bluecollar!Ghost comes home to his pretty little bird after months away on the oil rig
anal. rough sex. under negotiated kink. hints of somno. breeding kink. size difference. pussy slapping? but with balls??
do not praise me for any sense originality lmao i saw this post on twitter and my eyes rolled so far back into my skull i made eye contact with the little guy operating me like a marionette; blacked out and woke up to this but in fic version.
You really only have yourself to blame when he sinks his cock into your ass, bottoming out with a grunt as his balls slap across the soft folds of your untouched, dripping cunt.
But even though this is your fault, you still whine about the stretch, the sting; pretty voice going all reedy and shrill as you plead with him not to go so deep. It's too much, you whimper, little fists curling into the sheets as he rolls his hips into the soft cushion of your ass. Mewling into the pillow like he didn't spend more than an hour between your parted thighs, lazily licking around your rim as he stretched you on two—then four—thick fingers in preparation for his fat, throbbing cock.
Sucking on your pebbled clit until you woke up with a gasp, whining as he fucked your hole open on the thick spread of his knuckles. Sloppy and loose. Spat on it, too. Just to watch it drip down the flutter of your empty, stretched ass to trickle over your folds. Messy with his spit. Swollen from the knead of his teeth.
"Quit whining," he rasps, rearing back on his haunches until just the thick, weeping head of his cock pulls taut on your rim. It's obscene, isn't it? Almost grotesque. Little hole already puffy and swollen from his girth. His eyes nearly roll back when your muscle clenches tight around his glands—pushing, pulling; fluttering over him like you weren't sure if you wanted to drag him deeper or keep him out. "Been gone so long, bird, and y'already screamin' m'ear off—"
The shirt you wore to bed—his, he notes with a deep, unrelenting thrum of satisfaction humming along his hindbrain—has ridden up over your hips, bunching just above the curve of your ass where his hips settle. Cushioned as he grinds his cock inside of you; a sick little thrill welling in his guts when you squeal.
Another whine, and fuck—
He missed this.
It's been too long since he had you wrapped around him like this—all tight, wet heat; a pliant little hole he can sink his cock into whenever he wants—and the drag of your flesh over him is almost too much. Edges quickly into that mind-numbing, toe-curling sort of pleasure that makes his balls draw up tight. You just feel so fucking good—
On the rig, all he has is his hand. Memories. Photos. The videos he took, the ones you begged him to delete (and he, ever the sick bastard, lied and said he did). But none of that is at all comparable to the way it feels to fuck you like this. To come home to your little perked up over the blanket, his pillow shoved under your chest, tucked up close to your nose. Sniffing at his stench in your sleep. Wearing his clothes to bed.
You're so sweet, ain't you? Pretty little thing.
The best homecoming he'd ever gotten.
So good to him. Waiting for him to get home. Being good when he's gone offshore on the rig for months at a time. Tucking your worry, your grievances into a tender kiss goodbye.
And maybe that's why he does this. Why he pounds your tight hole so brutally that the bed slams into the wall with each deep, full thrust (the headboard has long since been taken down when it put three holes in the drywall). Growing when you spasm around him. Eyes rolling when you claw at the sheets as your hips twist. Pulling away from the way he bucks his hips into your ass, balls slapping lewdly against your aching, neglected little pussy. Untouched in months. Poor thing.
You're whimpering about it, too. Touch me, Simon. Please touch my pussy—
"'Ave you been a good girl f'me?"
He leans down, broad chest glueing along the line of your spine as you sob out a choked, breathless little yes (yes, Simon, been s'good f'r you—) that makes his stomach tense up, guts aching at the sweet little warble in your voice. His arm slips under your neck, slots just above your breast to push you tighter against his chest, fingers wrapping around the bend of your shoulders to keep you still beneath him. He pushes the other against the mattress, palm taking the brunt of his weight as he rocks into you in deep, full strokes.
The shift tilts your hips up, and the angle lets him sink in deeper, balls seated flush against your wet folds. Each thrust slaps against the seam of your spread cunt, and the lewd squelch it makes hums along his hindbrain. Eyes rolling, hips jerking. Your pussy is so wet. It leaks out of you in rivulets, dripping down his sack and matting the tangle of curls dusting over them and his upper thighs to his skin.
His thighs slide against yours when he pistons his cock into you, buries himself deep, and grinds.
He can't help himself. Loses his fuckin' mind a little as he rolls his hips into your ass, feels the slick slip-slide of his skin on the back of your drenched thighs. He pulls you up a little, lifting your cheek off the dark spot on the pillow (leakin' from both fuckin' ends, he grunts, pressing his mouth into the back of your ear, warm breath ghosting over the shell and making you shiver; messy goddamn thing—), and huffs.
"Little cunts so fuckin' wet f'me, birdie."
It's an eye-rolling pleasure. Egofeeding. It curdled in his belly, pools in his groin. A thick deluge pressing against a paper-thin levee. Made worse when he humps your ass in shallow thrusts, feeling the way your cunt quivers, clenching around nothing.
"Ain't even fuckin' her and I can feel her achin' f'me—"
You whine brokenly when he fills you up again, sack slapping over your slick lips. "Please, please, fuck me, Simon—!"
"Wha's this look like, birdie?" He mocks, pressing the crooked bend of his nose into your crown. Breathes in the scent of you until it whispers along the lining of his lungs, staining them up with the heady, dizzying sweet salt tang of you. He tastes you when he breathes out. "Think 'm fuckin' y'nice an' deep right o'bout now."
He feels you tremble under him. The heat of your body melting into the scars draping over his chest and belly. Feverish little thing. So warm. So giving. All softness. Tender enough he could pull it clean off the bone.
"Please fuck my pussy—"
You sound so pretty when you beg. When your knuckles bleach from the tight grip on the sheets. Spine curving as you rut back into his brutal thrusts; taking, taking—
Like you were made for it.
He grunts but doesn't answer. Just forces his cock into your hole, grinding until it tugs against your rim until you yowl from the stretch. The feeling of him stuffed deep inside you. Too full, too much.
A sniffle makes his tongue lull out, sliding over the wet, hot steam of tears puddling on the barbed wire etched into his skin. Salty, warm. His lips peel back, teeth digging into your skin. Just a taste, a tease. Sharp nips that break the blood vessels under your skin, and leave behind little pocks of his teeth.
Little claims, brands; ones he can get away with until he convinces you to let him give you the real thing. A nasty bite on the arch of your throat, the soft skin of your inner thighs, the tantalising plush of your mound; all marked with the perfect impression of his teeth. He'll rub gunpowder into the wound until it stains. The way you told him your ancestors used to do it.
(he'll let you mark him too. a little bite mark over his heart—)
It's a dizzying thought. One that scratches it's nails long the part of his head that froths with the urge to claim, own, bite. Poor boy with nothing to his name still clinging to the scraps tossed his way.
And it's worse when you sob. When you lean into the hard press of enamel on soft skin, mewling about how badly you need to cum, please, please, Simon; please lemme cum, need t'cum, fuck my pussy, please—
The idea of sinking inside your pussy rolls over him like a skipped stone. He pulls his hips back slowly, grunting at the tacky, wet drag on his shaft. It's good. Feels good. Incredible, really.
But there's nothing like the tight flutter of your dripping walls mouthing over the thick of his cock when he sinks inside your pretty little pussy. Likes to mock you about it, too. About you keep sucking him in. Swallowin' me up, he coos, eyes drilling into the taut line of your rim pulled around the base of his cock. Likes it when you squirm on him, eyes squeezing shut as he mercilessly ruts into you, growling the whole time about how you won't fuckin' let 'im go.
How's he supposed to stop when your little cunt keeps pulling him back inside?
It spills over him like kerosene. Lights him up from the inside out. He grunts in your ear, cock throbbing at the pitchy squeals you whimper into the pillow, hips squirming over him. Over his cock—
He's pulled to the edge so quickly, it makes him feel sick. Nauseous. A punch to his gut. And he's angry about it. Grunting in your ear, snarling, about how good your ass feels squeezing him like this. Milking his cock.
"Gonna cum, birdie—" he huffs, feeling the sweat pour down his temples. Cooling on his back. He arches into it. Smothers you under him until your thighs are locked tight between his, hips pummelling into the choking flex of your hole. "Gonna cum in your tight little ass—"
The pleasure builds into a gut-wrenching crescendo. It's all dragging heat. The slick, lewd squelch of his balls slapping your sopping pussy hard enough that it stings. Aches. He throbs, swelling inside of you as the knot in his stomach turns and turns, spooling tight.
Your hips under his weight, sinking into the mattress. He follows you down, eyes rolling at the indescribable way you tighten up around him. Choking his cock. Rim a perfect little knot clinging to the thickness of him. He pushes in deep, balls pressing tight against the wet, slick seam of your untouched cunt; drawing up as he cums inside, spilling a thick, messy flood over your fluttering, gripping walls.
It hurts like a sore belly when he cums. Like little fists pressing against the softness of his tummy until it aches. Pushing all of it out of him as he moans—ragged and nasally—as the white-hot heat burns down his spine. All of it spilling out of him. Saved up for months just for you—
An ugly little thought that he leans down and whispers into the shell of your ear. "Nice an' thick, bird. Woulda knocked you up if I was inside your pussy—"
You whine pitifully at that, hips pushing back desperately against his. He's not sure if it's for friction. Something rubbing against your aching, leaking cunt, or if it's the thought of him spilling inside you that makes you buck. Wiggle your hips.
"Greedy fuckin' thing, ain't you?" He flattens his chest against your back, pushing you down into the mattress as he rests his full weight on top of you, still buried to the root. Pulsing thick ropes of cum inside your tight ass. "Want me to, don't you? Want me to breed that poor pussy of yours up until it takes? Give y'somethin' t'do while m'away?"
You can barely gasp his name out. Your mouth shoved into the pillow—his—choking in the stale scent of his sweat and musk, eyes rolling back as you squirm on his cock, getting off to the too-tight, too-full feeling of his stretching your hole open. Soft thighs forced together, squeezing your aching clit between them.
His forearm is covered in drool. Slick with your spit as your mouth hangs open, panting and whining around the burn of him splitting you open. The frustration of not being able to cum—
Simon grinds into you. Pushes your thighs tight together as he humps mindlessly against your ass as the pressure builds. As you claw and kick. Wiggling around until he feels your pussy pulse, spasming into a series of tight little clenches as you cum around nothing.
A cruel thought. Poor bird.
When he has the ability to move, he'll make you cum proper around his fingers. His cock. He'll drag you up to sit on his face. Lick your swollen, sticky cunt until you gush all over his ugly mug. Might even break his fuckin' nose for the trouble, and isn't that a thought?
His eyes roll a little as he twitches inside you, spitting the last pulses of cum into your sloppy, messy hole as your little pussy pitifully squeezes out more slick. With nothing to plug it up as you cum, he feels the wet, hot gush of it drenching the tight clench of your thighs, the backs of his. The bed. It makes his cock give a feeble twitch, and he grunts into it, nosing around your sweat-slicked temple, content to rock inside of your ass as he softens.
"Missed ya, birdie," he grunts when he feels your wet, puffy mouth close sloppily around a cigarette burn on his forearm. Hidden under a grinning bullet.
It's the softest thing he's ever said. Probably could say, but you respond to it like a handwritten sonnet, sticky lashes fluttering as you blink, twisting away from him shyly as you huff into skin, "missed you too, Simon—"
A messy, snotty little warble that seals over the rot in his chest. Loops around his hindbrain until he's tangled up in it. In you.
He hums, and slowly lifts himself up off you, rolling his eyes at the exaggerated gasp you take without the heavy, crushing weight of him on your back. He rolls to his side, still inside of you, and pulls you with him. Keeps you tucked under his chin, back to his chest, legs tangling together. He rests the side of his head on his forearm, and let's his other hand slide down your sweat-slicked skin, tugging on a pebbled nipple until you jerk in his arms.
"Simon—"
"s'alright, birdie. 'ad me workin' up a sweat. Lemme rest for a minute."
At that, you scoff. Wiggle your ass back into his pelvis until he groans. Too sensitive. Cock too raw. His hand drops to your hip, halting your movements with a bruising grip.
"Keep that up and your little hole will be all I fuck while m'ome."
You pause, shoulders drawing tight before you let it all out in a heavy rush of breath. "Meanie."
You're soft under his fingers. Always a phantom in his mind when he would lie back in his assigned cot and try to remember how you felt under his pads. Softer than he'd thought. Too soft.
He curls his hand into a fist and drags the rough, scarred skin of his knuckles over your hips, tracing the dips and curves over and over until it becomes muscle memory. Something for him to take with him when he goes away again.
"Let's see if you still think all'a tha' when I get my mouth on your pussy—"
Your hips jerk. "Fuck—don't tease me, Simon—"
His hand slips down over your mound, feeling the needy pull, the flutter, of your cunt on the tips of his fingers. "Been gone a long time, birdie," he rasps into your crown, eyes locked on the way his hand seems to disappear completely between your sticky thighs. "Got lots ta make up for, don't I?"
"So you start with my ass first?"
"Had 'er up in the air like you were gaggin' me to, bird—" you moan when he growls the words out, hips twitching into his hand. Fuck. He could just eat you up. "'ow am I suppose ta say no to what my birdie wants so badly?"
"Simon—"
"Gotta give 'er what she needs."
And he sets out to do just that.