Mia

࣪ ִֶָ☾.Enter Dreamland ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

☆Mia, she/her, Lebanese

☆Multifandom, but mainly COD and LADS

☆18+ MDNI

☆Been writing fanfics on here for years on a different blog, but I wanted a fresh start and a new blog to make more friends :3

☆My inbox is open for requests, questions, or simply for talking

#dreamymia : for sfw writing

#smuttymia : for nsfw/suggestive content

#chattymia : for personal and yap sessions <3

࣪ ִֶָ☾. And Enjoy Your Dreams࣪ ִֶָ☾.

CW:degradation, mean Ghost

Meanie meanie neighbour Ghost whom you barely see, maybe a few days a month, or maybe every other month. But when he does come back, he never spends the first day in his own bed.

It could be two in the morning, he doesn't care, he's knocking hard enough on your door to jolt you out of your sleep, to make you run towards the door and pull it open. Ghost doesn't greet you, doesn't tell you he misses you, why should he, you're only his neighbour anyway. “Take your clothes off” he orders, and don't you dare disobey him, not on his first day back; he's cranky and sour and so pent up, barely has the patience to actually wait for you to undress properly, he's tearing your soft cotton pj's away, bending you over the armrest of the couch, and that's when he finally takes a real breath. “So wet…you didn't let anyone else touch you, did you?”

He's possessive, you're not sure why. It's not just his words, it's in the way he touches you; calloused fingers brushing through your fold, parting them to get better access to your clit. He rubs the sensitive bundle, once, twice, before pulling away, scoffing “Slut”. You want to argue, you want to talk back, but you've done it before, it earned you a cruel laugh, or if he was really pissed off a few spanks, so you shut up, swallow your words because it'll get you nowhere. Not that you're complaining much, with his girth splitting you open, his length making you feel like he's all the way up in your stomach.

Meanie meanie neighbour Ghost doesn't give you time to adjust, he's already setting a hard pace, he doesn't care that your legs are already shaking, doesn't care that you're begging him to slow down; he finds it funny that you think a ‘please’ will make him reconsider. The sound of skin on skin slapping echoes in your small living room mixing with your moans and whimpers and his groans. His hand is in your hair, holding you steady as he drives into you, not to make you cum, it's the least of his priorities right now, you're tight, your walls are clenching around his cock, and it's been months since he's last used you, so it's really no surprise how quick he cums, nor how much he does, rope after rope of his seeds coating your insides.

Meanie meanie neighbour Ghost who doesn't stop there, that would be too nice, he's already hauling you to your bedroom, already telling you to cancel your plans, he's here for a few days, and you're not getting out of his sight (or off his dick)

Friday nights for you were never about parties, nor about singing the lyrics to your favourite song so loud you'd wake up with a sore throat the next day. Friday nights, for you, were about laying face down in his bed, nose buried in his pillows, as you breathed in his scent. Friday nights, for you, were about moaning your childhood best friend's name so loud, that this would be the reason for your sore throat the next day.

Caleb was protective of you, that was no secret. He wanted to keep you away from every harm in this world, wanted to shield you from every danger and every wrong and every sin. Celeb wanted to keep you pure, delicate and fragile. So he never goes all the way in, even when you cry, even when you beg, even when you whine your “please Caleb, please” in his pillows over and over again; his tip is all you're getting.

He first drags his cock against your soaked panties, the head catching against your sensitive nub purposefully “Look at how wet you are. All that because of a little kiss?” He was teasing, always. Then he'd slowly push the ruined lace down your legs, and instead of discarding them somewhere on the floor like a normal person would, he stealthily put them away in his bedside table for later use. “The prettiest” he'd breathe out, pressing a kiss along your spine, one hand keeping your face pressed firmly in the cushions, muffling out your whimpers, the other sliding down your body, long fingers finding your little bundle of nerves and drawing tight circles around it.

A few weeks ago, that would've been all, but somehow, someway, you convinced him to take it a step further, now he groaned when he slipped his tip in, far enough to feel your core tightening around him, shallow enough to make himself believe that he wasn't tainting you. And it always ends the same way, he overwhelms you; his hour long make out sessions, his fingers rubbing frantically at your clit, his tip stretching you out but never reaching deep enough; it's unfair, really. But maybe he likes spending his Friday nights watching you cry into his own pillows, looking at you while you choke out his name, even when you finally, finally cum after what feels like ages, frustrated. Maybe he likes spending his Friday nights pulling out of your wet and tight cunt at the very last second, spilling his seed onto your lower back instead of deep into your womb, because for Caleb you're still too good for this, an angel he doesn't want to drag down to hell with him just yet.

Waking up in the morning and Price is buried between your legs. It's not his usual frantic or hungry pace, he's not eating you out to make you cum, he's just enjoying your taste, savouring you.

Price is the type to hold a hand over your stomach, keeping you from squirming too much, keeping you from taking away his breakfast. Price is the type to look at you through his lashes, tongue swirling over your clit, watching you as you throw your head back, whining, it's still too early for this even when you're shivering everytime his moustache and beard brushes against the tender skin of your inner thighs. But Price isn't the type to move away from your folds when he needs to murmur his scold; his words sending the softest of vibrations through your core “Don't start the day by complaining too much, doll”

Although he won't give you the chance to complain, or even utter a word, because when Price starts his morning with his head buried between your legs, there's a high chance you won't be getting out of bed at all that day.