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phosph-ate · 2 months ago

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Picture

Dr. Phosphorus x AFAB!Reader

Summary: You surprise your boss with a picture while he's trying to work. He is not amused.

CW: SMUT! 18+! Masturbation, screwing around in an office, praise, begging, he burns your clothes off, no use of y/n, no pronouns used for reader, reader is fem bodied though

WC: 1.4k

A/N: My BFF requested this! From this prompt list, numbers 18 and 49! I got carried away... If you would like to send in prompts, feel free, those are currently open! This is also written when Phos was in his Boss Era! Divider by cafekitsune

You were humming to yourself, sifting through papers as you sat at your boss’ desk. You were checking numbers, going over expenses, when you heard it. Footsteps stomping down the hall, right towards the office.

A smile spread across your face. Finally, you thought, he saw it. You put the papers down and watched as the door flung open. You are honestly surprised he did not burn through it.

“What the fuck!?” Dr. Phosphorus was ablaze. Literally.

“What?” You smiled at him innocently. He closed the door, gently, and seemed to be thinking about his next move. You watched in entertainment. Your smile widened and you looked back down at some papers. “If you need anything-” You started, “-you can tell me. I’m just sorting some stuff.”

“Oh…” He would have narrowed his eyes at you if he could have. “I understand.”

You continued like nothing had happened. “Understand what, Boss?” You were fighting back laughter at that point. “I’m just doing what you asked of me.”

Phosphorus nodded and brought you something. Something charred and burnt. A phone. Your eyes widened momentarily. You swallowed hard. “Did you burn that?” You asked, looking up at him.

“Yes.”

Your jaw clenched and you took in a shaky breath. You had sort of expected that. But nothing to that extent. Your eyes looked back at the horribly melted phone he set on the desk. You exhaled loudly and looked up at him. He stood on the other side of the desk, but he looked like he was about to fly over it. But not in anger.

“They almost saw you.”

Your smile returned. “But they didn’t?” You asked. That obviously was not the point. You let out a low laugh. “I texted John to give you his phone, when I just knew you had it, I sent the picture.”

“Do you seriously think it’s funny? Sending me shit like that while I’m at work!?” Phosphorus was upset, but you could tell it was not just anger. He was frustrated. Sexually. “What if someone else had seen that picture?” He was not laughing, but you thought it was hilarious.

You stood up from your seat and leaned towards your boss. “Then they’d know who I belonged to, sir.”

Phosphorus almost lost it. He was silent, but only for a moment. He seemed to be malfunctioning. “What?” His voice was low. It sent a chill down your spine. You froze up. “Repeat that.”

You blinked a few times, stunned. “They would know I’m yours, Boss.”

Phosphorus wished he could grin wider. His permanent smile would have to do. “You’re being serious?” He sounded excited. Ready to pounce all over again. “Tell me now, we don’t have to do this.”

Your nails dragged across your scalp, and you looked away momentarily. You looked back at him with a yearning he was sure you would never have for him. “I’m dead fucking serious. I wouldn’t send that picture if I wasn’t.” The desk was still between the two of you. “How much of it did you see? Before you blew up the phone?”

“Oh,” He dragged out the word and you smiled, “I saw everything, dear.” He motioned for you to come around the desk. You did not deny him. You moved around it, and he took a step back. You immediately moved into the space he had been, wedging yourself between the desk and your boss. “I saw how you were sitting, right here,” He easily picked you up and set you on the desk. You squeaked in response. “I saw your lacy black panties, and I know for a fact you are not wearing a bra.”

You nodded, suddenly feeling shy. Phosphorus pushed between your thighs and his hands grabbed your hips. He moved closer to you, face inches from yours. “Did you like it?” You asked, mouth going dry.

“I loved it.” He growled out. He was obviously trying hard to control his flames. “I need you-” He was breathless.

“Here?” Your hand was on his chest. “In the office?” Dr. Phosphorus got a nod in before you ultimately agreed. “Okay!” Your legs wrapped around his waist, and you pulled him as close as possible to you. Your hands cupped his face. You stared at him, taking the moment in.

“You can kiss me, you know.”

You lit up. It was almost as if that did not cross your mind, being able to do that. You instantly started kissing his face. As you kissed him you felt heat on your abdomen. You pulled away and saw your shirt disintegrating. You gasped and covered your chest. “Alex!” You never called him Alex; it was always Boss or Sir. “What the-”

“Sorry,” He did sound apologetic. “Got excited.”

“That was expensive…” You sat there, covering your breasts.

“Don’t worry about the clothes, I'll just buy you new ones.” Dr. Phosphorus sounded smug. You sighed and nodded. “You should really call me Alex more often,” His hand moved to your wrist. “I like the way it sounds when you say it.”

You looked at him as if he had hung the moon and stars. You sucked in air, and you felt a sudden surge of confidence. You removed your hands from your chest, “If you’re going to buy me more clothes… You might as well get rid of all of them, huh?” You smiled, soft and sweet. He was wrapped around your finger.

Dr. Phosphorus could not agree more. Phosphorus’ hands moved to your thighs, and he burned away your pants. Before you knew it, you were naked, on a silver platter before him. You sat on the desk in front of him and he looked at you, all of you. He took everything in.

“Can’t believe it…” He muttered. “You’re all mine.” Phosphorus moved behind you and pushed the papers off the desk. “Scoot back.” You followed his orders and pushed yourself further onto the desk, near the middle of it. “Touch yourself.”

“What?” You were baffled. “I want you to touch me!” You whined.

“Follow my orders and I’m sure you’ll get what you want.” He pulled a chair out and sat down, a little way from you. You pouted at him. “I promise.” He watched you closely.

You nodded. Fine, I have to do everything myself, you kept that thought to yourself. You pulled a leg onto the desk and let the one dangle over the floor. You pushed a finger into your entrance and your head rolled back. You were already wet from your earlier interaction and even earlier dirty thoughts about your boss. Yor finger slid in, and your thumb circled your clit. You let out a soft mewl and Phosphorus hummed.

“Good,” He praised you. “You’re being so obedient.” You wanted him. Your eyes shut and your hips gently rolled into your hand. “Look at me,” Phosphorus’ voice was stern. “I want to see how good you feel.”

You followed his orders, as always. “Alex,” You moaned. Your eyes hit him, and he seemed to be concentrating on you. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands. He was watching.

Another finger slipped inside of you and your pace quickened. You were quick to find what made you feel the best, even if you wondered if your boss would lend you a hand if you acted like you did not know what you were doing. Your eyes were half lidded at that point, barely able to stay open.

“I need you, Alex…” You cried out for him, finger swirling over your clit again. “Please-”

“I know,” He cooed from his seat. “You’re doing so good though, I want you to cum for me.”

It did not take much more than that. Your toes were curling, and your body was tensing. There was a white-hot fire in your stomach. You let out a short cry, moaning his name as you came undone. You were seeing stars, your eyes had shut tight, and your body shook momentarily.

You heard Dr. Phosphorus get up and when you squinted your eyes open, you saw him standing before you. You caught your breath and quickly leaned against him, head resting against his coat. “You did so good,” His hand ran down your side, sending chills down your spine. “We have the rest of the night together.” He informed you. “I got the others to cover what I was doing, for now. So, you are mine for the next eight hours.”

No words had ever made you happier.

#dr phosphorus #dr phosphorus smut #dr phosphorus x reader #doctor phosphorus #creature commandos #creature commandos x reader #dc x reader #dcu

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lowkeyren · 2 months ago

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—close call.

in which : crammed in a maintenance closet with boothill, his audacious plan saves you both from the ipc —but not without leaving your heart racing for reasons far beyond fear.

pairing : boothill x gn!reader

wc 1.4k, "enemies" with tension, forced proximity, banter banter banter, reader implied to be a galaxy ranger + shorter than him, flirting (re: dialogue. he's a tease), reblogs r much appreciated!! enjoy <3

from event req: here ; art by @/kiu30750

the rain hammers down on the tin roof above, its rhythmic pounding the only sound aside from your ragged breaths and the distant shouts of the ipc agents scouring the area. you barely managed to wedge yourself into the maintenance closet with boothill; and now, here you are —cramped, drenched, and undeniably screwed.

pressed chest-to-chest with him, the infamous galaxy ranger whose charm is as notorious as his tendency to get into trouble, you can’t decide which is worse: the likelihood of getting caught or the suffocating proximity.

“just wonderful,” you mutter under your breath, voice dripping with sarcasm. you shift, trying to create even an inch of breathing room. though it’s hopeless; the movement only presses you tighter against his chest, and the slight tilt of his wide-brimmed hat brushes your ear, sending an uninvited shiver down your spine.

boothill, as infuriating as ever, doesn’t seem the least bit shaken by the situation. if anything, his composure is maddeningly relaxed, a sharp contrast to the rapid thuds of your heart and the faint shuffling of ipc agents just beyond the door; as though you aren’t currently hiding from people who would gladly haul you both in —or worse.

“things would’ve gone better if you hadn’t tripped the alarm back there,” you hiss.

he lifts an eyebrow, eyes narrow slightly as he glances down at you. “me? yer the one who—”

before he can finish, you press your hand over his mouth, cutting him off mid-sentence. his words die against your palm, leaving only the thrum of his breath against your skin. but even that is drowned out by the frantic beating of your hearts, the air thick and suffocating as you both listen intently to the shuffling sounds just outside the door.

you can hear footsteps drawing nearer, the unmistakable clink of weapons being adjusted, the subtle scrape of boots on metal. your pulse quickens, the pressure in your chest building with each passing second. you instinctively press your hand harder over boothill’s mouth, a desperate attempt to suppress even the smallest sound.

his skin is surprisingly warm pressed against you —a sharp contrast to the coolness of his metal body, making the entire sensation feel disturbingly real.

"ya gonna fudgin' suffocate me if yer press so hard," he mutters, the words barely audible under your hand. his fingers wrap around your wrist, firm but careful, and he gently pulls your hand away from his mouth.

before you can retort, the sharp sound of the lock breaking pierces the tension between you. both of you snap your heads toward the door just as it starts to creak open. without hesitation, boothill reaches out and kicks a broom across the floor, jamming it under the handle to hold the door shut —for now.

the door rattles violently as the ipc agents push against it, the muffled voices on the other side growing louder. each thud against the flimsy barricade reverberates through the cramped closet; the handle straining under the pressure, threatening to give out at any moment.

"seems like it ain’t gonna hold for long,” his drawl thick with that familiar, unbothered tone. his eyes flick to the door, then back to you, his stance relaxed despite the impending danger. “ya better start thinkin’ quick, 'cause i ain't exactly got a plan here."

the words barely register before your mind starts to race as panic crawls up your spine. your thoughts begin to spiral —there’s no escape route, no backups, and little to no time left. you’re running through options, half of them nonsensical, as the door rattles louder with each passing second.

“heh, adorable.” his infuriating grin is more felt than seen, a slight tilt of his head as he takes in your flustered state. “wreckin’ yer pretty head over this an’ sacrificin’ yerself f’me?”

your heart stutters in your chest, a mix of frustration and embarrassment flooding your system as you snap a glare up at him, your words coming out sharp and defensive, "you wish!"

boothill chuckles, his irksome grin still in place. “d'worry, i was just kiddin’. i have a plan.”

“what is it?” you ask, your voice betraying the flicker of nervousness you feel.

instead of answering, he takes off his wide-brimmed hat and places it on your head, tilting it slightly so the brim is low enough to cover the side of your face, shadowing your features.

you shift under his touch, an odd shiver running through you. “stay still, will ya?” his voice is surprisingly soft as he adjusts the hat, his movements so gentle it catches you off guard. though you still can’t help but be curious.

you blink up at him, still trying to piece things together. “what... what’s this supposed to do?”

his eyes meet yours again, “just trust me, darlin’.”

before you can ask any further, his hand cups your jaw, tilting your head upward. thumb brushing over your lips as he leans in, and for one heart-stopping moment, you find yourself holding your breath, your pulse quickening in anticipation.

but the contact doesn’t land —not entirely. instead, his thumb slips between your lips, a barrier that keeps the distance just shy of crossing the line. your breath hitches in your throat, the aching proximity making everything feel too intense, as his presence fills every inch of the space around you.

heat prickles across your face, a flush creeping up your neck as you feel the tension in the air thicken. his mouth hovers, almost brushing against yours; instead, brushing against a small barrier —the press of his thumb between your lips, just enough to keep you both from closing the gap.

before you can fully process what's happening, the closet door swings open with a sharp metallic clang, flooding the cramped space with light.

“whoa,” one of the ipc agents blurts, freezing mid-step as their eyes flicker between two figures; whose faces are far too close, and posture far too intimate for any doubt to remain.

“oh,” another grunt stammered, a hint of awkwardness in their modulated tone. “apologies. we, uh… didn’t mean to intrude —carry on!”

the words tumble out in a rush, and they hastily pull the door shut, leaving you both in the dim, suffocating silence once again.

boothill doesn’t immediately pull away. his lips curl into a smug grin as he eyes you with a hint of amusement. “that wide-eyed stare of yer just now? kinda pathetic, ya know,” his voice dripping with a taunting, teasing tone.

you can almost feel the heat of his smirk against your skin; his next words come softer, “but, i reckon it’s also kinda cute, i’ll give ya that.”

flustered and irritated all at once, you reach up, grabbing his ear and tugging it, a mix of annoyance and embarrassment flooding through you. “cut it out, you idiot.” your face burns with frustration and a whole lot of confusion about why his teasing is driving you crazy.

thank aeons the closet is dim, because you have no idea what more he’ll tease you about if he sees the heat flooding your cheeks, or worse, if he knows it’s his words —or rather, his actions —that’s causing it.

you hear shouts from outside, the voices muffled but unmistakable. “nothing here, move on! we’ll scout the next area!” one of them calls out, the sound gradually fading as they move further away.

you let out a soft exhale, your posture relaxing as you shift slightly. “looks like we’re clear."

“we are, so how 'bout ya let go of my ear now, sugarplum?”

rolling your eyes, you do your best to ignore the way your pulse is still quickening. “fine, let’s just get out of here before they come back.”

curse that damnable, cocky grin that makes your heart race in ways you wish it didn’t.

boothill seems to know exactly what you're thinking as he leans in, patting his hat down onto your head. "whaddya blushin’ for? can't handle a lil’ close quarters?" he hums.

"shut up, boothill," you mutter, trying to sound annoyed, but even you can tell it’s less convincing than you'd like.

“alright, alright, ain't no time to be standin' round lookin' pretty.” he drawls, backing away slightly, but his eyes never leave yours. “let's get movin', before them ipc shirtbags change their minds and come back lookin’ for us.”

MASTERLIST ; EVENT M.LIST

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tsukii0002 · 5 months ago

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Imagine the contrast of the coexistence between Mc and Solomon, a human who did not know that magic was real until relatively recently and another human who has lived for centuries and who uses magic as if it were breathing.

Imagine that little things at home where Solomon is always willing to use magic to solve it, while Mc always beats him to it in the most common and least magical way possible.

But above all imagine, Solomon's frustration, how can his magic be rendered useless in such a way? And if he has no magic, what can he bring to that home?

Solomon: Remember that blanket I told you had a hole in it, I think it's time to mend it *opening one of his books*

Mc: I've already mended it, with a few stitches it's as good as new.

Solomon: Oh…

Solomon: Mc, what was the table that was broken?

Mc: Oh, don't worry, I fixed it.

Solomon: Really? What spell did you use?

Mc: Ha, ha, Solomon, you don't need magic to wedge a table.

Solomon: Mc!! With this spell we will solve our rat problem!

Mc: *smiling* I've already taken care of that, no for nothing Barbatos is so happy with me.

Solomon: That's how you earn your premium tea leaves?

Solomon: Please tell me you didn't fix the shelf that was sagging *with a book under his arm*

Mc: *eating a muffin* Oops.

Solomon: Mc, I told you I'd fix it *pointing at the. with the book*

Mc: Solomon, it was tightening two screws, it's going to take you longer to look up such a mundane spell than to fix it manually.

Solomon: Mc… you're a sorceress, you should use magic more!

Mc: *funny* And you should use magic less!!! You're still a human, old man. By the way, remember those yellow spots on the tablecloth that bothered you so much?

Solomon: Yeah?

Mc: Well, I've already made them disappear and without magic.

Solomon: How????

Solomon is sitting, somewhat annoyed, on one of the balconies

Mc: Hey…

Solomon: …

Mc: Are you upset?

Solomon: … No.

Mc: *sighing as they stands next to him* Let's talk, tell me, why does it bother you so much that I solve things without magic?

Solomon: I'm not upset, we don't need to talk at all.

Mc: You know that communication is part of living together right? We are two people with different ways of living, if we don't talk how are we going to have a good cohabitation?

Solomon: … With the brothers you never had that problem.

Mc: Sure I have, maybe not with these things because Lucifer encourages certain stuff to be done manually, but we had to set a lot of guidelines when I started living with them.

Solomon: ...

Solomon: *sighing* I'm not upset… it's just that I'm used to doing everything with magic, even the smallest things, it's easier, faster.

Mc: Well, sometimes yes, but sometimes it's easier to do it without magic, and in my case I'm used to not use magic.

Solomon: *looking at them* I know, but there are things I can't do without magic.

Mc: But that's what I'm for, isn't it?

Solomon: *doubting* Then' what do I bring to our cohabitation?

Mc: *realizing*

Solomon: You cook, you do a lot of chores because you are faster, and you take care of a lot of things that allow you to have a routine… I feel that instead of living together, I am a guest...

Mc: Solomon...

Solomon: And if I can't even use my magic, Am I useless? without my magic I…

The two are silent for a moment

Mc: I'm sorry, I've minimized how you feel… and I've done things my way without taking you into account.

Solomon: Ha, ha, don't worry, *now kind of sad* It's not that big of a deal.

Mc: No, I told you, communication is part of living together and you should tell me what bothers you.

Solomon: *looking at them*

Mc: We can try to find a middle ground.

Solomon: How?

Mc: *thoughtful* Well, the day to day things we can do manually and the things that are very difficult or tedious we can use magic?

Solomon: *considering it seriously'* You could also teach me how to do tasks without magic, like how to wedge a table… and I could teach you spells that I usually use, like the one that sweeps the house by itself.

Mc: *smiling* We can also make a schedule so we don't step on each other's to-dos.

Solomon: *smiling too* And create a chat room exclusively for house stuff where we can let each other know if we're going to do something.

Mc: That sounds like a great idea Solomon.

Solomon: *more lively* And I'd also like to do certain chores together, like laundry or cooking.

Mc: … *feeling bad at Solomon's happy face* Yes… we can do that too.

This turned out to be longer than I thought, and what started as something funny has turned into a drama😅. I'm not going to lie to you, I love domestic dramas, day to day problems… so this post has turned into that because Solomon is used to live in a very different way than Mc, and living together for the first time is always complicated and habits are hard to change, and co-living is not always so great. Give me domestic situations between Mc and the rest of the cast please!!!! 🥺🥺

Anyway, if you've made it this far, thank you very much for reading🩷

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1800titz · 4 months ago

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ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ᴘᴇᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏ (ꜱᴏꜰᴛ)

ROLL OVER | boyfriend!Harry (couples costumes gone wild)

The dalmatian/fire fighter duo runs a little deeper in the bedroom after the party.

★₁₈₊

ROLL OVER as the final installment to the KINKTOBER projects. Based on this ask.

If you enjoy this, consider checking out my patreon masterlist, constantly being updated, with loads of exclusive content. If you would like to see the other KINKTOBER projects, do so here.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: couple's costume gone wild. pet play (soft). soft dom. praise. leashing. collars. use of "puppy" as a pet name (pun unintended). oral (f to m). dumbification. dom/sub undertones.

WC: 1.7K

“Yeah,” Harry breathes and shifts his hips with a subtle flex that nudges a little more of him past your lips, cradling you close by the shape of your jaw and petting his palm across your heated cheek.

You swallow, nostrils flaring, and you let the congealed dust— of this particular disposition— across your lashes lure you under a little harder. Let it crush you under the soporific wave of its gravity.

But you don’t miss the way he swallows, tugs a little harder on the polypropylene end of the dog leash wrapped taut around the knobs of his naked knuckles, and purrs, “Such a good girl, puppy.”

You blink up at him. At the unstilted paradigm of your insatiable hunger (eating, eating, still so hungry for him); bare stomach flexing, shoulders swelling, jawbone tucked and face ducked to watch you swallow around him. Watch and feel you work your little tongue in crescent shapes against the underside of his cockhead.

You’re drooling. Slobbering, like a needy, little puppy, and your spit dribbles across between the wedges of your knuckles, where you cup him around the base and squeeze every time he throbs.

It’s good. It’s really, really good.

He sprawls back against the chair but keeps his chin tipped. Staring down at you— the way your lips suction around him and the way your eyes pool under your fluttery lashes with a dew. Inkpools unwavering. Unrelenting.

His shirt is discarded, so all his ink is on show. The way it breathes alive under the tension of his musculature, his rippling abdomen when you dip the tip of your tongue into the slit on his head; moving, dancing over his skin.

It feels dirty. Borderline gaudily pornographic; you, on your knees in that careful nook between his split thighs, with his suspenders dangling across his lap. The big, utility boots on his feet, either side of your haunches. The pried zipper on a set of work trousers, slouching low on his hips, multi-faceted into a costume.

He’s heavy on your tongue. Takes up too much room in your mouth. Leaking and throbbing when you duck your head to take him just a little deeper, a little more.

“Christ,” Harry murmurs. It sounds a little dark. Hardly over a whisper— you make a wet, ugly sound around him and blink back up.

From your angle, there’s this pastiche of sovereignty to him. Like blue-collar regalia; half-shed firefighter’s rig, shape of his face chiseled in self-possessed stolidity—

Save for his eyes, the little cinch in his jawbone. The glint in the charcoal vats, the sharp carve your lips make, the way it wobbles when his teeth grind together a little harder. Your tongue seeps out over your lower lip when you take a deep breath through your nose, open wide, and take him nearly to the root.

The sound that crawls out of Harry is so battered that all you can do is claw into the fabric on the apex of his thighs and let your eyes screw.

His cockhead bludgeons at the gummy lining on the back of your throat, and you’re sure the phlegm is collapsing in little broken pieces like a mirror shattering under the weight of a hammer. Spuming out over his face in creases and rapture. But you can’t look.

All you can do is try to swallow around him when the hand that was on the side of your face glues to the back of your crown, his fingers tangling into your hair. His knuckles bleach a little whiter with the strain of the leash, the way he holds you in place.

(When his palm moves, it smudges one of the little tar-black spots you painted on with a brush, across your temple.)

You can hear that he’s groaning, pressing himself into you and folding praise in with the shape of his fingers scratching at the back of your skull. Things like, “Yeah— fuck— just like that, sweet girl,” in rich husks that simmer across your porous bones and trickle when your shoulders shake. When your toes curl under you. But he holds the leash a little tighter for the angle, and the makeshift collar around your throat gets a little more taut—

Really, it’s all his fault.

Taunting, Can’t be my proper puppy without— the lead he delicately clipped onto the cheap, old hot topic choker you dug out of the closet to use as a collar. The way that he kept his knuckles wrapped over the handle and his knuckles in his pocket at the party. Toting you around like a pet, keeping you rooted to his side when he settled. Tucked to the swell of his massive shoulder.

The way he told you to stay like a dog when he went off to refill your drinks, the way he patted your head upon return to find your soles glued to the same spot. Scratching behind your ear derisively, fingertips riling a shudder across your shoulders.

Such a good girl, you are, saturated in artificial, satirical delight. Corners of his mouth curling, the jeer dripping off the corners of his eyes.

(Here’s your treat.)

It started as a joke. Mocking for the sake of watching the heat froth under your skin, across your cheekbones, the ruckled bridge of your nose. Faux praises and the condescending gravity of the lead across the base of your neck. The subtle tug into an isolated pigeonhole of a docility that soaked across the crown of your head.

The mushroomed ridges of his tip bludgeon a splutter out from between your sopping lips, and more saliva oozes out and trickles across your tacky, wet fingers.

You need to hear it again, need to hear him say it, that itch festering in the noxious tangle of your arousal when you rise on your haunches a touch to duck your chin and press your nose to the wiry smattering of hair bedding around the root of his cock—

“Fuck,” Harry drawls. Guttural, heated—

Varicolored phosphenes fleck behind your lids like constellations in the yawn of a mesmeric, caliginous sky.

“You’re so good, sweetheart,” he grunts, hums, hips tensing and canting up into the wet heat of your mouth like it’s an undiluted reflex to an itch, feeding his cock deeper— “Gonna cum down this pretty, little throat f’you keep sucking my cock like that.”

You rest both palms on his thighs. Twist your fingers into the fabric until it’s soggy with spit. Gag around the swell of him until he wrenches you back with his fingers under the collar, at your nape, and leaves you sputtering for air with your neck craned. When you blink your lashes apart, your eyes are wet. Bleary. Burning like the back of your tongue, the soft lining at the back of your mouth, where the only place left to cram further is down into your esophagus.

He looks like a hedonistic cover page for a pornographic issue.

The coarse strip of dark hair from his navel pools in the bed of curls nesting the hilt of his cock, and his thighs are split in this kingly way that makes you dizzy. It’s vertiginous, staring up at him from your knees. Meaty shoulders, one burnt umber curl hanging to eclipse an eyebrow, and his cock is so spit-slick. Wet, and shimmery, and stupidly thick, sealed in his fist. Throbbing. Your spit puddles off onto his heavy sack, the sodden fabric wrenched apart by the zipper, and you watch a little, pearlescent bead drool off the tip when he squeezes and twists his palm up.

“Want it in your mouth?” Harry muses. It’s a subconscious maneuver; canting forward on the hinges of your joints with your swollen lips parted as he drags the pad of his thumb across the blurting pre-cum and smears it over his frenulum. “Want it bad, don’t you?”

The way he pulls on the end of the lead isn’t sharp. It’s subtle, but it corners you into nestling your mouth against his cock. Against the swollen shaft, cockhead pulsing and leaking out over the sloping bridge of your nose.

“Beg,” he tells you. It’s soft. The wisp of a breath; a sigh when you smush your cherry mouth to the little vein that rides up the underside and turns baby blue beneath the crown.

But it’s chock-full of the command given to an animal— beg, and I’ll give you a treat. It makes you sizzle down to your marrow. His lips curl loosely into a lazy grin. So debauched, around the shape of his cock, coated in your own saliva, pressed to your face.

“Go on,” he smiles, “Let me hear you whine for it. Show me what a needy, little puppy you are.”

The words sink into your underbelly and leave your hands cresting for surface-purchase under the spindrift. They slip to his knees, and tangle into the fabric there as your lashes flutter.

“Please,” you breathe, mouthing the word along the shape of his cock. Your lashes are still fluttering. Batting. You scootch forward a little, scratching into the firm muscle under the nomex, and let him smear his shaft across the tip of your nose, tarnishing the borders of the snout you painted on.

He hums. His thumb catches on the corner of your mouth, just as you start to paste an open-mouthed, suckling kiss onto the underside of the root. Your tongue smudges out against his sack.

He’s unconvinced— you watch it in the way his brows notch, hear it in the rumble that stems from his chest when he grips his cock by the hilt and taps it against you. “Come on, baby. I know you can do a little better than that. Really work for it, hm?”

“Please,” you say, rocking your hips. “Want it bad. Wanna keep sucking you. Please, please.”

A hand tucks into your hair. The fingertips there scratch into the spot behind the shell of your ear softly, and the sensation draws a shudder over your shoulders. You feel on fire. Molten, under the weight of his gaze, the unresistant pressure on the lead, the patronization that trickles off his tone.

“Go on, then, puppy,” Harry murmurs, finally, and loosens the white-knuckled, taut grip on the leash enough for you to clamber back, “Take me back into your mouth.”

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ghoulbrain · 10 months ago

Text

Happiness is a Warm Gun

18+ 4.5k ghoul x f!reader. predator/prey roleplay, lite bondage lite cnc into enthusiastic consent, heavy gun kink/play, pet names, clothed/naked sex, creampie, aftercare. ends tender bc i can't help myself. gif credit. written for my darling @luckytiggertalia, who asked for excessive gun kink and captor/captive. thank you! 🖤 written as a successor to Saddle Up, Sweetheart, but can be read as a stand-alone.

Being in a relationship with the world’s most notorious bounty hunter lands you in some strange situations, but none stranger than those you concoct for yourselves. You run, and the Ghoul hunts you.

The Ghoul is one of the fiercest bounty hunters in New California, yet regardless of how terrifyingly efficient he is, everyone knows he only takes on payouts worthy of his time. With his long shadow stretching out across the west, most hunters are reluctant to take on bounties over a certain threshold, lest they accidentally come between him and his quarry.

Which, at this moment, just so happens to be you.

You’ve made it to a Red Rocket truck stop just half a mile west of Junktown. What was once a glorified gas station in a world long-gone now serves as little more than a hollowed out shell providing shade for all manner of miscreants and creatures wandering the dusty wastes, still decorated in tiny reminders of life before the war.

Crouched down behind a counter, your back pressed to the grime painted wall beneath a window, you spot a heavily aged cardboard carton labeled Grey Tortious Famous Cigarettes wedged at the very back of the second shelf behind the counter. Clicking your tongue softly, you reach for it, using the barrel of your pistol to catch the corner of the box. Carefully–and quietly–you drag it close enough to grab.

Your hopes aren’t high, but–

Jackpot.

Smiling faintly, you extract a crumpled but still half-full pack of cigarettes from the carton. You glance around, eyes wandering until you spot the decrepit remains of some poor bastard collapsed against the far wall, still garbed in their threadbare signature Red Rocket uniform. With a slight nod, you fish a single cap out of a small pouch on your belt and slide it onto the shelf.

“Pleasure doing business,” you murmur to the corpse, tucking the cigarettes carefully into the pack strapped to your thigh.

A shrill whistle, the kind you’d call a dog with, snaps your attention back to the moment. You press your back tight against the wall, sucking in a sharp breath to hold.

“Alright, darlin’, y’little goose-chase is over,” the Ghoul calls into the lot. Your heart begins to race. He sounds close. “I’m man enough to admit y’outfoxed me back at the yard, that was clever. But’cha got nowhere to slip to now,” he says, voice gradually growing louder. It’s not long before you can hear the crunch of his boots in the gravel.

You screw your eyes shut, steeling yourself with a silent breath before opening them again. He’ll have to circle the building to get where you are. The crunch of his boots is louder with each step. If he keeps yapping, it’ll be even easier to track the moment he moves out of eyesight of the window you’re hiding under, and you’ll be able to creep out to get behind him. Your grip on your pistol flexes, finger poised off the trigger.

The footsteps outside grow quiet enough that you can no longer hear them over the thundering of your heart. He hasn’t said anything, but you give it an extra few seconds to be safe, holding your breath as you gingerly lift out of your crouch, careful to keep your head beneath the window frame, eyes on the door across from you. Even if he sees you, you’ll have time enough to–

You’re jerked backwards suddenly by your jacket, a scream yanked out of you as you’re pulled against the window, knocking into it.

“There y’are,” he says through his teeth, hauling you up to your feet. Fuck, he faked you out with his steps. He holds you against the window, the edge of it biting into your back, his fist curled tightly in the collar of your jacket. “Give it up, darlin’. Y’all mine now,” he coos, his voice a sinister rasp at your ear.

Out of desperation, you drop your pistol and throw your arms up, slipping out of your jacket and stumbling forward onto your hands and knees. Your boots skid on the floor as you scramble to your feet, launching into a run. You look over your shoulder just in time to see him vaulting in through the window, scaring you into running faster.

Where you intend to run is a problem to be solved as you go.

Unfortunately for you, the Ghoul is a step ahead. Gunfire startles you halfway out of your skin, but it’s the sign that falls in your path that stops you in your tracks. You look up and see a woven cable swaying, frayed from where the crazy son of a bitch managed to shoot it clean apart. You gear up to bolt to the left, but it’s already too late. The tell-tale hiss of a rope whipping through the air is your only warning before the lasso tightens around your arms and sternum, one sharp yank pulling you off your feet and down onto your back.

The world spins. You let out a soft groan, moving to roll onto your side, but he keeps you from it with a hardy pull, gathering the rope in his hands as he walks to you.

The Ghoul lets out a low whistle, his shadow falling over you. “Close, but no cigar, sweetheart,” he drawls, crouching over you.

Disoriented, you stare at his upside down face. He’s got his head tilted, lips parted in a crooked sneer of a smile. His eyes are dark enough that you can see yourself in them, glinting with predatory glee. You can’t hide the trill of excitement that runs through you over being looked at like that. He clicks his tongue.

“N’aw, don’t you look plumb tuckered,” he says, voice laced with condescending sweetness. “No rest for the wicked, m’afraid,” he says, slipping his hands under your arms and hauling you up to your feet.

“You could’ve killed me,” you rasp, throat scorched by the dry desert air.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he deflects, amused. “Y’all in one piece, ‘ain’t’cha?” His breath is a warm tickle on your neck. With the rope tight across your sternum, arms pinned to your sides, he slides his gloved hand up your thigh, over your hip. His fingers tap along as he does, tickling your ribs, cupping your breast before sliding all the way up to your throat.

The barest hint of his lips brushes the spot just behind your ear, the feeling so faint you could have made it up entirely. You shiver, pulling sharply away, but he pulls you right back in, the worn leather of his glove soft around your neck, his grip firm.

“Mmhm, seem perfectly intact t’me,” he says, giving your throat a steadying squeeze. “No need t’put up a fight, angel. Y’comin’ with me either way.”

This time he presses his scarred lips properly to your skin, the feel of them warm and wet. Wanting. You swallow the lump in your throat, clench your thighs against the heat building between them.

“Let go of me,” you say, fighting to put conviction in it.

“No can do,” he says, his breath prickling goosebumps from your scalp to your thighs. “I’ve struck the motherlode with you.”

The rope is tied low and tight enough that you can’t elbow him or shoulder your way free. Impulsively, you move to kick at his leg, but he outmaneuvers you, catching your kick with his boot and spinning you around so suddenly you gasp.

“Oohh, y’ve got fire,” he says, lips pulled thin in a devilish smile. “I’m gonna enjoy breakin’ you.” Something hard presses into your rib, and you don’t need to look down to know it’s the muzzle of his revolver. He draws the hammer back into place with a distinctive click.

“Why don’t you be a good li’l captive and mosey on ahead?” He says, turning you until the gun is pressed into your lower back. You suppress a shudder. That’s when the world suddenly goes black, the press of the gun briefly vanishing while fabric is pulled tight over your eyes.

Wherever he’s taking you, he wants it to be a surprise.

The Ghoul walks you at gunpoint. He keeps the rope between you taut, the barrel of his gun pressed firmly to your back. The venture there is quiet, your gait tense with anticipation. A sick little thrill runs through you every time he yanks the rope or gives you a deep jab with his gun. There’s pleasure in his voice when he tells you, “Mind your step, sweetness.”

He knows precisely the effect he has on you, even if it took him time and a half to believe it.

His knuckles dig into your back as his fingers hook over the rope, holding it like a harness as you descend a flight of stairs. He catches you when you stumble on the last step, but it still startles you.

“A warning would have been nice,” you say, turning your head blindly, angling to try and get any glimpse of your surroundings from beneath the blindfold.

“Apologies,” he drawls, not sounding very sorry at all. He nudges you forward with his gun. “I like watchin’ you struggle.”

“Yeah, you make that very–” A hard tug on the rope cuts you off and stops you in your tracks. The rope comes loose after that, full circulation returning to your hands in a rush that makes them tingle. The Ghoul’s steps resonate in the room–it sounds large, mostly empty–as he walks away from you. You stay still for a hesitant moment, head jerking at the sound of something scraping across the floor towards you.

“Awwh, ain’t you sweet, waitin’ for permission,” he says, making you flush. You quickly reach up and pull the blindfold from your eyes, blinking to adjust to the dimly lit room.

It looks like a cleared out storage facility of some kind, with cement support beams lined up in a row down the center of the room, the walls lined with ransacked steel shelving. There’s a wire frame bed braced against one of the beams, heaped haphazardly with some pillows and blankets.

The Ghoul sits on a rusty wrought iron chair in front of you, staring up from beneath the wide brim of his hat. From his thigh, he has his revolver fixed on you.

“Atta girl,” he says as the blindfold hits the ground. “Now take off the rest.”

The low resonance of his voice easily commands the room. You swallow the lump in your throat, glancing down the dark barrel of his gun. Biting your tongue to keep yourself from showing too much excitement, you hurriedly reach for your–

The gunshot is deafening in the echoing expanse of the room, drowning out your scream. Already high on your own anticipation, the shot of adrenaline that goes through you with the startle nearly knocks you off your feet.

His gun smokes in the wake of the shot that narrowly missed your reaching hand.

“Slow,” he tells you, cocking the hammer once again with his thumb.

The pound of your heart is rivaled only by the aching throb between your thighs. Breathing shallowly, you keep your eyes trained on him as you–slowly, this time–reach for your belt, pouches shifting as you unbuckle it. You lay it carefully on the ground, mindful of the treasures you acquired at the gas station, before you kick off each boot.

His gaze is heavy on you all the while, eyes dark and attentive to your every move. Your focus is on the tip of his gun, how it subtly follows along with your hands. You peel each layer off without taking your eyes from him, a shiver moving through you once your hands touch bare skin, purposefully sliding them down your hips, your legs, and then moving them slowly back up as you stand back up, stepping out of the garments pooled on the floor.

He tilts his gun sideways and beckons you forward with it, tipping his head back, dark eyes tracking your every move as you approach him. One at a time, he spreads his legs. “On y’knees, darlin’.” You obey, sinking down–slowly, he told you slow–onto your knees between his legs, bringing yourself to eye level with his gun. The cement floor feels harsh against your bare skin.

“Y’got my gun dirty runnin’ me out into the wastes like that,” he chides, leaning forward, pressing his gun to your sternum. With agonizing slowness, he drags the muzzle up through the valley between your breasts, to the notch beneath your throat, pressing into it briefly. He continues up, the metal cool against your burning skin, though not by much. He hooks the barrel under your chin and tips your head back.

“Clean it for me,” he says, pushing it between your lips.

While you open your mouth too readily for the game at hand, he doesn’t protest. The taste of the gun is bitter and metallic, but what strikes you most is the black powder residue. It’s charred with a sharp tang. A moan escapes you for the way he pushes it deeper, forcing your lips wider apart.

“Don’t be shy. Give ‘er a good spit shine, sweetheart,” he encourages, pulling the gun back only to push it deeper yet. You comply, welcoming the slide of it deeper, pressing your tongue into the grooves on the underside, your eyes half-lidded and glazed with desire. “Good,” he says, voice rough with the effect you’re having on him.

Hands braced on your own bare thighs, your nails bite dull little crescents into your skin. The rock of your body is entirely subconscious, your eyelids fluttering. It’s easy to lose yourself to the work at hand, to luxuriate in the weight of his gaze on you while he uses you, fucking your mouth with the full barrel of his gun. He’s so committed to the fantasy, you can’t help but buy into it wholly.

By the time he pulls the gun away your chin is spit slick and your tongue is tingling where you’d been pressing it to the barrel. He gives an appreciative whistle while inspecting the wet shine of his gun. “That’s better,” he says, gaze sliding to you. He stands, grabbing a thick handful of your hair to haul you up to your feet with him. The noise you make is humiliating. Needy. His answering grin is wicked.

“Time t’oil it,” he says, voice frayed at the edges. He doesn’t let that trace of impatience impact his movements any. He walks you to the bed with that same loose devil-may-care swagger, assured that he has all the time in the world to take you apart piece by piece.

The mattress’ metal coils groan with your weight as he tosses you onto the bed, standing at the edge of it. The bed stands taller than most, bringing your pelvis parallel to his when you’re on your knees. He grabs your thigh and yanks your ass up into the air, smoothing his hand over the swell of it. He gives a sharp little slap to your rear that wrings a gasp out of you. The way he smooths his leather clad hand over the smarting spot afterwards almost feels like an apology, even if he’s really just admiring his handiwork.

“Spread,” he orders simply. You do so eagerly, widening the splay of your knees, folding your arms to rest your head on. “Look at you,” he breathes with genuine wonder, gripping your ass cheek and holding it firm while he inspects you. You can already feel what he’s looking at, how wet you are from his teasing. “Y’fuckin’ drippin’ for me.”

A shiver rolls through your whole body at the feel of his gun against your inner thigh sliding slowly upwards. Your hips give a reflexive little buck at the first touch of that warm barrel against your soaked cunt, your clit throbbing so hard it aches. “Don’t move,” he tells you. He sounds wrecked. He moves it back and forth, teasing your clit with just the muzzle of it before drawing back, and your thighs tremble with the effort to keep yourself still when all you want is to chase that precious relief.

The hiss of his zipper is the most thrilling noise you’ve ever heard. The gun disappears from between your thighs.

“Up,” he tells you, taking a rough hold of your shoulder and yanking you upright before you have the chance to comply. He holds you still while he lines himself up, the familiar thick head of his cock grinding through the wet slide of you, the length of him rubbing from taint to clit. “Y’made this big mess just from suckin’ down my gun? Christ alive, darlin’. You’re somethin’ else,” he says through his teeth. The ruin in his voice makes it feel like praise, and that feels good.

Almost as good as the slow burn of his cock pushing into you, the sound of it obscenely loud and wet. You tip your head back against his shoulder and reach back over your own, grabbing at his coat, holding onto him for dear life while he sinks deeper and deeper, pulling you back until your bare ass falls flush against him. Feeling his clothing against your bare body intensifies that intoxicating feeling of vulnerability. Never in your life has the thrill of danger been safe to explore.

Not until him.

He gives you no time to adjust, thrusting almost as soon as he’s bottomed out.

“Fffuck,” you exhale, eyes screwed tightly shut. You start to lean forward, but he catches you by the throat, pinning you back against his chest at the same time he fires his gun, shocking your eyes wide open. Your body goes rigid, cunt seizing up so tightly around him he hisses out a breath.

“C’mon, little bunny,” he whispers in a vicious grit, pressing the still-warm muzzle firmly against your temple. “Bounce for me.” He cocks the hammer back, the smell of black powder filling your senses.

You nod fervently, lifting up on your knees and using the mattress to bounce yourself on his cock, gravity bringing you down into every one of his hard thrusts. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, sighing his pleasure in strained little sounds. His hand slides down your throat to your chest, cupping your breast and squeezing, thumbing your nipple until you shudder.

“Close,” you moan, fist twisting in the fabric of his coat, your other hand clutching the wrist of the hand he’s fondling you with. “Please.”

His only response is to slide his hand down further, fingers slipping between your thighs. His middle finger finds your clit first, the friction making your hips jerk out of rhythm. He persists, fingering your clit in smooth circles while he fucks you hard.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot and wet on your neck. “All that fight’s gone now, ain’t it? Just a needy li’l thing beggin’ t’cum.” You’re so close you’re starting to shake, breath caught in your throat. “Go on, angel. Lemme hear how pretty you can beg.”

His fingers slow enough that your ascension falters. “Please!” You rasp immediately, squeezing his wrist, begging in every way you know how to. “Please, m’so close, please make me cum, please,” you plead, voice pitchy, your thoughts empty of everything but pleasure. He’s fucking you hard, chasing his own release just as fervently.

Just like that his touch returns to full force, deftly working your clit until your pleasure crests and your pleas turn to cries. Your orgasm hits like an earthquake, a sudden eruption that renders you silent, your lips falling open on a noiseless scream. Your body locks up like a vice, euphoria turning your vision white and emptying your mind of all thought while pleasure cascades through you in hot liquid waves.

He doesn’t stop, though his thrusts slow. He fucks you deeply through your orgasm, savoring every quiver around his cock while he uses you. You don’t hear him come, but you feel it, the deep rush of heat that he empties into the core of you, his body going still against yours. Your whole body shudders and you exhale a broken little noise, dizzy from the magnitude of it all. Everything around you feels bleary, your vision fading in and out. For a moment, you feel as though you might float away from your body entirely, your consciousness barely holding on, but the feeling of him pressed against your back, holding you to him, grounds you.

He moves the gun from your temple and holsters it, adjusting his grip so that he can ease you down onto your stomach, slipping from between your legs. You pant hot puffs of air into the bedding, your vision blurry at the edges.

“Coop,” you call, signifying the end of your little game of pretend.

“M’right here,” he soothes, his bare hands upon you not a moment later. There’s a marked difference in the way he touches you now, a subtle tenderness that he’d forced out of his touch for the sake of play. You hadn’t realized how much you missed it until now, feeling it as if for the first time.

He slides into bed next to you, having shed his gloves, coat and bandolier. You find the strength to slip an arm around him, clinging despite the tremble in your limbs. The next several seconds–moments, maybe hours, you can’t be sure–pass by in a haze of touch.

He kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips. He makes you aware of your entire body, grounding you with sweeping touches to every part of your body. It’s an intoxicating intimacy that leaves you feeling warm and drunk, still hungry for more.

At some point Cooper gets the blanket over you, skirting his scarred fingers up and down your arm beneath it. The adrenaline crash that follows your orgasm is unlike anything you’ve experienced before, leaving you exhausted on a level beyond physical.

“Still with me?” Cooper asks after a time, fingertips tapping idle patterns on your skin as if to call you back to your body. “Mhm… Intense,” you say, the lone word slurred by your lazy tongue.

“Warned you,” he gives back, sounding nearly as ruined. His voice is deeper than usual, thoroughly frayed at the edges. It’s true, he had warned you that you were playing with fire. It’s unclear how much of that had been play, and how much was just him. Still, it had been… thrilling. Amazing. Everything you’d hoped it would be.

“How ‘bout it, darlin’, do I scare you yet?” He asks, making it sound like an inevitability. He must believe it is.

You sigh a low hum, pretending to give the matter great thought. “Mmm… Mm-mm. Not one little bit,” you say, the words hardly legible.

“Shucks,” he says simply, feigning something like disappointment.

“Why’re you so determined to scare me off?” You ask, adjusting where your head lay on his shoulder so that you can look up at him. You’ve grown accustomed to his unique silhouette, but more than that, you’ve started to figure out what it is that makes him handsome. He’s got a wide chin and a fine jawline, and on the rare occasions you see it, a charming smile.

Much of it is in his eyes. They never fail to make your heart stutter.

“A saner question would be why you’re so determined t’stay,” he counters, those very eyes dropping to meet yours. You can’t help but smile, which–as per usual–catches him just a touch off guard.

“I got a thing for pretty men,” you say, caught up in your own musings.

His expression flattens. “Very funny,” he says, and you realize he thinks you’re mocking him.

“Hey, I mean it. I was just thinking about how handsome you are,” you say, reaching up to touch his jaw.

“There’s a specific kind’a philia for finding corpses handsome, y’know,” he says, though in his afterglow the words lack their usual sharp cynicism. They come to him more like habit than anything else.

“You’re not a corpse, Cooper,” you tell him firmly, cupping his cheek in your palm. “You don’t need to keep living like one.”

He considers you in silence for a long moment. With the back of his knuckles, he brushes your cheek. There it is again; that deep sadness that sometimes appears in his eyes when he looks at you. As if he’s mourning something.

“What?” You whisper. “Why do you–”

He kisses you, swallowing the words clean off your lips. He takes your face between his hands and kisses you, kisses you, kisses you through your meager protests until your lips move with his and you sink back down into the warmth of it. He grows progressively more relentless with it, stealing your breath until you’re forced to break away, turning your head for air.

“You can’t kiss your way out of every–”

“I know,” he interrupts you, lifting his head to level you with a hard stare. “I know, alright? But it’ll come on my terms, in my time, yeah?”

You stare, pinned by the weight in his expression. After a beat, you nod, feeling dazed by both the onslaught and his words. It’s the only time he’s acknowledged that there is something, which you suppose is progress. “Okay,” you say softly, and then again more firmly, “Okay.”

His expression softens, taking in the look of you before he kisses you again. You reciprocate, pressing into his lips with the weight of your conviction, willing him to feel how much you really do mean it.

“Thank you for today,” you murmur, settling back down against him. “I never thought that I’d be able to… do something like that. And live,” you say, adding the last bit with a rueful smile. “I feel safe with you.”

You wait for some kind of dismissive or self-deprecating remark from him, or even a sly jab at you and your sanity, but neither come. You glance up and find him staring at you, thoughtful and–if your eyes don’t deceive you–a little sentimental.

“I don’t make promises,” he tells you, sounding resigned. “But for what it’s worth, I’d never want t’do somethin’ I thought might hurt you.”

“You’re sweet,” you say, that same sentimentality slipping into your own voice. If not a bit ominous.

“Not really,” he replies, adjusting against the bedding, his eyes falling shut. “Y’standards are just too low.”

You sigh, closing your eyes with an incredulous little smile. “Shut up.”

The two of you drift into comfortable silence, his fingers idly traipsing the contours of your body. It’s like he’s memorizing the feel of you, hyper-aware that these intimate moments together are stolen. You reciprocate, seeking out what bare skin you can with gentle brushes of your fingers. He’s never admitted as much, but you’ve long suspected he struggles with pain. He’s rarely ever unclothed, and sometimes you see him wince when he goes too long between hits of those vials.

Cooper started living on borrowed time long before he met you, but it doesn’t stop you from hoping that he might someday see something more permanent in you. With you.

In the meantime, you’ll make the most of every second.

#the ghoul #cooper howard #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x you #fallout fanfic #x reader #x reader smut #fem reader #my writing #smut

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