LOVE, A R T H U R

But you didn't ask anyone else. You asked ghost, under the dimly lit awning of the pub, "can i fuck you, si?"

"You already do, love," ghost points out with a mumble around his cigarette. He lights it and takes a drag, exhales slowly "an' not here."

"I don't mean like that, si." You huff, knock your ankle against his bad one pointedly "I mean can I fuck you. As in with a cock. I bought a strap and...well."

Ghost takes a moment to raise both brows at you, deadpan. He takes great pleasure in silently judging you before shrugging "alright. But I want my tea."

Which is how ghost ends up sprawled naked on your bed that you really should size up, nearly taking up the whole mattress.

"Christ, simon..." you whisper, kneeling between spread thighs. Ghost is big in the way important things are big. More than just size, his entire presence takes up space. Meaty thighs covered in scars lazily drop open to reveal an already prepped hole, and you drag your eyes up a round stomach and fat tits to see ghosts smirk "don't trust me to do it myself?"

Ghost hikes a leg higher, loops his ankle behind your hip and rubs the leather of the strap into skin "wanted to make it easy for your first time, sweetie."

God, you love him.

You smile, notch the head of the strap against his rim. The minute twitch if his abdomen makes your cunt ache, "ready, si?"

With a firm, slow, thrust you push in. Torn between watching the silicone slide into ghost or watching the sudden pinch of his brow or the way he tosses his head back with a pleased groan "fuck, okay. Keep going–"

You do, a bit awkwardly at first. You're using muscles you previously didn't need to, trying to adjust and finding yourself wholly frustrated that you can't get the angle you want while ghost is too busy whining under you to really help.

"Fuck– okay, hold still–" you grunt, having enough and all together shoved ghosts thigh up and hooking his calf over your shoulder so you can thrust down to the base and–

"Wait– wait fuck–!" Ghost seizes, stomach tightening and back arching and his orgasm hits sharp and sudden. Thick ropes shoot across his chest while ghost moans and huffs through his teeth like he's trying to fight himself from grinding further onto the strap.

"Woah." You mumble once he's finally down. You wear there's a puddle under you at this point by how wet you are.

Ghost groans, breathes. He cracks one eye open and motions you to crawl up his chest. "I'm not getting up again, lovie. C'mere, you need a reward."

there’s something price doesnt understand about having a wife. in sickness and in health, those are what the vows said, and yet when you feel frail, with taking care of your daughter yourself, he barely cares. you’re his wife, you’re supposed to keep the house clean and a nice dinner on the table when he comes home. and a warm cunt for him, that’s. the whole point of you.

he never stays at home, he’s always on base. fucking his secretaries. your daughter grows into her teenage years never having her father around, angry at him, fighting him on your behalf. you’re too tired to deal with him, your life force sapped away with your husband’s lack of care. even before he was a captain, back when you’d married him as a sergeant.

there’s something simon could never understand about having a family. he’s always around these days, especially since he’s gotten that promotion to captain. after your divorce to his former co, he’s around your house much more often, teaching your daughter kung fu in the back garden whilst you chop vegetables and watch through the kitchen. it’s because he’s never had a wife, or a family, and yet he’s the one driving you around. he’s the one taking beautiful pictures of you, he’s the one who you invite on vacation.

his neck goes limp, head lolling off to the side. his cheeks burn in a violent blush, a blush that crawled down over his neck, burning away at his chest. he couldn’t face you, not with the tears that welled upon his lower lash line, not with the way he mentally folded and did exactly what you asked of him, so obedient. such a good, pathetic boy.

“look at me, simon.” it wasn’t exactly a demand, but your tone was tight enough to leave no room for question, no room for disagreement. so he picked his head up slowly, watery eyes raising to find your enthralled ones.

and there you were, perched at the foot of his bed, just barely sat down between his spread legs. you weren’t even looking at his screwed face, eyes too focused on what teases you just a bit lower.

his hand, thick, chubby fingers wrapped around the thickness of his cock. you watch, grinning like a cat as he jerks himself off, wrist flicking on every upstroke, thumb scaling the flushed tip until he’s dripping down his own fingers. it’s cruel the squelch the follows every thrust, it’s shameful.

“faster than that, baby. what’re you bein’ shy for?” you’re teasing him, crawling yourself under his skin like dark ink. tainting him. it’s adorable to watch the way his eyes widen, the way his face pales at the request before flushing crimson ten shades deeper.

“mmm- ah- no, no,” he garbles, choking up on his words. you can practically see the weight of how close he is, lower belly tightening up, glistening under the layer of sweat. every once in a while he jerks, back yanking up off the bed, knees shaking and pulling towards one another. “m’not- can’t…”

“oh, but you can, and you will.” you grin, eyes shining in nothing but evilness, or that’s what he’s convinced of. but he abides, fingers tightening up ever so slightly before his bicep flexes, and his pace raises.

his hand jerks, tight, quick thrusts. they border along messy, every other stroke faltering. his hips raise up slightly, meeting himself halfway. it’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to him, yet it’s the very thing that has his achy balls drawing up, convulsing up with every passing second. they’re so full, so big between his beefy legs, all red and pretty.

“gonna- ah- gonna cum…” he trails off, gasping. you can see the way his lashes flutter, the way he fights his eyes from rolling. his swollen lips part, the soft blonde of his eyebrows knitting together as he chokes on pathetic, whimpers. crying out like you might help, though you’re the reason he’s in this state. “let me, mama, let me- fuuh- fucking cum.”

"Christ—" you kicked at his foot, "Close your fucking legs, LT."

He grumbled something unintelligible, glaring blankly into the middle distance and making no effort to ease up in his seat or grant you the space you needed to pass.

"I’m serious," you huffed, "There’s no way your balls are so big that you can’t spare a few inches of legroom for me."

It sort of just slipped out; a low-effort joke you hoped might get him to empathize with your struggle—or maybe embarrass him into closing his fucking legs.

"Might be."

Simon didn’t bother looking up at you when he spoke. He remained statuesque, thick arms crossed over his wide chest.

"What?"

"Balls might be ‘at fuckin big," now he looked up, that deep glare finding your face. "Try findin' time for a wank in 'is line o’work."

"I find plenty of time," you shot back quickly, trying to keep up with his odd brand of humor—was it humor? "What? Shower's too good for you? Can’t jerk off in bed like a normal person?"

"Tired." He shrugged.

His eyes were half-lidded, frustrated, but not angry, and when he tilted his head to the side, an almost imperceptible gesture, you thought the conversation was done. You thought you might be able to kick your way past his legs; be able to storm off, knowing you had lost this battle, and allow yourself the time to stew over it.

But then he dropped his forearms to his thighs with a quiet huff—whether it was one of amusement or not, you could never tell with him.

"'Nd the mess ain't worth it."

You swallowed, almost taking a step back out of sheer surprise that he was being so direct. Granted, Simon's only method of communication was to speak candidly, or not at all.

“Maybe you just need someone to…help you out,” there was no hesitancy to your words, though you couldn't hide the slight waver in your voice. “Somewhere pretty to…for—for easy clean up...”

And that’s how you wound up face down on Simon's bed, bent over yourself on shaky hands and trembling knees. A calloused palm pressed against your back, forcing you to arch, squirming while he fucked his previous load back into you.

"Pretty li’l cumslut," his voice was almost jovial, despite the gravelly baritone he maintained, as he watched the messy combination of slick and cum drip down the backs of your thighs. "S'at what you are, sweetheart?"

"I—mmh…Ye-es—"

Groaning at your easy submission, the quiver in your voice as you confirmed his query, he slid his hand down from your upper back, maneuvering between your shoulder blades and pressing down on the side of your head in a gentle but apparent show of control. You arched further, unable to stop yourself from chasing that perfect angle—the one that let you feel him between your ribs, that pushed the air from your lungs while he pulled another orgasm from you.

"Yeah, s’right," his free hand came down to rest on the curve of your ass, spreading you further—wider—for his own enjoyment. "’Nd whose fuckin’ cum dumpster are ya?"

"Please—Simon!"

Your cry of his name inadvertently answered his question, and he growled in recognition, bringing his hand down hard over the flesh of your ass before squeezing.

"Yeah, s’fuckin’ right—" another squeeze, "Mine."

His grip on your ass faltered slightly, just enough to let his palm sweep inwards, his thumb brushing against the tight rim of your asshole while you gasped beneath him.

"Think when I’ve pumped your pretty cunt full, you’ll let me fill ya ‘ere?" He pressed lightly, watching your eyelids flutter as you drooled onto his bedspread.

You moaned wantonly, keening at his words; his filthy promises and desperate touches. The lazy arch of your back against the pressure of his thumb and silent mouthing of his name—that was answer enough for him.

"Yeah—fuck, gonna give it to ya, sweetheart," he practically crooned it, determined to provide what you both wanted again, and again, and again. "Give ya every fuckin’ drop..."

(Slight smut at the end. MDNI)

Most his colleagues know him as a Ghost, a legend who’d appear in the worst nightmares of their enemies and wipe them out like a Reaper. Most people know to speak of him with respect; and if they don’t, they learn. His wife, however, does not give a single shit.

— “Bad Simon! Bad!” She scolds when he brings dripping, muddy boots into the house.

— “Down, boy!” She warns— and she will do it right in front of his men if she has to— when he gets over agitated and pisses her off. He might be having a bad day, but that is no reason to spoil her mood too.

— “Siiitt! Stay!” She orders when he protests doing face masks with her. “You need some fucking skin care, Simon. You’re starting to look like a moldy, crackled onion.”

— Watching him take down and annihilate a small group of intruders who broke in is the equivalent of watching him do tricks. No, she isn’t the least bit scared— not with all that scary dog privilege. Simon would probably never admit it, but he was quite pleased with himself when she treated him to a tummy rub and extra steak that night.

— But what gets him best of all is when he’s feverishly rutting into her perfect pussy and she’s gripping onto a leash she made him wear. When she’s not satisfied, she grips it tight enough to choke him and makes him fuck her right. The blood goes straight to his heads and makes him whine. And when he hits all her spots and fills her full the way she commands, she’ll murmur in his ear, “Good pup.”

Some day I will go back to drawing full illustrations, until then.

But you didn't ask anyone else. You asked ghost, under the dimly lit awning of the pub, "can i fuck you, si?"

"You already do, love," ghost points out with a mumble around his cigarette. He lights it and takes a drag, exhales slowly "an' not here."

"I don't mean like that, si." You huff, knock your ankle against his bad one pointedly "I mean can I fuck you. As in with a cock. I bought a strap and...well."

Ghost takes a moment to raise both brows at you, deadpan. He takes great pleasure in silently judging you before shrugging "alright. But I want my tea."

Which is how ghost ends up sprawled naked on your bed that you really should size up, nearly taking up the whole mattress.

"Christ, simon..." you whisper, kneeling between spread thighs. Ghost is big in the way important things are big. More than just size, his entire presence takes up space. Meaty thighs covered in scars lazily drop open to reveal an already prepped hole, and you drag your eyes up a round stomach and fat tits to see ghosts smirk "don't trust me to do it myself?"

Ghost hikes a leg higher, loops his ankle behind your hip and rubs the leather of the strap into skin "wanted to make it easy for your first time, sweetie."

God, you love him.

You smile, notch the head of the strap against his rim. The minute twitch if his abdomen makes your cunt ache, "ready, si?"

With a firm, slow, thrust you push in. Torn between watching the silicone slide into ghost or watching the sudden pinch of his brow or the way he tosses his head back with a pleased groan "fuck, okay. Keep going–"

You do, a bit awkwardly at first. You're using muscles you previously didn't need to, trying to adjust and finding yourself wholly frustrated that you can't get the angle you want while ghost is too busy whining under you to really help.

"Fuck– okay, hold still–" you grunt, having enough and all together shoved ghosts thigh up and hooking his calf over your shoulder so you can thrust down to the base and–

"Wait– wait fuck–!" Ghost seizes, stomach tightening and back arching and his orgasm hits sharp and sudden. Thick ropes shoot across his chest while ghost moans and huffs through his teeth like he's trying to fight himself from grinding further onto the strap.

"Woah." You mumble once he's finally down. You wear there's a puddle under you at this point by how wet you are.

Ghost groans, breathes. He cracks one eye open and motions you to crawl up his chest. "I'm not getting up again, lovie. C'mere, you need a reward."

there’s something price doesnt understand about having a wife. in sickness and in health, those are what the vows said, and yet when you feel frail, with taking care of your daughter yourself, he barely cares. you’re his wife, you’re supposed to keep the house clean and a nice dinner on the table when he comes home. and a warm cunt for him, that’s. the whole point of you.

he never stays at home, he’s always on base. fucking his secretaries. your daughter grows into her teenage years never having her father around, angry at him, fighting him on your behalf. you’re too tired to deal with him, your life force sapped away with your husband’s lack of care. even before he was a captain, back when you’d married him as a sergeant.

there’s something simon could never understand about having a family. he’s always around these days, especially since he’s gotten that promotion to captain. after your divorce to his former co, he’s around your house much more often, teaching your daughter kung fu in the back garden whilst you chop vegetables and watch through the kitchen. it’s because he’s never had a wife, or a family, and yet he’s the one driving you around. he’s the one taking beautiful pictures of you, he’s the one who you invite on vacation.

⟢ ┆ stray kids x reader. ot8. established relationship.