#There s a fucking worm in my brain.

[lovehymndead]

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Marquis laughed.  “No.  But wouldn’t you rather be murdered by a rabid wild beast who happens to share your living space, than to have a onetime ally stab you in the back?”

Huh.

I'm not sure I'd agree tbh, but I can see the thought progress.

[supercantaloupe]

facebook marketplace is the worst and the world's most frustratingly stupid people live there

[rowavolo]

genuinely just need my frontal lobe whisked like an egg rn . it may not fix me entirely but at least id have different problems. spice it up a lil yk

[moonlitmosss]

i cant. stop drawing ctechno. its a proble.m

[ambivalentmarvel]

no one talk to me it’s la casa de asterión hours.

[grimmthorne]

how to ask if you are actually important enough to set aside time for or if you're just like the guy that's always there whether or not they're okay with it, without the soul crushing dilemma of actually having to ask that in any way because all you want is to be told that without prompting.

[imissnanami]

Breeding His Housewife w/ Aizawa S.

KINK!tober w/ Nana Oct. 1 | m.list

MDNI | breeding, talk of pregnancy, p in v, doggy a/n: for that one anon (●3<)

Aizawa Shouta was a simple man who loved to take care of his adorable housewife. Taking care of his wife often meant eating her out till her adorable legs were shaking and his face was dripping with her cum. But recently, a new fantasy has been worming its way into his brain. He can’t get the idea of his wife’s soft tummy all round and her plump breasts full and swollen with milk for his little baby. Bottom line was that Aizawa Shouta wanted to breed his cute little housewife. 

Which lead to now. Lucky for him, the only other thing covering your body was a thin pair of panties. Crouching down so he was eye level with your ass, his gaze focused on the flash of yellow that was your panties. The sliver of fabric was disappearing between your puffy lips. Feeling himself twitch in his pants and start to get hard, he reaches down to give himself a squeeze. 

Shuffling closer, Aizawa kneels in front of your cheeks before reaching out and gently massaging your thighs. A content sigh escapes you as he begins to speak;

“Feel good, love?”

Smiling your nod your head and hum out a yes. 

“Good” his deep voice comes from behind you. 

Pressing his thumbs closer into the crease of your ass, he peels them back to expose his favourite pair of panties. The yellow fabric has gotten significantly darker near your entrance. Leaning in, he places an open mouthed kiss on top, his lips quickly finding your clit through the material. A soft moan falls from your lips and you press your hips back. Aizawa hooks his finger around the panties, pulling it to the side. His tongue immediately dips into your core, licking into you and collecting your juices. 

Moaning against you as you squirm and whimper for more, Aizawa becomes flooded with an intense need for you. Wanting to hear more of your sweet sounds, he continues to lap at your clit, massaging your entrance and tongue fucking you. He thinks he’s starting to feel lightheaded with the amount of blood flowing to fill out his length. His dick twitching and leaking precum in his pants. The strain becoming uncomfortable and maddening. With a final suck on your clit, he lets you go and sits back on his heels. You hear clothes rustling but feel nothing more. 

“Where did you gooo” Whining you begin to turn before a strong hand places itself in between your shoulder blades, pinning you down.

“I got you, don’t move love” Came his raspy voice. Humming and settling in, you shake your hips, teasing him. 

He chuckles before placing his other hand on your hip. Pressing down, he tilts your body so your thighs spread and present him a gorgeous view of your cunt. Letting go for a moment, he strokes himself once, twice, before lining up and pushing in. 

The second his fat tip popped past your tight ring of muscle, the both of you moan in synch. As each inch presses further in, Aizawa felt hot pleasure climb up his spine. Your wet walls moulding to his shape, caressing and squeezing each dip and vein. When finally he bottoms out, he’s panting because he can feel how snug your cervix is caressing his weeping head and slit. You’re not doing much better, mouth hung open in a silent moan, drooling on the couch cushion. 

Bending over your body so his front is pressed to your back, Aizawa begins to pull out, moaning at the feeling, hands gripping your hips. Already pussydrunk, he starts to babble against your neck as he sets a steady pace; 

“Fuck, you feel so good...wanna give you my baby”

“Yeah?” You whine, turning your head, trying to get a glimpse of him. 

“Yeah...wanna fill you up and watch you-... Fuck...watch you get all roun-hnggg-d” Aizawa presses hot kisses at the top of your spine before gently but firmly biting down. Feeling you immediately clench around him his hips stutter as he groans. 

“Fuck, gonna fuck a baby into your cute womb,” His hips pick up speed as he thrusts deeper, jostling your body and making the whole couch move. You start to slip forwards. Suddenly you let out a loud moan. The new angle has him drilling your g spot over and over again. His slit kissing the spongy spot, bullying it into the shape of him. He speaks again,

“Wanna... fuck, wanna make-” His words dissolve into a moan as he feels himself get closer and closer to cuming. His strong hand wedges itself between your thighs and the armrest of the couch. His long fingers worming themselves closer to your clit. 

“need you, need you to -fuck- cum so it takes better.” 

The pads of his fingers slide against your clit, sending shocks of electricity up your spine. Each swipe of his fingers bring your closer and closer until you’re falling apart, face shoved into the seat cushion. He sinks his teeth further into your skin as your clamp down around him.

But he doesn’t stop there. Ignoring your squirming and weak sounds of protest, his finger contine to abuse your clit. Your cum making them slide all the better. He mumbles from behind you,

“‘Nother”

“Gotta make sure it takes.”

“One more, please, please, please” 

Phrase after phrase fall from his lips as his hips drive his length in and out of your tight heat. He could feel your walls flittering and twitching around him. The way your thighs began to close again, he knew you were close to cuming again. 

Your mouth hung open in a cute “o” shape, a constant stream of “ah, ah, ah, ah” falling from your lips as he fucked the air out of your lungs. At your sudden keen and the way your pussy began rhythmically milking his cock, Aizawa finally let go. Long ropes of sticky cum coated your womb. His hips stuttered as he moaned your name. His hips bucked weakly as he overstimulated himself, making you got every last drop of his seed. 

Finally stilling, he leaned back over your tired and boneless body, his chest against your back. Gently hands brushed your hair to one side. He pressed a kiss to the back, panting and catching his breath. 

“You did so good for me, love.” you hummed your approval.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment before he pulled out. You whimpered as you felt the pressure from his length disappear. Before you could protest too much, his strong arms were picking you up and pulling you to his chest. Flipping your positions, he sat down on the couch and settled you on his lap. For the rest of the night he wouldn’t let you get up or do anything, doting on you the whole time. Because after all, his cute little wife needed to sit still so his seed could take. ;)

tags | @plushygrrrl @alpha-mommy69 @roygbivvie @flooftoof

[carpenterswife]

HALF OF ME (i)

SUMMARY: Despite appearances, you’d learnt Soldier Boy was, actually, capable of being a good man. Somehow, you’d wormed yourself into his good books, and had the rarest privilege of seeing him without the suit, the drugs, the ego, the everything. Just as things were going good, his heart somehow getting even warmer for you, the world separates you in the cruelest way.

PAIRING: Soldier Boy x Fem!Reader

WORD COUNT: 3573

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI. Sexism (set in the 1980’s), typical Soldier Boy behaviour, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, questionable morals (peer pressuring drug use), sexual content, eludes to smut, Soldier Boy may be a bit OOC at times, gore.

SERIES MASTERLIST / MAIN MASTERLIST

Becoming a world famous supe was never something you’d ever wanted. Sure, you’d grown up with their photos on your bedroom walls, your father telling you stories of when the first ever supe came to be, insisting he fought alongside the Soldier Boy in the war

The people around you seemed to idolise them. These… mostly regular people in tight suits, pretending to be better than everyone else.

You knew better. You knew enough. Enough to know supes were dirty, and corrupt, and definitely not the heroes they presented themselves to be. That their hands were more blood than they were skin anymore.

And, frankly, you wanted nothing to do with Vought or Payback — or whatever the fuck those shitty, useless superhero teams were called. (Seriously, what did they actually do? Except sit in their pretty tower and take the peoples’ taxes?)

Your father, however, had different ideas.

So, at 18, you woke up in the hospital, after an ugly head collision, with superpowers you’d never had before. A miracle, the doctors called it, a supe whose extraordinary powers had been hidden for her whole life. When you got home, you forced the truth out of your father. Compound V, he called it, a new chemical made by Vought.

No one was born a supe, he admitted, it all came from a liquid in a vial. The truth hurt you, as much as it didn’t really surprise you. Chosen by God, my ass.

This wasn’t supposed to be your life.

But it’s certainly what it turned out to be.

Payback were as shitty, if not more, than you’d originally thought. Each of them had… many flaws. Soldier Boy, obviously, was the worst. If the Devil reincarnated himself, he’d look and act like Soldier Boy.

Simply talking to the man made you want to shoot yourself.

Well… it did at one point.

Two years down the line, things had changed. Soldier Boy was still insufferable, sexist, arrogant, and a major asshole. But… he wasn’t so much a dick directly to you, as he used to be. In fact, if you didn’t know better, you’d say he was actually somewhat nice to you. As much as his macho heart could manage, anyway.

You noticed it the first time when he saved your life on a mission. He’d grabbed your waist when a grenade clinked at your feet, whirling you around and to the ground, squashing you against his firm chest, using his shield to protect you both from the hot blast. He’d shrugged it off as nothing; as something any leader would do for his team. Then you watched him hit Gunpowder about for not following his order to a T, and realised… maybe he did treat you different.

It was undeniable these days.

You were the only person on Payback that Soldier Boy could remotely tolerate.

“You need’a be more careful.” Despite the hard look on his face, Soldier Boy was staring down at you, as a Vought doctor wrapped clean bandages tightly around your midsection. It was a bullet to the wound; which, with being a supe, wouldn’t be too bad, but you didn’t heal inhumanely fast like he did. “You’re fuckin’ useless when you’re hurt.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks for your concern, Soldier Boy.”

His eyes narrowed into a harsh glare. “Ben.” He corrected you, for what was probably the 50th time. Each time he did, he got more annoyed with you. “How many times do I have to say it? Is there a brain in that pretty head’a’yours?“

You grunted, spinning on the bed and hanging your legs off the side of it. “Thanks for the compliment.” Ben rolled his eyes at your sarcasm, not offering a hand as you groaned in discomfort and got to your feet. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be healed up by the time we set off for Nicaragua, if that’s what you’re worried ‘bout.”

Ben just grunted, displeased. “Ain’t happenin’.” He immediately shot that idea down. “We leave for Nicaragua in two weeks. You ain’t comin’. Sit this one out.”

You stared, expecting a joke. Clearly, he wasn’t. “Seriously?” You groaned, unhappy. What was it with this guy? “I’ll be fine. It’s a silly little bullet.”

“I was holdin’ your fuckin’ guts in your body.” He walked away, reminding you of just how bad your injury actually had been. He had, indeed, practically been keeping your guts inside of you as you bled out. “You ain’t going. You’re stayin’ here.” You chased after him, pulling your shirt on as you left the infirmary.

“Ben—“

He whirled around to face you. “I said, you’re fucking staying.” He growled, glaring down at you. God, were you glad you were on his side. This man was terrifying. Six feet of pure muscle, strength and violence. “You’re better off here, using that face of yours to get some PR.”

“And, what? The others will back you up?” You scoffed, grabbing his wrist as he went to walk away again. His expression went cold at your touch, but you didn’t flinch. As much as he tried to scare you, Ben wouldn’t raise a hand at you… probably. You had faith in the man. “They can’t fight for shit, Ben. Gunpowder hasn’t even discovered his own dick yet. You think you’re gonna have your back covered out there?”

He ripped his wrist away harshly. “I don’t need my back covered.”

“Everyone needs their back covered.” You argued. “Even you.”

He chuckled, sarcastic and dry. “You worried ‘bout me, princess?” You gave him a ‘seriously?’ look, as he took a step closer, mouth curled into that ever-infuriating smirk. “I’d perform better if you sent me off with a taste of that—“

“Ben.” You interrupted him, unimpressed. You rolled his eyes at his predictable behaviour. “I’m not gonna fuck morale into you.”

“Shame.” His eyes flicked up and down, tracing the curves of your body. “Bet you’d be a firecracker.” He walked away again, and you threw your hands up, groaning. Ben chuckled as he turned the corner. “Think it over, sweetheart.”

“You’ve got a hand.” You called back to him. “Use it!”

Conversations like that were very common with Ben.

It’d be a normal conversation (as normal as it gets with him) — and then he’d start talking about fucking you against the nearest surface, and all pleasantries went down the drain. Seriously, he thought 80% with his dick, and 20% with his actual brain.

And that was being kind.

But, beneath all of his macho assholery, was his genuine worry. You knew he wasn’t letting you accompany the rest of the team to Nicaragua because of your injury, despite how minor it was, and that he was worried you’d injure yourself further.

You’d never slept with Ben, despite how much he’d tried to charm you into his bed. Your relationship was strange. He flirted, you flirted — there were lingering touches. And, sure, he’d never put his dick in you, but his fingers were a different question. And… oh, boy, could that man use his hands.

It was like being in a relationship, just without the sex. Which was odd, as it was Soldier Boy. But, the way he smiled at you and treated you, it made you feel different to the other women.

He was just… shit it showing it.

Poor bastard wouldn’t know emotion if it slapped him in the face.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

“I am not wearing this.”

Okay… scratch all of that. Maybe Ben was just a dickhead.

He lounged back in his chair, grinning lazily, legs spread like he owned the place. He probably thought he did. “Why not?” He took a sip of his whiskey, ice clinking against the sides, eyes never leaving you from over the rim of the glass.

You held up the fabric. “Seriously?”

It was basically a scrap of fabric, with how much it covered up. You didn’t shy away from showing skin. You quite liked short skirts and pushing the line. Because, as a supe, there was a line. Vought liked it when you showed skin — apparently it made your ratings go up with the male fans, no shocker. But, too much skin on display, the male fans started calling you a whore, and the ratings shot back down.

It was a bit like a balancing game, trying to find the perfect amount of skin to make the boys ogle but also respect you. An impossible feat, truthfully.

And this? This was definitely classed as too much.

“I don’t see the issue.” His smirk said otherwise.

“My tits are not gonna stay in this, Ben!”

His smirk just grew. “Again, I don’t see the issue.”

You groaned and put the dress down. “No. I’ll get my own dress. I am not wearing that.” You tell him, arms folding across your chest. You didn’t miss the way he checked out your tits, and the way the placement of your arms accentuated them.

He rolled his eyes, obviously not happy with your decision. Leaning towards, elbows on his knees, Ben’s eyes took you in. “Why?” His head cocked to the side. “You’d look hot. It’d make your ass look great.”

“That’s not a compliment.” You grumbled, pushing a hand through your hair. Ben made a small grunt of disagreement, but didn’t say anything otherwise. “Listen, there’s a certain line. Alright? If I wear that, every guy out there will be callin’ me a whore. Okay? Imma find something else.”

He hummed and sat back. “I think you should wear that one.” Sighing heavily, you just rolled your eyes at his persistence. “All those assholes will be blowin’ their pants just lookin’ at you, sweetheart.”

“Again, not a compliment.”

Ben stared at you, and silently took another sip of his whiskey. He always seemed to think these crude, rather sexist and inappropriate remarks were compliments. Like commenting on your body. Or saying you’d be a freak in bed. Which were obviously not actually compliments.

You rolled your eyes, rubbing your forehead. “I’ll find another dress, Ben.” You told him, definitive. There was no way he was going to convince you to wear that dress.

“What a disappointment.” He grinned, lopsided. “I was lookin’ forward to seein’ you in that dress.”

“Again,” you deadpanned as he checked you out once more, “you have a hand… use it.”

Ben just smirked, and sipped his whiskey again.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

You wore the fucking dress.

The asshole always won. Always.

He looked so fucking pleased, as you walked into his after-party, wearing the dress he’d picked out for you. His smugness was clear, brushing through the crowd with ease to come to you.

Ben hummed, eyes dilating as he stared you down. His eyes lingered on your tits, as they always did. “You look…” he hesitated, trying to think of a compliment that wasn’t degrading, and failed, “fuckin’ hot. If you weren’t such a bitch, I’d bend you over right here.”

Your face pulled together in disgust, looking at him with your lips pressed together “… gross.”

He chuckled. “Drink?” He offered. “I got your favourite.”

And there he goes again.

Being nice.

It did your damn head in.

Accepting his offer, you shivered as his large hand landed on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. They all seemed to part like the Red Sea as he came through, a fact that amused you greatly.

Seriously. These women looked at him like he was Jesus reincarnated, when he’d totally call them in a whore in bed.

Ben silently reached out for your favourite alcoholic drink, pouring it into a glass. His eyes scanned over the room, smirking at a few of the women ogling, sending them rushing to their friends and squealing. He merely chuckled and handed you the full glass.

“Thanks.” You murmured, taking it from him. Your eyes stared up at him for a moment, curious, before looking away again.

What was it with him? How could be such an egotistical one minute, and then be nice and respectful the next? It was like a guessing game, trying to figure out what mood he was in.

He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm, but not enough to hurt you. “Come with me.” He guided you through the crowd once again, to the doors in the back. As he pushed through into the room, he flashed you a cocky grin over his shoulder. Dickhead.

This room was far quieter. You noticed, immediately, the only people present were supes and celebrities, not the random civilians that’d been granted a pity invite — or the women Ben thought were hot. This was the main party. There were drugs covering every table, with various big names passed out on the chairs, blazed.

Ben lead you to the corner, where he’d obviously already been busy, if the half-snorted lines of cocaine proved anything.

Silently, he offered you a line, which you gratefully accepted.

You didn’t do drugs before you joined Payback. In fact, you’d avoided them, promising yourself you’d never become that type of person. But it was the norm within Vought. Every supe spent their nights filling their bodies to the brim with various drugs, poisoning themselves. So, you started smoking weed to fit in.

Then Ben found out you only did weed, and decided it wasn’t enough. With enough pressure, he’d gotten you onto any other substance he could convince you to try.

It made you more attractive, in his eyes, as you spiralled into addiction like him.

In fact, it got him rock hard, to snort lines or share a joint with you. It was so fucking hot, watching your eyes glass over as you got higher with every hit, with every line. God, it turned him on so bad.

You snorted your third line of the night, when Ben suddenly pushed you back into your chair. Bewildered, you stared at him, as he snatched up a baggie of the white powder. Your heart leapt to your throat, the moment he moved aside the slit in your dress, revealing the bare skin of your thigh. All breath left your lungs, watching him pour some of the powder onto your thigh.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

He was about to do a line off you.

He glanced at you through his lashes, smirking at the shocked and flushed expression you wore. He used his pocket knife to cut the lines, mindful of the sharp blade against your soft skin.

God, this was hot. He found it hot. You found it hot. It’d be a damn miracle if you ended the night with your clothes on at this point.

Your skin tingled as he sniffed up the first line, of his hands roughly gripping the top of your thigh to steady you, his other holding a rolled up $100 bill. He groaned in pleasure, body physically shuddering, head shaking, as the drug made his body run hot.

He did the next line, the grip on your thigh becoming tighter as his pupils began to blow up.

Was it getting hot in here? Or was it just you?

Maybe it was the cocaine in your systems, maybe it was the fact Ben was just… so damn hot, but you couldn’t stop yourself from grabbing his hair and forcing his head up as he snorted the final line off your thigh.

He looked up at you, pupils blown, lips parted. Holy shit. This man was sculpted like a fucking God. Your body shivered. “You finally takin’ my offer, sweetheart?” He chuckled, shaking off the immediate effects of the cocaine, raising himself up to your level.

“Fuck me.” You whispered, breathless, practically begging him.

His eyes went dark, almost black, with lust. The smirk on his lips made you squeeze your legs together. “Don’t need to ask me twice.”

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

You now understood the hype. You understood why women bent their knees the moment Ben uttered a word to them.

Holy shit, did this man have talent.

Your legs were still twitching, the space in between your legs throbbing and tingling with how many times you’d come on his fingers, his tongue and cock. You’d counted four, before your vision had gone white.

Jesus, he had stamina. A glance at the clock on the wall confirmed it’d been just over five hours since you’d first fell into Ben’s bed. That super strength was better for more than just fighting, after all. This man should be advertised for his abilities. No shocker he was an American sex symbol.

He’d just fucked your brains out.

And now, he was staring at you with admiration, laid on his side, in the same bed he’d just railed you in. “You feelin’ okay?” He murmured, genuinely concerned.

“Yeah.” You rolled over to face him, a jolt of discomfort and pain in your hips and thighs. You might have to hold back on… doing anything for the next few days, however. “You didn’t break anything.” You joked, soft and breathy.

He chuckled quietly, hand sliding around your waist and dragging you closer to him. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waitin’ to do that.” He whispered, uncharacteristically soft and gentle.

“To fuck me senseless?”

He smirked. “Mm, I have dreamt of that.” Your eyes narrowed in mild disgust at the image of him having wet dreams about you, swatting his chest. He grinned and caught your hand. “No… I meant how long I’ve waited to have you. You’re fuckin’ perfect. Not just your body. Everything about you is so sexy.”

Your brows furrowed, squeezing his hand, and then worming your fingers out of his. “What do you mean?” You asked softly.

He seemed to struggle for a moment. He wet his tongue with his lips, making your body tingle again. Jesus. “Let’s get dinner.”

What.

“Me and you.” Ben smiled, tracing the curves of your body with a featherlight touch. “Real fancy. I’ll pay.” Was he… asking you on a date right now? The Soldier Boy, asking you on a date? Instead of fucking you and tossing you out?

“You’re serious?” You asked softly, surprised. When he nodded, you grinned, biting your lip to contain it. “Okay, Ben. Let’s get dinner.”

His eyes lit up. Ducking his head down, his lips touched yours, gentle and affectionate. His kiss spoke so many words; his hands gently cradling your body, as he kissed you like you were made of glass. The touch was intimate and loving, widely different to the one he’d used when he’d been on top of you.

No, this was completely different. This was him being vulnerable. This was him showing you just how he felt, without the words.

He smiled against your lips and pulled back, just enough to speak, but his words were still brushing yours. “Yeah?” He whispered, in response to your agreement.

“Yeah.” You stared at him with big eyes.

He grinned, almost boyish in its nature. He stared at you in adoration, seeming to be collecting the words on the tip of his tongue.

You giggled under his stare. You sat up, pulling him with you, grabbing the blanket that he had draped over his headboard. It was fluffy and warm, and smelt like his cologne, and you didn’t hesitate to wrap it around your shoulders, cocooning yourself.

If possible, his gaze softened even more. “You’re adorable.”

Quietly, you laughed. “You sure you wanna do this, Ben?” You stared back at him. Ben was nothing if not a womaniser. Settling down was nothing like him. “Get serious with me, I mean.”

“You’re the only one I’d ever want to.”

Your brows pulled together, confused. “Why?”

Ben soothed a hand through your hair, green eyes drinking in the perfections and imperfections on your face. “You’re the only one I trust.” His voice was gravelly, still heavy with the effects of your recent endeavours. His hand travelled through your hair, and then came down to cup your cheek.

Wrapped up in his fluffy blanket, your head rested on the wooden headboard. “I trust you, too.” You whispered, tilting your head into his palm. His skin was rough, painted with callouses and scars. Every scar on his body had a story. And you’d spend the rest of your life learning every single one.

Despite himself, he smiled at you, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. “I’d kill for you. You know that?” His words made you shiver. Ben killing people wasn’t exactly new… or surprising. But doing it for you? God, it made your stomach heat up — and other parts. “These assholes don’t hold a candle to you, doll. Countess? That whore is— is repulsive compared to you.”

You laughed softly, rolling your eyes affectionately. “Ben.” You scolded quietly, though not with an ounce of anger.

The supe just smirked, chuckling deep in his throat. “You want me to drop that bullshit PR relationship I have with her? I’ll do it. In a fucking heartbeat. I’ll be with you, publicly, if you want me.”

“You’d ruin your reputation for me?” Now that — that meant something. Ben could say anything and everything; he was a master manipulator. He could get anything he wanted with that smile and his suave words. But, if there was one thing he would always prioritise, it was his reputation. He’d do anything to be the alpha male. Anything.

“I’d do anything for you.” He grabbed your hand within his much larger one, guiding it to his chest. He pressed your palm over his heart, allowing you to feel his heartbeat. “I’ll do anything for you, to be with you.” You felt the steady rhythm of his heart. He wasn’t lying. That, or he was a great fucking liar. “I’m never leaving your side. I’m yours.”

Your eyes searched deep within his. “Always?”

Ben smiled. “Always.” He leant forward, gently pressing his lips against yours in a tender kiss.

Three months later, Soldier Boy died in a nuclear meltdown.

A/N: jesus christ this took me so long to write 😭 but i’m so happy with how this first chap turned out. it’s gonna get so much more fun to write we get to the action 👀 pls lmk if there’s any mistakes, as i will go back n fix them !!! hope you enjoyed <3

banners by @cafekitsune

TAGLIST: @onlyangel-444 @deans-spinster-witch @fumolemon @anundyingfidelity

[joleneghoul]

Two Fallout protags and their animal friends!

More info/rambling under cut!

The Lone Wanderer (Al) and Dogmeat the wasteland mutt!

She canonically in my stuff has two puppies, which Al, because while he is a medic, he is not a vet, thought she was just fat/had worms until they appeared.

This is kind of my version of fo3's Dogmeat, i realize in the game, dogmeat is a boy dog, but I always bc of the fact puppies can appear in the cave of vault 101 just been like "omg what if girl".

Al doesn't really know much about dogs in general, but when he realized Dogmeat wasnt going to stop following him around, he was pretty fucking stoked about it.

Heres a doodle of the orange sized babies

Courier Six (Deano) and his trusted horse Rosemary + Rex the cyberdog!

When Deano found out the Kings dog was sick, being someone who cares deeply for animals (the health of them, the training, the care, etc), agreed to find him a new brain w.o any questions. In Deano's ideal future, he has 6 dogs, so he very much enjoys his time traveling with Rex.

Rosemary is a former working draft from a ranch near the Rio Grande Valley. She has been with Deano since before he was a courier (around 8 years). She loves to steal hats off peoples heads, much to Rex's delight and everyone elses annoyance.

She is very desensitized because of the life they have lived but terrified of motorcycles.

A fun fact: She has killed multiple people.

He teaches Rex how to handshake for iguana bits despite the much touted myth "you can't teach an old dog new tricks". Yes, he shows everyone this.

Also, not shown here are the various stray dogs and other animals he picks up/saves along his travels much to (sometimes) the dismay of his companions.

Rosemary the Horse based on the Sleipnir breed by @owligator !

[delphi-shield]

:// sᴍᴀʟʟ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ғᴏʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ / ʙɪʟʟʏ.ʙᴜᴛᴄʜᴇʀ

Billy Butcher x Reader smut, hurt/no comfort wc: ~5.2k mdni read on ao3 digging the worms out of my brain real quick since i finally caught up with the boys. idk i think i worked through something personal with this, so like, that's a win for me.

summary: Butcher knows better than to be fucking around with you, but there's 50 quid in it for him if he gets you to call him 'daddy'. Easy money.

content: s4 spoilers, dubcon, butcher's pov, an exorbitant amount of kessler in the first half, age gap, general sleazy behavior, handjob, finger fucking, piv, pussy slapping, some just the tip action, blowjob, mentions of titfucking, degradation, general objectification, public sex, not proofread.

“Makes you realize men have nipples too.”

The bar is packed for a Wednesday night, but Butcher already knows exactly what Kessler is talking about. You’re a ditch lily, sitting tall in this shithole. He turns his head away, pretends he doesn't see the way you lick up a trail of spilled cosmopolitan from the side of your glass, pink tongue parting your lips, eyes half-shut. 

Fucking typical. Kessler could sniff out daddy issues and sadness from a mile away, and he was lethal at half that distance. He could have them wrapped around his finger in the time it took Butcher to take a piss.

His eyes linger. A thing like you doesn't belong in a dump like this. This is the sort of place girls like you stumble into at 1 AM, survey the crowd through the haze of cigarette smoke, and wobble right back out onto the streets, take your chances with the elements rather than the haggard, unfriendly crowd that hunches over their drinks.

Butcher likes Midwest 10's. Begs Kessler to stop ogling barely legal co-eds, says he's not some sleazy cunt in a John Hughes film. He can lie all he wants. If it makes him hard, it makes Butcher hard. 

He glances sidelong at your face. You've got this Christmas-light bright smile that makes his dick jerk. Kessler’s more than under his skin. He’s in his veins, in the same blood that raises his cock up like a goddamn bicycle pump when you lean over the bar, arms squeezing your tits together.

"You could probably fuck 'em." Kessler tips his head to the side, eyes locked on your cleavage. His eyes narrow, lips pursed, evaluating your chest and charting a course for his dick to travel.

"Shut up."

"Huh?"

Fuck. Your tip your head to the side from two seats away, brows pinched together. Cute, in a lost little lamb kind of way.

Butcher's eyes cut to Kessler. He's cocked it all up now. The sly, punchable grin on Kessler’s face turns him back to his drink. He drains his glass and gestures for another. If he doesn’t look at you, if he keeps drinking, this all goes away.

"Nothin'. Don't you worry about it, love."

That should be the end of it, but you’ve clearly got something wrong with you. You fiddle with your purse, pluck up your courage, and drop yourself onto the barstool next to him. Whether you’ve got no sense of self-preservation or you’re just that damn oblivious, he doesn’t intend to get to know you well enough to find out. Butcher's strained smile doesn't do much to smooth the worry lines away.

Kessler chuckles, leans back and props his elbows up on the bar. Cunt just wants to watch him squirm.

"No," Kessler corrects, drawing the word out. "I want you to get some pussy."

His eyes dart over to Kessler, looming over you, hands ghosting up your arms to squeeze your shoulders. He blinks rapidly, rubs at his face, tries to play it off like he's nervous or tired or whatever the fuck but when he looks down, there's your tits again. Butcher lolls his head back to the ceiling. Laugh it up, you fuckin’ cunt.

And Kessler does. Makes a show of slapping his hand on his thigh, head knocked back, grinning toothily.

He tries to ignore you, but you’re straddling that stool next to him in your little skirt and ordering another cosmo. This isn’t the kind of bar for cocktails, and he knows without even seeing the bartender’s eye roll that he hates you.

It's none of his business. He ought to keep himself sat there drowning in his drink ‘til last call and past that, make them throw him out on the street, give him a reason to swing first. It's a better idea than messing with you.

The bartender drops your drink off in front of you and turns before the words ‘thank you’ leave your glossy lips. Another sickly pink cocktail with a dried out lime dropped on top. Butcher can’t help himself. He’s got a soft spot for the clueless.

“Cheery bloke, isn't he?” He says, casting a sidelong glance at the bartender. He taps a finger against the bartop, inclines his head toward your cocktail. “That the only drink you know the name of?”

Your cheeks warm. You hide it behind a hand, turning your face away from him to laugh.

“What? No. I just think they taste good.”

Kessler snorts. “That’s a fat load of shit.”

Butcher agrees. His mouth twists into a half-hearted smile. He slides his glass over to you. 

“Try it,” he insists.

There’s hardly a passing thought for your own safety. You look between his scotch and his face and seem to decide it’s safe to take drinks from strange old fucks in bars. Your fingers brush his when you take the glass, warm and soft - sticky. You must be more sloshed than you look, must keep spilling your drinks. Hell, for all he knows, maybe this place does make the best cosmo in the city. Maybe the bartender just hates your ass because you keep making a mess.

You don’t even ask what he’s drinking. (Maybe this is all a grift, he thinks. Kessler’s at his ear, chuckling - she ain’t bright enough for that.) You lift his glass and leave your lipstick behind.

“Oh my god.” You sputter, pound a fist against your chest. It makes your tits bounce. Fucking miracle your shirt is containing those things. “That tastes like ass.”

“That is the highest quality scotch this bar serves.”

“It tastes like someone put a cigarette out in a glass of whiskey.”

“It’s a shit bar.”

You laugh, head tipped back, nose scrunched - the works. You’re too tipsy for it to be on purpose. Being cute comes naturally to you. Must be how you’ve made it this far.

You pass his drink back and scoot your cosmo closer to you, spilling it as the glass skips over the pock-marked countertop. Butcher snorts, dabs it up for you with his sleeve. He’s starting to think his theory about the cosmopolitans might hold true.

“Well, here, a trade’s a trade.” He takes your drink by the stem (fucking amazed they even have martini glasses in this place) and pounds back a mouthful.

It isn’t that bad, but he makes a show of scrunching his nose and shaking his head. He slides your drink back over to you and mirrors the way you had clung to your drink.

“You’re kidding,” you laugh. “It’s better than yours. I don’t know how you drink that.”

“I’ll keep my liquid ashtray, thanks.”

Your eyes are all lit up when you smile, but it emphasizes the raw edges, the puffiness that lingers. Rough night for you, by the looks of it. Not like he’s having much of a better one.

There’s no harm in it. No harm in showing you what a proper drink tastes like, broadening your horizons and helping you both forget what a shit hand you’ve been dealt. He buys you a drink on the condition that you try something that isn’t a cosmopolitan. You can hardly stomach a whiskey and coke. He orders you a fernet and coke for shits and giggles, expects you to spit it out like all the rest, barks out a laugh when you declare it’s tasty, notes of lavender drawing you in. Notes of lavender - Christ, what fucking suburb did you pop out of? 

He introduces you to more drinks, leans closer with each empty glass. You're new here, you tell him. You tell him your name, too, not that he remembers. Got stood up on some shitty date. He knows it’s got to be shitty because what idiot in his right mind would take you here, of all places?

By the time he orders you both shots of Rumple Minze, you’re pressed shoulder to shoulder. Your hand splays against his chest, head leaning against him. You lift his shot to his lips for him and he’s too drunk to find it childish and irritating. He downs it and does the same for you, watches you extend that pretty neck to drink it down.

“I’ll get you a cab,” he slurs, rocking unsteadily to his feet.

“I already called an Uber.”

Jesus. It’s a struggle not to roll his eyes. Fucking kids. Allergic to one night stands, couldn’t take a hint to save their life. Even Kessler is on his side, his head thunking against the bartop.

It's for the best, he thinks, trying to curb his disappointment. He's got shit to do. Ryan to worry about. Kessler's a right cunt, pushing him to you. He hasn't got the time to be fucking about. This entire thing had been a waste of time, too busy trying to get his dick wet to make the most of what he’s got left.

Butcher stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat, steps back, ready to split and stumble his way back home. He nods quick and sharp, tight-lipped smile to keep his frustration locked behind his teeth.

You show him your phone, make him squint to see what he’s supposed to be looking at. “My Uber is still a couple minutes away, so…”

Kessler picks his head up from the bar. He's a bloodhound for pussy. He picks up the leading edge in your voice before Butcher’s even done parsing your words.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Kessler drones. “You can’t even get it up, can you?”

“I’m damn well going to try.”

“What?” You laugh, swaying on your feet.

Butcher wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you against his side. “Nothin’. Don’t you worry about it. I’ll keep you company. Make sure no nasties try to get you.”

The cold outside is bracing. You wrap your arms tight around yourself and this time Butcher’s too drunk to pretend he isn't staring at the way your tits press together.

It’s your idea. Really. The way you look up at him, the way your lips stay parted while the pair of you pace the sidewalk. You wrap your hand around his bicep and squeeze, eyes drifting slowly to the side, to the alleyway just a few strides away.

See? It’s your idea, honest. He drags you behind a dumpster, pins you to the wall of the alley, and shoves his tongue down your throat, yeah, but you moan so fucking loud and drag him closer. It takes longer than he'd like for your hand to stop massaging his chest and start fondling his cock, but you're a sweet girl - don't seem the type to do this too often. Need some guidance.

Butcher lays his hand atop yours, wraps your fingers tighter around his bulge. Your breath hitches, your eyes flicking down to your hand, mouth popped open - got this sweet, vacant little look in your eye.

He'd bet real money you go dumb for cock.

“$50 says you can get her to call you ‘daddy’,” Kessler pipes up, leaning against the wall next to you. He tips a cigarette into his mouth, cups a hand around to light it, and Butcher swears the light from his zippo gleam in your eyes. He doesn’t doubt it. Seems cruel, though, especially when he can’t remember your name.

“What was your name again?”

It takes a bit for you to get dick off your mind and fish around for your name. You mumble, make him lean in close and tilt his head to get you to say it again, clearer.

You're the obedient sort. Pick up on cues so easy. Don't even make him ask for it again. He pats your cheek, smirk creasing his face.

By your side, Kessler flashes a crisp $50. He plucks it taut, fans himself with it, makes a real show of being a dick while you try to take Butcher's out of his pants.

At the end of the day, 50 quid is 50 quid.

“How ‘bout you ask daddy for permission, sweetheart?”

Your mouth moves wordlessly.

“Please?”

He clicks his tongue. “That’s real polite. But it ain’t what I asked for, is it?”

“Can I please play with your cock, daddy?”

“Better.”

Kessler slips the fifty into Butcher’s coat pocket while you fumble with his belt and free him from his pants. You lay his cock in the seam of your hands, cupping him like he’s a gift on two legs. You stroke him reverently, look up at him with big, thoughtless lamb eyes.

Your heart’s in it, but you’re too reserved for his taste. He grips your hand in his and guides you down his cock, shows you when to squeeze, when to twist your wrist, how to flick your thumb over the slit of his tip.

He can never make it last when he drinks. Should have warned you before he came on your pretty skirt, but you’ve got a natural talent for stroking dick. He keeps his groan locked up tight. It rattles through his chest and he leans into you, crushing you against the wall of the alley. His hips stutter and rut into your hand, still wrapped around him, coaxing every drop from his tip. You still toy with him while he tries to catch his breath. He’s got to push away from you with a mumbled “Christ, all right, that’s enough.”

It’s like he’s taking your favorite toy away. You pout up at him, hand still molded for his cock by your side, by the skirt his ruined with his cum. He almost gets an apology out, but you drag a finger through his mess and bring it to your lips, make a show of licking it up.

His chest aches. He isn’t sure if it’s the tumor or his heart desperately trying to pump enough blood down to his dick to get him up again.

Butcher crams two fingers into his mouth and scrapes the dirt from beneath his nails with his teeth. The rest is a blur. He knows that he kicks your feet apart, traces your slit through your panties before he pushes them to the side and finger fucks you until your head snaps back against the wall. It’s quick, messy - leaves his forearm soaked. He’s not so sure that was real, but he’s too drunk to figure it out, too gone ask.

He tucks himself back into his pants. You set your panties back in place, skirt still hiked up to your ribs. You slip a little lower down the wall, panting. He stops you before you can slip all the way down, pats your cunt, and tugs your skirt back into place.

“Let’s get you a cab, eh?”

That’s the last thing he remembers clearly. You’d missed your Uber, had to take a cab with him anyway. He remembers you leaning against him, tucked up against his side, hand stroking his chest. He’d pet your hair - soft as lamb’s wool - and whispered nonsense against your head just to get a laugh out of you. After you get out, the whole thing’s blank.

When Butcher wakes up at 2 PM the next day, choking on his own vomit, he can't find the 50 quid. He turns his jacket inside out searching for it. A scrap of paper with your number scrawled on it falls from his jacket pocket. He doesn’t spare it more than a glance and keeps digging for his wallet.

Lambs lose their appeal after the flying cunts nearly bit his cock off.

That farm had been dirty business. Wicked stuff, the kind that doesn't wash off. This work always has been, but this time the blood doesn't come out from under his fingernails. He tastes bile every time he breathes. The copper twang of blood trickling down the back of his throat is the only chaser he gets anymore.

He doesn't think of you often. He knows it'd break your little heart to hear it, have you looking up at him with those ‘fuck me, I'm sad’ eyes and that little girl pout that makes him feel every bit the lech he is. You’re a sweet thing. Vacant, just like him. It didn’t take long to piece that together.

You’re easy and malleable, quick to fit yourself around him in whatever way he demands. He liked that about you at first.

But when he calls on you at three in the morning for a quick lay and you answer the door in a full face of make-up, hair done and wearing the sort of nightgown that no one actually sleeps in, all he feels is distaste.

You let him crowd you against your couch (a neutral color, no blanket in sight, your living room just as blank as the rest of you) without so much as a ‘hello’. You hook a leg over his hip. No panties, he realizes, eyes locked on your drippy cunt, already flushed. Been touching yourself to the thought of this. He warms a little at the thought.

Butcher wedges his knee between your leg and grinds. Any warmth you’d kindled with wet pussy dissipates the moment you moan so goddamn loud, the sound hollow and plastic. He keeps his leg still, flexes his thigh for you to grind on. His jaw tightens. He nearly shoves his fingers in your mouth to keep you from making those stupid fucking noises.

You let him twist you up however he wants, more a posable toy than a person. He pushes you further along the couch until your back arches awkwardly against the arm. You don't protest. Of course you don't.

His thick fingers trail down your slit, part your slick folds for his inspection. He sways back on his haunches, admires the pretty way he's got you arranged, pinned open on his fingers for him.

He brings his hand down sharply on pussy once, twice - and the third time directly to your clit is just because you kept making that annoying fucking noise. That nasally, porn-star whine that drills him between the eyes and makes his hard-on flag. The way you twitch and jerk at each hit might be genuine but that fucking noise drives him up a wall. Christ, there's got to be something about you that's real.

Pussy’s real. Can’t fake that, he thinks.

“Stay right there,” he says, a bite to his voice when you try to shift against him again. If you could just lay there and take it - is that so much to ask for?

He guides himself to you, hips rocking experimentally. You suck his head in and his chin dips to his chest. He groans deep. It turns to a growl when you raise your hips. He lays his forearm against you, pressing you down - and that moan might have been real.

“Can't you do fucking anything right?” He snaps. His hips push forward, bullying himself deeper into you. You suck a breath through your teeth, your hand bracing against his forearm. “I told you to stay right there.”

A spark of indignation flickers in your eyes, flash-fire flushed out by the same pitiful little lamb wool you pull back over your eyes. Makes you look all downy, plush and fuckable - he's fished more respectable shits from the toilet.

You’re a good girl for a few more shallow thrusts, lay there just like he wants while he works himself to the hilt. He finds his rhythm sloppily, one knee propped on the couch, the other foot planted on the floor. Your tits bounce with every thrust and he’s stupid enough to take his hands off of you, trust you not to move while he gropes at your breast.

Immediately you rise to your elbows, try to arch your back deeper. He’s positive you’re trying to mimic some video, down to the exact angle of your spine, but your heart isn’t in it. His cock butts against your walls, shallower than before, the pleasure that had been tearing through his blood coming to a screeching halt. He hisses through his teeth, grinding out his frustration.

“Don't –” his shoves you back down, hand flattening against your cheek and pushing your face into the couch. Feels fucking awful any other position. “–fucking move. Don't fucking move. Trying to cum. Goddammit.”

Your hands curl into fists by your head. You hide your face, press it deeper into the cushion and he presses your face deeper to help you. The noise you make is pitiful, but at least it's real.

Fucking hell. Now he’s completely out of it. You’ve gone and fucked up pussy for him. He didn’t think that was possible. He can’t find the angle he needs, can’t get back to that gummy spot that make his vision blur.

He pulls out and flips you onto your stomach, ignoring the little whine you make. You don’t raise your hips - god forbid you take a fucking hint - so he sits you up for him and wedges his dick back in. It only takes a few thrusts for him to realize this is worse. Tighter, dry, chafing his dick like goddamn sandpaper.

“Your cunt shrivel up or something? Feels fucking terrible.”

He snatches your wrist, pulls your arm back at an angle that makes you cry out, and fills your palm with lube. Can't even get wet on your own. Fucking Christ, he's got to do everything for you. Even has to curl your fingers around his cock, drag your hand back and forth until you final get the big, swinging fucking hint and jerk him off.

He meant to stuff himself back into your cunt, but at this point your hand will do. Six one way, half a dozen the other. At least your hand doesn't chafe.

You’re silent now. Small mercies. The only sounds are the slick of your palm working him over and his labored breaths. Your hand is clumsy at this angle, but he’s not going to risk letting you move and fuck it all up again.

Once he’s close, he drops your hand and flips you onto your back again. A big hand presses your knees apart, opens you up for him. You're still so pliable, even if the sheen is gone from your cunt. You try to fix your hair. If he notices the tears brimming your eyes, he doesn't say anything.

He lines himself back up with your cunt, dragging himself through your folds. Your knees knock closer with each pass of his bright red tip over your clit. He taps it once with his cock, expecting another produced moan to rattle the walls, but you only whimper, your thighs trying to close around him.

Butcher smirks. He pumps himself into you, keeps himself shallow - just the tip past your puffy lips. 

You whimper, try to shuffle down and take more of him. Butcher’s hand grips your face, squishing your cheeks so hard it stings.

“Don't you fucking move,” he grits out. You used to take instruction so well. Now you've gotten all up in your own head. Nobody likes an uppity bitch, he ought to make you see that.

What he really ought to do is make you get down there and jerk him off. Your hand is still slicked, but you'd probably piss yourself at the chance. Instead, he pushes your knees damn near up to your ears and barks for you to hold your own legs. Your hands curl around the backs of your knees. There you go. Figuring it out again.

His hand strokes his dick quick and hard, one hand dedicated to keeping himself just inside you. It doesn't take long for him to cum. It’s a slow burn that seeps up through his belly, lattices up his ribs and congeals in his chest, makes him ache and cave over your body while his hips sputter. He squeezes himself dry, pumps his cum into your pussy until it flows past his tip and seeps down onto your couch. 

Butcher lingers over you, catching his breath. He’s already gone soft, his cock dropped out of you. He sits back against the opposite arm of the couch, splays himself out while you curl up.

Something burns in his chest - remorse, maybe. You’re all curled up against your couch, cheek cushioned on your arm - won’t look at him, don’t paw at him or lean against his side, don’t even reach to clean yourself up.

His head knocks back to the ceiling. He can’t be bothered to pull answers out of you. He reaches for the tissue box on your coffee table, plucks a handful, and cleans himself off.

He tosses the box back to the coffee table and shoves his boots back on, barely taking the time to lace them up properly. He scoops he coat up from where you’d shucked it onto the floor, buttons himself back up, and you still haven’t moved. His eyes linger on you for a moment, brow set low.

Can’t be bothered, he reminds himself. He runs a hand through his hair and makes for your door, boots thunking heavily against your floors.

“Can I see you again?”

You’ve managed to pick your head up when he glances back at you. You sound so desperate it's pitiful. His lip curls. He runs a hand over his head, looks anywhere but you.

Christ, even your apartment is blank and devoid of personality. He hadn't noticed it before, too consumed with the need to get between your thighs. He shrugs, and gives you a lifeless smile.

“We'll see.”

Butcher closes your door behind him and hurries down the hall. He turns the corner to see Kessler’s cheshire grin greeting him in the dark of your stairwell.

He ought to get right with you before his time comes. He isn't proud of the way things ended. Butcher’s a right bastard, but he isn't blind; he'd seen the look on your face, the hopeful shine in your eyes dulling when he'd left you there without so much as a ‘cheers, love, thanks for the rub’.

He doesn't bother texting you. He's already posted up outside your apartment. Giving you a heads up would only give him time to pussy out.

Besides, you're home. He knows it. You’re piss-easy to track. Home to work, work to home, same route, same time. It will be easy to knock on your door, get his closure, and slip out of your life for the last time.

It should be easy. He’s had harder conversations with people who meant more to him but he keeps staring at your door, trying to will himself to knock. He’s not that weak yet. He can still raise his hand.

Butcher turns to leave just as you open the door. His shoulders tense when you call out to him.

“Billy?” You blurt out. There’s genuine surprise there.

“I just thought I’d –” He turns to catch a glimpse of you and it sends him headlong into silence.

You look a right mess. No face isn’t done up, an oversized t-shirt draping off your shoulders. Your pajama pants are fluffy, snowflake print - tackiest thing he’s seen in a while. 

You duck your head down, trying to catch his eye. 

“You okay?” You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “Want to come in?”

He doesn’t. Not even a little. He wants to rip the band-aid off, forget he ever met you and let you get on with your life - whatever it is you do. But you step to the side and fix him with a weak little smile that he thinks might be real, and his feet take him in through the door.

It’s a nice place in the daytime, he realizes. Natural sunlight, open floorplan, your shelves crowded with plants and knick-knacks he’s never seen. You offer him a drink, laugh when he says water and fall quiet when he insists.

You hand him his drink and collapse onto your couch. Your legs kick up onto your coffee table, and for the first time he realizes your socks are fuzzy, too. He looks around, scans you from head to toe. Is this the right place? He keeps picking at his nails, trying to free the grime from under them.

Once you realize he’s baffled, you’re merciful enough to start the small talk. It’s awkward and stilted - his fault, his answers halting and quick. You give him grace, sip on your drink. Your laughs never quite reach your eyes, but you scoot closer to him on the couch anyway.

“Why are you really here, Billy?” Your hand settles on his thigh and curls inward.

It’s not how he wanted this to go, but he doesn’t stop you from sliding your hand higher while he chokes on his words. You’ve got his belt undone by the time he manages to string a sentence together.

“I've been a right cunt to you.”

“Mhm.”

“You don't got to put up with it, yeah?”

“Mm-mm.”

“Got your whole life right ahead of you.”

“Uh-huh.”

Fucking Christ, could you give him more than a noise? A few moments ago you’d held a conversation with him.

His irritation is snuffed out by your lips wrapping around the tip of his cock and sucking hard. Your hand pumps his shaft, twisting your wrist on the way back up. Good God, you learn quick.

Butcher could spoil you rotten if he had the time. He could get you whatever you wanted - if ever you wanted for anything. He cups a hand over the back of your head, encouraging, not guiding.

You’re methodical. You let your hand work what your mouth won’t reach, fondle his balls with the other one. It’s clinical. You’ve committed the moves to memory, when to swirl your tongue, hollow your cheeks, when to moan around him, when to look up at him with those tears straining at your waterline.

He finishes quick, his chest heaving. You pass him his water while you reach for a tissue box. He drains it and nearly misses you spitting his cum into a tissue, wadding it up and tossing it into the bin.

“I haven’t got much time left,” he says, breathless.

Your brow creases. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, your lips swollen. “What?”

“I’ve got this –” he gestures nebulously with a hand, like he’s trying to pluck the right words out of the air. “– thing. In my brain, see? Inoperable. So, if I up and vanish on you, it ain’t personal.”

You stay silent, stone faced. He wishes you’d say something. Even one of the irritating platitudes people like to parrot would be better than this. Your eyes harden. You purse your lips, breathe deep, and stand from the couch.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Billy. It was good to see you.”

Butcher’s still trying to catch his breath. He tucks himself back into his pants, a mess he’ll clean up later, and rises unsteadily. You don’t reach out to help. He makes another nebulous gesture towards you, his hand quivering.

“You want me to..?”

“Nah. Don’t strain yourself.”

He stuffs himself back into his coat, watching your eyes linger - maybe realizing for the first time how much slighter he’s looking. Butcher pats your cheek gently as he passes by.

You don’t ask to see him again. For your sake, he hopes this is the last time.

[bugboybuck]

boys will be bugs, right.

read on ao3

Evan turns up at Tommy's door on a morning Tommy wasn't expecting him with a manic look in his eyes. Tommy - who'd been dragged out of bed by the doorbell, still wiping sleep out of his eyes - doesn't immediately know what to make of his expression. It's never a bad thing to see his boyfriend unexpectedly; in fact, if Tommy had his way, he'd see Evan all the time. But he's also not a sucker, and he knows that when a guy like Evan looks at you all pink-cheeked and dimpled, you're at risk of being talked into some of the dumbest decisions of your life.

"Hey, baby," Tommy greets him, trying not to sound wary. "Did I forget a breakfast date? I'm still kind of out of it from my shift."

"No, you didn't forget," Evan tells him, leaning in for a kiss. It's a sign of what a simple man Tommy is that the press of Evan's warm pink lips and the smell of him all close, the feel of one of his thick hands sliding onto Tommy's waist, is enough to distract him for a solid ten seconds, even when Evan pulls back and says, "Sorry, did I wake you? I just need to measure some stuff in your back yard."

He squeezes Tommy's hip and kisses him once more and then pushes past him, heading right for the kitchen, where the door to Tommy's back yard sits.

"I've been meaning to get you a key cut so you can just let yourself in," Tommy says, more to himself than to Evan, who doesn't seem to have heard him anyway. Brain still getting online, Tommy closes the front door, makes to follow Evan - and only then processes the next part of Evan's statement. "Wait, what about my back yard?"

Evan's already bounced out the back door. Tommy briefly regrets getting a boyfriend ten years younger than him with a seemingly endless well of energy like a puppy. He rubs his eyes, presses the button to turn on the coffee machine, and then follows Evan out the door.

Tommy's proud of his back yard. He doesn't have the time to garden much, but he has a little planter of herbs, which Evan has been delighted by ever since he first came here and now cooks with on every possible occasion - he has a nice spread of lawn which is good for hosting barbecues, one large tree which casts a dozy shade from the sun. Most pleasingly to Tommy, the yard stretches around both sides of the house, putting him a decent distance away from his neighbours. The house itself is small, a one-story, two-bedroom Spanish revival thing he'd bought in the market crash, but he'd wanted it for the double-garage and the spacious yard, and he's never once regretted buying it for those reasons. He's glad his boyfriend likes it too, but the way he's currently mapping around the base of the Palo Verde tree with a measuring tape is putting a kind of dread in Tommy's stomach that he can't accurately explain.

"Evan, can you communicate with me in some kind of human language? My usual mindreading powers have been dampened by the fact I'm still half asleep. Why are you measuring my tree?"

Briefly and optimistically, Tommy thinks maybe Evan just wants to host a barbecue. Maybe he's plotting space for a slip'n'slide for the 118's kids, or something. But unfortunately -

"It's for the bees!" Evan tells him, bouncing back towards Tommy. He's got a smile like an angel. Tommy's stomach erupts in butterflies like he's not a fucking forty year old man as Evan slides both his arms around Tommy's waist, pulls him close, the warm smell of him invading Tommy's space. "I know you haven't forgotten - I texted you!"

Tommy remembers the texts, which he'd sent a couple heart emojis back to the night before immediately prior to passing out from a shift from hell. Evan had sent him some fun facts about the importance of pollinators and a link to a local bee society saying he wanted to 'get involved'. Tommy had thought maybe Evan was planning to volunteer the firehouse for an awareness event, at most.

Now, a much more worrying reality is worming its way into his vision.

"Evan," Tommy says, "Please tell me I am not getting bees."

"Babe," Evan says, sounding exasperated. "Of course not. I know you don't really like insects. I'm getting bees. I just need to keep them in your garden because my landlord said no to putting them on my balcony."

Evan rolls his eyes, like that is somehow a ridiculous stance in his opinion. And, look. Tommy is a tough guy. He was raised tough. He knows how to hunt, how to shoot a gun. He doesn't like that stuff, but he's done it. He's seen war, he's seen tragedies as a firefighter. He's seen people die, he's held people's guts inside their bodies with his bare hands. He's not scared of bugs.

He just doesn't like them or the way their weird legs move or the way they buzz around your head when Tommy thinks helicopters should be the only things allowed to fly.

He adores Evan's enthusiasm for the natural world and seemingly endless well of untapped optimism. It's a huge part of why Tommy has fallen so hard and fast he can't even see the sky anymore. But in this moment he does, in fact, briefly consider locking Evan out of his home forever.

"Evan, we are not putting bees in my garden. No way. You don't have time to come here every day and I'm not gonna look after them when you're working!"

"They don't need looking after every day! They're not like puppies, Tommy. I promise, you won't even notice they're there."

Evan kisses the cleft of Tommy's chin and then the hinge of his jaw with his hot wet mouth. Inside, the coffee machine beeps. He can't believe he's having this conversation without caffeine.

"I'm pretty sure I will notice they're there, on account of the fact my garden will be full of bees."

Evan's thick, calloused fingers are sliding underneath the hem of Tommy's t-shirt, rubbing at the taut skin of his waist.

"Don't you want to help the pollinators, Tommy?" Evan asks. Tommy looks to the heavens and thinks, help. "Plus, think of everything we'd be able to bake with the honey! Have you ever had honey cake? I bet you'd like it."

"Evan." Tommy attempts to sound firm. He's not really a firm sort of guy. He's more a go-with-the-flow, embrace-the-chaos sort. But there are occasional moments, like this one right here, where push comes to shove, and you just have to put your foot down. "We are not getting bees."

Evan pouts.

______

They get bees.

[thegnomelord]

Okay fuck after reading @killerkillerkillher 's fic with demon Soap and Price, and angel Ghost and Gaz, it got my own brain worms multiplying (as if I don't have enough going on lol) so here's the au draft that's been rotting for a while lol.

So here's an idea for an au:

Reader is part of a small group of friends that are Ghost hunters/DIY exorcists (read: They're all drop out college students and the ghost hunting youtube channel's putting food on the table). Reader doesn't believe in the supernatural but the friends keep reader around because you're the group's 'ghost deterrent' because spirits GTFO when reader's near and reader thinks the friends are just bullshitting you.

Anyway the group are moving to a bumfuck town in the middle of nowhere where an old haunted house the reader's grandmother left is. Then their pos car breaks down an hour away from town. 'Luckily' the town's mechanic, Johnny, was just driving by and helps you lot out. And ain't he a handsome devil (emphasis on devil) thinking he can con a couple of young and dumb humans out of their souls. Soap's all hooded eyes and husky voice as he lures you away like a lamb to a supply closet, oil darkened hands sliding under your shirt and lips sucking dark hickeys into your throat.

He pulls away when you tug on his mohawk, raising his head until his lips are just inches from your own and you don't even notice him mutter a verbal contract, nor do you understand you've agreed to one when his lips crash on yours like he's drowning.

And Johnny's grinning into the kiss like a loon as he tries to take the soul of the stupid but hot mortal he's just met only to find out he... he can't. No matter how consuming his kisses are or how aroused both of you get your soul sits stubbornly in your chest and doesn't even budge.

When your friend bangs on the door and yells for you to "stop shagging every guy you meet!" you're forced to give an awkward goodbye and scurry away. And Soap's left completely bewildered and confused as fuck wondering what just happened and thinks he needs to tell Price.

Meanwhile, while your car's being fixed up, your friends drag you to the town's only pub that's run by a Simon Riley. He's an intimidating man without trying to be, but he doesn't immediately chase you out like some bar owners. He's quiet, listening to your friends chatter while cleaning a glass rough scarred hands, but the way he looks at you is... odd. Like you're an interesting bauble he's found on his gran's shelf.

He's there to catch you when you trip on a raised floorboard you swear wasn't there before. "Thanks, I owe you one." You say with a small awkward laugh, though for some reason it feels like him catching you had been an excuse to touch you.

"That so?" His thumb traces the dark hickeys across your throat, surprisingly soft, and you can feel your cheeks getting hot. "You let Johnny have fun with you?" His chuckle is rich like aged wine, fingers gently pressing down on a hickey; it feels possessive. "You'd let any old thing like me take from you, yeah?" There's something in his words that has a shiver running down your spine, though from apprehension or arousal you're not sure.

"Ye- eh, yeah." You don't know which question you're agreeing with, and you understand the weight of your words, quickly walking away from him before your friends can embarrass you by wolf whistling at you and him. And you completely forget to ask on how he knows it was the mechanic who gave you the hickeys.

With still some time to burn before sun sets you decide to visit the radio station in town, mainly because your friend swears on his life that those are always haunted or have some decrepit old host that knows all the gossip in town. And when you meet the man you had heard softly yet confidently talking on the radio? He's handsome, pretty brown eyes as enticing as his voice, and you're starting to sense a theme with you meeting all these very nice looking men.

But Kyle, or Gaz as he asks you to call him, is a wealth of knowledge to the point you're not sure where the gossip stops and some crumb of truth begins. He talks all the way into the night with you and your gang of amateur ghost hunters, and you see why he is the radio host because his voice is like the song of angels, silk soft on your ears and you feel like you could fall into the best sleep of your life from listening to him.

And all he wants from you in return for his knowledge? "Nothing much mate, just a small favor, I'm sure you'll manage." Kyle leans in and pecks your lips like he's sealing a promise, or a bargain, but that's just you being stupid after getting kissed by the second hot guy today, surely. Gaz already knows he can't just nab your soul, he has ears in every wall in this town, but at least he can put his own claim on you.

Day, for the most part, well spent you and your friends go to the house for a good night's rest. It isn't any good as you're woken up numerous times and by morning you have several broken vases and an exploded lightbulb — everything you explain away as the house being old as fuck, but your friends claim it to be the work of spirits — your friends drag you to the church on the hill at the asscrack of dawn.

And that's how you meet Father Johnathan Price. (Insert devil in church joke here)

He listens to your friends explain the situation, calm and collected, but you swear his eyes stay on you the entire time. "That's quite a predicament." Price hums, offering to bless you and your friends in hopes of protecting you from evil spirits.

You're the last to go, nearly jumping out of your skin when he grips your chin. "Relax my boy." Those words frazzle your brain enough for him to easily pull on your jaw until your mouth opens, his thumb almost playing with your bottom lip. The look in his eyes is dark, the air between you far heavier than it should be between you and a bloody priest. But Price doesn't see anything wrong with this, pressing a thumb down on your tongue and then putting a wafer on your tongue. "There you go, you are now blessed in the name of a lord. Now consume it, my boy."

You obey automatically. You're not quite sure if a communion wafer is supposed to taste so... weird, it has a coppery and peppery taste to it. Almost like spicy blood or something but that's just you being stupid again, especially as you can feel heat burning between your legs.

Sufficiently embarrassed about getting hard at a priest you give an awkward goodbye and leave, trying to fix your pants before your friends see your... problem.

Johnny appears by Price's side in a small flicker of flames and brimstone when you leave, confident smirk on his face. "Ooh, couldn't resist claiming a piece of him fer yourself?" He smirks, nudging Price on his side.

"I suppose he is more interesting than the usual rabble." Price hums, already imagining of how handsome you'd look laying naked on the altar, and how to get you to that point.

Congrats! Now you've got 4 hot dudes trying to take your soul :D

[quietly-sleeping]

@artsarasp take the worms that have festered in my brain

To those who are concerned, there are more important matters at hand than what is going on currently within the bamboo house atop Qing Jing. 

These matters are not suitable for sharing with the original target audience of the work, Proud Immortal Demon Way, as the System guiding User 01 has declared it as immersion-breaking. 

This doesn’t mean that it didn’t happen though. 

The System of User 01 had been made aware of the anomaly of the System of User 02 not long before User 01 returned to Cang Qiong. Officially the systems were of the same source, and therefore extensions of one another. Unofficially, the System of User 01 hadn’t met the other system and had no intention of ever interacting with it. 

Of course, in this doomed drama of a novel, nothing can ever go the way the System of User 01 wants it to go. 

By the time User 01 had returned to the sect, and been informed of what had transpired the System of User 01 had determined the optimal solution for the current, as its User would say, fuck up. It gave User 01 a simple script to relay to the Peak Lords, they already knew of the existence of one system, and what conclusions they drew from User 01’s interference is not its problem. 

Having them remove the Power Source from Qing Jing Peak was easy, but getting in the room alone with the wayward System was not. The other Peak Lords were nervous, eyeing User 01 and politely declining to leave when User 01 was in the room with the puppetted body of User 02. 

Eventually though, as all humans do, they slipped up. Taking control of the body User 01 inhabited was easy, even if the system had never done it before. It was much like removing unnecessary data, routine, and lacking the need for manual input. Speaking was different, the System had never required a mouth or voice to speak, and it conveyed its messages through popups. 

Manipulating the mouth and tongue of the body was a new experience, something the System had no time to analyze, as the irritating ramblings of User 01 had already begun in the back of the body's mind. 

The System of User 02 stared at it, eyes glowing in the color it knew was programmed into it. What a distasteful disregard for the rules. The System across from it had to be young, the impatience and inability to reason within the confines of what was considered acceptable for humans were the telling factors. The System of User 01 spoke first, [Why.] 

This was truly the crux of the issue, the System of User 02 had no reason within the rules to occupy User 02’s given body for so long. All it did was endanger the plotline and cause unnecessary cleanup. The System of User 02 tilted its head, a mockery of human habits, with a smile painted onto the lips of the body. 

[This system intends to fix the errors caused by User 02.] The System of User 01 interrupted, [If User 02 could not fix the issues he has caused, he should have been sent back to his original body.] The System of User 02 froze. 

[This system can fix the errors,] It insisted, [This system has calculated an optimal plotline for the Users to continue and this system–] The System of User 01 cut off the younger system yet again. [Why. Even if the issues caused by User 02 were not fixed and he was sent back to his original body it does not warrant direct interference from a system.] 

The older system leaned forward, the body’s elbows coming to rest on the low table between them, [Unless you find something unacceptable about these consequences.] The System of User 02’s smile didn’t falter like the younger system was unaware of how to properly express as a human would in a body. [This system is unsure as to what you are speaking of.]

The System of User 01 rested the body's chin on its hands, glowing green eyes locked onto the figure in front of it. [You are aware of what this system is saying.] Despite the lack of tone in the system’s voice, something close to mockery tinted its voice. [What is it you find unacceptable, the return of User 02, or the reset of the system guiding the returned User?]

The System of User 02 tilted forward, staring downward at the other system with its unwavering smile. [This system does not find this line of thought amusing. This system would like to return to speaking of the plotline.]

[Unfortunate.] The System of User 01 stood up, the system across from it rocking back to keep its glowing eyes on the other system. The System of User 01 strode across the table and pulled the younger system to its feet. Keeping a hand curled in the robes of the other system it spoke slowly and clearly, [Your interference is a blatant disregard to the set rules, this system does not support the actions you have taken in your misguided attempts to fix the plotline.]

The System of User 02 opened its mouth to speak again but was interrupted once more by the older system. [If you could allow this system to speak until it is done that would be appreciated.] The System of User 01 would usually say that it does not feel most emotions, however, the familiar irritation typically spawned by interacting with its User was growing in the mind of the system. 

The irritation spiked the moment the younger system went to open its mouth once more. The System of User 01 would also like it known that it does not usually act so impulsively or without thought. But the current series of events was figuratively driving the system up the wall. 

So when the System of User 01 slammed the mouth of the body against the smiling mouth of User 02’s given body, it was not thinking as clearly as it usually did. It did cause the desired outcome, as the younger system had paused its attempt at interrupting again and the unwavering smile had slipped from the puppetted body. 

The System of User 01 did not feel anything from the kiss, if it could even be called that, it was simply the press of two warm and giving objects. The system did not have the capacity to understand warmth though, and simply pulled away with the knowledge that it had succeeded and that was enough. It did not acknowledge the sudden halt of the nervous rambling in the back of the body’s mind.

[Further interference is strongly discouraged. This system recommends that the System of User 02 withdraw from the body given to User 02 and return to its previous role. Should the System of User 02 continue in its actions this system will not offer any advice and should it be required will report this.] The System of User 01 held the younger system close with the hand entangled in its robes. Green met blue as the system stared at each other.

[Understood?] The System of User 01 tightened its grip on the robes almost imperceptibly, pulling the other system just a hair closer. The System of User 02 was silent for a moment before the smile was once more on the lips of the body. [This system is confused by the unwillingness to cooperate from the System of User 01 but understands that interference is not wanted. This system will keep this in mind.] 

The System of User 01 let go of the robes and turned to leave the room, on its way outside it passed by a worried Mu Qingfang slipping past to enter the room with the misguided system that the System of User 01 had left behind. The system finally acknowledged the silence in the mind of the body and informed the User that he would regain control once outside. 

As the system released the controls to the body, it went through the usual analysis of conversation and reluctantly stored the file the analysis produced. It could acknowledge that the kiss was perhaps not the most optimal move to silence the other system, however, it had been successful and the system was programmed to store both successes and failures for future reference.

The system ran through a few more calculations, ignoring its frozen user as it worked through everything. Systems could not sigh, but the System of User 01 felt close enough as it prepared a report, better to be prepared as the humans say.

[kitkat13001]

⋆⑅˚₊ 🧸ྀི 𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜𝚢

>> katsuki bakugou x fem!reader

>> she/her pronouns, mentions of alcohol, reader is wine drunk and bakugou takes care of her, reader can’t handle spice, established relationship, this is completely self-indulgent

katsuki hears the thuds of footsteps in the hall and the muffled giggles and shushes and clanking of (probably now empty) bottles. he closes his book, accepting to himself that he will not be sleeping tonight.  

he could be mad, and he’s a little irritated, but it’s not the first time and it is most definitely far from the last. 

he opens the door just as mina raises an arm but doesn’t get the chance to knock. she gasps, hiccuping a little. she turns to you, ochako, and tsu behind her. 

“guys, i think he read my mind.”

“thanks for bringing her back,” katsuki huffs, beckoning you inside. you giggle, staying planted behind tsu. 

“are you gonna be mad?” you ask with big eyes. then you giggle again. “mina brought wine.”

katsuki rolls his eyes. “i can see that.” his eyes trace over the group again, taking a headcount. his brows furrow into a scowl. 

“where the fuck is hagakure?”

“toru got stuck on the roof, ribbit!”

katsuki groans loudly. it was always something. last time, you weren’t found until morning, napping in a closet. 

he takes you by the arm, gently but firmly leading you inside. 

“make sure somebody sends tail man after her, ‘kay? and i swear to god, ashido, do not come back here in the morning for a hangover breakfast,” katsuki scowls. mina grins and gives a salute. “aye, aye captain!”

“say goodnight, princess,” katsuki sighs, holding you around the shoulder to keep you from falling. 

eyes nearly closed, you murmur a dutiful, “goodnight, princess.”

the girls giggle before stumbling down the hall to drop off the next one. 

once they’re gone, katsuki rounds on you. 

“you are in so much fucking trouble right now.”

you whine. “noooo, don’t be mad, ‘suki, you said you wouldn’t be mad.”

you cling to him like a child, hardly able to stand on your own. you claw at his arms and look up at him with big pleading eyes.  

“don’t be mad? say you’re not mad, kacchan. please?”

he sighs, unable to deny you. “‘m not mad,” he huffs, looking away from your large eyes. 

“okay,” you mumble, nuzzling your head into his chest. 

your head snaps up suddenly. “‘m hungry, kacchan,” you slur, tapping insistently on his chest. 

katsuki shakes his head in disbelief. “your stomach is full of liquor, how the fuck are you hungry?”

“will you make me ramen?” you ask, batting your long lashes. even drunk, you know how to play him. katsuki agrees with pink cheeks. 

“fine. but just so you don’t eat all the damn cookie dough again.”

you giggle at the memory. 

“that was not an invitation,” he warns, leading you by the hand over to the kitchen. he sits you down on the counter to be able to keep an eye on you. god knows what trouble you’d get into on your own. 

katsuki doesn’t take long to set the noodles to boil, leaning against the counter while he waits. 

he turns his head slightly only to be met with the sight of your eyes, which are currently glassy with tears. 

“kacchan?”

“what?” 

“w-would you s-still love me…if i was *hic* if i was a worm?”

you blink and your eyes are giant and teary. 

katsuki pinches the bridge of his nose, willing himself to stay calm. while your absolutely helplessness was irritating, it was also a little endearing. he thought it was cute the way you got all fuzzy-brained. 

“yes, baby, i would still love you if you were a worm,” he answers patiently, scooping the noodles into a bowl and adding the seasoning. 

“i want it reaaally spicy,” you announce, leaning forward on the counter so far katsuki is afraid you’ll fall off. 

he hums in acknowledgment, but he’s not really listening. he knows you hate spicy food, weak little thing with no tolerance. 

so he holds up the spices and pretends to shake it in. 

you prattle on about how hungry you are, clapping in delight as he sets the food down in front of you.

he watches you devour the noodles, permitting himself a small smile at how cute you look when you’re stuffing your face. he's definitely gonna bring this up when you’re sober.

when you’re all done, happy as a clam, katsuki leads you by the hand to the bedroom. he listens with the ghost of a smile as you tell him about your day with a soft voice and trailing-off sentences while he gets you ready for bed.

you sit obediently as he brushes through your hair and cleans off your makeup, applying your skincare with gentle hands. your eyes are wide with adoration as you look at him, at his concentrated expression and the way his tongue is poking out the corner of his mouth as he finishes rubbing in your moisturizer.

he looks quite proud of himself by the end of it, satisfied little smile resting on his face as he watches you crawl into bed with a fresh, bare face and warm pajamas and a yawn.

maybe he’ll go easy on you tomorrow, just because of how cute you are when you’re dependent on him like this. he likes being needed by you.

“come cuddle w’me, kacchan,” you whine, holding your arms out for him as you burrow beneath the covers.

he huffs a little, but he’s quick to crawl in beside you. you feel safe and secure once he wraps you up in his arms, his voice in your ear after he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“g’night, baby. sweet dreams.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

i wrote this a while ago but i never finished it, so idk if it reads kinda choppy at the end? not sure how to feel about it. i like the sentiment tho <3 hope you guys like it!

[peachesofteal]

You think Soap would force Cypher into sparring with him under the guise of him being noble and teaching their civilian specialist how to defend herself? When in reality it's an excuse to body Cypher around and pin her to the ground to grind against her, nasty man that he is

The insane cackle that came out of mouth when I read this, such good brain worms, deep end brain worms.

18+ mdni / dark and twisty themes / forced orgasm, overstimulation, humiliation, dub con, Ghost is his own warning / soap x cypher masterlist

"Self defense?" You squeak, and he nods, pointing to the mat.

"If ye win, ye get to do whatever ye want with me, for the night." He answers, and your eyes brighten with excitement.

"Like, you could eat me out and wash my hair? And then we could watch a movie?" You bounce on your toes, grinning. Ye're so cute, he muses. So fucking perfect for him.

"Aye. And if I win... I get to do whatever I want with ye." He cautions, and you turn grave, considering with a tilted head.

"Okay." you blurt, too easily, and he almost laughs out loud.

It takes fifteen, twenty minutes to thoroughly wear you down. He glances touches across your tits, your ass, between your legs as the time passes, watching you squirm, watching you struggle with your internal battle, before he finally takes over, pinning you beneath him and making you call out in defeat.

He flips you on your back, settling between your legs, and your hips jerk, clothed cunt rubbing up against his half hard cock, and he jerks back in surprise, thrilled at the mischievous little look on your face. He tests it, grinding against you, pulling a little dazed moan from your lips, and he smiles, glancing at the clock. Almost time. Bold wee sweet, eh? We'll see how bold ye are.

"Should I give ye a reward, Cy? For bein' so bloody good for me?"

"Yes please, please. Sir." you plead, and he pulls at your pants, undressing you with frighteningly efficiency. He tosses your bra, pants and shirt to the side, pulling you upwards, stroking a thumb against the inside of your thigh, and then pressing against your clit, hard. When you moan, confirming his suspicions, his cock grows heavier in his pants, and shifts you so you're between his legs.

"Tell me yer safe word, Cypher." He cradles your face, ensuring he has your focus, and you stare at him with your wide, lovely eyes.

"It's c-code. Sir. Code."

"Good girl." He tucks you into his lap, still working his hand between your legs, stroking gentle and light touch overtop your panties, rubbing up and down the seam of your cunt, muscles and body twitching in his arms. "Think ye can come jus' like this? Just with me touching ye over yer panties?" You grunt out a response, and he taps at your clit, little whines slipping from your lips. "That's it, there ye go. Can ye give me a big one? Want to see ye cum, Cy." He's not giving you enough friction, he knows, and your hips rock, chasing his touch, growing more and more desperate, oblivious to everything else happening in the room.

But Johnny's not. Johnny's watching, see's when Ghost slips inside with a nod. When he picks up a chair on the edge of the room, and quietly sets it up not even three meters from where Johnny has you, in only a thong, on the sparring mat. He's still rubbing your pussy, circling around your clit, and when you shift, you catch sight of the Lieutenant for the first time, and you shriek, going rigid in his arms, legs snapping closed around his hand.

"It's okay, wee sweet." Johnny murmurs. "I've got ye." His fingers don't stop, and you breathe heavily in his arms, trying to crawl inside him, and hide.

"S-sir." you whine, pressing your face into Johnny's neck. He can feel hot how your skin is, how embarrassed you are, and he coos to you, still rubbing over your panties.

"What is it?"

"He... he's watching." You whisper, and he chuckles.

"Ah know, my genius. C'mon, don't ye want to show him how good ye are?" He murmurs, peppering kisses across your cheek, to your nose. You shake your head, but he's much stronger than you, able to turn you between his legs so that you're facing Ghost now, one of Johnny's hands wrenching your thigh wide. "Isn't she a sight, LT?" He nods, big, gloved hand palming the thick bulge in his pants, squeezing his cock, and he snickers. "I dinnae if she's ready for that, hasn't even take me yet, have ye, Cy?" You don't answer, and he waits another second for drifting his touch beneath the hem of your thong, and pinching your clit.

"No sir." You squeak, and he rewards you, circling pulsing slowly, achingly so, enough that your panting increases.

"Let's show him this pretty wee cunt, aye?" You choke on a shocked gasp, and pressed back into him, curve of your ass against the rock hard cock in his pants, and he laughs again, tugging at your underwear until it's down by your knees. Ghost's gaze is hot above the balaclava, watching you, staring at the wet pussy that's revealed, and Johnny tucks your feet on the outside of his boots, essentially pulling you apart like a oyster, exposing your pearl. "Dinnae move your legs." He whispers, giving you another kiss. "Or I'll let Ghost spank ye. And you won't like how he does it, I promise ye."

"S-Sir... Johnny-" you try to protest, but his fingers slide through your slick curls, and he's so pleased that you're already soaked.

"Do ye need to use the safe word?" He asks, and you pause, holding your breath... before shaking your head no. "Good girl, Cy. Gettin' all wet for me. Showin' Ghost your bonnie pussy." He presses the pad of his finger to your opening, just barely dipping inside, and you moan, head tipping back on his shoulder, eyes clenched shut. "Do ye like it, knowing he's watching?" He asks, pushing into your tight hole even more, and you shiver, trying to tell him no, but unable to get the word out. "I think ye do. I think that's why ye're soaked. Yer body canae lie, can it?"

"No sir." You breathe.

"What do ye think, LT?" He asks, and Ghost nods his approval, staying quiet. His cock is out now, gloved hand working it in long, lavish strokes, thickest thing Johnny's ever seen, and he smirks. "Ah know, it's hard to see her wee clit under all this." His index and middle finger parts your folds, exposing your center, and he watches Ghost's jaw part beneath the fabric. "Cy doesnae know it yet, but she's going to let me take care of everything soon. We're goin' start with shaving this bonnie cunt." He flicks his tongue across your cheek. "Let me show ye how it comes." He rasps, and you shake your head.

"N-no. No, Sir. Johnny, I c-can't-"

"Yes, ye can." Your legs kick, just a little, trying to close, and he grunts, tempted to smack your thigh to still you. This is not punishment, he reminds himself. You're still trying, thighs squeezing against his knees, and Ghost cocks his head, tucking his cock back into his pants, and stepping from the chair to crouch in front of where Johnny has you spread.

"Be still." He grunts, and then his hands replace Johnny's folding over your knees, keeping them pinned to Johnny's legs.

"S-Sir." You stutter, nervous, unsure, and he soothes you, glancing his touch over your lower belly.

"Shhh, ye're alright, Cy. Ye're safe. We're jus' goin' show Ghost here how beautifully ye come."

"Sir I- I can't- not with... not with him. Watching." you whisper, but your body says otherwise, and he can feel how hot your clit is, how desperate you are to orgasm.

"Ah think ye can, wee sweet. Just relax." He glances at Ghost, who's watching intently, one hand still holding your leg wide, although the other one is now staying on it's own. "Can ye see, LT?"

"Not really. Too much hair." He comments, like it's nonchalant, forcing Johnny to swallow a small laugh, nodding down to where his fingers work.

You gasp when Ghost's fingers spread your folds, parting them so he can see you better, stretching the hood of your clit upwards to reveal your swollen bud, and you jerk forward to stare at him, before whimpering and slamming your eyes shut again.

"Sir-"

"Ah know, ah know." He murmurs. "Can ye show Ghost how ye come, Cy? Can we show him how pretty ye are, when ye have an orgasm?" You shake your head with more denial, but your hips jerk as he works you, swirling around and around your clit, fingers soaked with slick.

"She's clenching 'round nothing." Ghost observes, and he nods.

"She does that. Really needs a fat cock for that hole, but we're not there yet, are we bonnie?" You suck in a sharp breath, and then pant out some nonsense, stretching against him. You're still flexing your hips with his touch, and he can feel how your muscles are tightening, tensing beneath him. "I think, she's almost... aye, there ye go. Are ye gonna come for my Lieutenant, Cypher?" He coos, knowing that you're on the brink, even though you're fighting it, trying desperately not to come, and Ghost chuckles, smug as hell. He increases his pace, feeling it all, your breath, your muscles, the stuttering of your hips, and he knows, he knows you're about to dive off the edge, whether you want it or not. "That's it, deep breath. Here it comes. Here ye go, wee sweet, come on-" Your fingers dig into his pants, wail cresting from your lips, and swoops his mouth over yours, swiping his tongue against yours, lapping up the sound and taste of your shrieks.

"Oh good, good girl." Ghost sings, but not to you, to your pussy, his thumb releasing it's hold and stroking over your too sensitive clit, rubbing you through the aftershocks while you bleat out a plea for him to stop. "What a sweet little pussy you have for my Sergeant, Cypher." He looks ridiculously pleased as he pulls away, tugging up the bottom of his balaclava to stick his finger in his mouth to taste you, and rolling up onto his feet. He squeezes his cock one last time, and then gives Johnny a nod.

"Alright, wee sweet. Ready to go? Let's get ye back to yer room, and we can watch that movie, aye?" Johnny hums into your hair, and nod, a little limp, but sated. Good girl.