#Trigger points and tight back muscles

[pranaphysiotherapysurrey]

Chiropractor in Surrey and New Westminster BC|Chiropractic

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Holiday Spirit

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: You don't have much reason to enjoy the holidays until a generous man walks in the door.

Character: Captain Syverson

Day Thirteen of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - i just can't wait until the holidays are over 

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You watch the snow gather at the corners of the large window pane with dread. The longer it falls, the more your anxiety rises. How on earth are you supposed to get home? Not too mention the more important question, how are any customers supposed to get in the store? 

Your phone jingles at the very thought, your manager calling as if she could hear your silent plea for rescue. You grab your phone but don't answer until the fourth ring. You don't want her to know you've been doom scrolling the weather forecast. 

Gloria greets you without formality, "what's it look like there?" 

"Um, bad," you answer honestly. "Snowy." 

"I mean customers. What are the numbers?" 

"Oh..." you blink and look around the empty shop. "I think most people are staying home. There hasn't been anyone since I started." 

"What about the walkway? Have you shoveled it?" It's as much an accusation as a question. "They won't come in if they can't get in." 

You wish you had the courage to mention that it isn't just the sidewalk, you haven't seen car drive by in over an hour. Those you can see are parked and not going anywhere as the snow piles over their windows. You frown and again, look at the windows in horror. 

"Go out and clear it and maybe you'll sell a few pieces. No point having the lights on if you're not doing anything," she snips. 

"Meredith closed up across the street--" 

"I don't care what that old crone did. Get out there. The shovel's in the back room." She commands. 

"Okay," you agree meekly. 

You know you shouldn't be such a pushover but you need this job. Even if it isn't much. It's a small independent shop that sells candles, lotions, and random nicknacks. You're not really sure what to call it. 

You hang up and go into the backroom and grab your coat. It's not the best. A sherpa thing you go used at the Good Will. Your boots are a couple years old and you can tell. You wear three pairs of socks just to keep your toes from hurting as bad. 

You pull on your thin gloves and grab the shovel. You approach the front door and gaze through the glass. Look at it! You'll be lucky if you don't get lost. 

You go to push through the door. You have to shove your shoulder into it just to get outside as the wind blows angrily. The door slams behind you and you plant the shovel into the thick snow as you look around. Ugh, where do you even begin? 

This time of year is always too much. Who decided the holidays needed to be in the middle of winter? It's not fair, but life just isn't. 

You scoop up the snow bit by bit. Your muscles ache as you try to heave into out of the way but as the powder builds, it's only more and more difficult to do so. As you final get clear of the door, you look back and see a new blanket of white. It doesn't matter, you'll be outside all night if you try to keep it clean. 

You work your way across the store front as the sky continues to dim. It never really got light as the sun stayed hidden in the clouds. You put your head down against the swirling flakes and you grip the shovel tight. You groan and grunt each time you lift it. 

"Now what they got you out here doing all this for?" A grizzly voice draws your head up and you bat your lashes as snow catches in them. You stare up at the burly man in his heavy brown coat and black toque. His beard is sparkling with flakes. 

"Um, I... work in there," you nod to the store. "Gotta make sure people can get in." 

"Y'all should be at home," he tuts. 

"It's just me," you shrug. 

"That's a shame. Damn big shame," he shakes his head, "lady like you shouldn't be out here in the cold." 

"Well, it's my job, I guess," you say. 

"Here," he puts his hand on the handle of the shovel, "you go in. Get warm." 

"Oh, no, I couldn't--" 

"Do you know what my mother would do if she knew I just walked on by a little lady like you struggling in the snow?" He argues. 

"I... thank you, that's too kind. But, you probably have somewhere to be." 

"I'm just walking," he assures you. "I like the snow." 

"Oh, right, uh..." you let go of the shovel reluctantly. "Thanks, I... I feel bad." 

"Don't. I feel bad seein' ya shiver your nose off. Go on." 

You scrunch up your mouth guiltily and push your shoulders up. You back away step by step as you stare at him. It's been a while since you met a single person who wasn't demanding or just downright rude. Maybe holiday cheer isn't dead. 

You retreat inside with a sheepish smile and let out a brr as the door swings shut behind you. You rub your hands together then peel of the wet gloves. You tuck them into your pocket and unzip your jacket. You go to the back room and chew your lip. 

You're not the Christmassy type or whatever other special occasions are going on. You hate it all. It's too shiny and loud. Too greedy the way people will argue over something as simple as a three-wick candle or face scrub. 

What family you do have aren't very cozy. You haven't talked to either of your parents in two years and your sister never really answers your texts. It's just you and it isn't so bad. Other people just make things complicated. Without them, you have the control. 

You put your things away and tramp back out to the till. You can see the snow flying through the windows. The man effortlessly throws chunks of it out of his way. Somehow, he looks even bigger from there. 

You feel awkward, especially with no one else around. You go to a shelf to distract yourself, turning the jarred candles label out to appear busy. The bell above the door jingles and you look over your shoulder at the man. He pauses before he enters to shake the shovel off then leans it against the wall. 

He looks around as you retreat from the candle display and watch him. There’s not much for him here. You’re sure he’ll be off soon enough. He rubs his hands together then strips off his mitts. He slips them into his pockets and gives a curious glance over the table of bath bombs and salts. 

“You know,” he brushes his fingers over his beard so some of the melting snow falls away, “I’m looking for a gift.” 

“Oh? Well, we have lots here,” you keep your distance. You’re not sure you believe him. He’s probably just humouring you. “Thanks again for shoveling. You know, you don’t have to stick around. Actually...” you peer through the windows again, “should probably head out sooner than later.” 

“I got time,” he argues. “She’s real pretty. Girl I’m buyin’ for. So she probably wants somethin’ smells pretty too.” 

“Right, uh...” you twist your fist around a finger. You might as well get a single sale. It’s more than you hoped for. “We have some nice seasonal candles. Apple crisp, or candy cane, oh, the fruitcake is kind nice.” 

“You like candles?” He asks. 

“Sometimes. I don’t get the big ones.” 

“Ah,” he comes closer and you make room for him to browse. He picks up a smaller one and sniffs it. It looks tiny in his beefy hand. All of him sticks out among the dainty aesthetic of the boutique. “Mm, caramel brulee.” 

He reads the side and his eyes scan the shelves again, “what else do you like? Think maybe you know best.” 

“Oh, um, I...” you have to stop yourself from saying you don’t shop here. It’s too expensive. You get the discounts on dupes down at the mall. “Bath bombs are popular right now. Especially these snowflake ones. Oh and, we sell hot chocolate bombs. Those are edibles, these ones aren’t.” 

You point to the table as you pass him. He follows. You laugh nervously at your own lame joke. 

“Makes sense. I like hot chocolate. It’s the perfect weather for it, huh?” 

“Yeah, it is,” you agree. 

He comes to stand beside you as you gesture to the merchandise. You’re not used to that. The rare customer is a bit oblivious to physical space but more often they stay around the other side of the table. He’s right there. 

“Face masks too. It could be a little self-care kit if you wanted,” you suggest. 

“Mm, it does sound nice,” he says. “You think it’s a good present?” 

“Well, I get paid to sell this stuff,” you shrug, “but yeah, it’s hot bath season.” 

“Makes sense,” he nods. 

You step back and give him space. He hums and circles the table as you go back to the counter. You check your phone. *Extreme Weather Warning*. You should call Gloria back and let her know. If the county says you should go home, you’ll insist on doing so. 

“Cherry blossom or... vanilla coconut?” The man asks. 

“Hm, vanilla,” you smile at him then quickly look at your phone again. You type out a text to Gloria.  

He surprises you as he approaches and puts down a selection of items. The candle, a few bombs, some face masks, a shampoo bar, one of the little lotion and balm kits, and a spa headband. It’s a lot and it’s all very cute. 

“Think that’s good, don’t you?” He asks. 

“I think so,” you scan each item. “A very special lady indeed.” 

“Sure is,” he taps his fingers on the counter as his eyes bore into you. “I’m Sy, by the way...” he reads your name tag aloud and you’re surprised until you remember you’re wearing it. 

“Sy,” you repeat back. “Need a bag? Sorry, we’re all out of wrap or I’d offer that.” 

“Bag is just fine, think my girl’s easy to please. She appreciates the simple things,” he grins and grips the edge of the counter. 

“Alright,” you unfold a paper bag and gently place the items inside. “I hope likes it all. I’m sure she’ll love it.” 

“Me too,” he takes out his card and swipes. 

The machine dings and the receipt prints. You tear it off and hand it over, sliding the bag across the counter. He takes the slip of paper but leaves the purchase as it is. 

“Um, did I forget something?” You search the countertop, worried something rolled away. 

“It’s for my lady,” he gently nudges the bag back across the counter. 

“What?” You frown, confused. 

“S’for you, sugar. So you can warm up tonight.” 

“Tonight? Sir--” 

“Sy,” he insists, “best get home before the storm gets worse.” He turns to look out the windows. “No one coming out in this. Might as well close down.” 

“Sy, this is very nice of you but I’m fine. My boss wants the store open--” 

“Your boss?” He turns back to you and tilts his head, “ain’t a good one if they aren’t thinking about you gettin’ home safe.” He stares you down and looms over the counter, “’sides, a lady’s only boss is her man. So you go get your coat and things and we’ll be off.” 

“Sy, that’s... that’s not—I'm not your lady--” 

“Not?” He narrows his eyes. “I know you ain’t got another man, you wouldn’t be here if ya did.” 

“I-- no—but--” 

“You come with me or I stay,” he crosses his arms and leans his elbows on the counter. He plumes a snarl out of his nose, “up to you, but you’re not goin’ out in this alone, sweet thing. Need me there to dig ya out, don’t you?” 

You flinch and shake your head, “I don’t-- I don’t know you--” 

“Sure ya do, I’m Sy,” he grins. “And I know you. You’re the most pretty girl I ever seen.” 

You stare at him. He’s as formidable as the heaps of snow building outside the shop. As dangerous as the patches of ice forming on the road. He is a storm in man’s clothes. He’ll bowl you over just as easily as those winds.  

Just like the blizzard blowing in the street, you can’t escape him. 

[luveline]

hi! your stories are so captivating😍 Thank you so much for doing them!

If you feel inspired I would love to see a story of Spencer x badass reader where she physically defends him from an unsub and/or verbally from someone they are working with like a cop or something

tysm! ♡ 1k

Sweat drips into your eye. 

It follows a line down your cheek like a teardrop and hits your swat vest with a thud. Quiet has settled with the heat, a blanket encompassing everything, your one drop of sweat enough to give you away. The unsub stills at his computer screen, white light bouncing against his jaw. He looks up like he's looking for rain. 

He turns right first. He sees Spencer. 

"FBI," Spencer announces steadily. 

You point your weapon at his chest. "Put your hands up and stand against the wall." 

Cory doesn't look like he's going to surrender so easily. "You have three children upstairs," you say, though it's not true. The children sit outside in foil blankets, and with any luck they'll be taken somewhere safer before the arrest. "Three young children who love you. What do you want them to think of you now? Come peacefully." 

Cory's face rippled with rage quickly masked. He sits back from his computer and pauses. Then, slowly, he puts his hands against the wall. 

"Reid," Morgan instructs, at your left, his gun similarly trained. 

Spencer moves forward to handcuff him. It's not your normal routine but it isn't out of your jurisdiction, quieter arrests often mean you act as cops rather than full-fledged agents. "Cory Harrison, you are under arrest for the homicide of Tara Harrison. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say–" 

The handcuffs clink as they're whipped from Spencer's grasp, one cuff open, the other closed around Cory's wrist, the links brought unapologetic to the pale curve of Spencer's throat. 

Spencer grabs for his gun. Cory pulls the cuffs tight, forcing Spencer closer to his chest and choking the air from his throat. 

You reposition your aim. Another drop of sweat curves past your eyebrow. The basement humidity and your panic threaten to blind you. 

"Let him go," Morgan says sharply. 

"I'll shoot you if I have to." 

Cory scoffs at you. "And shoot through string bean?" 

You tense your finger against the trigger of your glock. "I have good aim," you say simply. 

You have no intention of firing. Cory has a standard issue pair of handcuffs to his discretion. He isn't big or muscled enough to kill Spencer bare-handed, not quickly, and he's on unsure footing. 

You step closer. Cory snarls. "Stay back. I'll kill him, you stupid bitch–" 

Men. Cory killed his defenceless wife with rohypnol and a rope and now he thinks he can win a fight against two agents trained extensively (admittedly one more than the other) in defence. He's lucky Spencer's in the way —you would've attempted to push his nose into his brain. As it stands, you hook your leg between his and Spencer's, your teammate more than aware of the manoeuvre you're about to pull. With one hand you pull the cuff links cruelly up against Spencer's neck but away, most importantly, allowing him the room to dive from Cory's grasp, and with the other you tuck your gun out of Cory's reach. His arms up, his stomach open, you pull your leg behind his knee and grate your foot down his calf.

He collapses to the floor. You stomp your foot into his groin. 

Morgan saves you the chore of cuffing him a second time. He reads the Miranda Rights by heart as you catch your breath, stepping back into Spencer's open hands. 

You relax at his touch. He's alright, he–

"Did I hurt you?" you ask, spinning on your heel. 

Spencer pouts at you, irked at being worried after. "Of course you didn't." 

"Your neck, I almost choked you like he was," you say, mindful of the agents and specialists flooding the room to secure the crime scene and any evidential material. 

Spencer lifts his chin. "Doesn't hurt." 

There's a rubbed red line up the column of his throat, but it could be worse. You finally wipe the sweat from your face, exhausted and ecstatic that you got the bad guy. 

"Come on," Spencer says.

You follow him outside. In the grass yard waits medical, parked along the entirety of the street stands law enforcement. Hotch nods at you as you return and you take it as a job well done, slouching against the side of a cop car to take a breather. 

"You okay?" Spencer asks. 

You grab for his hand without looking at him. His fingers are warm, neat as they slot through yours. "Why do they always pick on you?" you ask. 

Hotch's voice startles you, but you don't take back your hand. "They underestimate him," he says. "And you. Do you need anything? You're looking…"

"I'm fine." You're tired, too hot, and the short-lived adrenaline of a confrontation is crashing. "Thanks, Hotch." 

He trudges away. Spencer draws closer as you bend forward, his hand on your back. "Are you sure you're okay?" 

"No, I feel awful. I feel sick," you confess. 

He's the only person you'd ever admit it to. You crave his comfort. Spencer must read your mind (or more likely, the twitch of your sore back), his hand landing in the space between your shoulders as he crowds you. "That makes sense. High stress situations make us nauseous because of the fight or flight response. Our body's aren't good at keeping neurotransmitters where they're meant to be. Adrenaline mostly, but cortisol too. It's probably the norepinephrine that's making you feel sick." 

"How do I make it calm down?" 

"Just take a deep breath," he says, rubbing your back. 

You breathe in and out until the sick feeling subsides. Spencer prompts you into standing tall. 

"You know everything," you say fondly, touching his elbow. "Thank you." 

He nudges you. "Thank you for defending me." 

[zombflesh]

how do you think ak!jay likes to be hugged (i miss him)

I'm about to yap a lot for this one so strap in. I personally think that Jason wouldn't exactly be used to hugs even before he was tortured. Physical attention wasn't something he was given that much as a child, and he's way used to touch being a negative instead of a positive. His short time with Bruce probably helped him accept that touch wasn't a negative thing until the Joker ruined it all. After Arkham Knight, Jason would not be able to properly stomach any kind of physical contact. He's been tortured, beaten, and is at his lowest point. Jason doesn't even feel human at this point because after everything he can only see himself as a shell of who he once was. The littlest things are a trigger to him. Something as simple as a pat on the shoulder makes him want to claw at his own skin. Jason's S/O would need to be very patient at first. Physical affection is a concept that has been tainted for him. He's trying hard to get used to your gentle touches because he wants to be with you. Jason doesn't want you to be with someone that can barely take care of themselves. Jason wants you to be with a person instead of the ghost that he perceives himself as. Jason heals and slowly but surely, he leans into your hugs. Now to actually answer the question sorry for going on that long ass tangent

At first, Jason's hugs would feel like hugging a statue. Very stiff and he barely moves a muscle. That stiffness slowly melts away the more he heals. And when this man hugs believe me, he HUGS. Jason is starved of affection, and he feels safe in your around. When he hugs you it's always firm but gentle. Jason wants to make you feel safe in his arms like how your presence makes him feel safe. Snuggling with him would feel like hugging a giant teddy bear. Jason would hold you to his chest while his fingers would either rub your back or play with your hair. Of course, there are always those hugs where he picks you up and spins you around. Jason's hugs would be so tight and so warm.

Jason is a forehead kisser and anyone who says otherwise is wrong. After every hug he's give you a big smooch on the forehead. Hear me out on this next part. Little spoon Jason. HEAR ME OUT PLEASE!! Yeah, he prefers to be big spoon. But Jason would melt whenever you hold him. Just imagine the realization that Jason is being held hitting him and he just leans into the hug. He would bury his face into your shoulder and let out the most content sigh. Love, security, and warmth are all things he can find in your arms. Jason would love it if you held him before he fell asleep. His face would be pressed against your chest as he listens to your heartbeat. The rhythm of your heartbeat would help him fall asleep because it's just comforting to know that your still there. He relaxes as soon as you brush your fingers through his hair. Or even hearing you talk is enough to make him unwind.

There's something so sweet about Jason letting himself be held idk what it is

[siddyyyyyyyy]

You're Only Sixteen

wc: ~4.6k

summary: child soldier joins task force 141 part THREE; part two, part one; part four

warnings: brief flashback, blood, violence, nightmares

a/n: I'm genuinenly happy how well this is going so far, I'm going to update the parts a bit more slowly for now, but I'm pretty sure I won't take too long on this. Probably. Enjoy!

This time, Ghost is leading the training for today. That just means they're no fun games like last time with Price, not that you were looking forward to it. Starting at the shooting range is like a warm-up for you, landing all shots while doing everything casually. Your reload is fast and precise, your aim is almost always perfect, and your technique couldn't be more clean.

Sparring was similar to the last time, but now you're paired up with Soap. You're both getting in your stance, knees slightly bent, one leg forward, and abdominal muscles tense. Both ready to fight, but this time without any weapons. Ghost specifically told him to strike first, wanting to see how long you can last or even win against Soap. It shouldn't be a big deal for you, even though he is quite a big guy, full of muscle, and slightly taller than you. You've mostly had opponents your size or bigger in field, and you never really had a problem winning or lasting long. Well, besides one person back in camp.

Soap strikes you first with a sharp jab to your side, but you dodge it quickly, hitting him back. You focus on your technique instead of winning, wanting to be strong against him. He seems to be focussing more on his technique as well, noticing how fast he works and his reflexes are. Your fighting styles are similar; the only difference is how you two use it in practice. While he's using more strength and power, you're trying to be quicker than your opponent and trick them.

You kick against his knee, and land some hits against his weak points, it's hard for him to stay balanced or focused. He huffs and stumbles back, only to rush to you quickly and try to tackle you down. With his amount of strength, it's difficult to actually stop him or dodge, having to think quickly. With a small grunt, however, you're down, with him trying to keep you like that. Your heartbeat speeds up and your eyes widen, your breath hitching in your throat. The position you're in is too familiar; trying to get out of it as quickly as you can. Soap is oblivious, just training with you and having tackled you down, keeping you pinned on the mat. Your brain is quick to handle, pulling out the same moves you did in camp. Soap doesn't even realise he's getting into a headlock by you at first. His back on the mat with your arm holding him tight around his neck, feeling how you're only squeezing him more and more with your bicep. He grips your arm and tries to relax, not wanting to get hurt. Luckily, that's all it takes for you to snap back to reality and let go. You sigh out heavily and stand back up, calming down.

»Ye alright?« He asks you even though he should be the one getting checked up on. You give him a weary nod, clearing your throat.

»Yeah, sorry about that.«

You mumble back and focus on not thinking back to the time in camp. It's almost confusing you now, how similar and suffocating it felt. But you know better than to think back to a time like that and distract yourself in training. Soap tilts his head with a confused gaze.

»What do ye mean? The headlock? Nah, that was sick.«

He encourages you with a thumbs up. You nod, unsure of what to say back. The training continues with trembling hands and more focussing on your breathing than technique, feeling on edge the entire time, thanks to the small trigger. Of course, no one has noticed these signs from you, or at least no one has said anything about it. On the other hand, you're glad no one has noticed your trembling hands and more or less distracted mind during the time.

Once it's over, you're headed to the showers and straight back to your bunk. That was more off-putting now that you're alone in your small room, thinking quietly to yourself about what had happened. You shouldn't feel this way, having thought you were over it a long time ago. Maybe it was something else that triggered you, or maybe you really aren't over it yet. Getting in a pin on the ground was one thing your past rival used on you as much as he could. You don't know the real reason behind his technique, but all you do know is how weird and creepy it felt like.

A heavy sigh escapes your lips once more, slumping down on your bed with no energy. Today's training was longer but not as exhausting as the one at camp. But you still feel very tired for no reason. You close your eyes and try to shut your brain off; instead, a lot of thoughts appear about your rival and that god awful training. You don't know why he's all of a sudden back in your mind. You don't know why you're thinking so much about it, and you don't know why you can't stop thinking about him. He was such an annoying and unpleasant person that you tried so hard to forget about, yet he can't seem to give you peace. Even when you're finally away from him.

After spending most of your day inside your bunk, trying to get your mind off old memories, it's time to actually try and do something about it. With slow steps, you make your way back to the training hall. It's dark out already, forcing you to walk cautiously around and not wake anyone. Eventually, you made it in and looked around for a punching bag… and something to wrap your knuckles with. You don't want to injure yourself after all.

It's dimly lit in the training hall, making it seem more cosy and relaxing. Especially with no one inside beside you. There are five punching bags to use in a row, but unfortunately no bandages or gloves for your hands. It is what it is, and you walk up to one of these punching bags to release some tension and stress. After getting into the stance, you land a few softer punches to get used to the feeling again. Maybe it's because you're alone in here, but it already seems too loud for you. Checking behind you, the double door is closed, so there's no way someone could hear you from their bunk.

You start again, using proper technique, and gradually become faster and put more strength into your punches. The punching bag suffers through your hard punches, taking it like a champ, all the while your mind zones out. Zoned out, all you can think about is your past rival back at camp. You don't remember his name; didn't even bother asking for it back then. But you do remember how creepy and annoying he used to be to you, for no reason. And that's enough for your punches to grow heavier and even quicker, the punching sounds are growing louder through the hall. Maybe your knuckles are hurting at this point, but you don't care. That bastard had no reason to treat you like that, leaving you confused, hurt, and probably traumatized.

It's only then when a gruff voice calls out through the hall, speaking to no one other than you.

»Didn't you have enough training for today?«

You stop in your tracks and turn around, seeing that familiar shadow again. Ghost.

Glancing down at your knuckles, you notice how red they look just from how hard you've been punching that bag for… how long already? You didn't keep track, but it seems like more than ten minutes, judging from your aching knuckles. Ghost has crossed his arms, glaring at you with tired eyes.

»Go back to bed, 's way too late for this.« He adds with a more weary tone and leaves no room for arguments, cocking his head slightly to the side. You sigh out rather disappointed, knowing you shouldn't talk back, but you also can't stop just now.

»But I just started...« You mumble and trail off at the end, already smelling how annoyed he is with you. He shakes his head, being as serious as before.

»I won't tell you again. Don't overwork yourself and go to sleep. Let your body rest. We've got trainin' tomorrow, too.« Ghost is not joking with you, probably being more stern than he needs to be. But he knows better than to let you work too much or stress over something for no reason. In his eyes, you're just a poor child who happens to have this fate and is forced to get along with it on your own. Too much alike himself. Eventually, your shoulders drop in defeat, and you nod in understanding.

»Fine. Sorry about that.« He doesn't respond back and just leaves, most likely going back to sleep, too. After considering his words and contemplating if you should just stay longer in here, you walk back to your own bunk like promised and fall against your bed. It's comfortable and quiet, dark as well.

But you notice a small med kit on your night stand, bandages and a cream for sore muscles beside it. You blink, thinking it's just your sleep catching up on you, but there is indeed stuff for you on that small table. Eventually, you apply the cream on your red knuckles and wrap them up, laying back on your bed. Maybe it really is just a normal base and rather peaceful. Maybe you could get used to this some time.

Having no energy to think any more about that, you fall asleep quite quickly this time. Even if you fell asleep quickly, it wasn’t a good sleep. A nightmare plagued you, most likely because of the trigger from earlier. A grey room with no windows, similar to your old training room in camp, several people around you, and loud noises everywhere. It’s incoherent nonsense, but you still understand everything clearly. The room is cold and rather dark for some reason; it all seems too much, but there’s nothing at the same time. Your body feels numb, and you’re wearing your bandages around your knuckles, some dried blood decorating the usual whiteness of the material. You notice it too late, but Mike has you on the ground already. The ground is even colder against your back, and you can’t do anything but lay and watch. He’s on top, which he often tried to do on you, and has your wrists and legs pinned tightly beside you.

Everything is so loud but also so quiet, it makes your ears ring. There’s a horrible stench of blood and sweat around the air, which makes it hard to stay still and fight back. Your moves are too slow, having no other choice but to stay like this. Your rival, Mike, slashes quickly through your throat, staying on top in a mocking way. It’s hard to breathe, you’re chocking on your own blood and squirming under him helplessly. The whole dream feels like a flashback, but worse. Too quick, too real.

You don’t remember much of what happened next, because the next thing you know is how you’re trying to control your breath and get rid of the sickening feeling from the nightmare. It’s not unusual you get dreams like this, but never to such an extent of being unable to breathe normally.

The digital clock on your nightstand tells you it’s time to get ready for the day. You couldn’t be more thankful for Ghost to lay the training into early afternoon instead of early morning. Because you know they’d notice if you showed up like this to the hall. Still on edge and tired, feeling as bad as you look right now. You keep trying to tell yourself that it’s normal to feel like this, hoping it’ll pass soon. Deciding to distract your mind, you go out to the park with your small sketchbook in hand. Maybe you will feel better in the fresh air while sketching something down that comes to mind.

But, of course, you never have a few minutes to yourself as a familiar figure comes by and stops in front of you.

»Drawing?« Gaz seems curious and tries to secretly subtly into your sketchbook.

»Sketching.«

»Ah. What exactly?« He carefully asks, knowing not to disturb a teenage girl when they seem peaceful at the moment. Gaz has past experience from his own family and friends, knowing how moody some are.

You hesitate to show him what exactly you’re drawing, and you just shrug in response.

»Just… anything.« That was a boring response to anyone, and he still wasn’t done disturbing your peace. He politely asks if he can sit by you for a while, sitting down on the same bench after you accept his kind offer. Gaz isn’t one to pry or mind someone else’s business, but today he’s really curious. Probably, because it’s been three days since you’ve been here and no one got to know you properly. Maybe they should work on their social skills instead.

»You sketch often?« Finally, he’s asking you about your hobbies. And finally, a normal question after years.

»From time to time.« That’s not true, you’ve been drawing since you remember and ever since. Drawing to kill time? Three pages full with doodles. Sketching something pretty? Two pages full with only that beautiful thing you saw earlier. Filling some pages to get rid of the anxiety? Done.

Gaz doesn’t quite believe your answer as well, noticing there’s only three pages left in there. Instead of prying more into it, he changes the topic slightly.

»So, what’re you drawing then? People?«

Without another word, you hand him your sketchbook, deciding it’s easier and probably faster this way. He takes it wordlessly and flips through the pages carefully. His eyes study the way you drew random people and objects, not having expected how good you’re at this. He glances at you before flipping another page, recognising the person almost immediately.

»Soap? You drew Soap?« You look down to his hands as he’s still holding it, seeing he found the first sketch of his teammate.

»I guess,« There’s no way out of this now, seeing he’s actually quite amused about it, »There’s more, actually.«

His smile widens, not having expected to see realistic drawings of his teammate. And there’s more? Today couldn’t get any better.

»More? You like drawing him or somethin’?« Gaz stops talking once he goes some pages forward, seeing some doodles of himself and Price. Even if it’s just some sketches or doodles, they look surprisingly well-made and semi-realistic. He looks towards you again, holding up that book of yours slightly.

»Can you draw Soap with a moustache?« Out of all questions he could’ve asked, he chose this one. Always picking the important ones. You need a full second to process what he’s asking before you find yourself speechless.

»What do I get for it in return?« Now, he’s the one without words. He considers for a moment as he tilts his head to the side.

»Depends on how well you draw.«

It’s then, when he can’t take himself seriously and chuckles.

»All jokes, I’ll get you a new sketchbook. Seems like this won’t do in a while.«

That’s a deal well struck with him. You can’t deny such an offer and start scribbling down a rough sketch of Soap, added with a moustache. Gaz watches the lines on the blank paper slowly resemble his teammate, grinning at the extra facial hair above his lip. It’s a sight to behold, being glad he could make someone draw a silly pic of this even more goofier SAS soldier.

Once you’re done, you show the page fully to him, and he can’t help but laugh at the drawing. Not because it’s ugly, but because it looks so much like him, and a moustache looks rather silly on his face.

»We gotta show it to him later.« You don’t see why not and nod, already seeing how absurd the situation will be later on.

After the more eventful interaction, it’s time for the usual training. This time, there wasn’t any difference in sparring, only feeling more tired than usual because of the nightmare last night. All you four did, was practice in the shooting range and go about sparring with Soap, leading with him improving your technique and showing some tricks. Of course, like no other time, you all went to the mess hall to eat dinner. You would have forgotten about the silly sketch of Soap if Gaz hadn’t reminded you beforehand to bring it over for dinner.

Sitting in front of the two teammates, Soap is laughing so hard that he’s clutching to his stomach. The drawing was really worth it, being amused at the sight in front of you. At least now, you could eat in peace without one particular person trying to get to know you better.

A familiar shadow appears in the corner of your eye, and you instinctively glance over. Ghost is approaching the table… with a Capri Sun? You look over once again, needing to take a double take to reassure yourself of what you’re seeing. And right, there he was, the scary-looking goth with a Capri Sun in hand.

It’s then that Soap also notices Ghost. Eventually, he stays standing next to the table and places the smaller but sweet drink on the table.

»Oi, what’s that?« The still amused scot questions him, as confused as you and Gaz. Ghost clarifies, finally not being an intimidating tree.

»Shitbox got me this instead of wa’er. Some of you can have it.«

Oh, so he can’t deal with a vending machine. If he weren’t your lieutenant, you would have made fun of him. Gaz nods and looks over to you after noticing you shift in your seat slightly. To him, it’s clear who wants it most. He wasn’t the only one noticing it, and Ghost shifts the drink towards you, mentioning it to you. Or maybe he just doesn’t think the two blokes deserve such a sweet drink and let’s you have it instead.

»You can have it.«

He grumbles before leaving for wherever he needs to go. It’s a bit weird to just receive something like this for no reason, especially from someone like Ghost. Glancing around, the two others seem normal about it, or they’re just good at hiding their real surprise. Eventually, you take the Capri Sun and draw in the orange straw into the packet. Oh, it’s cherry-flavoured. Your favourite.

Even when you thought your small happiness wasn’t so obvious, it turns wrong once Gaz speaks up.

»Taste good?«

You nod back in response and relax your expression as well as you can, not wanting to come off as too giddy for a sweet drink as such. They both grin quietly and continue eating with Price joining in after some time to eat beside you three.

----

It’s been a week there, and it feels less awkward now. You train and practice every day, sometimes sneaking in late at night to punch some bags. Capri Sun is something you get more regularly at lunch because Ghost can’t seem to figure out how to use the vending machine. In reality, he just likes to give you a small treat and see your eyes light up for a split second. It’s his small way to befriend you; it doesn’t matter if it seems silly or stupid, you appreciate it, and there’s no harm to it. You could compare it with an attempt to befriend a cat with treats, and it works well. Consider Ghost as a harmless guy who gives you your favourite drink- just because.

Gaz talks to you the most from the others, occasionally checking up on your new drawings and sketches, promising to get you a new one as soon as he can. He likes your drawings after all. He’s easy to talk to as well, having light conversations with you and a few jokes. Gaz is the most friendly and easygoing of them all for one. At least that’s how he is with you, but you’re sure he can be different too. Soap is as friendly as him, but for some reason you feel like you need to be careful around him.

The problem isn’t him, it’s no one’s fault, really. You know he’s just as nice and supportive, but it seems like the pin he did on you is still in your head. They can always out win you in a fight if you don’t pay attention, and the thought of it makes your skin crawl. Ignoring it most of the time, you trust them all equally. It’s better here than back in camp. If you can still call it that anymore.

Being here, made you realise how toxic it was back then. They don’t judge and punish you for making simple mistakes; they won’t even look at your scars twice or ask about them, and most importantly, no one forces you into something uncomfortable.

You feel safer.

Pushing the constant nightmares and headaches away, it really is more safe and peaceful here.

Today, after training, you cross paths with Ghost. You immediately notice that he’s carrying an almost comically large bag in his arms. Taking a closer look, you see it’s dry dog food. Dog food? Why would he need that? You never took him as someone with pets, and you never saw dogs around on base. Thank God you didn’t.

You nod briefly at him and can’t help it but approach him out of curiosity.

»Do you have a dog?«

He grunts, side eyeing you for a moment.

»Just gonna feed Riley. A K9.«

So, they do have military dogs. How come you never saw them? Back in the old camp, the dogs could roam freely on base. But they also weren’t really nice dogs, always barking and ready to attack anyone. Even you were once chased by a large German Shepherd, almost getting bitten if you weren’t fast enough.

You simply nod back, not sure what to answer to that. Of course, he could sense your shift into uneasiness and nudges your shoulder lightly while walking down the base with you.

»You should get to know some. They’re not scary, don’t worry.« That makes it better only for a moment before you fully process his words. There isn’t really a way you can deny his offer and nod slightly, following him wordlessly. He isn’t as talkative either, but you don’t think that’s a bad thing. You’re lost in thought once he speaks up, shifting the big bag of dog food into his left arm.

»Ever met a big dog? Anything?«

You’re standing outside his office as he asks, opening his door with a key while he waits for your answer.

»Kind of. Got chased by one.« He can’t help but pause for a moment at your blunt answer, eventually getting his door open and stepping in. You follow him in and close the door behind you, noticing a bigger German Shepherd sitting up on the ground. It’s tongue sticks out and seems to be happy about seeing you both, judging from it’s wagging tail.

The dog stays silent though, patiently waiting for their owner to give them some sort of permission. You stay standing near the door, watching the two silently, hoping it won’t do anything. Ghost puts the large bag down against the wall and steps closer to the dog, kneeling down as it happily walks to him and enjoys the few hat pats he gives. You watch them both interact, visibly relaxing slowly as long as the dog is near Ghost and gets fed, getting a few more pats from its tall owner. He turns to you and introduces you to the dog, his hand staying on the dog’s back.

»That’s Riley. A sweet girl- will be joining our next mission, as far as I know.«

That’s totally great. Yeah, sure, you could work with a big dog while having a fear of them. You nod either way, shifting on your feet as you watch the dog from the closed door. Riley munches on her food, seemingly content.

»She seems… nice.«

He can see how unsure you are about the dog, and he guessed he would need to get you used to dogs somehow. Ghost sits down beside Riley, nodding towards her.

»You can pet her. She’s friendly, won’t bite.« He is trying to loosen the tension with a small joke, only seeing how you glance at him before looking back at Riley. Eventually, you approach her with silent steps, being cautious of the still-eating dog. You kneel down beside Ghost, firstly just watching her with anticipation in silence. Riley is quick to realise you are close now too and lifts her head off the bowl of food, trying to get to know you eagerly. She takes a step towards you, and you stay still, not wanting to accidentally make her angry. Ghost beside you can’t help it but feel amused watching you be so stiff while also watching Riley to make sure she won’t make you even more scared.

Riley sniffs around the air shortly before leaning towards your hands on your knees, taking a sniff at them. Before you know it, she’s licking at them. You cringe at the feeling, leaning a bit away from her.

Beside you, Ghost grins under his mask, glad that you don’t seem to be scared and more amused at how you react to Riley’s sudden affection. Suddenly, the K9 is trying to lick at your face, but you turn away with a small groan. Ghost pets her on the back, commanding her to sit down for now.

It takes a moment for Riley to fully calm down, her tail still wiggling back and forth. Ghost hands you some treats and wants to show you what tricks this joyful dog can do. Riley follows his commands flawlessly, rolling over, laying down, playing dead, able to stand on her back paws for a few seconds.

You extend your hand to give her a few treats- the small cookies in shape of bones in the palm of your hand. She eats it out of there happily, probably having a blast right now.

Riley is a good dog, even when she wants to give you affection through licking your hand, which mostly feels weird, but overall she doesn’t overwhelm you like the past dogs in your life.

Ghost also seems to be satisfied with the end result, however, he couldn’t let go of your words earlier. Normally, he would mind his business, but this is a sixteen-year-old we’re talking about.

»So, you were chased by one?«

You glance at him shortly, unsure of how to explain it to him now. You try it out, explaining it to him as shortly as you can.

»We also had some K9’s on camp and I was chased by one because I wasn’t careful enough.« You don’t realise how shocking that sounds before he gives you a look of disbelief. He asks again, gently petting Riley behind her ear.

»Your own camp had dogs, and one chased you? Why’s that?« You only shrug in response, not sure yourself. The dogs were mostly trained to be aggressive and were held rather roughly.

»I believe they got extra trained to be as aggressive as possible.«

He only hums out in acknowledgement, letting go of Riley and standing back up. Every time he hears more about your camp it is when he loses five years of his life. You follow right after him, standing up and getting a last glance at the sweet dog.

»Go, get your shower.« He mumbles, reminding you of taking your shower since you joined him after training, finally able to rinse off your sweat. You nod and leave without another word, taking a quick rest before eating dinner in the mess hall.

a/n: Hope you had fun reading this, it was a bit longer than the last part. The next one is probably going to be just as long. I hope you enjoed it!

[oogalybooglay]

|gentle now…|

(Sebastian gets hurt so you patch our fishy up)

(YOU GUYS ARE COOL, YOU GET MORE SEBASTIAN FANFICTION!)

The day was as simple as the last, Sebastian was waiting in his makeshift shop inside the vents for expendables to come by and buy something, and honestly? Most of them were just there to flash him with those STUPID FLASH BEACONS! (Authors interjections: in this one, he DOESN'T have a double barrel shot gun)

recently, Sebastian’s had to crush so many flash beacons his hand was sore and cut up so it hurt to move, to he’s had to resort to using the smaller arm.

he heard the familiar thumps of expendables walking to his shop, as much as he didn’t want to, he whispered

“pssssst! In here, I got something for ya”

(Authors interjections: TW this area of the fanfic has blood, and a slight description of glass in the hands, nothing to bad but I though YALL should know before you read ❤️)

you and the others army crawl through the vent, you look up and wave at Sebastian, greeting the shopkeeper with a smile. Standing up, one of the expendables with a sly, mischievous grin, unclips a flash beacon from their belt and points it hat Sebastian, who was already getting aggravated. As soon as they pulled the trigger, he shielded his eyes and lifted them up and snarled,

“don’t do that AGAIN”

He crushed the beacon with his sore hand, forgetting it was, as I said, sore. At this point? It was muscle memory, he winced sharply at the large amount of stinging pain as it shot through his arm. The skin on his hand, which was more sensitive than ever, bled. He felt each piece of glass protruding into his hands, he dropped the expendable and clenched his eyes closed. You see the pain in his face and the blood from his hand and rush over, “are you ok?! Jesus- come here, gimme your hand-“ you unclip a med kit from your belt and pop it open.

Sebastian looked down at you and slowly extended his hand, it was slightly shaking.

“Damnit…..ow…. Get it over with… it hurts like hell”

you slowly and gently removed the glass from his hand, whipped up the blood, then started sanitizing it, don’t want an infections do we? Sebastian’s reeled back a little and hissed, you spoke in a gentle voice

“easy now… I know it hurts, but we don’t want an infection alright?”

Sebastian rolled his eyes and grumbled, “I know.. I know..”

The expendable were temped to leave, but waited till you were done patching up sebs hand.

after you finished wrapping up his hand, Sebastian flexed his hand and made sure the bandage was tight enough, you closed the Medkit and mumbled, “gentle now… don’t reopen the cuts.” Sebastian nodded

“…….thank you {name}…..”

THE SECOND ONE IS DONE! I hoped you enjoyed it 😜 again, it’s just my second one, so it’s prob bad (update: ITS NOT BAD PAST ME DAMN), criticisms welcomed (don’t be too mean)

100

FUCKING LIKES?? HUH?? HOW DID I GET HERE. I KNOW ITS BARELY ANYTHING FOR TUMBLR BUT FOR ME? GIDIF UTSURZKG TYSM JAHHHHHHHH

I might’ve forgotten about this one

shhhhh

[an-ambivalent]

Yandere! Jujutsu Kaisen Headcanons

Warnings: As this is yandere fiction, this deals with behaviours  that can be uncomfortable and triggering to read. Read at your own risk. This work is purely fictional, I do not condone this behaviour irl. By clicking the 'read more/keep reading' you are consenting to read this at your discretion.

Characters:  Satoru, Suguru, Choso and Sukuna 

Yandere! Gojo 

Type: Clingy & overprotective 

Satoru is the ‘strongest’ and yet he’s lost so much. He’s never going to lose you too; that’s why, he keeps you nice and locked up secure in his extravagant residence that only he can access. You can’t leave the premises due to the tight security procedures Satoru has in place. But you wouldn’t need to since he made sure you have access to everything you would need or want within the premises. Well, almost everything.  It’s never easy to earn Satoru’s trust given how many people pray for his downfall. However, once you become his person, you will always be his person. This is particularly after the trauma he experienced, but very specific to you. When he’s with you, he wears no masks or facades. He can be completely true to himself. He can let his insecurities and fears about not being good enough bleed freely, and he can show his ugly desperation and cling onto you like a leech without any fears that someone will take you away from him. Anytime he’s not on a mission, he spends all of his time with you. You’re the only person keeping the last of his sanity intact. He loves you, he loves you the most. So, he is never going to let you go.

Yandere! Suguru 

Type: Possessive 

There’s a turning point in Suguru’s life where everything changed, including your relationship with him. You remember when being around him felt like pure bliss. He used to be so kind, considerate, and attentive to your needs. But after that one mission, that made Getou abandon everything, all became different. 

He had abruptly showed up at your abode with empty eyes, fully drenched, and his wet clothes and hair clinging onto him. He clutched onto you and dug his�� fingers into you and frantically begged you to leave with him right then and there. You were only trying to calm him down, but he had mistaken this as reluctance, hesitation, and a change in your loyalty to him. How could you even think about abandoning him when he needed you the most?! You noticed the darkness in his expression too late. He had you imprisoned to your spot with a curse he summoned without your notice. The jeer on his face was terrifying, and the glare he looked down on caused unanticipated tremors in your muscles. 

“I don’t know why I bothered asking… You’re just like everyone else. But I can’t let you leave me. Not you. You’re mine. I’ll make sure it always stays that way.”

Yandere! Choso

Type: Stalker and protective 

Typically, Choso is lax and doesn’t care too much about what you’re up to, as long as it doesn’t break any of the rules he has set for you. Few of these rules being: you can’t go anywhere without his permission, you have to tell him everything and give regular updates if he cannot accompany you. Typically, he is always watching you from the shadows. Even without your regular updates, he knows what you’re up to because if he can’t follow you for some reason, then he makes one of his siblings keep tabs on you and report back to him. 

Choso really cherishes you. He does whatever he is capable of to take care of you. He believes that it is duty to look after you and protect you. He will ruthlessly hurt and kill anyone that hurts you, or believes will hurt you. 

Although Choso wouldn’t normally hurt you, there are instances where he might do something so that you depend on him. Choso enjoys being needed. He loves it even more when you rely on him for the most mundane things. It makes him feel like you cannot live without him just like how he cannot live with you. So, if there was ever a time where he feels that you’re becoming distant and trying to strive for independence, you might ‘accidentally’ have a fracture or two so he can support you and be there for you again. 

Yandere! Sukuna 

 Type: Sadistic & possessive 

Sukuna has a preference for pain. Causing pain is how he felt free and exhilarated, causing pain is how he felt powerful, and causing pain is how he expressed his love. You’re an innocent petite being… Well, you are in comparison to his demon form. No matter what your size is, from Sukuna’s perspective, everything and everyone is smaller and beneath him. 

He loves you the way a monster can love and cherish their most prized treasure or pet. You may not be his only lover, but you are his number one. You’re the closest to perfection he craves and your innocence, opposite to his corrupted self, is what draws him in. He wants to be the reason for your ruin, your corruption. He wants to be the devil who shows you how delightful temptation is, pull you in, and just when you’re on the edge, tear off your wings, and shackle you to him so that you can never leave him. So you only belong to him. 

[roadkillxd]

HALLOWEEN SPECIAL: gun metal ghost.

Thanks to the anons that suggested the featured kinks!

Soap x M!Reader x Ghost ↪ 1892 words — 18+ / SMUT.

Content tags — cis male dominant Soap, cis male dominant Ghost, cis male submissive reader, heavy cnc roleplay, gunplay, implied somnophilia, threat of murder, referenced necro (just a comment Soap makes), virginity kink, breeding kink, sweat/scent kink, impact play, dirty talk, degradation/humiliation, praise, biting, begging, body worship, crying, deepthroating, breath play, oral sex, analingus, fingering, anal sex, penetrative sex, unsafe sex, and mentioned aftercare.

You jolt awake at the feeling of cold metal trailing down the ridges of your bare spine. You feel an unpleasant emptiness, and your cock is hard and dripping where it’s trapped between your stomach and the bed sheets, surely tacky and wet with pre and sweat. Before you can truly get your bearings, a hand grips your hair and another covers your mouth.

“Doon’t scream,” Soap says from in front of you, low and gravelly. His hand slips from your hair, and the familiar click of a gun safety being switched makes you shudder, grunting when the barrels pressed beneath your jaw.

You try to take stock of your surroundings—Soap kneels in front of you, left hand pushing the gun into the soft flesh beneath your jawbone to keep your head propped up, his right palm pressed over your lips, fingers digging painfully tight into your cheeks. He looks smug, though there's a hunger overshadowing the slight tug of his lips and the twinkle of his blue eyes. 

There’s a wetness between your thighs that makes you squirm, the feeling of cooling saliva quickly replaced with the swipe of a hot tongue licking over your hole. You cry out behind Soap’s palm, reaching to grab at his forearms only for two skeleton-patterned gloved hands to catch you by the wrists and tug your arms behind your back. 

“Keep em’ there,” Ghost says, making sure his legs are locked with yours to keep you pinned, his tone as simple as if he’d just ordered you to watch the corner. 

Your hands twitching is greeted with Soap’s palm slipping from your mouth, only for the gun to quickly replace it, clacking against your teeth before the acrid taste of gun metal invades your taste buds.

“You heard the man,” Soap grins, tapping his finger gently on the trigger guard, “wouldn’t want m’hand ta slip, now would we? Not tha’ it’d stop us…” 

You whimper around the barrel, feeling Ghost groan against your hole, and try to blink away the oncoming tears as Ghost returns to messily licking you out, and the reality of your situation washes over you. Ghost’s practiced in his motions, and despite the circumstances there is no rush to the way he works you over, like he has all the time in the world. You dig your nails into your forearms, crossed at your back as Ghost slips a thick, surprisingly soft finger into your clenching heat, having removed his gloves at some point. 

Soap is hard in his own jeans, the outline of his cock mere inches from your face. Your jaw aches around the gun, unable to swallow properly around the bulk of it as drool drips heavily down your chin to form a small puddle on the thin bed sheets. Soap gently rocks the pistol in and out of your mouth, watching with rapt attention how your tongue flexes restlessly along the slide.

The pink muscle flicking at his finger where it rests on the trigger guard seems to be his limit, as he shoves the gun forward just enough to make you gag before yanking it out, the tears finally streaming down your cheeks as you cough. 

“Ghost,” Soap grunts, handing the gun off to the Lieutenant behind you, feeling it press flat between your shoulder blades, the cold ridges pressed to your spine by Ghost’s palm holding it there. Soap grasps your jaw with bruising strength, tugging you up to meet his eyes, “lookit you, pathetic fuckin’ thing.”

The clink of Soap’s belt catches your attention as you glance down, only for his palm to connect hard with your cheek, making you cry out as he roughly grabs for you again.

“Look. At. Me,” he growls, your breath stuttering in a hiccup as you hold his piercing gaze even through the blur of tears. You can see the movement of him pulling his cock free in your peripheral, and whimper as he slides the sticky, soft head of his cock along your trembling lips.

“Open that mouth, baby,” he rumbles, fingers digging into the joint of your jaw when you hesitate too long, “be a good lil’ hure fer me.”

Your mouth falls open on a shuddering moan as Ghost presses the tips of two fingers to the gland of your prostate, massaging the swollen bulb with sniper precision. Soap’s prick slips past your lips, muffling your whines around the thick, meaty length of his cock. 

You can feel Ghost shift behind you, the gun trailing till his arm is hooked under your armpit, barrel dug into your jaw once again. The scrape of denim is rough along the back of your thighs, the soft cotton of his jumper bringing attention to the aching turned stinging along your back, where you can feel now with clarity where Ghost sucked hickeys into your bare skin while you slept, hyperware of the grooves where his teeth dug into your skin. 

“Bloody perfect,” Ghost murmurs, chest vibrating against your spine with the rolling deepness of his voice. His hips absentmindedly rock against yours, his breath hot against your cheek, the bulk of his weight pressing you to the mattress as he presses jarringly chaste kisses along your jawline, to the corner of your lips stretched taut around Soap’s thrusting cock. Soap gives a growling groan when Ghost’s tongue slips out, lapping lazily at the ring of spit and pre that froths around the seal of your mouth.

You feel Ghost’s free hand fumbling between your legs, the sound of his trousers being undone barely audible over the ringing in your ears. He groans as he frees himself, and you whine at the fat length of his cock slipping between your cheeks and catching on your rim. 

You struggle in earnest, trying to pull your head away from Soap’s cock while your hands, trapped beneath Ghost’s bulk, shove at the man’s stomach. Your teeth graze the sensitive flesh of Soap���s prick and he quickly pulls free from your mouth, cuffing you upside the head for the trouble.

“Don’t,” you choke out, voice sleep rough and sore from where Soap’s cockhead had tapped the start of your throat, “please don’t, I’ve never—” 

You sob as Ghost’s hips twitch, the head of his cock spreading the rim of your arsehole wide without quite pushing in. 

“Heard that, Ghostie?” Soap purrs, rocking his hips to slide his slick cock along your cheek, your warm tears against the swollen flesh making him shiver, “know how much you love a virgin hole.”

“Fuckkk,” Ghost groans, pressing his face against your neck, catching the thin skin between his teeth. His balaclava is shoved up over his nose, the scratchy material rubbing against the sensitive skin behind your ear and making your traitorous cock twitch and leak.

“Going to fucking ruin this arse,” Ghost growls. He’s suddenly rough with you, like a switch has flipped inside him. The gun is dropped to the floor somewhere as Ghost hauls you back onto your knees. He mounts up, heaving chest pressed to your back, one strong arm wrapped around your torso while the other lines up his cock with your twitching hole. 

You sob as he shoves in, giving you no time to adjust when his pelvis immediately meets your ass, heavy balls slapping against yours before he’s pulling back and shoving back in, over and over. His thrusts are steady and deep, and you instinctively grab at Soap’s wrist and waist, shoving your face between the crook of his muscled thigh and leaking cock, muffling your moans into the sweaty skin there. 

“Can’t help but feel good, huh?” Soap coos mockingly, fingers carding through your sweat slick hair, “never having taken cock, yet you’re moaning for it like a slut already. You know you were made for this, just needed us to show you.” 

You nod against Soap’s skin, breathing his musky scent in deep, pressing the flat of your tongue to his furry balls before suckling one into your mouth to earn a breathy groan from him. 

Ghost grunts and growls like an animal above you, his mouth sucking mark after mark along the side of your neck, an expanse of purples and reds that’ll be impossible to hide. His cock is so big, each time he bottoms out pushing against the squishy walls of your limits, feeling like he’s in your fucking lungs, and the bulk of his fat cockhead catches on your prostate with each in-and-out movement. 

Soap uses your hair to guide you up the pulsing length of his prick, letting you lather your tongue along the prominent vein that travels up the side, pulling his foreskin down so you can lick and suck at the glans of his tip. 

“He’s gonna breed you full,” Soap rumbles, voice soft as you slobber on his cock, “fill you with his cum ‘till it takes.”

“Please,” you gasp, muffled against Soap’s cockhead and bubbly with spit and precum, “please please, Ghost, please.”

Ghost growls like a shout, making you cry out as his teeth sink into the flesh of your shoulder and his hips begin to jackrabbit it into you, the lude sounds of his balls slapping against your flesh echoing throughout the room, the wet plap plap plap aided by the froth of his own saliva that leaks from your puffy hole down his heavy sac.

“Yeah, Simon? Gonna fuck a baby into his little virgin hole?” Soap goads, pulling your head down his length as you let out a pathetic moan, gagging and choking when your nose presses to the thatch of pubic hair at the base of his cock, eyes crossing as he holds you there, only able to breathe in the thick musk of sweat trapped there. 

You clench up tight around Ghost as you struggle and asphyxiate around Soap’s prick, and Ghost cums with a shout muffled into the bloody wound of your shoulder. His hips slam into yours, bouncing off your ass where you can already feel the red sting of bruises forming, before his movements stutter, buried to the hilt as he fills you deep with his load. 

It’s Soap who lets out a moan next, yanking you off his cock just as he cums, decorating your purple-red face with his spend as you cough and heave for breath. You reach up to pull his foreskin back down and seal your lips around his tip, whining brokenly as he strokes the last of his cum onto your waiting tongue. 

It’s the taste of him that does you in, swallowing him down with a keen as your cock pulses and spurts cum onto the bed sheets below. 

You collapse fully to the bed, cheek pressed to the sweat damp sheet cooling in the night air. Soap pets at your hair, his nails scritching gently at the base of your skull and making your skin tingle pleasantly. Ghost is a large, comforting weight along your back, his soft but heavy cock still buried inside you and occasionally twitching with another pulse of cum he shoots into you with a shudder and what you can only describe as a whimper from his scratchy throat. 

He licks over the lazily oozing wound of his bite mark, the both of you floating as Soap slips from the bed to begin your guys’ aftercare routine.

[wroteclassicaly]

Girl. Gator. Plus size girl. Blurb. Go!

Lol. I just love the way you utilize details and I need this mans hands on me in the worst way rn. Lol. MAYBE somewhere where we could get caught😈

Oooooh, you’re speaking right to my soul 😭

~*~

Warnings: Language, smut, Gator acts like his jerky, bitchy, temper tantrum throwing, misogynistic, toxic self. Body positive, plus size reader with large breasts, hidden hookups, spit, some titty play, vaginal fingering, jealous and possessive Gator, slightly mean reader, degrading kink, praise kink mention, filthy talk, mean Gator, dominant reader/dominant Gator, public smut, getting caught, and NSFW.

Pairings: Gator Tillman x Plus Size Female Reader

Wordcount: 2,043

A/N: Really love working on exploring Gator with a bigger girlie, because in the Midwest, his options would’ve been a lot of big women. Sooooo, yeah. ;) Note that this is not some fluffy Gator. Man is gonna be mean and nasty as hell, so be warned (he’s cornered with his feelings and he doesn’t like that shit)!

~*~

He really cannot fucking believe this. You actually have the nerve to show up where you know that he will be, dressed like this, acting as if you didn’t want him to call you the second that you got back into town (Because WHEN the fuck did you get back? And why didn’t you call him?). A calloused trigger finger massaged off leftover condensation, nothing but mere drops of amber liquid left over in his glass. He feels like a snarling, raging beast, a fucking embarrassment.

And you simply tuck your handbag into your armpit, situating the end of a very tight black dress, one that slices into a cutoff at your cleavage, the swells of your goods leaving little to the imagination. Stupid bitch. Those are his tits. Besides, since when do you care about what you wear out when you rarely come to bars or club joints around town, anyways…? Your makeup is dark, like wafts of smoke, shimmering on your lid, lips lined a deep blood red, something else you never do around him, either.

Okay, so he’s not good enough to try all of your tricks on?

He’s got that familiar clench starting in his toes, licking his muscles with electricity, pushing on his ribcage, digging painfully into his internal organs to do something. You wave at a couple of local girls, but you don’t join them at a table, no. You head directly to some punk faced fuck in tight jeans and cowboy boots, a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other. Gator’s eyes widen so hard that the muscles protest in stroking stings, his fist clenching over his thigh, knuckles white, taunt flesh wrapped shakily around his glass. He lets it go before it shatters.

A date. A fucking, motherfucking date.

You couldn’t call him, didn’t text him (embarrassing how much he refreshed your thread, honestly), but you bitch about secrecy. And this is what he gets for staying sober from the pussy he could be getting? Nah, he’s not gonna be shown up by some slut that should be grateful he gives her attention at all, and definitely not with this fucking pencil dick of a man, whose joke you’re pathetically giggling at. Abandoning his glass, Gator is walking his way on a sticky bar floor, passing your backside to slam his hands on your table and let out a hysterical chuckle.

“Well, bust my balls. What’s so funny over here, huh?”

Gator takes a mental backflip for points as your eyes widen and you look like you’ve dove into the pools of humiliation. Your date, for lack of better word - he’s trying to figure out what’s going on, but Gator doesn’t let him get in a word. Crowding in front of his space, he’s in your airspace now, reaching down to find your date’s drink, lips wrapping at the bottle’s end as he sips and lets out a snort. “Lightweight.”

“Gator…” You warn, reaching out to attempt to grab his wrist. He shrugs you off, shaking his head as he eyes your ensemble, those fucking tits pressed together and spilling over your cleavage’s hem.

“Look at you, honey. All dressed up, not answering your phone. How long you been back for?”

“I’m busy, back the fuck off —“ He’s suddenly very close to you now, nose nearly brushing, actually letting his personal rules slip, your own emotions becoming discombobulated.

You don’t back away, breathing escalating as his hot breath fans along your painted mouth. He’d like to shut that up, keep you full. And you, you cannot keep your eyes off of his tight black shirt, arms bare and tan from the Midwest summer sun — freckles and moles on display. He’s wearing dark jeans, his normal boots, and thigh holster for show. Fuck, he smells good. He knows it too, as he watches your eyes dart across his wet lips.

He simply smirks, reaches down for your drink this time, and brings it to his lips. Straight whiskey. You were here for a purpose, and it’s up to him to redirect it. You watch in wondrous fascination when he drinks down your remaining liquor in a straight shot, his tongue making a show to lick the rim along the glass, before he lets it settle back onto the cheap bar table coaster. He’s taking that air about, every single inch of him away from you before you can blink, one hand rubbing behind his neck, pulling on his chain that’s tucked beneath his collar, knowing the action specifically drives you crazy, the other hand retrieving his vape.

He blows smoke directly above his head, looking between you and Mr. Clueless Cowboy, laughing lightly. He’s pissing you off. “Hope you folks intend to call a car tonight. I’d hate to have to arrest anyone for driving under the influence.”

And he’s gone. Leaving you practically smoking, aching, hurt, and severely pissed. You grab your purse and excuse yourself to the restroom to get your bearings. You should’ve known, however, the second that the door closes behind you — Gator would be too. He doesn’t approach too fast, doesn’t scare you or grab you, he has his own lines not to cross, to respect.

You’re clenching the sink by the time he’s nearly behind you. You’re tired, pent up, but you still manage to speak. “Don’t. I’m getting sick of you and your games.”

“Is that why you didn’t answer me? Think that’s polite —“

You spin around and level your palms to his chest, shoving him back, hard. “You know, I’m the one that should be embarrassed. Your fucking dad, you being his lackey. I should be the one to be afraid to be seen with you, but I’m not.”

Gator perks at the mention of Roy, of his debt towards him just by being born under his namesake. He feels cornered, losing control. “Watch your mouth. I’m not afraid of anything —“

As if you are ignoring his words, you continue. “I want a real man, not some pussy who is afraid to be seen in public with me. You’re a fucking coward, Tillman. You don’t deserve one single inch of me, and I’ve got plenty to go around, baby.”

Now, Gator can lie and say he is further pissed, that he intends to leave and forget you. But your words, how you stand up to him — his cock kicks, slacks becoming less loose. You’ve got the power and you’re more than ready to use it. Leaving your purse in the sink behind you, you stand a few inches from his airspace, your perfume soaking into his senses, making his jaw unhinged with sinful babble. “I bet you’re fuckin’ wet right now.”

You shrug, crossing your arms to purposely accentuate your chest. “Just because I like looking at you, doesn’t mean that I like listening to your mouth run. Pompous, annoying, disgustingly pathetic. And I can’t stand you.”

His brows press together, his pupils blown so far to hell that he’s seething when the words leave his clenched teeth. “One more word, bitch…”

You lick your mouth and smile lowly, tongue practically caressing the words as they drop off. “Fuck. You.”

What happens next is a dizzying array of blurs. The open pipes and exposed beams - clad ceiling passes in your vision as you meet Gator into a chest crushing embrace, pulling when he pushes, the both of you falling onto a stall with your mouths locked. You’re already working your hands into his belt, a grip hard to maintain with how worked up he is. Gator knows just what to do with you, his own hands immediately ripping the fabric of your dress down to expose your perfect breasts. His mouth waters, his hands paused.

He gives you a look, but you’ve already got his hands closing around your tits, encouraging him to squeeze. His knees knock you into the toilet, his mouth smeared with red kisses. His jaw clenches, nose wrinkles, his eyes glazed over as he lets them roam you, palming you, sampling you. You’re his. He needs more, though, his body rampaged, starved for more you.

You can read those thoughts immediately, the same want, a silent communication. “Put your mouth on me.”

He doesn’t waste a second, head tilting, letting you tug it into shambled strands, his lips close over your bud, tongue lapping around your areola, only to give you what you after you start to beg him for teasing. He isn’t phased that you aren’t jerking him, all that he wants right now is get you off, be with you, be around you. He tries to ignore what that realization means, and luckily, you’re rucking your own dress around your waist, his orbs catching a slinky thong as you work it down your curved hips. He briefly stops what he’s doing, groaning in appreciation as your glistening curls are put on display and your beautiful stomach, with stretch marks that his tongue has traced not enough times yet. He’ll have to fix that.

You’re a little quieter after you’re so naked in front of you, despite having been before. He notices this and abandons his focus on your chest to grab you around the waist. His voice is hoarse, exploding into a molten rasp, coated in the warmth of tension, a vulnerability leaving as he pinches your chin to raise your gaze. “You’re too beautiful for him. Too beautiful for me.”

Your reluctance to accept any compliments, especially his, that is automatically clear when you make your statement. “You could’ve gotten plenty pussy with me gone, Gator.”

He’s never felt more like a piece of shit than in this moment, watching as you truly believe that. He inhales sharply, throat tied to it, escaping words evaporating off his tongue’s tip, shared with you. “I missed you,” It’s actually a freeing statement, one that he feels braver saying, continuing. “And I didn’t screw around on you, y’ know.”

You’re looking at him as if you’re made of glass, irises darting back and forth. He can’t decipher his anticipations, but you save him. “I missed you too. But I had to draw a line, Gator…”

“I know.” He’s resolved to it.

He’s ready to back off, praying it’s not too late. You grasp his wrist, lifting it directly beneath your mouth, and he’s sure he blurts a little in his boxers the moment that your spit settles into his palm. He’s cursing, panting, rocking onto his heels as you lead him between your legs, spreading them, separating two of his fingers, taking them into your warm cunt. His hand tightens on your overflowing waist, fingers instinctively beginning to fuck you, enjoying the devious squelch that echoes. You become more handsy as the minutes pass, eagerly seeking out his chain from his collar to hold onto, rocking against his wrist, bouncing yourself on his fingers — taking what you want.

Gator assists by leaning to lick your nipple into his mouth, letting you hold tightly to his hair, suffocated by your moans and the scent of you. Neither of you hear your date enter the bathroom, not until he’s by the stall and speaking. He doesn’t get the hint, maybe he’ll go away? You don’t want to stop and reject the idea of Gator taking his hand away, leaving his hair, and holding onto his wrist tighter. You give zero fucks if he can hear what you’re doing in here, but he probably thinks Gator makes fun of you —

Your insecurities are tangled into a trap the second that Gator kicks the door open with his boot to give your date an eyeful. Publicly. His eyes widen, posture stiffening, you gasping. Gator adds in a third finger and your legs wobble, making you toss your head back and fuck yourself harder, inner thighs a soaking mess, forgetting everything but the pleasure that you deserve. Your ears are ringing static, a creamy wetness all that can be heard beneath your pleading breaths, uncaring what’s going to happen after, needing to get there NOW.

Gator makes his claim, a lazy little smirk quirking in the corners of his stained mouth. “Be safe on the road, bud.”

[suzukiblu]

Thank-you sentences for an anon behind the cut; alpha Jazz, a dark alley, and a very pretty omega. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Naw,” Red Hood breathes, and grips the back of her neck with both hands and squeezes her sides tight with his thighs. Tight enough that she actually notices the strength behind it, which isn’t particularly typical for her these days. The liminality usually means baseline human strength just doesn’t register the same way. 

Well . . . if he is another liminal, that would certainly explain that, she thinks. Even if he is, though, the muscles squeezing her sides and the muscles her hands are squeezing are, well . . . definitely authentic muscle, put it that way. And much, much more of it than most people have. 

It would also explain why his scent filters don’t seem to be functioning as effectively as they would be for a baseline human. 

Jazz really needs a moment here, but she cannot actually imagine finding a chance to take one in this situation. Just–definitely not, no. 

Again: ngh. 

“That’s not a good–” she tries to start, but Red Hood halfway-headbutts her again and she is increasingly convinced that he’s trying to kiss her right now. Which is bad, because if he figures out what’s keeping him from kissing her right now– 

Red Hood huffs roughly and reaches to grope at the bottom of his helmet–and not anywhere near the filter controls he hit before–and Jazz, in what is very literal self-defense, buries her fangs in his armored, leather-wrapped, blood-spattered neck and bites. And she doesn’t let her fangs puncture all the way through that armor, but they definitely do puncture it, cutting right through the gritty leather jacket and sinking in. 

So Red Hood definitely feels the pressure of her teeth pressing against his mating gland, is what she means by that. 

Red Hood immediately and very obviously forgets what he’s doing to grab the back of her neck again and dig his fingers in with a breathless, gut-punched moan, grinding down clumsily against her embarrassingly hard clit and half-blown knot. Just–Jazz isn’t actually a virgin, given the fact she’s spent more than a few of her ruts checked into carefully-researched and reliably-recommended clinics, but being in rut in a clinic is very different from the experience of a heated-up omega built like what a brick house can only dream to be fucking climbing her for her knot. She’d hoped the pressure of her teeth would settle him a little, or at least help him snap out of it enough to realize what he was trying to do, but it very clearly has not. 

Not even slightly. 

This is also not even slightly like any of her previous dating experience. 

Not that this is a date, obviously, Red Hood is compromised by both whatever’s in his system and the heat it’s triggered–and possibly also the fact that they’re apparently very, very, very, very compatible mates, which is something Jazz needs to not think about right now–and they’ve also literally never met before, and she really knows better than to jump right into things with someone she’s just met by now, considering her life experience up to this point. 

Thanks, Johnny. 

But even if Jazz were a less meticulous and deliberate and “been-burned-before” person, she really, really wouldn’t be the type to knot somebody on the first date. 

Though again, this isn’t a date. And it’s also extenuating circumstances. And– 

Oh, she really needs to do something about this before she does something about this. 

“Your filters, omega,” she tries, her head feeling a little dizzy, and Red Hood whines like hearing it hurts. Which–saying it also hurt, so it probably did, yeah. And just saying it to begin with didn’t hurt anywhere as bad as hearing an omega in need whine like that did. 

Jazz, also, doesn’t have any filters, flawed or not, and her scent-blocker vials are still in her pocket and currently out of reach, given her hands are still full of pleading, whining omega. 

That’s–an issue, yeah. Yes. Very, very much is that an issue. 

She needs to do something about that. Definitely. Just–something. 

Red Hood smells so good, though. Just from one stripped-off blocker, even, which–Ancients, that really implies a lot about how his pheromones would smell if he took off all his scent blockers. 

Jazz is trying very hard not to think about that, but unfortunately she’s not dead yet and is therefore still beholden to her own pheromones and literally everything about having a physical form, even with the liminal senses and strength. 

. . . actually, come to think, the enhanced senses are probably making this situation worse for her too. 

She very much needs to do . . . something. Yes. Yeah.

Something. 

Red Hood halfway-headbutts her again, and her inner alpha has several feelings about how bad he apparently wants to kiss her, and she clenches her teeth before they just bite through the stupid thing, the inside of her mouth tasting like flowers. Which she really, really wishes she were doing right now. Had done already. Could do– 

Red Hood whines again, sounding sad and hurt and like he needs a baby in him so bad, and Jazz’s alpha fangs bite straight through the stupid armor keeping his needy, seeking mouth all locked up away from hers. 

So much for the filters, Jazz vaguely manages to realize, and then Red Hood kisses her like a punch, the broken edges of his helmet dragging against her cheeks and its broken pieces still half-in her mouth, and she forgets . . . whatever she was thinking about. Something. Just . . . something. There was . . . something, that she was thinking about. 

Red Hood makes a breathy, hungry noise with absolutely no trace of a vocoder warping it, and Jazz crushes metal and kevlar and polycarbonate and literal circuits and wires into shards between her teeth, then turns her head just enough to spit them all out onto the ground without quite managing to take her eyes off his bared, pretty mouth. The shards aren’t sharp enough to cut liminal skin, but they’re in the way. 

“Fuck,” Red Hood says. His voice is ragged and breathless and so pretty, and so is the hard, smooth curve of exposed jaw she can see now, and the full lips and flushed skin, and–

[toxicanonymity]

so excited for next raider joel i am literally foaming at the mouth

Company

2.2k / dark raider!joel x dark!f!reader x ofc

raider master

gif by @serenaxpedro

“I’ll do it,” you say, unsure what that even means. Joel looks surprised and impressed.  “You’ll do it, then,” he repeats quietly.

Skip ahead to Raider: Close if you're not into the warnings.

WARNINGS: Striking through extra detailed spoilery warnings but wanna be thorough. These don't all happen to reader. Angst, jealousy, dark reader!, FFM threesome kind of, oral m & f receiving, spanking/pussy slapping, noncon gunplay/penetration, unsafe P in V sex (not btwn Joel and OFC), dubcon via captivity, degradation, cum eating, threat of/allusions to cheating kind of. joel makes reader noncon ofc, f on f oral  PLUS stuff already in play like being chained up.

A/N: Ask 1, Ask 2. TBH I had trouble getting on board with the idea of adding another girl, but eventually a twisted version i could live with came together in my head. Still, I bet some people will not like it. Please don't read if you could be triggered or upset. 🧡 I did not describe the OFC, so please HC her however makes you happy.

-

When Joel gets back, his arms are the first thing you notice.  He’s wearing a body holster with a pistol over his mesh tank top.  The body holster makes his shoulder muscles look even more imposing.  The second thing you notice is that he’s not alone.  He’s dragging another girl by her elbow.  She looks like she’s been crying, but she’s not now.  She’s angry.  Joel doesn’t look at you when he comes in.  He slams the door behind him and hangs up his gun.  He throws her down on the other bed, then cages her with his body.   He holds her chin and and says, “Don’t fuckin’ move.”  She spits in his face.  

He takes a deep breath and cracks his neck without his hands.  ”Been nothin’ but nice to ya,” he says.  “That ends now.”  

Shamefully, your first thought is, what does he mean by ‘nice to her’? Was he the same as he is with you? Did he save her from a worse fate? Did he stroke her cheek and tell her it was going to be alright? Did tell her he was going to take her with him, protect her from far worse men?  How many times has he done this? You hate to think you might not be special.  

Joel unbuttons his pants and looks at the girl menacingly. “Coulda made this enjoyable for ya,” he says regretfully.  “Too bad.”

Your stomach turns and your heart pounds.  Is this all because you kissed him? Is he punishing you for your affection? It’s not fair.  He’s the one who kissed you first in the middle of the night.  Your eyes sting with tears.  You can’t sit here and let this happen.

“What are you doing?” you cry. 

“What am I doing?” he laughs.  He pauses without unzipping his pants.  Finally, he looks at you as he palms himself.  Your eyes follow his hand and you’re relieved to see he’s not fully hard yet. 

“Don’t,” you plead.  “I’ll do whatever you want.”

He unzips his tight jeans and takes his semi-hard cock out.  He asks you, “Where should I put it?” with his pelvis still pointed toward the other bed. 

“Do you have to put it anywhere?” you whimper.  The girl looks at you hopefully like you really have a say.  Like you might be trying to help her. 

“Do I have to,” he grumbles.  You run through the options in your head.  He could put it in her mouth, that’s not too bad. A mouth is just a mouth, right? There’s no way she would do a good job on purpose. But hopefully she wouldn’t bite him, either. 

-

Joel approaches you and spits in his hand.  As he begins to stroke himself with the spit, you say, “Let me.” He holds his cock for you and you try to suck him as good as you can, but he just wants the saliva.  He won’t let you make him come.  Your eyes well up.  

“Shhhh,” he says and cups your cheek as he takes his cock away.  He sighs, then nods back toward the rest of the stash house. “You think they want just any girl? They want what’s mine.” He glances over at the girl then back at you.  He lowers his voice. “She could save your life.” As sweet as that is, it doesn’t make you feel much better about him putting his cock in another woman.  

“Do you really have to?” you plead. 

“Where do you want me to put it?” he asks again.

“In me,” you beg.  He studies your face. 

He looks up at the ceiling contemplatively.  “Well either I’m doin’ it, or you’re doin’ it,” he offers. 

“I’ll do it,” you say, unsure what that even means.  You just know it has to be better than watching or hearing him fuck another girl.  If you have to finger her or even give her head, so be it.

Joel looks surprised and impressed.  “You’ll do it, then,” he repeats quietly.  He unchains you from the radiator and takes the pistol out of his body holster.  He holds it by the barrel and hands it to you.  

Your face goes cold. 

“No,” the girl whimpers, sitting in the corner of the cot with her knees hugged into her chest. 

“You heard her,” Joel says.  “She’s doin’ it. Right, sweet pea?”  

Your hand shakes as you grip the gun.   Joel motions for you to go to the other bed.  

-

“You’re sick,” the girl whimpers at Joel. “Shoot him!” she demands of you.  “What are you waiting for?? SHOOT HIM!” 

Instead, you stand at the end of the cot.  “Get back here,” you say weakly, gun still shaking in your hand.  “And turn over.” 

She shakes her head.  You cock the gun. 

“Damn,” Joel whispers. She still doesn’t move. She cries. 

Joel loses patience and grabs her by the thighs, jerking her to the end of the bed.  He pulls her dress up over her ass, clenches his jaw, and spanks her.  Then he stands between you and the bed.  He spits on his fingers and turns to face you.  He keeps his knuckles facing you as he reaches back and slaps her pussy without looking at her. She yelps. He keeps his hand there and rubs her clit while he stares at you with his hard dick in his other hand. 

“Go on,” he tells you.  “You can do it, sweet pea.” 

“You’re both sick,” she whimpers. 

You steady the gun in both hands, avoiding the trigger, and bring the muzzle to her wet cunt.  She shrieks at the cold ring of metal.  Then you grab her hip for leverage and use your dominant hand to carefully push the barrel into her, gently maneuvering it so it doesn’t catch.  She groans “No.”  

Joel strokes your cheek and looks at you affectionately.  Then he gets behind you, with both of you facing the bed.  He puts his hands on your hips and presses his hard-on into your dress. 

“Go on,” Joel urges and his cock hardens as he pushes it against you.  

You begin to slide the gun in and out of her. 

Joel brings his mouth to your head.  “Good girl,” he whispers and puts his large hands on your hips.  He raises your dress, exposing your ass.  He pulls down your panties, then puts a hand on the small of your back.  You spread your feet more, so relieved and grateful he’s not fucking the other girl.  He flattens his fingers and rubs your clit until you’re wet enough.  It doesn’t take long. 

-

You’ve slowed down with the pistol, focusing more on the feeling of his hand between your legs.  Joel pauses.  “Don’t stop,” Joel cautions.  “Or I’ll do it myself, and not with the gun.”  You start again.  He notches the head of his cock at your entrance and waits. You begin railing her steadily with the barrel of the gun.  “Good, sweet pea,” he murmurs.  

He pushes his tip inside you and you gasp at the stretch, temporarily pausing the rhythm of the gun.  Then he puts one hand on your pelvis for leverage and holds a breast with the other.  He slams his cock into you, jolting you up and forward, with the momentum slamming the gun harshly into her cunt.  She whimpers.  

“Sorry,” you whisper to her and try to steady your hand as Joel fucks you. But the last thing you would do is ask him to stop or ease up. 

Joel drives his length into you steadily.  Your face tenses and your temples feel weak.  You’re still jealous and your mind drifts to whether he’s looking at you or the other girl.  Or is he just watching you fuck her with his gun.  You know he’s an awful man.  Face it, it turns him on. 

You put it out of your mind and focus on the feeling of being filled by him.  His fingers pressing into your skin as his cock impales you, strong but gentle, like him.  You can’t help but moan as he fills you up with his flesh. His cock completes you just right.  You need him to be all yours. 

He switches hands, using his other hand for leverage as he cups your opposite breast.  He buries his mouth in your neck and that makes you feel better, your brow softens.  He bites you and it feels close enough to a kiss that your heart swells.  He sucks your skin, and he moans at the feeling of your nipple hardening into the palm of his hand.  He massages your breast and you begin to twitch around his cock.  He moans into your neck.

“Sweet pea,” he murmurs. “You feel so good.”  Your heart flutters at his words and your lower abdomen buzzes with warmth.  “Whore like that could never. No one else could.” With that validation, you fuck her harder with the gun. “That’s it, baby,” Joel whispers, slamming his cruel cock into you.  “Just like that.”  Your arm gets tired and you switch hands.  It’s so tempting to put down the gun, but you don’t want to find out whether he’d really fuck her.  You don’t want to disappoint him either, and you don’t want him to stop fucking you.

Joel’s hands slither around your body, and his cock pounds into you harder.  “You’re doin’ great, pretty girl.” You feel yourself on the edge of climax.  He slams into you with a grunt. “This pussy’s all mine,” he pants.  “gonna stay that way.”  You lean back into his chest and enjoy the feeling of his body wrapped around yours while you’re wrapped around his cock.  He begins to stroke your clit and you moan.  He breathes heavier and grunts with each thrust. 

He pulls out before either of you come.  You sigh at the loss but his fingers gather slick from your dripping cunt then return to your clit and he outdoes himself.  He puts his mouth to your ear.  “Go ‘head, baby,” and his low whisper makes you see stars.  

You moan and tremble and fall into her, plunging the gun deeper. 

“Pretty when ya come,”  he murmurs and rubs your back while you finish.  Then he grabs your ass affectionately and steps to your side;  You flinch, your ass is even more sore today. 

He slowly pumps his cock and kneels onto the cot with one knee.  He takes your hand and makes you take the gun out. She collapses onto the dirty mattress.  

-

“What’d I do wrong?” you ask him.  

“You did great, sweet pea. You did perfect,” he says as he gets up on the cot and it creaks under his full weight.  

She tries to squirm away and he stops her with a hand on her ass. He’s facing her side and looking at you as he pumps himself.  He straddles one of her legs and you whimper.  He points his cock at her pussy, then he looks at you again as he strokes himself and comes on her ass.  It trickles down her crack to her cunt. You don’t want his cum between her legs, it tugs at your tear ducts, but you’re comforted by his eye contact with you when he came. 

He gets off the cot, tucks his dick away, then comfortingly squeezes your shoulder and watches you watch his cum trickle down.  “You want it so bad, take it,”  he says.  He crosses his arms and nods toward her.  

It feels like a command.  You reach out your hand. 

“Nuh-uh.  With your mouth, sweet pea.” 

You obediently bend at the hips and lean over the cot.  Joel pries her legs open for you.  You plant your mouth between her legs and lick from her cunt, while trying to strain your eyes to meet Joel’s for approval.  “Yeah, get it all, baby.”  You drag your tongue up her crack. 

You swallow it and he holds out his arms for you.  He helps you down from the cot and takes you back over to yours.  “You’re gonna stay here for a li’l bit, sweet pea.  Keep her company.”  

You sniffle. “Do I have to?”

“Yeah, baby. I’ll come back for you later.”  He kisses you on the head and makes sure you’re comfortable before he chains you back.  

-

After Joel leaves, you and the other girl are both silent for a while.  Then she tries to get through to you, tries to convince you that the two of you can outsmart him together.  When pleading doesn’t work, she tries tough love.  “I get it,” she says. “You think he cares about you. But he doesn’t.  You think he’s faithful to you, just because he owns you.”

“He does care.” 

“Well I don’t see your name on his chest.  And his dick sure didn’t taste faithful today.” 

Any sympathy you had for her evaporates with those words. Even if she’s lying, even if she’s trying to play you.  

“Pathetic,” she scoffs.  “You don’t even want to be free, do you?” 

You’re silent for a minute, then get an idea.  “You’re right, I don’t.  But if you really want to, I can tell you how.”   

You know the guard won’t stay at the door all night.  You know the best time and route to get out of the house. If she gets away, good for her.  If she gets caught by one of Joel’s men, oh well. 

-

Thank you so, so much for reading and engaging! Love you guys. You will have your man to yourself next time.

-

if i've left you off please DM me. You can also follow @toxicfics and turn on notifications and you can follow @toxicrecs for my fic recs

[newchangestf]

Two wishes down, one to go

So it turns out my best friend kept a lot of secrets from me. Being deep in the closet was one of them but not one that would have shocked many of us. What would have was if he told us about the lamp he had inherited from a distant relative. The lamp itself wasn't special but the Genie inside certainly was.

Michael was pretty average. We both were to be honest and we've got on like a house of fire ever since we met. I should've suspected he'd developed a crush on me but being straight I was totally oblivious.

One night he chose to make use of his genie. Turns out the whole three wishes thing is true.

It's seems that Micheal's first wish was to become what I can only describe as a Spanish bull. Instantly he swelled up, his body exploding with beefy muscle and dark hair.

Michael had become Miguel. A sexy hunk of Iberian beef. His wish had adapted the world around him and he now sat in a tight fitting Barcelona strip and a pair of white boxers that strained to contain his thick manhood.

He stretched his body and felt that fabric cling to his muscles. It's at this point I walked in.

"Hola chico" he called out.

This triggered his second wish. Before I could even respond and ask who the hell this stranger in Micheal's house was I froze. My eyes locked on to his thick trunk like thighs. I could feel my mouth begin to fill with saliva as I became enthralled by his muscle.

Slowly walking towards him I felt my body shrink. Not just in height, I slimed down too with body fat falling away and relocating itself. Any imperfections gradually fading.

I dropped to my knees and crawled between his thighs, basking in their warm embrace. Reaching forward I released his member from his underwear. With a deep breath I inhaled his musk. The intoxicating smell of sweat invading my mind.

I quickly opened my mouth and took his cock down my throat. Working it like a skilled whore that was no stranger to cock.

After a few minutes. I got up and walked towards the stairs. My clothes gone and now replaced with a revealing jockstrap I looked back at Miguel.

"Let's go to bed" I called to him seductively.

"I've got a present for you..."

-----

I wonder what that third wish could be? Any ideas?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Machinist 3

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as possible bullying, misogyny, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your new boss sets his sights on you. (short!reader)

Characters: August Walker

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

You sit out on your front porch watching the lazy sun. It’s one of the rare days off where you’re not bogged down in chores. Just you and swing and a cup of coffee. After the week you had, you need the moment to just not think. 

You close your eyes and lean your head back. It’s the simple things. All you ever wanted was a place to call your own. You got a job that pays for all that. A job you’re good at but one you enjoy less by the day. 

A honk startles you from your serenity. You open one eye and slowly put your chin straight. The shiny black jaguar is out of place on the sleepy street. A few of the kids playing ball in the neighbours driveway stop to point and stare. Your curiosity hardly awakens as you guess at its driver before he appears. 

August steps out, almost comically big for the sleek sportscar. You sip your coffee and sway on the chains. He tilts his head in challenge as he comes around the hood. 

“Didn’t forget about little old me, did you?” He asks. 

“Just having a coffee,” you answer bluntly. You didn’t forget but hoped he did. 

“You’ll need the energy, I’m sure,” he comes down the walk, almost strutting.  

He doesn’t have his usual cap and flannel. His hair is combed neatly and he wears a navy tee so tight, you can see his muscles. You’re not sure they make any clothing that would fit him appropriately. You continue to drink and stare past him. 

“I’m sure google would be more helpful. That car has bluetooth, doesn’t it?” 

“Not as entertaining he insists, “you’re hardly dressed for a day out.” 

You hum and look down at yourself. You wear a pair of grey-green jogging pants and a loose tee; your usually affair for the week. Alone. You sigh and drain the last of the dark roast. 

“Go get changed,” he orders. 

You look at him but don’t move. His entitlement tweaks your eye brow. You take a breath and let it go slowly. 

“Now don’t go getting uppity,” he warns with a wag of his finger, “we might not be at work, but I’m still the boss,” he climbs the porch steps one at a time and stops, leaning on the post beside him, “aren’t I, princess?” 

You stand with the cup in hand, “sir. I’ll go throw on some jeans.” 

“Skirt,” he corrects you. 

“Don’t have any.” 

“Dress, then. I wanna see your legs.” 

You nearly crumple up in disgust. You repress a snarl and swallow, “none of those either.” 

“If it wasn’t indecent, I’d say naked,” he retorts, “since you only dress like some teen boy. Shorts, then, I’m sure you can find something.” 

You blink dully, “I’ll have to look around. Might take a while.” 

“If I have to come in there,” he warns. 

“Five minutes,” you relent and spin on your heel. 

Despite your promise, you are anything but expedient. You rinse out the mug and leave it in the rack. You make your way upstairs and open your dresser, not paying much mind to any of it. You really don’t have what he’s looking for. You aren’t what he’s looking for. You’re sure he could hit the bar downtown and find a pretty bimbo. 

You pull on a plain burgundy tee and the black jean shorts with a run in one leg. You check your reflection but don’t put much into fixing it. You look fine. Teeth brushed, moisturized, what else can you do? 

As you come downstairs, you’re annoyed to find him in your entryway. He has no shame. He shuffles through the mail on the corner table. You reach for your blue sneakers. He coughs and turns to watch you. 

“Definitely not the heel type, are ya?” He remarks. 

You shrug and tie the laces. You stand straight and grab your denim jacket and keys. He reaches to stop you, grabbing the other sleeve. 

“Whatcha covering up for?” 

You nearly roll your eyes. You won’t give him the fodder. You let go and tuck the keys into the small pocket of the short. You grab your wallet and put it on the other side of your hips. 

“We’ll fix this,” he flicks his finger up and down. “I know you think you can run with the big boys but you’re a woman underneath it all. No point tryna hide.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“I didn’t ask,” he growls, “that’s a problem too. You talk when I want you to.” 

You should tell him to fuck himself. You should spit in his face. By the smug smirk dimpling in his cheek, that’s exactly what he wants. No. You’ll let him get bored. You wipe your expression and blink. 

“Well?” He huffs. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good girl,” he reaches to pat your head like a dog. You try not to wince away, repulsion roiling from his touch. You lift your chin instinctively and he narrows his eyes, stepping closer as he does. He snickers as sets his jaw square, “don’t worry, I know how to break a stubborn bitch like you. Make her into a loyal little hound slobbering for my attention.” 

You look back at him blankly. He waits. You let him. No reaction. Frustration tics in his cheek and his lips straighten. 

“First thing,” he grabs your arm as he turns for the door, “we find something to dislodged the rod from your ass.” 

He drags you outside and keeps hold of you as you turn to lock the door with your other hand. He tugs you so your wrist twists as you struggle to slide the keys free. They jangle with you as he hauls you forward, your feet clattering down the steps. 

“Keep up, princess, your carriage awaits.” 

[givethemsmut]

Cody Rhodes x Reader

Made of Gold | Chapter One

Summary

I was hellbent on finding love in all the wrong places when I tripped over the one person who wasn't buying the rebellion act.

He saw right through me...

Details

Cody Rhodes X Reader

Enemies-to-Lovers

Age Gap (taboo)

18+ (Trigger Warner applies)

WWE mixed with real life

I don’t own WWE characters, IFKYK, etc.

Tons of Smut

Waiting on the side of the road for my bestfriend I knew tonight wouldn't be any different than any other night. We were walking, talking, trouble.

We both would escape our ivory towers where we were forced to wear uniforms to school and behave like the young ladies our parents believed us to be. Together we would sneak into bars and clubs just to get a taste of freedom. Something we weren't going to have until we turned eighteen and left our toxic mansions behind.

Yardbird was a popular bar in Georgia, full of cigar smoke and people trying to feel more important than we actually were. Everything was leather, broken in and full of sin. There were privacy greens and a giant bar. Getting in was easy but not getting thrown out was our problem.

Slipping inside past the security guard that my fellow wild child had fucked made it easy. Our pinkies lacked around each other’s before we grin in each other’s direction. This was where we parted way, making our own trouble, finding someone to love us the way privilege didn’t.

The only difference between us was I was a virgin who liked the chase more than the end game.

Standing at the bar, I ordered myself a vodka soda with cranberry and watched the bartender’s eyes shift down my body strategically.

My cleavage was on display in a low cut bodysuit and my tight black jeans showing off the curves I had. It wasn’t much but I had a butt that sat high and taunt.

“Drink is on me, beautiful.” Laying it on thick, I smiled back but I wasn’t willing to settle.

I had a little game with myself, I would scan the bar and look for the one person I knew would be hard to get and that was my target.

He was blonde, not naturally but bleached, toned muscles that resembled a Greek God instead of a muscle head, surrounded by friends, and I knew I had to have him. He wasn’t flirting with girls or even looking. I wanted the one person who didn’t want to be wanted.

Twisting towards the second bartender I whispered loud enough to hear over the music. “Who is that? People are starring.”

“Cody Rhodes, signed to WWE. They’re celebrating. Wanna send over a drink?”

Bless bartenders for their bad ideas that sound so good when you’re desperate for it to go your way. “Bottle of your best tequila.”

His eyes widened, “That’s $300, easy.”

Slapping my black card on the bar top he suddenly had no more questions. My privlage came with funds, it was the least they could have done.

I sat at the end of the bar, watching him deliver the expensive bottle and point to me at the bar specifically. Ignoring the credit I waited for Cody to swoop over when I saw him out of the corner of my eye.

Setting the heavy bottle down his voice felt like an old song you vaguely remember. “I can’t accept this. It’s an expensive bottle but thank you.”

“I heard you were celebrating. It’s not a big deal, keep it. You deserve it.” I smiled sweetly, pushing the bottle closer to him.

His blue eyes sparkled in the dim light and I felt myself swoon when he leaned into me, “You look a little young to be here. Stay out of trouble.”

He completely chalked me up to a child when he took the bottle back to his table, dismissing any flirting and nothing pissed me off more. No one ever asked me my age before, let alone cared. The fact that he cared about me being too young to be chewed up by the men here only made me want him more.

That’s when I knew if I wanted him I had to get his friend’s attention. It wasn’t hard when Layla and I started dancing together, holding our second drinks, and swaying our hips against each other. There wasn’t really a dance floor at this kind of bar but we made one anyways.

After the song ended, we took a seat at the bar, just waiting for them to bit the way they always did.

My second drink in I could feel the buzz working its way up my body, starting a small fire inside my stomach when one of his buff friends stood next to me. “Another drink of whatever she is having.” Pausing, he looked down at me from his tall height, “Absolutely beautiful”

Offering a smile you couldn’t resist I twisted in my seat, my legs colliding with his and his hand slipping up the outside of my thigh.

I let my eyes look around him, trying to find Cody, and see if he was watching. Coming up empty I slipped off the barstool, my ass pressed against his crotch and grabbing my leather jacket on the back of the stool.

Cody was sitting a few seats down, surrounded by friends, when I noticed his eyes glued to me. Giving him a mischievous smile, I spoke to his friends even tho my eyes were locked with Cody’s. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

Standing up when he heard my words, I tried not to look accomplished when he stomped over to me. “Austin, a word.”

“Seriously, dude? I’m a little busy right now.”

He looked right at me, “She’s under age. You’re stupid but not that stupid.”

His friend was too drunk to even care. “It’s one night, bro. Don’t worry so much.”

The weight of his arm slung around my neck felt like a work out when he started to lead us to the door. Cody’s hand on his shoulder stopped us again, “See the blonde at the end of the bar? All yours. She’s already primed. This one is mine. Throwing his hands up like Cody’s word was law he moved on without so much as an apology. “Where do you live? I’m getting you an Uber.”

“No, thanks. I’m having too much fun ruffling your feathers,” I said before shooting back another shot. I was way more tipsy than I had ever been before and trouble felt a lot more dangerous with Cody’s hand around my arm. “I saw you watching me.”

“More like protecting you. These guys aren’t boyfriend material. How old are you anyways?”

“Keep it down, buzzkill.” He dragged me to the side of the bar where the entrance to the bathroom was hidden. It was perfect place to not be seen. Pushing me against the wall, he crowded me, our bodies almost touching. “No one is looking for a boyfriend,” I snapped back.

“How old are you?” He asked again.

“Almost legal. A few months away doesn’t change how tight my pussy is.”

I watched his throat bob with a hard swallow. “Not my type, I prefer legal.”

“Then why were you watching me all night?” The shots were half the reason for my sharp tongue when I kept poking the bear.

“Because I feel bad for you. I used to be you. Fighting against all the privilege just to make them pay attention more. Hoping a string of wrong guys pisses them off so you choose to be a slut. Am I close?”

Chewed up and spit out the same way he claimed to be protecting me from.

“You’re an asshole,” I wanted it to hurt but I knew it didn’t hurt as much as his words. Pushing past him, I didn’t even look back as the sting of failure settled in.

The cold air of evening hit my face but it wasn’t enough to sober me up. The bell above the door chimed when I looked over my shoulder to see Cody bringing me my leather jacket. “Let me take you home at least.”

I knew there was a sliver of hope and the liquid courage was only cheering me on to make bad decisions. “I’m the F150 across the street.”

Cody’s big ass truck sat along the curb all murdered out, completely black on black. Opening the door for me I climbed in thankful I was wearing pants tonight otherwise everyone would have gotten a show.

My hand found its way to his thigh and I watched his head drop forward in frustration. “I’m just driving you home. That’s all.”

“What if I’m already a slut? What if you aren’t the only older guy I’ve been with?” My hand didn’t leave his thigh, sneaking high and high while he drove.

“Doubtful. What are you, in high school? Why don’t you find yourself a jock boyfriend?”

I sighed loudly, taking my hand back, “Not my type. The next hotel is fine.”

I knew I couldn’t go home like this and I was used to crashing at hotels instead of going home. Every weekend was a blur of mistakes and men that I would never follow through with. I would get right up to the line only to call it a night.

“Hotel? I’m not leaving you in a hotel. I might as well let Austin take you back to his place then.”

“Maybe you should have. I’m not going home wasted, hard pass. It’s either your place or hotel.” I said sternly while gazing out the window.

Making a hard U-turn against the gravel he headed the opposite direction. “I’m not fucking you. Let’s make that clear right now. I’m not leaving you at a hotel to get date raped by some perv.”

“You sound like a lot of fun…” Sarcasm dripped from my mouth as he kept driving towards his home. Once we finally got there he parked in the driveway of a cute house with brick accents and a big yard. Rounding the car he opened the door for me and helped me down like a gentleman. Something about him didn’t just make my panties wet but my heart speed up.

“Welcome to my house. There’s some guest rooms you can use for the night or the couch if you prefer.” Unlocking the door I walked into a complete bachelor pad full of wrestling memorabilia, family photos framed on the walls, and minimal decor the way a woman’s touch provides.

Dropping my bag on the kitchen island I slipped my jacket off. “Can I barrow a shirt?” I bridged the gap between us and my hand pulled his shirt like I wanted his.

Leaning into me, his mouth found my ear and he whispered, “Nice try but you’re not going to break me. I can control myself.”

Rolling my eyes I sighed internally, annoyed more than ever. He left me there to go grab a shirt when I twirled around aimlessly, snooping, taking in his home until I ventured up the stairs.

Catching a glimpse of Cody, adjusting his fresh sweatpants and still shirtless. I wanted to watch but the other part of me wanted to crawl into his bed. Leaning against the door frame I scared him, making him jump, “Jesus, you’re practically perfect. You said I reminded you of yourself. What does that mean?”

His square jaw tensed and his baby blues seemed cloudy, “Yeah, the pressure of a successful family. To be like them, to bee perfect, to make a name for yourself but don’t forget you’re a legacy. The way they want to take credit for who you are but not actually raise you. My father is a legend in WWE and so is my brother… believe it or not, I know exactly why you’re acting out.”

Tossing me a fresh shirt I caught it, walking over to the bed I pulled my phone from my back pocket and pushed my jeans down my legs. My thong only flattered my curves more when he turned around quickly. Not wearing a bra, I unclasped the bodysuit and pulled it off down my legs exposing my c-cup breasts. “I just want to forget, pretend a hotel is my home, be free.”

“Few months, right? You will be.” He peeked, peeling his eyes open to check I was wearing his shirt.

I sat on the end of his bed, opening my legs and hoping it was enough to finally break him when he sauntered over to me. “Even if you were twenty three like me, I still wouldn’t fuck you the way you want. I only fuck girls who leave in the morning and your father would probably love me. I’m bad for your plan to piss them off.”

“Suit yourself, Cody.” My hands pressed against his chest, “It’s not everyday you get to deflower a virgin.”

Leaving his room I stopped on the stairs when I heard him muffle a groan. Smiling to myself I skipped down the stairs and crashed on his couch. I expected him to be up before me but maybe he was simply sleeping in when I decided to let my hand trail down my stomach to the front of my panties.

I had the wildest dream last night, soaking my panties and I couldn’t help but touch myself. I was beyond ready to ditch the virginity but not for anyone, I was Hellbent on Cody now.

His brown leather couch engulfed me, sitting in with my fingers teasing my clit through my panties. A soft moan escaped my lips and my hips chased my fingers even more. I didn’t even hear the door close when Cody walked into the open concept space.

“Whoa. Fuck.” He stopped with a scuff of his sneakers and I had to get my breathing under control. “Are you trying to kill me? Do you know how fucking hard it is to sleep upstairs knowing you’re down here in a fucking thong and my shirt and not fuck you? I have a contract to think about, not going to jail for fucking someone in high school.”

Peering above the back of the couch, I watched Cody brace the kitchen island and let his head hang. “Six months until I’m eighteen doesn’t change anything. I’m not miraculously a different person. All it means is I’m horny as fuck.”

Just starring at me he cleared his throat. “Please put your panties back on so I can take you home.”

Slipping my panties off I fingered the string, draping it over his shoulder. “Protecting me from you isn’t going to protect me from fucking anyone else. Don’t worry, I called an Uber already.”

Pulling my jeans on without my panties, stepping into my heels, and grabbing my stuff I headed outside to flag an Uber down I hadn’t called yet.

I started walking while I waited, avoiding standing in his driveway, and all I could think about was Cody half naked. All I wanted to do was lick every muscle on his body. He could say no now but he wasn’t going to say no forever.

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 4861

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, mental illness, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

11. Palmiers

Bucky

Because he’s on the far end of the spectrum, Bucky’s sex drive is affected by his condition. He wakes up hard almost every morning of his life, and Steve doesn’t need much encouragement to get himself worked up into the same state very quickly. Mutual morning jerk offs were always bound to become part of their routine.

They take a shower and stand toe to toe, hands sliding and groping all over each others’ slick bodies, pulling on their cocks until both of them are shooting off against each other’s bellies. The water washes it away, and Steve gives him a deep, happy kiss. “Mmm. Mornin’.”

“Blegch. Go brush your teeth, you heathen.”

Steve laughs and gets out of the shower. Bucky stays in for a few minutes longer, adjusting the spray to its hardest setting and letting the hot water beat down on his back and shoulders. He sighs and stretches his neck this way and that, trying to get his vertebrae to pop, but his muscles are all too tight, and the stretching just seems to make it worse. Bucky drops his head in defeat. In all honesty, his shoulders and neck and back are all pretty fucked after months of near-constant use of his prosthetic.

Steve’s right: he doesn’t usually wear it this much. And he’s also right that Bucky’s been wearing it all day every day because he wants to feel powerful and able bodied in front of Mary. As per usual, Steve is the first one to have noticed what maladaptive behavior pattern he’s doing and why, and pointed it out to him. It really is for the best, Bucky knows. Because he can’t sustain wearing the arm all the time anymore. The thing is just too damn heavy.

The engineers who designed it have made tweaks and adjustments over the years. They’ve done all they can to lighten the load as much as possible, but the thing still weighs over twenty pounds. Twenty pounds doesn’t sound like much, but when it’s pulling on the same muscle groups day in and day out, everything in Bucky’s body winds up getting strained and unbalanced. He understands better now, how women fuck up their necks so badly from shouldering their purses (or their tits) around. A little bit of weight makes a big difference.

As a Dom, Bucky may have a tiny problem admitting when he needs help. He has to be in quite a bit of pain, trouble, or both, before he’ll ever speak up and allow himself to be vulnerable like that. It’s an inherent behavior that shrinks have been trying to therapize and medicate out of him since he was a kid, but nothing ever changed it much. Falling in love with Steve helped; Bucky can let himself be more vulnerable around him. But even still, it’s no small thing that he regularly approaches his husband to ask for help in getting his arm back on correctly (Bucky can do it, but it’s a pain in the ass, getting the mechanism lined up just right before it’ll take). 

He gets out of the shower and dries off, then approaches Steve with the prosthesis. “Gimme a hand?” 

Steve makes a cheerful noise of acknowledgement around his mouthful of toothpaste, spits and rinses, then takes the arm from Bucky. He lines it up just so, and then Bucky feels the deep shudder of the arm’s inner workings coming to life as they recognize their mate. The arm attaches and Steve lets go. 

“Thanks babe.”

“Uh huh.” 

It’s as Bucky’s bending over and pulling up his underwear and joggers that a spasm runs through his back and he cries out in a pained, “Ah!”

“Babe? What’s wrong?”

Gritting his teeth, Bucky slowly stands back up. He’s able to get his pants up, but when he tests the movement of his neck and shoulders, the pain flares again. It feels like everything between the base of his skull and his mid back is seizing up. “Fuck,” he hisses, frustrated. It’s his day off. He’d been planning to go to the gym for his long workout. 

Steve steps up and puts a worried hand on his left shoulder. “Babe? Do you need it off?” 

“No. I need some painkillers and a magnesium tablet,” he grunts, already turning around (full body, because turning his head is a bad idea right now). “Fuck.” He starts off for the kitchen. 

Steve follows along with worried protests, telling him to lay his “stubborn ass” down and he’ll get it for him. Bucky ignores him and goes to the kitchen cabinet where they keep their supplement stuff. He winds up yelling again when he tries to reach up and grab the ibuprofen. “Fuck!” he says angrily.

“Babe, I said to let me do it,” Steve scolds, his hand back on Bucky’s shoulder. “And let me take this off. It’s hurting you.”

“Steve, back off,” he snaps, angry and waspish from being in pain, and from being frustrated with his own goddamn body. 

“What’s going on?” 

Bucky turns his head without thinking, hisses in pain, and then turns himself full-body to face in Mary’s direction. She’s standing there looking at the two of them in concern, one hand holding one of those swirly, flaky, crack-cookies that she makes, and the other holding a cup of tea. Her eyes widen at the sight of Bucky’s arm and body, reminding him that this is the first time she’s seen him without a shirt on. “Nothin’,” Bucky grunts.

“Shit,” she says. “Are you guys fighting? Is this a couples’ fight? I’ll just …” She turns to leave back towards her room.

“We’re not fighting,” Steve says. “Buck’s just being an ass. He gets that way when he’s in pain.”

Bucky would turn his head to glare at him, but it isn’t worth another flair of agony in his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he says, when Mary comes back over. “It’s fine,” he stresses. He opens the pill bottle and dumps three capsules into his palm. “Jeez, will everybody stop babying me? I just need a glass of water.” 

“I’ll get it,” Steve says, causing Bucky to huff once again. “Don’t be a jerk, babe.”

“Why are you in pain?” Mary asks, her eyes tracing all over the left side of Bucky’s scarred up body. “Is it … does your arm hurt?” 

“No. It just fucks up my muscles, sometimes.”

“Your muscles?”

Bucky sighs impatiently. “Steve, do you know where the heating pad is?”

“I’ll have to look.” Steve has returned with a glass of water, and Bucky tosses back the handful of pills, wincing at how even the slight motion of raising his arm up makes his trap twinge in protest. “Ugh.” 

“You should get a massage,” Mary suggests, and Bucky fights not to lash out at her. She doesn’t know that one of his biggest pet peeves in life is having other people tell him what he “should” do.

“My PT maxed out back in October,” he tells her. “Doesn’t renew again till January.”

Steve takes the water glass from him once he’s done. “Go lie face down on the bed,” he murmurs. “I’ll find the heating pad.”

“Well I could do it,” Mary blurts out. Both Bucky and Steve pause and look at her. She looks surprised, too, as though she hadn’t been planning to say the words until they were out of her mouth, and now doesn’t know how to continue  “Um, that is ..." she gestures weakly with her cookie. “I just meant I know how to, if you wanted.” Eventually her cheeks color and she looks away. “Erm, Nevermind.”

“Wait,” Steve says. When Mary turns back, he’s looking at her earnestly, and Bucky thinks, Oh no. “You know how to give a back massage? Like a real one?”

“Yeah. My, ah, my ex always had neck problems, so.” She shrugs, looking embarrassed. “I took a class at the community college, learned the basics.”

Bucky blinks. That’s the subbiest fucking thing he’s ever heard. “You did this for the husband that beat you?” he drawls, immediately regretting it because it comes out sounding way more derogatory than he intends it to. “Sorry. I just … actually would pay good money for a massage right now. If you know how to do it.” 

Mary bites her lip, looking deliciously shy and sweet. Bucky’s mood sours as he realizes that she doesn’t really want to. He’s about to let her off the hook, but then some unconscious movement he makes without meaning to has him flinching in pain again. “Sheezus,” he complains. 

“It’s not usually this bad,” Steve worries.

“I must’a slept on it wrong.”

Mary nods, as if this settles it. “Okay. Well, go in the bedroom and tie your hair up so it's out of the way.” She turns to Steve, all but dismissing Bucky now that she’s got a task to complete. Bucky fights back an amused smirk as he heads towards the bedroom, and he hears Mary bossing Steve around, telling him she needs dry oil, the heating pad, towels, and all the seat cushions off the couch. 

The fuck does she need those for? Bucky thinks as he pads back into his and Steve’s room.

He finds out a moment later, when Mary and Steve come in with a couch cushion each, and Steve goes back out to get another. They lay them in a line on the bed, and Mary directs Bucky to lie on top of them, with his body placed just so and his face down just there, and … Oh. He gets it.

She’s left space between the cushion under Bucky’s chest, and the next cushion up, which supports his forehead. The gap creates a drop through for his face—like a massage table. And when she shapes the towel into a donut shape and sticks it there, it's pretty much perfect.

“Oh,” Bucky says, as he’s settling into place. “Oh, that’s actually really smart.” He can’t see Mary from his position, but somehow he senses her preening over the praise anyway. Steve returns from the bathroom with the heating pad and oil. “Found this stuffed in the back of the linen closet. I don’t know what ‘jojoba’ is, but, um … it’s either that or the virgin olive out in the pantry.”

“Do not use that,” Bucky grumbles. “Shit’s expensive, and I don’t wanna smell like garlic truffle for the next three days.”

“That’ll work fine.” Mary is totally task focused, ignoring Bucky’s surliness and telling Steve to apply the heating pad across Bucky’s shoulders and neck for thirty minutes before they get started.

“Thirty minutes?!” Bucky complains, unable to see anything but the top of the bedcovers as the two of them go out into the hallway. 

“Just relax, Babe,” Steve says (and if Bucky isn’t mistaken, he sounds amused). “Take a nap.”

“I just woke up!” He scoffs at the bedspread when the door quietly ‘snicks’ shut and he realizes that he’s been abandoned. “Well okay then,” he mutters petulantly. Steve is right: he does turn into an ass when he’s in pain. Hmm. Maybe he should work on that.

Steve

Steve turns the tv onto a low volume so they can talk without Bucky hearing. “Sorry about him,” he says. “He’s a humongous jerk whenever he’s feeling crummy.”

“You mean it’s not just all the time?” Mary drawls.

“He’s … just one of those people you have to learn to love before you like them.” Mary raises an eyebrow, and Steve winces. “Er, that sounded harsh. Don’t tell him I said that.”

She twists her lips and looks down. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

“Thanks, Hon. You want more tea?” 

“Yes please. There’s more of the palmiers in a baggie next to the coffee pot, if you want any.” 

“Heck yeah, I love those things.” Steve had thought the prepackaged ones at Starbucks were good, hadn’t even realized that they weren’t supposed to be all stale and hard like that. Just another commercialized pastry that Mary’s gone and ruined him for. He goes into the kitchen and makes himself coffee and Mary tea, knowing by now how she takes it.

She thanks him silently as he returns and joins her on the couch, both of them sitting close to one another on the chaise, since it’s the only part of the couch that still has its cushion.

"Palmier is French. Know what else they call these?" Mary asks.

Steve's lips quirk. Mary's always got these little facts she knows about the origins of this pastry or that. It's cute. Endearing. "No," he plays along. "What?"

"Elephant ears, because of the shape, see?"

"Oh yeah. Huh. That's neat."

She goes back to eating and sipping at her teacup, and after a moment of unrequited, affectionate staring, Steve looks away. "Elephant ears," he murmurs, trying not to be mopey. "That's funny."

They split the palmiers between them, and aside from the sounds of them munching cookies and sipping their drinks, it’s quiet for a long time. Steve made both the tea and the coffee very hot, so they at least have the excuse of cradling and blowing on their steaming mugs to keep the silence from being too awkward. Mary keeps her eyes trained forward, but Steve gets the sense that she isn’t really paying attention to the home renovation program that’s playing on the tv. His suspicions are confirmed when she eventually asks,

“So: His arm.”

Steve inhales slowly. “Yeah. His arm.”

“What happened?”

Steve frowns. He can tell by her inflection that she’s asking not just about the arm, but about the state of Bucky’s entire left side from shoulder to hip. “We were in the army,” he confides. “Deployed overseas. I made captain young, but he was a specialist in the field: a sniper. So I wasn’t put into the same types of situations as he was. His convoy got blown up by an IED. And when the dust settled …” He shrugs. “No more arm.”

“Oh.” Mary sits there and absorbs that information. “I guess I kind of figured it was something like that. I mean what else is there, besides like, a shark attack or something?”

Steve’s mouth twitches. Shark attack, ha. He’ll have to suggest that one to Buck. Might be fun to lie about, the next time a stranger asks. “Naw, just a boring old bomb. And afterwards, well. It was a long road for him, after. He didn’t have the arm when I met him.”

Mary turns her head, surprised. “Oh. You two didn’t meet in the army?”

“No, after. I met him at the V.A., when he was already angry, hurt, and didn’t want to be where he was.” Steve looks over and gives her a meaningful look. “Kind of like when I first met you.” 

Her eyes widen, and then her face colors and she looks away again, pulling her knees up and hunkering over her mug. “Was I really that bad?” she mumbles.

“... You were pretty bad, Honey.”

She frowns and doesn’t say anything, and Steve decides to leave it alone. “So yeah, his arm. He got into a program for experimental cybernetics. It was a big gamble. Back then, he still had his arm down to nearly the elbow, which meant he could use a lot of the different types of prostheses they had on the market. The less arm you have, the less they can do for you. The surgeries for the implant required removal all the way up to and including his left shoulder blade. So if he went through with it and the procedures didn’t work out, he’d be left with less function than he started with.”

“Jeez.”

“Hm, yeah. It was a risk.” Steve stares across the living room as he remembers all of the hospital stays and surgeries and revisions and therapy appointments. “Luckily it worked out. They replaced some bones with metal supports, some of his natural muscle with enhanced synthetic tissue. His body didn’t reject any of the junk they were putting in him, which was the biggest worry. All in all, it took five surgeries over the course of three years, and then a shit ton of physiotherapy. Buck says it was worth it, now, but it wasn’t a walk in the park when it was happening, I’ll tell you that.”

Beside him, Mary makes a sad little noise in her throat. “But … all that and it still gives him pain?”

“Yeah. He gets PT for it, but like he said; it never winds up lasting the full year. I force him to my veterans' support group when I can, but he’s gotta be in a really charitable mood for that.” Steve snorts humorlessly. “He’s always hated being disabled. It doesn’t jive with his DPD. You know that stereotype about men: never wanting to stop and ask for directions?” 

“Yeah.”

"Well it's true. And then you take a guy who’s as far on the spectrum as Bucky is, and it’s ten times worse.” He widens his eyes in emphasis and gets a little giggle out of Mary for it, which makes him warm with pride. He pulls his feet up onto the couch next to Mary’s and nudges her knee with his. “Just fair warning: He’s the worst patient I’ve ever seen. So don’t take it personally if he’s grumpy at you in there.”

Mary frowns and looks away. “Well, I mean I don’t have to do this. If he doesn’t want to.”

“Pretty sure he wants to. And he needs help with it, whether his stubborn ass wants to admit it or not.”

She nods, though she still doesn’t look confident. “It’s been over a year since I worked on anybody …”

“Well then this’ll be good practice for you, won’t it?” Steve nudges her again in encouragement and tells her to finish up her tea: He doesn’t expect Bucky’ll lie around patiently for much longer.

(“Oh, and Hon, maybe don’t tell him we were out here talking about him this whole time.”)

(“Duh.”)

In the bedroom, Mary climbs onto the bed next to where Bucky is laid out on the couch cushions. She takes the heating pad off his neck and puts it aside, looking nervously over the broad expanse of his back. “Um …” She reaches for the oil bottle and pumps some into her hands. She spends a long, long time just spreading it between her hands and staring at Bucky, until finally he snaps,

“What’s the holdup?” 

“Babe, be nice,” Steve warns. “Mary? You need anything?”

“Um, no. It’s just … usually I'd ..." She makes an aborted move, like she's thinking about repositioning herself, but winds up staying where she is. "Right," she mutters to herself. "This'll work fine." She reaches forward like she’ll start rubbing Bucky’s back, hesitates, shuffles closer to his side, then sets her hands on his shoulders.

Bucky doesn’t so much as twitch, but he’s not used to new people touching him, and Steve would bet money that his eyes are clenched shut right now.

“Okay,” Mary warns. “I haven’t done this in awhile, so don’t get your hopes up for a miracle or anything.”

“Anything’ll be better than what I can do myself,” Bucky says gruffly, voice somewhat muffled by the cushions. “Just go to town. You can’t hurt me any worse.”

Steve can see Mary’s face, and he knows by now what she looks like when she’s flustered. Awkwardly, he steps to the side, heading for the door. “I’ll just go watch some—”

“No!” Mary squeaks, and when Steve turns back around she’s looking at him with wide eyes. “Don’t leave,” she says, like being left alone touching Bucky is the worst possible thing that could happen. Steve doesn’t miss how the muscles in Bucky’s arms do tense at hearing her plead for Steve to stay. 

“Uhm, okay. I’ll just … be over here.” He leans back against the dresser, feeling almost painfully awkward. Once again, he’s reminded how Mary has shown absolutely no desire to engage in sexual contact with them. He hopes she doesn’t think this is a ploy to force physical contact. She was the one who suggested it, after all.

She starts at the base of Bucky’s skull, rubbing her thumbs in small circles. “As I go along, try to tell me which areas feel the worst,” she murmurs, and Bucky hums in acknowledgement. Steve watches as she pushes and circles and kneads Bucky’s neck, working down on into his shoulders. He’s struck by how feminine and tiny her hands look against Bucky’s body … and then has to steer his mind away from the thought of how tiny they might look in other places.

“Ah, fuck,” Bucky gasps, when she reaches a certain spot on the left side of his neck.

She freezes. “Bad?” 

“Nngh. Good,” he slurs. “That whole area from there goin’ down into my back ‘n all around my shoulder blade is where it’s worst.”

“Okay.” She tentatively presses around in and around the left side of his neck and shoulder. “Oh, yeah. It starts right here and goes down.” She slides her hand down the muscle and hums. “Oh, I can feel it.”

(Steve tries really hard not to think sexual thoughts.)

“Riiight here? and … here?"

Between the cushions, Bucky’s voice comes out in a series of garbled moans.

“That’d be a yes,” Steve interprets, and Mary actually shoots him a grin at that. Glad to have cut the tension a bit, he dares to take a few steps closer to the bed. He peers down at what Mary’s doing, the way her fingers dig in at sharp, focused points in some places and rub more gently in others. “It’s your trap that’s the worst,” she mutters distractedly, feeling around with her hands and staring off into space with the tip of her tongue poking out at the corner of her mouth. It’s cute. “Mmm, but probably your levator scapulae, too. Those tend to get fucked up hand in hand.”

“Mmrr.”

“And here: your rhomboid.”

“Ooh!”

“Tender?” 

“Shuyeahhh,” Bucky grunts, then his breath hitches when she digs into another spot. “Oh, yep yep right there. Was’that?”

Steve can’t help but grin. Bucky sounds like he’s drooling at this point.

“Your trapezius muscle. It's big. Does a lot of work, covers a large area. Probably the main offender.” Mary hums and feels around a little more. “Oof, yeah. You’ve got a whole bunch of tension right here.”

“You can feel it?” Steve asks, fascinated. He can't see anything.

“Yeah. Here, gimme your hand.” Steve is taken aback when she grabs his hand and guides his fingers into place, her own smaller hand pressing down. “Riiight there. You feel it?”

Steve swallows thickly. “Ah, yeah.” His eyes flick from her hand on his hand on Bucky’s back, up to her face, and back again before she can catch him looking. “Y-yeah it’s hard.” He grimaces at his choice of words (If he's not careful, "it" soon will be).

“I’m gonna focus on this one for a few minutes,” Mary tells Bucky. Then you can guide me around to the other bad spots.”

“Sounds good,” he slurs. Steve is about to take a step back again, but then Bucky calls out, “Hey Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“Pay attention to what she’s doin’. It feels really fuckin’ good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mmhm. You can learn n' do it next time,” he says dreamily. On his back, Mary’s hands still for the briefest of seconds. “S’goood.”

Steve nods and comes back to sit on the bed. “Okay,” he agrees, scooting in close and glancing at Mary. Her face looks pinched all of a sudden, her expression stiffened as if in annoyance. “I promise I’m not as dumb as I look,” he jokes, and watches as her face smooths out and she smiles a little.

“Oh! Oh no it’s … it’s okay, I don’t mind. I’ll teach you how.”

“Don’t mind me, m’just a teaching tool,” Bucky drawls, and Steve laughs and pats his shoulder. 

“Yeah you are. So shut up and let her teach.”

Bucky grunts and shuts up. Steve looks to Mary for instruction. He can tell she’s uncomfortable, but she manages to hide it well and keep herself on track. The more he pays attention, the sooner she can get herself out of this and never have to do it again. “Ready to learn,” he tells her.

“Now when you’re doing this, you can get more leverage if you straddle his waist.” She says this like it’s a foregone assumption that she would never dare to sit on Bucky’s waist, and Steve is sure she doesn’t notice the grumpy huff of breath Bucky gives.

“Right,” Steve says, pained. “Okay, so where are the bad spots again?”

“Put your hand here.” She takes his hand again and places it just to the left of Bucky’s spine at the level of his shoulder blade. “Slide your fingers out. There. Feel that difference? Feel how it changes when you move out to just … there?” She guides his fingers, and Steve nods. 

“Y-yeah.” Mostly, he’s just thinking about how nice Mary’s warm, oiled, tiny hand feels guiding his hand around. “Yeah.”

“The trap’s on top, but there are other muscles underneath of this one, and that differentiation you feel is where the rhomboid is ending and the—”

She keeps talking, and Steve tries to pay attention and learn, he really does. But his mind is a veritable sieve, for how well he retains the information. It’s all in one ear and out the other, ninety percent of his attention stuck on Mary’s hands on him, guiding him, pressing on his fingers and gliding his touch over Bucky’s skin. Fuck, how did they wind up here? 

Eventually, having taught Steve the basics, Mary lets him go and works on Bucky’s shoulders for a little while more. For the most part it’s quiet, with Bucky making soft grunts of pain whenever she finds a new cluster of knotted muscle, and sighs of relief once she works them out. 

Her hands linger on Bucky’s mid back when she’s done. She doesn’t seem to know what to do. “Erm. Okay. I think … I think that’s it.”

When neither Bucky nor Steve says anything, she retreats on her own, getting off the bed and looking between Bucky’s prone form and Steve’s sorrowful expression. “So, kay. You can get up, if you want. Just move slowly.”

Bucky’s right hand gives her the thumbs up symbol, but the entire rest of his body doesn’t move. “Thanks Mare. Just give us a second. That was really good. Thank you. Thanks for teaching Steve.”

It’s the “Thanks for teaching Steve” that seems to do it. Mary’s expression firms up and she nods curtly, leaving the room and shutting the door behind her. Steve stays sitting on the bed next to Bucky in silence for a long minute, then says knowingly, “Got a boner?”

“Yep.”

*To anyone who's only ever had store bought, pre-packaged palmiers: I'm so sorry. Along with Madeleines, those should never be eaten more than a few hours max after they've been baked.

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Square N3: Body Swap

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[iliketangerines]

I know it’ll be a while before you see this😭but your Erron Black fic (working relationship) inspired me to think of a cool (and kinky) idea:

There’s a part in the fic you wrote where Erron and the reader had fought off the vicious Outworlders from assassinating Kotal Kahn, but what if the reader WAS an outworlder trying to assassinate the Kahn. The attempt failed and she was imprisoned. Where am I going with this? I know some Mkx Outworld men aren’t that popular in the fic world, but what if Kotal sent his closest 3 adversaries to “punish” her efforts? Yes, I’m talking about the cowboy, soul boy, and lizard man.

Love your writing so much❤️❤️❤️

pay for your crimes

a/n: mm mm MM. also, i do NOT condone this behavior in real life

pairing: erron black x afab!reader x syzoth x ermac

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), noncon, slight pet play, orgasm denail, chest play, anal, double penetration, face fucking, gun play

you had been so close to killing the Kahn, blade just mere millimeters from his throat, your plan working perfectly to distract his guards

and then, a bullet had rang into your shoulder, giving the Kahn just enough time to pin you and cuff you, throwing you into the cells to draw some information out of you

Mileena had hired you, trusting in you to kill the Kahn, and you had failed, ending with a collar on your neck chained to the floor and your arms tied behind you

they had also taken the measure in chaining both of your ankles to the floor, every restraint drawn tight to make sure you had no leeway to even move a single centimeter

you had long lost feeling in your arms and your feet, and you can’t even hang your head to rest, the collar choking you if you even dared to move

it left you exhausted, muscles trembling with the effort to keep your legs straight as to not choke yourself by relaxing yourself

but it was only light torture, you could deal with this for a few more days, but still, the hours dragged on as your mouth became parched and your muscles burned with effort

the sound of the cell door creaking open catches your attention, and you don’t make a single sound as you watch three men walk in

it’s a strange group, one man dressed in a hat not of Outworld, a Zaterran, and the collection of souls that often sat at Kotal’s side

you can’t seem to care as you focus on keeping your neck straight so that you can breathe properly, but an irritated grunt leaves your mouth as they encircle you

there’s a look in the gunslinger’s eyes, a look you don’t quite like, and you bare your teeth at him, growling despite the little energy that you have left

he grins at you from underneath the mask, and he gets comfortable on the dirty prison floor, drawing his pistol out of its holder and using it to fix the tilt of his hat before pointing it lazily at you

you remain silent as he asks you questions about Mileena, where her camp was, what her next operations were, any information in general about the former Kahn

the other two simply wait patiently, boring holes into your back as they observe your figure, but you ignore them

she had only hired you as a contract killer, but you knew her personally when you had worked under Shao Kahn and Shang Tsung

your lips would remain sealed about her, and the gunslinger seems to realize it as well, sighing and bringing the pistol closer to you

he cocks it, the click echoing in the prison cell, and then he shoves it into your mouth, the taste of gunpowder and smoke laying flat on your tongue

it makes you grunt in surprise, and he cocks his head at the other two and the sound of shuffling and clinking fills the room as the chains on your ankle and collar loosen

your body sags slightly in relief as your legs relax, but the gun stays firmly in your mouth as the gunslinger says if you try anything funny, he’ll pull the trigger

you believe him, you’ve seen him in action before when you were studying the layout of the palace and the guard rotations and Kotal’s usual walking spots

it doesn’t stop you from huffing angrily, glaring at him the best you could muster while still kneeling on the ground before him, and he seems to smirk underneath the mask

Erron Black, he introduces himself, and then your hear the other two introduce their names, Syzoth and Ermac

two strong hands clasp onto your shoulders as the chains on your ankles fall away and the chain on your collar is unlocked from the wall

Syzoth hands the chain connected the collar to Erron, and he grins as he tugs at it slightly, making your mouth sink further on the gun and you to slightly choke on it

your hands flex, still restrained behind your back, and your legs don’t have enough blood in them to try and fight with only them

a scaly hand trails down your back, ripping at the cloth with its claws, and an icy hand of fear trails down along with him

the gunslinger moves to stand to your side, making your head crane along with him, and says to get to know their names well, you’ll be screaming them soon enough, and with a loud rip your shirt is ripped away from you

before you can even try and retaliate, an invisible force grabs onto your body and pulls your legs apart further than you thought they could stretch

it’s a sort of green energy surrounding your legs, and a faint green energy pulsates from Ermac’s hands as your eyes dart around to try and find the source of the control

Syzoth gets onto his knees first in front of you, his tongue flicking out and tasting the air, tasting the scent of your fear as the reality of the situation settles in

he lets out an airy laugh at the smell of it and coos at you, promising that it wouldn’t hurt too much, and his clawed hands twitch at his sides

his voice makes you shiver as he says that he’s had nowhere to release his pent-up energy, can’t go back to a home too far away, can’t touch the maids or the warriors

but you, a simple hostage who refuses to give up information, well, it gives them all a reason to release some energy and break you enough to force some information out of you

you want to scream and thrash, but the barrel of the gun sits heavy in your mouth and the green energy immobilizing your only means of escape left you complacent

Syzoth’s hand cups your chest, thumbs rubbing over your nipples, and the scales only add to the roughness and the stimulation

he sticks his tongue out into the air again, eyes transfixed on the way your nipples harden underneath his fingers, and his hands then roughy squeeze your chest

the claws dig into your skin, and you breathe out through your nose, closing your eyes to concentrate on anything else but this situation

Erron lets out a hum of disapproval and tells you to open your eye, to watch it all happen, to just give in and give them information on Mileena’s whereabouts

you open your eyes, mustering as much anger and vitriol in your gaze that you could as you stare up at him, and he only chuckles at the small show of defiance

a hand touches your back, tracing the muscle, dry and bandaged, and you know it’s Ermac tracing the skin on your back

his hands glow just a bit brighter, and your bottoms fall to the floor, leaving you with nothing to cover up your modesty

a slight growl leaves your throat, as a slow panic rushes through your body, and Erron simply tugs on the collar to get you to shut up, telling you that good little pets don’t growl

you don’t move, letting Ermac’s hands travel along your body, one hand groping at your ass and squeezing it roughly while the other snakes around to your front

his hand trails further and further down, cupping your sex but doing nothing else, simply enjoying the warmth emanating from your heat

then his fingers press into your skin, finding your clit and rubbing lithe fingers in practiced circles, and a small strangled sound leaves you throat

it had been a long time since you had ever done something anything even remotely similar to this, and it left you sensitive and unused to touch

Syzoth hums at the way your breath hitches, and he squeezes even tighter at your chest, licking his lips and then pinching at your nipples

a small yelp leaves your throat, and you try to focus on anything else, to not let your mind get pulled and pushed apart by pleasure as Ermac continues to rub at your clit and Syzoth tease your chest

but you’re quickly jolted out of your thoughts as the collar pulls at your neck and brings you back into the moment and staring up at Erron

out of the four of you, he seemed the least affected, but the bulge in his pants indicates otherwise, straining at the zipper and begging to be release

you’re pulled from that thought to the next as Ermac pinches at your clit, making your body jump in pleasure and pain, and your pussy clenches down on nothing

in spite of everything, you can feel yourself getting wet the longer Syzoth and Ermac tease and play with your body

Syzoth moves one hand away from your chest to wrap around to your back, gliding his fingers between your wet folds and humming at the slickness coating his fingers

his fingers move up and circle the rim of your asshole, and your eyes widen in surprise and fear as goosebumps erupt over your body

your breathing quickens for just a moment, enough for Erron to laugh again and tell you that they’ll make sure you’re nice and loose for Ermac’s cock

the gun presses against the back of your throat, and you try to calm yourself down, you don’t want to get shot in the head

Ermac hums at the mention of his name and moves his fingers down, sinking two fingers into your warmth without warning, and it makes your breath catch at the thickness of him

his fingers expertly curl in your warmth, pressing into your sweet spot and massaging it, and it sends pleasure blazing through you

your eyes slip close at the pleasure, and you thank the elder gods when Erron doesn’t tell you open them again as you try and take in everything

they’re tearing your mind apart with the stimulation on all sides, and it’s ripping your mind into a useless puddle that can’t think for itself

Syzoth hisses and sinks a slick finger into your asshole, and you finally let out a small whine at the pressure, gasping around the gun to try and struggle away

the gunslinger simply keeps a firm hold on the chain to your collar to make sure you couldn’t squirm away, and the glowing green energy around your legs only squeeze and keep you still

you can’t help but moan as Ermac fucks his fingers into your drooling pussy, palm grinding into your sensitive clit and how Syzoth pushes another fingers into your ass

breath heaves in your chest as pleasure blazes through you, sensitive and much too overstimulated, and you’re quickly hurtling toward the edge of pleasure

Erron grunts something out and suddenly they’re not touching you anymore, and you open your eyes as your orgasm slips away from you

he has a grin on his face, one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing, and you want to kill him, wipe that smug smirk off of his face

the gunslinger tuts at you as you struggle, pulling at the collar once more and making you gag on the loaded gun, and you breathe and calm down

you’re giving him a reaction, exactly what he wanted, and you breathe out through your nose to calm down, still mustering your best glare at him

Erron says something and suddenly the collar is being pulled at by the green magic, and Erron unbuckles his pants and pulls out his cock

it’s thick, flushed and leaking pre-cum, and he removes the gun from your mouth, covered in a new layer of shiny spit

you don’t speak as he taps the tip of his cock against your lips, pressing the end of the gun against the side of your head

the gunslinger takes a hold of the collar again, and then lightly taps the gun against your head, forcing you to open up your lips and take his cock into your mouth

it’s thick and heavy in your mouth, pressing down along your tongue and choking you, and your eyes water as he pushes in further and further, giving no remorse to how you start to choke and gag and struggle in your bindings

rather, the other two start touching you again, teasing you, fucking you slowly on their fingers, and laughing when you whine and whimper when they pull away

your pussy clenches desperately on their fingers, drooling and dripping onto the floor with the need to cum, but they deny you all the same

it’s a cruel agony, the lack of air causing your head to spin and the pleasure to intensify and curl and assault you from all sides

your mind is being pulled apart and put back together with each denied orgasm and with how Erron is just content to let his cock rest in your warm mouth

you’re not sure how much time has passed as they continue to tease you, fuck you on their fingers and bring you to the brink of insanity

the gunslinger finally pulls his cock out of your mouth, and you cough and wheeze as you breathe in lungfuls of precious air

he asks if you’re ready to talk, that if you give them information they’ll let you cum on their cocks, and you hiss at them and tell them to stick it

despite their efforts, you still had a bit of fight left in you

Erron sighs and shoves his cock back into your mouth, letting go of the chain to grip onto your hair and fuck into your face roughly

you gag and choke, squirming in your binds as it overtakes your senses, and you can barely process the fact the Ermac and Syzoth have undressed themselves

their cocks press against your entrances, and you can’t even scream as they start fucking into you with reckless abandon, ignoring your clit and avoiding your sweet spots to make you break

Ermac groans loudly as he fucks into your asshole, tight around him and not nearly enough lube, and with the added pressure of Syzoth fucking into your abused pussy, it’s too much for you to handle, blinding white pleasure snaking within you

their hands are all over you, grabbing and pulling and clawing, and your mind is being torn a million different ways, trying to recollect only to have its thoughts scattered with each thrust and scratch

you can’t handle it, it’s all too much, and all the energy leaves your body as you finally grow limp in their hold and they fuck into you like a toy

Erron pulls away from your mouth, letting you breathe as the other two fuck senselessly into you, and he asks if you have any information

you’re not quite aware of what comes out of your mouth, something spilling from your lips, and Erron smiles and pats your cheek, calling you a good pet before placing his cock against your lips

he pushes in, fucking your face just as brutally as before, and then Ermac’s fingers touch your clit, rubbing it back and forth and pushing you right over the edge

you sob as you cum, tears streaming down their cheeks, and Erron groans, pressing your nose into his pubic hair and cumming down your throat

there’s a lack of air, but you can’t even twitch to fight and slowly let the black dots take over your vision until the gunslinger finally pulls off

you breathe rapidly and feel the barrel of the gun be removed from your head, but Syzoth and Ermac still fuck into you with reckless abandon

he chuckles and says that they’re much harder to please, being of Outworld of course, you’ll be in here for a while with them

but they’ll make sure you cum, over and over and over again on their cocks, and with that Erron, buckles up his pants to give away the information you parlayed to him to Kotal

Syzoth lets out a low hiss, smiling at your fucked out expression, and Ermac keeps rubbing your clit roughly, leaving low grunts in the air

you were going to be there until they satisfied themselves, and they were hard men to please