything is "trimmed trimmed trimmed trimmed, stripped bare, you have three seconds to win me over, make it airport chic." I don't want to win you over, then, I guess.
I want the fat left it.
I want the pleasure and the indolence and the indulgence.
Fuck this art-advice that's always "your art needs Ozempic."
How it feels to watch the finale at cinemas and form your own opinions about the finale and the series itself without engaging in any online discourse or having others tell you the way you're supposed to enjoy the story
TADC: The Last Act is really good if you actually care about the story instead of whatever headcanons you've decided to base your whole personality around
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A part two of [this] post where reader met ghost in a chatroom and didn't expect him to have such a massive dick...
"It won't fit!!" You hiss, trying to squirm but unable to with the weight of ghosts hand pinning your hip to the bed.
"C'mon, lovie, look at it. Not that bad." Ghost coos, pressing his cock to lie against your pelvis, fhe tip practically at your belly button. Oh shit. "Bit o' work, but..."
Ghost slips his other hand down to your entrance, three fingers easily pop inside and you still know it isn't enough. Not when his cock jerks lazily and drools precum over your skin.
Some deeper part of you really wants to know what it feels like, wants to feel him in your mouth, between your hands, on your skin, inside you.
"Mh. Good choice." Ghost hums in delight when you allow your thighs to fall open that last bit, nervous but determined. He rubs his tip in circles around your entrance just to make you nervous, laughs to himself as the embarrassed whine you let out before pressing in—
"Fuckin' hell—!" Ghost groans, doubles over and only catches himself from falling on you by bracing a forearm next to your head. You can feel the huff through the fabric of his balaclava "christ— fuckin' tight—"
"Holy shit– ghost, ghost— fuck—" you toss your head back with a high keen, whole body burning from the sudden fullness. You've never used anything but your fingers before and nothing could have prepared you for this.
You grind into him as best as you can both overstimulated and still asking for more, completely lost in just how good it is—
"Fuck– you're so big—" you feel your core tighten and are unable to do anything, back arching off the bed, pulling ghost into a kiss as your orgasm crashes over you.
Only after you've caught your breath you notice ghost shaking, and slowly realize that asshole is silently laughing at you–
"Not even halfway." He snorts, presses a kiss to your jaw then sits up, still inside you, to show his still-hard cock, only a third of the way in.
You just came and ghost is only a third in.
Somehow, this makes you equally excited and terrified for the rest of the night.
Imagine joining an online chatroom because you struggle meeting people in real life, but god do you want to lose your virginity, right?
Most of the men you meet aren't all that interesting, but there's this one guy...fucking hilarious, witty, a bit dry. His chat name might be "deadmeat" but by the pictures he sends it's anything but.
Deadmeat: thought of you again, bloody mess. Can't wait to have you.
The picture attached is his usual, hard cock covered in at least two previous loads, tip flushed pink and wanting. The calloused, tattooed hand it's cradled in is what drew you in initially. Most folk in the chat room were...well...gifted in size, and as fun as it is to imagine you can hardly manage two fingers on a good long day.
But this man? Perfect fit. About the width of his palm, fingers easily wrapping around. Not small by any means, but definitely not heart-stopping in a bad way.
You: just a few more days. Got the motel booked?
You make sure it's safe, of course you do. Swapping photos together in anticipation for the day.
Deadmeat, or ghost as he requested you call him now, is...a little different than you expected. Tall, for one, nearly brushing his head on the top of the doorframe when you nervously unlock the motel room.
You don't quite realize the breath of your mistake until you and ghost are half undressed in bed and you slip a hand under his waistband. You slide you hand along the soft hair at his base, wrap your hand over it and—
...no. no way.
The amusement on ghosts face as you frantically shove his pants down and pull out his dick is palpable. Holy shit, he's massive. You're a few centimeters shy of wrapping your hand around him, not to mention the length.
You swallow thickly, glance up at him.
The fucker has the audacity to chuckle, reaching down to wrap his impossibly large hands around his dick, give himself a few pumps "well? Everything you were expecting? Don't worry, i can make it fit."
Ghost has still got blood cooling on his gloves, the metallic tang thick in the air as the last body hits the floor with a wet thud. He tilts his head, listening to the quiet that follows, thumb already moving toward his comms to report in to Price.
Then he sees you.
Crouched in the corner behind a stack of crates, knees drawn up, eyes wide and shining in th low light. Civilian. Wrong place, worse timing. Which is unfortunate for you. His orders were clear: no witnesses and no loose ends.
Ghost starts toward you with that slow, rolling prowl, boots heavy on the concrete, thighs flexing under blood spattered gear.
He expects you to flinch. To run. To beg.
Except… you don’t.
You don’t even flinch when he stops right in front of you, towering, blood still dripping from his gloved fingers onto the concrete near your shoes. He raises his gun slightly, angled toward your head, ready to end it quick.
That’s when it happens.
Your gaze drops.
Straight down his chest, over the blood spattered vest, and locks onto the thick, heavy print of his cock on the front of his pants. Your lips part. Your breath hitches. And something in your eyes… shifts. Goes dark and heated, pupils blowing wide with want instead of fear.
Ghost freezes.
The gun lowers an inch. He tilts his head, staring down at you like you’re some glitch in reality. He’s covered in other men’s blood, fresh kill still warm on his hands, and you’re looking at his dick like you want it down your throat right here in the slaughterhouse.
It throws him completely. Throws off the soldier part of him that is cold and clinical. His cock twitches hard at the realization, thickening further under your stare, and he knows you see it. You don’t look away. If anything, your thighs press tighter together, cheeks flushing despite the corpses behind him.
A beat of silence stretches.
“Bloody hell,” he rumbles, stepping closer until his boot nudges your leg. One massive hand reaches down, gripping your chin roughly with blood smeared gloves, forcing your head up. “Did’t expect a filthy lil’ thing like you t’cream your knickers watching me work. Got a death wish, have ya? Or’ve you just got a thing for monsters?”
You’re still staring. Still heated. Ghost’s thumb drags across your lower lip, smearing a faint streak of red, considering the dilemma.
Imagine being price's kid that he hardly seemed interested in raising, right? [CHECK THE TAGS]
He liked the idea of having a sweet little kid to keep in his wallet and show off to his work buddies, but he wasn't so fond of actually having you around. Since you could remember you've been fighting for your dad's attention, begging for a "good job, kid." or at least you used to.
That whole dream died when he couldn't be arsed to show up after you landed in the hospital. You spent the last days in that house hardly speaking to your father, then moved out the second you could. You celebrate your 25th birthday alone, finding it difficult to make friends, but it's still more comfortable than any birthday in that house was.
And now you're here.
In a shitty bar, trying to feel anything close to something. It probably says something about you that all of your partners so far come from the kind of bars full of veterans and men old enough to be your dad.
Which, ironically, hadn't meant you expected to see him tonight.
Your dad, captain john price.
...you don't know what compels you to slide up next to him, but whatever plan you had is instantly destroyed when he rests a hand on your hip, mutters a deep "hey there, lovie. Wots a soft thing like you doing here?"
Holy shit.
...your own dad doesn't recognize you. He's looking at you without a hint of recognition, eyeing you up like he's assessing if you're worth the effort of flirting with.
You shouldn't. You really shouldn't. That's your dad, your literal fucking dad.
....john still has the same bedsheets he had when you moved out. His body bowed over yours, panting and groaning as he ruts into you. Fuck, it feels good. It feels wrong and horrible but this is the most your dad has looked at you in years.
"So good for me, love. Fuck– mgh– doing good–" you've never heard your dad say that before, and in your mind you store that memory and scrub the context around it clean.
Some sick part of you loves this, loves the attention and the praise and the usefulness. You can pretend he loves you when he kisses your lips and bites bruises into your neck.
You almost wish he wasn't wearing a condom when he groans, hips stuttering. Now this is what you've been waiting for.
You arch your back, clench down on him in a way that doesn't need to be faked, and moan out "fuck! Yes, dad! Dad!!"
For a moment price just grinds into it, believes it's some little fantasy for you. You can feel the exact moment it clicks, price pulling back to stare at your face.
The disgust at realizing what he did, the horror when he realizes how much he enjoyed it.
Let him try to ignore you now, you're not letting go.
Heyyy doll, I was wondering if we could have more content on Ford having a breeding kink. PLEASE omg PLEASE! Or maybe with Stanley too? I just really like all the stuff you write and I need some good breeding kink content in my life.
(I’m sorry if this was a weird request)
Stan & Ford’s breeding kink headcanons
a/n: i was writing smth angsty, but i lost inspiration and suddenly i remembered this was sitting in my drafts unfinished. and.....uhh im so sorry, horniness won....so today i bring you this.. a shameful descent into filth...there are some headcanons in here that aren’t strictly about breeding, but honestly, at some point, i lost control :) dont blame me!! anyways posting this and running away........
tags: nsfw, smut, literally just filth tbh absolutely filth, breeding kink, pregnancy mention, mating press, cum play, cockwarming, cycle tracking (ford being pervy)
STANFORD
꩜.ᐟ he can’t help it. he doesn't know when it became so necessary to keep you full, but now it’s the only thing that makes sense
꩜.ᐟ he wasn’t always like this, Ford used to be so cautious and careful. but then he came inside you once, and suddenly it was all he could think about. ruining you. stuffing you. leaving you dripping. it’s become a biological imperative
꩜.ᐟ pre portal paranoid!Ford would definitely use it as survival mechanism. it would calm him down, keep him sane. the only way he can fall asleep again is knowing you're full of him (it needs its own fic)
꩜.ᐟ another pre-portal paranoid!ford thought: you don't know how much you help him actually. how he'll appear from a 20-hour shift in the lab, his brain literally pulsing, body trembling, hands unsteady, you don't know how desperate he is by the time he reaches you. he needs to bury himself inside just to breathe again.
꩜.ᐟ pre portal ford! thinks he'll go insane if you wont let him fuck you
anyways back to our lovely old man ford
꩜.ᐟ you gasp when he pushes you onto the desk, moan when he spreads you open and tremble when he whispers in your ear that you're ovulating and he's going to breed you. and despite the fact that you always smile and call him a pervert, your soft walls squeeze him so tight every time he says it
꩜.ᐟ Ford makes u take it and he doesn't stop until he knows you're completely full of him. he keeps his hands on your stomach, pressing, feeling how his cock reaches deeper inside, as if he could ensure that you stay filled just the way he need you to be
꩜.ᐟ and. . . then the shame sets in, the guilt
꩜.ᐟ when after, you stroke his hair, kissing him, telling him it’s okay. but it’s not. it's damn not
꩜.ᐟ because Fords knows the truth. he knows he'll do it again. and that knowledge alone is enough to ruin him
꩜.ᐟ and now he, regrettably, memorised your cycle. at first, it was “unintentional” simply observations noted in passing, as any man of science would. then it became smth bordering on obsessive. now, he knows exactly when you're at your most fertile. he knows that when he touches you on those nights, you react differently, your body welcomes him differently
Ford knows he should be disgusted with himself for using this knowledge the way he does. he should resist. but he doesn't
꩜.ᐟ goddamn, he knows it’s invasive and it’s not something he should do without asking, but he's a creep. he couldn’t stop himself
꩜.ᐟ he knows when you’re ovulating, knows all the signs. and he loves how your body is begging for it without you even realising
꩜.ᐟ he marks it in his journal, writes down when you get your period, when you complain about cramps, when you seem unusually sensitive and most importantly when you’re fertile. he knows the window, the days he have to make love to you if there’s going to be any chance of conception
꩜.ᐟ but honestly Ford never used to care about kids, his mind always was busy with smth else, for example, saving the galaxy. he never thought about having children because his life was always too dangerous, but now every time you have sex, it’s on his mind, wondering if this is the time, if he'll push himself deep enough, letting his seed coat your insides and stay
꩜.ᐟ you mentioned it once, offhand, said, ‘Ford, what if we had a baby?’ and he almost fell to his knees and thanked you for even considering it
꩜.ᐟ now he fantasies about it, you pregnant, your cute belly swelling, your breasts growing heavier. he wishes to read to you every night, read to the baby, talk to them through your skin
꩜.ᐟ Ford can't help but imagine a child with your eyes and his hair, or perhaps the reverse. a little one clinging to your leg while you cook breakfast, or sitting on his lap while he reads to them from one of his journals, simplifying the complex concepts so they can understand. . . ahhggghhgg
꩜.ᐟ congratulations, its affecting him during sex now. he can't stop thinking about coming inside you without restriction, without fear, about letting it happen naturally, so you would have begged for it yourself. he caught himself saying things, very filthy things, about breeding you, about wanting to watch you swell with his child and the worst part is how much you respond to it
꩜.ᐟ Ford knows that when his sweetheart is ovulating, the cervix moves higher. its softer too, more open. and last night, he damn felt it. pressed the head of his cock right against it, pushed deep and when you gasped, cried out and your glossy eyes widened, he knew you felt it too, he told you he was right at your womb, told you he was filling it and you just whimpered. god, it made him lose his mind
꩜.ᐟ you told him he was too deep but he couldn’t stop, even growled while hiding this pathetic sound in your neck. he had to press into it until he was buried inside you. because for him, he was claiming you, touching the most intimate part of your body, a place only he should reach
꩜.ᐟ Ford doesn't really know what to say when you keep asking him why he's so intense lately. why he stares at you so much. he can’t tell you it's because he's counting the days till your next fertile window
꩜.ᐟ i just know he's a pervert, big pervert, even if he hides it behind “im just observing”, nah. so Ford always spreads you open after. he hates himself for it, but he just have to watch it drip out, see how much of him is still inside you. and fuck, you get embarrassed, squirming and trying to close your thighs but Ford doesn’t let you. he needs to see. needs a proof that he was there
꩜.ᐟ and. . . he didn’t mean to go down on you after finishing inside, but he had to. had to taste the both of you. you were still so sensitive, fluttering and weeping, but that didn't stop him. he had to lick you clean after he came inside you. doesn't matter how filthy it is, it’s. . .uh, it’s scientific! really! making sure it’s all there! making sure nothing’s gone to waste!
he looked good with your mess on his face tho
꩜.ᐟ every time he comes into you as deep as he can, he barely holds back from falling on top of you after after, he just cant resist when you look up at him, dazed, and whisper, ‘again?' smiling and swaying ur hips
꩜.ᐟ the other night, Ford caught himself thinking, what if he kept you so full of him, you couldn’t walk straight? what if he fucked you so thoroughly your legs shook for hours afterward? he loves the idea of your body remembering him, carrying the imprint of him
꩜.ᐟ you asked him to try a new position, smth called the 'mating press.' he didn’t know what it was and felt foolish, having to ask, but when you explained, his brain went blank. he couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, he had to try it right then. he folded your legs back, knees by your ears, and pushed so deep, deeper than he knew was possible
꩜.ᐟ he came inside you like that, immediately. couldn’t stop. held your legs up and just. . . stayed there. plugged you full, thrusting deep, while holding you close as you cried in his shoulder. he groaned and whined loud as fuck too
꩜.ᐟ “mating press was a mistake. an irreversible, devastating mistake.” he attempted it once, under the illusion that he would be able to maintain some semblance of control, but the second he felt his sweetheart that deep, the moment your body trembled like that. . .
꩜.ᐟ you told him once, in the early hours of the morning, when you were still sleepy, that you'd never felt so safe as when you're lying in his arms after he fucked you full. that you need him like this. need him to fill you up and keep you warm, to hold you close. Ford has not stopped thinking about it since
꩜.ᐟ he thought he was sick for needing you this much. for wanting to stay inside you even after he had already finished, just so he could feel you clench around him again, so he could keep himself as deep as possible for as long as possible. he thought he was sick. but when he did it for the first time, pressed his weight down onto you, stayed buried inside you, let his cock soften while you pulsed around him, you didn’t protest, only held him tighter. you wanted it too. and it made him smile against your skin
STANLEY
꩜.ᐟ jesus fucking christ, do you even know what you do to him? what you have been doing to him every day since the moment he met you?
꩜.ᐟ Stan swears to god, doesn’t matter if you've fucked once, twice, a hundred times, all he ever think about is your pussy and how good you feel every damn time
꩜.ᐟ he finds it amusing how you always call him a dirty old man, even when secretly you like it too. hell, you love it! all that tough talk, but you go all soft the second he pulls you on his lap
꩜.ᐟ Stanley realised this kink when he spent three months out at sea with Ford. three whole fucking months. do you have any idea what that does to a man? what it does to him? as soon as he got home, he threw his duffel on the floor, grabbed you, carried you straight to the bedroom (god i love this idea sm)
꩜.ᐟ he literally couldn't keep his greedy hands off you. didn't even think about a condom, didn't ask if you were on anything, just threw you on the bed, yanked off your panties, kissed you senseless and. . . no, didn’t just fuck you. he made love to you. so gently snd slow, so deep, praising you, holding you in his arms. kissed you all over, told you that you're perfect, that he missed you. Stan wasn't gonna stop until you were begging him for more. and damn, you were clinging to him, keeping your legs locked around him after, wouldn’t let your Stanley go. cried a bit more, kissed his neck, said he's never allowed to leave again. so he didn’t, he stayed inside you. stayed as long as you needed him to.
꩜.ᐟ that night, he filled you up real deep, held you tight so you'd know it was real, that he was here and he wasn’t going nowhere. you felt so fucking warm he didn’t wanna pull out. now you're his home. his everything
꩜.ᐟ so after that, he never knew he'd get so obsessed with it. caught himself wondering last night, were you fertile? did it matter tho? he didn't care, just wanted to keep you full, even if there wasn’t a chance
꩜.ᐟ he's not sure if you're trying for a kid or not, but he tries not to overthink about it too much. you want it, he wants it, and even if its not about kids, he'd still be fucking you just the same, still be filling you up until you're dripping with it, still be pushing it back in with his fingers and telling you to keep it there, hold it there, “good fucking girl”
꩜.ᐟ and yeah, Stan loves pushing it back in with his fingers. when he pulls out and it starts leaking out of your pussy, he just always uses his thick fingers to push it back in. keeping his thumb on your overstimulated throbbing clit, two fingers sliding his cum right back inside. he tells you it’s so it doesn’t go to waste. so you don’t miss a chance. you never stop him though
꩜.ᐟ loves it when you’re too dumb to speak. just a lil ragdoll for him, taking everything he gives you. yeah, you’re smart, but not when he's done with you
꩜.ᐟ he needs to keep you filled up, stuff you with himself every chance he gets, doesn’t matter if you're on the pill or no, doesn’t matter if you want a kid or not. i mean, it’s not even about the baby, but about knowing the he could. he could get you all knocked up if he wanted to, put a little part of himself inside you and make you his in every goddamn way
꩜.ᐟ because why’s it so good? why’s it so fucking addictive?
꩜.ᐟ with time, Stan noticed its getting bad. real bad. he can't stop thinking about you swollen with his kid, walking around the shack all round, telling everyone it’s his baby growing inside you. Stan literally sweats. god, you’d look so good pregnant. . .
꩜.ᐟ he started paying attention to your behaviour. counting days in his head whenever you mention cramps or headaches, making mental notes when you buy pads or complain about bloating. he's not a damn scientist like Ford, but he's not stupid either, he knows what it means when it’s been a while and you’re not bleeding
꩜.ᐟ in his dirtiest fantasies he wants to catch you when you’re ovulating, corner you against the wall, yank your clothes down, and fuck you so deep you can’t help but take it. he needs to finish inside you and keep you full, hold you there after, make sure it sticks. hell, he'd do it over and over and over until there’s no chance it didn’t work
꩜.ᐟ you asked Stan once if he thought he'd be a good father and he couldn’t answer you. although, the thought of you round with his kid makes him feral, he's scared he'd end up like his old man. he's sure he'd be a shitty dad, Stan thinks he's too rough and loud, too much like him. but. . . if you wanted it. if you asked him for a baby. fuck. he'd thank you for trusting him with smth like that. for letting him make a family with you
꩜.ᐟ also every time he thinks about you full with his seed, it happens when he's fixing the vending machine, holding a wrench in his hand. jesus. and every time, he has to take a 'smoke break' just to calm down
꩜.ᐟ no matter how rough or how gentle he has been, he just has to lay on top of you after. chest to chest, breath to breath, his warm cock still buried in you. you like it too, wanting him to stay there forever. you play with his hair when he's like this, running your fingers through it, scratching his scalp, whispering the sweetest things he ever heard. you tell him he's the only one you've ever wanted, the only one who made you feel this safe and good
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• his experience is solely from his years in other dimensions (he would get lonely and had needs, can you blame him?) you’re not his first, but you are his first human and he considers that an important distinction
• doesn’t take off his glasses, they often fog up in the heat of passion and you think it’s kinda hot
• loves being bitten
• gets hard at your touch
• constantly undressing you with his eyes
• thinks it’s a dirty secret that he used to touch himself to the thought of you before you were even together
• keeps a log of every time you fuck including session time, day of the week, time of day, positions, number of orgasms you had. considers it important data
• always makes sure you’re hydrated and gotten something to eat afterwards.
• very into outdoor sex, not like in a public crowded place, but if you guys going out on a secluded hike he’ll make sure you bring a blanket with you. thinks making love in nature is beautiful
• loves fucking in the rain
• takes a while before he’s willing to admit it to you, but is into somnophilia. makes sure everything is consensual first.
• once hooked you up to an ekg so he could record your heart rate before, during, and after. said it was “for science” but really just gets off to the data
• really into face fucking, but you choke almost every time because he’s just so damn big. he secretly loves it tho
• missed you like crazy during his adventures with stan. would excuse himself below deck to stroke himself to the polaroids you sent him. when he finally came home you spent all night fucking like rabbits
• bridal carries you to the bedroom
• loves picking you up and fucking you against the wall
• when you’re on top he loves gripping your hips and bucking up into you. very much desires control no matter the position
• takes advantage of a good storm because it gives him an excuse to be louder and coax you to also be loud
• talks to you the whole time but stutters and has trouble completing his sentences as he gets closer to finishing
• talks you through your orgasm
“that’s it, y/n. you’re doing so good”
• goes feral when you remove his clothes for him
• has a habit of grabbing and pulling your hair, especially when you’re giving him head
• will beg you to sit on his face, wants you to suffocate him in pussy
His mind never really stops working, even when he’s inside you, moving so slow that has you writhing beneath him. His cock buried inside you, stretching you out inch by inch, but even now, his thoughts are somewhere between the galaxies and the stars. His cock pulses inside you, making you feel so good, but it’s not enough and yet he's still talking about the fabric of the universe.
“You know. . . mmm, parallel dimensions have an infinite number of variables, but if you—" his breath hitches as he rolls his hips deeper, forcing your body to arch. “if you narrow them to specific constants you find— hahh, patterns.” little moan escapes your lips, needy, as his cock drags slowly against your walls.
His voice is calm, even steady despite the unhurried, delicious way he's fucking you, but you're barely listening. How could you? Every thrust has your mind blanking, leaving nothing but pleasure pooling low in your belly. Your nails digging into his back, you feel so abandoned each time he pulls out, only to have him slide back in with agonizing precision.
"Forddd. . .” you moan, head falling back into the pillow, begging for more, for faster. But his rhythm is controlled, measured, its like he’s savouring the way your cunt grips him, tight and so damn warm as he’s balls deep inside you.
“Dimensional travel. . . it’s not just theoretical, you see,” Ford’s voice is calm, as if he’s lecturing a class and not thrusting into your slick, dripping pussy, as if you’re not clenching around him so tight it’s driving you both insane. “If we can manipulate space-time— like this. . .” he punctuates his words with a deep thrust, his cock dragging against your soft walls in a way that makes your whole body shake. “we can alter outcomes. Mm, t-that means every choice you make branches into— fuck, you’re tight— into infinite possibilities.”
You can hardly breathe, can barely think because of the pressure building between your legs and he’s still talking. God, he’s still talking. You hear him, even if barely, something about gravitational fields and parallel worlds, but it’s all turning into a blur with your eyes rolling in the back of your head when he hits that sweet spot inside again and again.
“You like it when I explain things to you,” Ford claims. “It turns you on, doesn’t it?”
You can’t even find the words to respond, because yes, you love it and fuck, you hate that you love it. All you can do is mewl and whimper, your hips rolling against him in a futile attempt to make him pick up the pace. He knows, god, he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
“Ford, please—!” his cock slides deeper, but that serious, calm tone, fuck, it’s driving you wild. You want him to stop talking, to focus, to pound into you like you need, but his voice just keeps spilling from his lips like honey. Your head rolls back, lips parting in pathetic little gasps and moans, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You can’t take it anymore, he’s teasing you, playing with you, dragging it out just to see how far he can push you before you break. “please, faster!” you plead, desperate for more, desperate for him to stop talking and just fuck you properly, hard and fast. But he’s still so calm, still so fucking unflappable.
“Oh? you’re getting impatient?” Ford’s hand slides down your trembling thigh, lifting it higher, opening you up even more to him. “You wanted to learn about interdimensional physics, didn’t you?” he mumbles under his breath as he grinds into you, his cock plunging deeper, completely filling you and it feels like a dream for both of you. “I’m just giving you what you wanted.”
His fingers find your needy clit, rubbing in torturous circles as he continues that slow rhythm inside you. He’s barely breaking a sweat, his brow furrowed in concentration as if this is just another experiment to him meanwhile you’re such a mess under him. His cock twitches inside you as he changes angle again, deeper now and he takes a sharp breath, but he doesn’t stop talking.
He doesn’t stop and you hate him.
Ford’s eyes roam over your trembling body, reveling in the sight of you, desperate and needy. Your eyes watery and mouth open in a breathless moan.
“The fascinating thing about dimensional shifts— god, you feel so good,” he trails off for a moment, and you think, finally, he’s losing focus. You roll your hips against his, hoping to break his composure. But instead of faltering, he chuckles, leaning down only to plant a small kiss on your lips. “you’re trying to distract me, aren’t you?”
“Fuck, p-pleasee!” you whine, spreading your legs wider, trying to press up against him, but he pins you down.
“Clever girl,” he mutters, voice rougher now, losing some of that composed edge as he looks at you, the desperate need written all over your cute face. “letting me teach you like this.”
He pulls out, almost completely, leaving you aching, empty, before slamming back into you hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs. "That’s my girl." his words make you cry out his name over and over again, your nails digging into his back as he starts to fuck you better, properly, his pace quicker, rougher now, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress.
He’s no longer focused on explaining the mysteries of the universe, he’s focused on you, on how your body responds to him, on how good it feels to have you wrapped around him, hot and wet and perfect, on how your wetness and slick coating his length. The sounds of skin slapping against skin fills the air, mixing with your desperate, needy moans and his groans when he finally fucks you the way you wanted, he ruts into you faster, harder, and it’s everything you needed, everything you craved.
“Ford— oh fuck,” you cry out, head thrown back and he’s there, finally losing himself in the way your cunt clenching around him, making such wet squelching sounds, he’s lost in the way you’re moaning his name, voice so beautiful. You’re nearly drooling as you give him a silly smile, begging him to finish inside you.
“Cum for me,” he growls, his hand sliding down, thumb finding your clit and pressing down in fast circles what makes your head spin. “I want to feel you— cum for me, now.” you arch your back as the orgasm crashes through you, you walls flutter around him, the sensations are so intense you can’t even scream, only shake and try to cross your legs because pleasure is fucking overwhelming, though Ford never stops thrusting into your wetness. You’re trembling, mind blank as you cling onto him, holding him, feeling him.
Ford groans at the beautiful sight, his clever girl looks so pretty when she’s dumb fucked and cock drunk. However Ford is lost in pleasure too, your pussy feels so warm, so tight and good he just can’t stop fucking you. But he’s damn close. He grits his teeth, taking a deep breath, thrusting into you so hard, burying himself so fucking deep, his cock twitching as he spills into you, filling you up with every last drop. Finally, finally. He’s breathing heavily into your lips, glasses fogged, his chest heaving. You just lay there, taking it like a good girl you are.
Ford can’t stop looking at you, he kisses your forehead, softly and gentle. “Now. . . where were we? Ah, yes. Dimensional theory.”
You can’t help but laugh, head still spinning as he pulls you close, already starting to ramble again about parallel worlds and universal constants, like he wasn’t just inside you, fucking you senseless.
Something about price not showing up for his own kid's graduation, couldn't be bothered when "it's just uni, sport. I'll be there for something important, yeah?"
And you fully expect to find no one sitting in the seat you pre-emptively reserved, all too hopeful that your dad would finally see you. Except...it's not empty.
Ghost is sat in your dads seat.
Ghost, the man who practically saved your degree when you were on the verge of a breakdown and dad was on vacation. Found you crying in a gas station parking lot and recognized you from price's wallet.
And....it feels weird, ghost where price should be, almost like you're replacing your dad...but it's also nice?
Ghost has always been there when you needed him, more than your own dad ever was.
He drives you to get shitty fast food afterwards in celebration, hand heavy on your thigh and you don't try to stop him. Of course you've thought about it, but never acted on it...
Not until ghost pulls over on the back roads, parks his truck in the start of an empty field and lays you down in the dirty bed of it. Rough hands pulling your thighs open, a mouth leaving bites against skin. He makes you feel all the things you missed out on, too busy studying for your dads approval.
He groans "fuck, kid, can't believe i waited this long. Didn't want to distract you." When he ruts into you, thick and hot and too big for you to do anything other than gasp.
That night, you sleep in ghosts bed and not once does your dad call asking where you are. Seems like you made the right choice.
Fat Reader crying because theyre insecure about their weight, and when Simon, the man Reader's been pining on for months confesses to them, they think its a cheap joke, and degrade themselves, saying "You can't even pick me up!"
Simon somehow gets Reader's number (Reader did NOT give it) and sends a video of Simon hip thrusting double Reader's weight with sweet groans, the outline of his bulge straining, clearly imagining Reader was on top of him.
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He tried once- some lean bird with sharp hips and delicate wrist bones that looked like they’d snap if he squeezed too hard. She was pretty in the way fragile things are: all long lines and hollow shadows. When he gripped her waist, his thick fingers overlapped easily, too easily, and the thought hit him like ice water: he could crush her if he forgot himself for even a second. When he buried himself deep, she gasped sharp and tight, her whole body tensing like it hurt more than it pleased, fighting to take the stretch of him. Every thrust felt like walking a razor’s edge, one wrong move from snapping her in half.
It left him cold. Detached. Fucking her was like handling fragile ordnance- too much awareness, too much restraint. Her flesh bruised too easily, blooming purple under his grip like overripe fruit splitting open in the summer heat if you squeezed just right. Her thighs shook from strain instead of pleasure, barely able to wrap around his waist without trembling.
There was no soft give when he pressed his full weight down, no warm overflow of flesh to sink into. Just sharp bone digging back at him, quiet winces she tried to hide behind bitten lips, and moans that sounded more like endurance than ecstasy. She didn’t beg for harder. She just took it, eyes squeezed shut, surviving him.
And Simon Riley had spent too many years surviving on endurance already. He didn't want a body that reminded him of fragility every time he fucked it, one that made him feel like a brute, something dangerous that needed to be leashed. (Something that made him feel like his father.)
The first time he sank his fingers into your soft, overflowing hips, something deep in his chest unclenched like a rusted lock finally giving way. No brittle bones under his palms. No fear that one rough thrust would bruise or break you. Just warm, yielding flesh that took every brutal snap of his hips Cushion. Give. A body that could handle his full weight.
He loved the way your belly pressed soft and warm against him when he folded you in half, how your thick thighs tembled and squeezed around his waist. He liked burying his face between them, smothered in heat and softness while they shook and soaked his face.
You could take him, cock pounding so deep it punched the breath from your lungs and still look up at him with heavy lidded eyes and moan "Harder, Simon, please."
He’d never say it out loud. Never explain the way your body made the constant roar in his head go quiet. But the truth was brutally simple:
Delicate things broke under his hands.
Soft, heavy, generous bodies didn't.
And Simon Riley was a man who needed something- someone- that could survive him.
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