#battie kinktober 2024

[venus-haze]

Sick as a Dog (Soldier Boy x Reader)

Summary: Day 25 - Underwear stealing/sniffing. Soldier Boy is America's first superhero. The greatest man who ever lived. Larger than life itself. A sleazy chauvinist who's getting off on your panties in a motel bathroom. [AO3 link]

Note: Written for @cozycornerevents Kinktober! Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. I think this is my first Soldier Boy fic set in modern day…anyway it was fun writing mean and gross Soldier Boy🤭

Word count: 1k

Warnings: Soldier Boy-typical misogyny. Sexually explicit content involving masturbation, panty stealing/sniffing, degradation, voyeurism.

You couldn’t relax around Soldier Boy, not when Butcher and Hughie left you alone with him in that damn motel room. It was almost impossible to focus on the TV with him so blatantly eyeing you like a piece of meat. Tried to do the arm-over-the-shoulder move so he could grope your breast, and called you a prude under his breath when you scooted further down the couch. 

Sure, he was attractive, but you weren’t about to mix business with pleasure—especially not with a guy who, when introduced to you, asked Butcher if they only kept you around as “stress relief,” as if you weren’t even standing in front of him. Maybe you should have gone with MM and Annie after all.

“I gotta use the can,” he grumbled, scratching his crotch before standing up from the couch.

The tension slowly released from your body the further away he got from you. Picking up your phone from the coffee table, you saw a missed text from Hughie: Sorry to leave you on supe-sitting duty. Everything good?

You sighed, your thumbs hovering over the keys before sending back: Yeah. Nothing I can’t handle.

Threw in an emoji at the end so he wouldn’t feel too bad. It was kind of your own fault, anyway. You decided to go along with Butcher and Hughie because part of you still naively believed in Soldier Boy’s heroism, his authenticity. And then you actually met him. Heard the shockingly crass way he talked, a relic of a time you had no interest in reliving.

You were just about to text Annie when you heard it.

A name. Your name. Low and gruff and mean coming from his mouth.

Putting your phone down, you glanced in the direction of the bathroom. 

You knew your best option was to just ignore it when you heard him say your name again—turn up the volume on the TV and ignore the way heat flared up between your legs at the grunts he didn’t even try to keep down. Instead, you stood up, your heart beating faster with each step you took. The motel room wasn’t all that big, didn’t take very long at all to get to the bathroom door, look in where he’d left it open a crack. 

Had he been careless? Or did he want you to watch?  

You gaped openly at him, pumping his hard cock with a pair of your used panties bunched up in his hand, sliding it up and down his length. Black, satin with a little bow, it was one of your favorite pairs you brought with you, too, and you weren’t sure how to feel about him having chosen that one to get off with, to ruin. You looked back at your duffel bag, wide open and clearly rifled through. Supposed you were trying too hard not to pay attention to him to pay any mind to his violating your privacy.

“That’s right, take it, you fucking slut,” he growled. “You might not be their stress relief, but you’re gonna be mine.”

How the hell was this the same guy whose PSAs you watched throughout your school years, telling you to pledge allegiance to the flag and say no to drugs? He was sick, hypocritical, a symbol of the worst of American debauchery. Every subsequent word that came out of his mouth was vile, objectifying—should’ve repulsed you instead of going straight to your pussy. Your brain was screaming at you to go back to the couch and pretend you didn’t see anything, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

“I’ll make sure you can’t fucking walk tomorrow, have to carry you over my shoulder and tell everyone what a slut you are for my cock.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He squeezed his cock harder, his pumps more punishing, frustration radiating off of him as his precum soaked through your ruined panties. Could you even bear to wear them again, knowing all the things he said and did with them bunched up in his hand, picturing you in their place, bent over the motel room sink, or anywhere else he could think of in that deviant mind of his.

“How bad do you want it? C’mon, I wanna hear you beg.”

“Please,” you whispered despite yourself.

“I know you’re out there,” he taunted, startling you. “I can hear you panting like a bitch in heat. Why don’t you come in and give me a hand?”

With a gasp, you found your legs again and ran back to the living area. Fell over yourself to get onto the couch and make the TV louder, anything to drown out the sound of his groans, your name mixed with curses as he came just a few feet away. 

Your face was on fire, and you sat with your hands folded between your legs, trying desperately to ignore the want that had overtaken you while watching him. You were better than that, better than debasing yourself for someone like him. Still, a shiver ran down your spine when you heard a gruff, drawn out “Fuck” over the sound of the stupid Vought A Burger commercial that was on.

The sink ran. Toilet flushed. Your head was pounding when he walked out of the bathroom and back to the couch. 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, throwing your panties at you.

The balled up garment landed on your lap, wet and heavy with his cum. With a reluctant, trembling hand, you pushed it onto the floor.

Your voice cracked as you half-heartedly told him, “You’re disgusting.”

He scoffed, his arm draped across the back of the couch, the tips of his fingers brushing your shoulder. “You should take it as a compliment. There’s plenty of other broads I could’ve jacked off to—Hayworth, Bardot, Fawcett—”

“But none of them had their panties lying around here, did they?”

“No, they didn’t.” He was silent for a moment before breaking into a grin. “I’m gonna get you to fold sooner or later. Then, I’m really gonna make you beg for it.”

“Don’t bet on it,” you mumbled.

[lostloveletters]

Sweetheart Grip (John Egan x OC)

Summary: Day 21 - Gun Play. Bucky remembers hearing somewhere that a girl is a gun. [AO3 link | Kinktober 2024 Masterlist]

Note: This is probably trashy and in poor taste but whatever! Visual reference for what a sweetheart grip is can be found here.

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: Inevitable historical and technical inaccuracies, obviously unsafe handling of a gun. Sexually explicit content involving elements of gunplay.

Holly’s eyebrows furrowed when she looked down the long, unfamiliar hallway. Still, at a quarter after seven, she walked until she got to the third door on the left, as she was asked to do earlier that day. Filled with boxes and miscellaneous supplies, all covered in a thin coat of dust, it was almost like everyone had forgotten about that back office, though the lights turned on when she flipped the switch. She wondered how Bucky even knew about it, considering he hadn’t even worked as an Air Exec for all that long.

No evidence of him around, but she’d wait. Sometimes he ran a little late to their rendezvous, so she made herself comfortable on top of the desk in the corner of the room, her legs swinging back and forth above the scuffed floor until she heard footsteps approaching.

Bucky smiled when he saw her, closing the door behind him. “No one saw you, right?”

“I don’t think so.” The lock clicked. “Sounds like you wanna get us in trouble.”

“I’m trying to keep us out of trouble.”

She hopped down from the desk, a bit hesitant as she walked over to him. “You’ve been acting kind of cagey lately. You know you can talk to me, right?”

“I know that, doll. I’m just not great at surprises, and I didn’t wanna ruin it before it was ready.”

The corners of her lips turned up slightly. “What surprise?”

He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, making his way over to the desk she’d been sitting on. She eagerly followed, startled to see a gun on top of the worn wood grain until she took a closer look at the grip.

“Oh my god, that’s me!”

He grinned. “Who else?”

“How’d you do this? With the photo and everything?”

“Wasn’t that hard to get Woody on board. She did one hell of a job,” he said.

She took his face in her hand, standing on her toes to kiss him. “It’s so… sexy,” she confessed, her cheeks flushed pink. “Makes me feel like I’m the girl in one of those gangster pictures or something.” Her hand hovered just above the grip. “Can I?”

“It’s not loaded, but be careful.”

“How do I hold this thing like I know what I’m doing?” 

He shrugged his jacket off and came up behind her, positioning her arms before placing his hands over hers. “Always treat it like it’s loaded, and don’t point it at anyone unless you wanna shoot ‘em.” 

His fingers caressed the middle knuckle on her left hand, where the raised scar was. When he initially bandaged up her hand, he honestly didn’t think she needed stitches. It was too late for that when he unwrapped the gauze to redress the wounds and noticed how oddly the broken skin over her knuckle was healing. She claimed she didn’t mind.

“So you put your finger on the trigger—”

“And then I say, ‘Put the money in the bag and nobody gets hurt.’”

He laughed, the soft rumble of his body, so close to hers, made her eyes flutter shut for a moment. The day when they wouldn’t have to sneak around the way they did couldn’t come soon enough. At the very least, if Chick knew about their relationship, he tolerated it, even if he couldn’t outright condone it. They were better together.

“Alright, Bonnie, then what?” he asked, his lips close to her ear.

“We hide out in a nice hotel somewhere, lay low for a while,” she said softly.

A pleased hum rolled through his chest. “I like the sound of that, you and me in bed for a week.”

She glanced up at him, a slight smile on her lips to find him staring down at her. 

Licking her lips, she looked at the pistol nestled in their hands. “Pull the trigger.”

“What?”

“You said it’s not loaded. I just wanna see.”

He glanced at her, intrigued by her request, even more so by the strange look in her eyes. Bringing his gaze forward, his finger curled to the sound of an empty click. A shiver ran down his spine as she gasped, pressing herself against him.

“Do it again.”

Click.

Her voice was breathy. “Again.”

Click.

“Are you getting off on this?” he asked, his voice hoarser than he was expecting.

She tilted her head back against his chest, shameless in the face of his accusation. “Why, are you?”

He swallowed roughly. Of course she could feel his cock growing hard in his trousers, pressed against her back as closely as he was. Wanted to give some smart response, but found himself unusually flustered by the situation.

“Jesus Christ, Holly.”

It was as if he blinked, and she bent over the desk, her panties and stockings pulled down to her knees, her skirt hiked up over her ass. He placed the gun down next to her, the grip right in her line of sight. Mesmerized, she stared at it, the plexiglass-encased photo of herself smiling back at her. His hands shook as he rushed to free his cock, straining almost painfully against his clothing.

“Do you have a condom?” she asked.

“I think so—”

“You better,” she said, looking at him from over her shoulder through half-hooded lids, her dark brown eyes nearly pinning him in place. “I know you’re not shooting blanks, are you, Major?”

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck—fuck—just hold on—”

He searched frantically through his jacket pockets until he found one and tore open the packaging to slip it on. Something in his brain was short-circuiting, the way she looked at him, spoke to him, he nearly whined when she called to him with a gentle, “Baby?”

She bit hard on her lip when Bucky pushed inside her, frustration crashing over her when she tasted blood. She wanted him to hear how good he was making her feel. But for the time being, she reached back, placing a hand over one of his that was gripping her waist. Her thumb rubbed against his skin gently, and upon looking at the pistol again, she felt overwhelmed by her sweet, sentimental, sensitive Bucky. Something about the way he looked at her, held her, transcended mere affection, actually made her feel like a person again.

“You’re so good to me,” she said, as softly as she could manage, though a moan caught in her throat when she added, “You’re everything.”

Never thought she’d find a man who could make her feel that way again, her heart pounding against her ribcage as if about to burst through so she could present it to him in kind. 

She withdrew her hand from its place on top of his to grip the edge of the desk. So close, so fucking close she could scream. Bucky was never all that good at keeping quiet, even when they had to be, like then, with his face buried in the crook of her neck to muffle the sound of his moans.

“Please,” he whimpered against her skin, “doll, please.”

“I know, baby. I’m almost—fuck—keep going.”

It was the sweetheart grip that pushed her over the edge. She wasn’t sure why she curled her fingers around it, dangerous and intimate, the thrill it sent through her set her off, pleasure tearing through her so violently that she could hardly hold herself up on top of the desk. Her chest lay flush against it when Bucky came, and for a few moments afterward, the room was unnervingly silent save for their heavy breathing.

“Christ,” Bucky groaned as he pulled out.

“Are you alright?” she asked. “Was that—was I too much?”

“If I knew you had that in you, I would’ve gotten this a lot sooner.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t wanna scare you off.”

She smiled, leaning up on her elbows to look at him over her shoulder again. “If you wanna get rid of me, it won’t be that easy, Major.”

[inkformyblood]

stuck on you (COD Kinktober 2024 Day 20)

09 Ghoap, Stuck in a Wall, Ace-spectrum Ghost. Canon Era. Lemon.

Riley didn’t think this day could not get any fucking worse until it did.

“All right there, Riley?” Captain MacTavish isn’t quite in view; there isn’t enough wriggle room for Riley to tip his head back so he can see the man looming over the collapsed door frame above him but he still tries, lashing one leg backwards, heel angled up just enough to— 

There’s the dull impact against something solid, not MacTavish’s bollocks like he’d been aiming for, Riley’s foot caught securely and fucking raised to be hooked under MacTavish’s arm like he’s a fucking toddler throwing a fit. 

“Fuck you, you fucking gobshite. If you’re not going to make yourself useful, then fuck off.”

MacTavish doesn’t even flinch at the barrage of curses thrown at him, continuing to trace his fingers over the exposed sliver of skin at Riley’s calf. Riley doesn’t need to see him to be able to picture his grin, the slow languid spill of it like ink dropped into water, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes cut into sharp multifaceted relief. “Warm out, isn’t it, Riley?”

Not only is Riley stuck in a literal hole in a wall, just enough space to breathe and swear and not enough to wriggle free, but his Captain is going batty. 

Riley snarls through gritted teeth, “If you say so sir.” He couldn’t tell anymore, sweat pooling on the nape of his neck, soaking his balaclava, stinging his eyes with every misplaced blink. His sunglasses had slid down his nose earlier, harsh daylight carving a sundial across the floor as he waited.

”’s only acceptable that I try to keep you shaded while we wait for the exercise to finish and you can get to medical.”

“Not fucking going to medical.” Riley knows he’ll wind up in medical one way or the other, knew it when the dust had settled and he wasn’t immediately dead, but he’ll be damned if it’s not going to be an argument first.

“So,” MacTavish continues like he hadn’t even spoken, his voice as measured as would be if he’s reading from a mission briefing, “best if I stand closer, aye? Like here.”

Riley’s head snaps up, nearly knocking himself out on the rubble behind his skull. “You’re enjoying this.”

MacTavish huffs out a quiet laugh, his hips flush against Riley’s arse, the heft of his cock unavoidable. “I am, my mouthy little lieutenant stuck in a wall? If I was any younger, would’ve cum in my boxers at the sight of you.”

He rolls his hips once and Riley tries to follow the motion reflexively, his raised leg tugging against MacTavish’s hold as his other leg wavers, grit catching against his sole. 

“Give me a yes, Riley,” MacTavish murmurs. “Or we’ll stop and wriggle you free and send you off on your way to medical with a sticker for good behaviour. Can sort myself out no bother.”

Would be easy to just keep quiet. He’s not had much of a libido since his resurrection, barely enough to be noticed before, but he likes making MacTavish feel good, a warm sense of pride getting to warm his belly when the other man bruises his hips and groans into his neck. 

“Yes,” Riley says, tipping his hips into MacTavish’s cock as best he can, and the other man groans, his grip tight on Riley’s leg before he hooks his other hand against Riley’s hip and begins to grind in earnest.

[venus-haze]

Reach Out, Touch Faith (Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader)

Summary: Day 22 - Thigh Riding. Someone to hear your prayers, someone who cares.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. No spoilers for the show in this fic. I finally caught up on Grotesquerie and had to write something for Father Charlie! Shoutout to @leopard-skin-pillbox-hat-ok for even putting this show on my radar. Title comes from Personal Jesus by Depeche Mode.

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content involving a member of the clergy, thigh riding, some degradation.

Only Father Charlie could walk the line between a wet dream and a saint. You found this out rather quickly after becoming a parishioner. It’d been years since you went to church, but moving to the small town offered little in the way of a social life outside of work, so you swallowed your pride and began showing up to mass, and then getting involved in everything from the soup kitchen to movie nights. He didn’t judge you when you admitted you were there to make friends. In fact, he encouraged it.

“People feel increasingly isolated these days,” he had told you. “The church used to be a place for people to meet and make connections, I’m glad it’s serving you that way. Gives me hope for the future of our parish.”

After just a few weeks, people actually got to know you, to the point where you were invited to get coffee with some or join others for dinner. But in your heart, you knew you were mostly showing up for Father Charlie. Especially since he followed you on Instagram, and you almost considered softblocking him so he couldn’t see what you were up to. Morbid curiosity got the better of you, and you followed him back, dragged to the depths your desire by the videos of him exercising on his feed—his toned muscles flexing, skin glimmering with sweat. Your hand flew to your mouth when he squirted water from a bottle on himself. What the fuck kind of priest even did that?

You could hardly look him in the eye the next time you saw him. When he cornered you after a book club meeting, it was almost like he knew.

“You know, for everything you’re involved in, all of the meetings and events you show up to, I’ve never had you for confession,” he said.

It was the way he said it—had you—that made you take pause. As if his being a priest obscured something close to lust, almost implied consummation.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to know who’s confessing,” you said.

“I’d know your voice.”

“I guess I’m just scared, Father.”

“Of what? God’s judgment?” he asked. “He’s merciful if you bring your sins to Him.”

“More along the lines of what you’ll think of me.”

He smiled. “You haven’t killed anyone, have you?”

“God, no!”

“Well, there’s blasphemy,” he joked. “Come by tomorrow at seven. No one else will be here. No pressure.”

Sitting in the confessional almost made you feel claustrophobic. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, so you folded them across your lap, waiting for Father Charlie to speak from the other side of the screen.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

You paused, trying to remember an exact date, but nothing came to mind. “A few years, probably.”

“That’s alright. What sins do you bring forward today?”

“I don’t know,” you lied.

“You don’t know?” he repeated incredulously.

“No. I can’t think of anything.”

He scoffed. You could practically see the sneer on his face through the screen. “I can list off some. Pride, selfishness, leading others into temptation—do you have any idea what you’re capable of doing? The depths you can cause a man to sink to? The sins of the flesh proliferate every aspect of our modern lives and you—you just��”

“Father?”

After a few moments of tense silence, he spoke your name softly. “I want you to leave the confessional. If there’s no one around, come over to my side.”

“What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Against your better judgment, you left the confessional and rounded it to the other side. When you opened the door, he looked at you expectantly, curling his pointer and index fingers to beckon you inside.

You hesitated. Almost took a step back, except he reached for you, pulling you in with him. If you thought it was claustrophobic before, your body, cramped in so closely with his, would have been enough to make you anxious on its own, but the proximity, his body heat, his dark brown eyes blazing with a vengeful lust, drew a whine from you when you were maneuvered onto his lap, one of his thick thighs between your legs. You suddenly wished you hadn’t worn a skirt—knee-length, modest enough when you picked it out, but woefully inadequate for the way his hand slipped up it, his fingers brushing your pussy through your panties.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, dripping with arousal in the house of the Lord.”

Rage filled your chest at his taunt. “You have some fucking nerve to accuse me,” you hissed. “Your socials are shameless. I almost thought I was on OnlyFans, the way you flaunt yourself.”

“But you liked what you saw, didn’t you?” he pressed. “Why else would you have come to confession if not for your guilty conscience?” He flexed his muscular thigh beneath you, a pathetic sounding whimper echoing from your lips in the confessional. “Unless you’re only chasing lust, that fleeting, deadly sin.”

“For the love of God, put up or shut up,” you snapped.

He was at a loss for words, then, and letting your pride get the better of you, you kissed him—claiming him was more like it, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip until he shivered beneath you. 

Steadying yourself on his shoulders, you rocked your hips back and forth against his thigh, the friction from the fabric teasing your clit so perfectly, you couldn’t help the cry that tore from your throat until he silenced you with his mouth on yours. Sweat rolled down your back at your exertion, making your blouse stick to your skin, the confessional almost suffocatingly hot.

“Is this what you had in mind, Father?” you mocked, your voice husky and almost cruel, though you knew if anyone walked in, they’d be able to hear. Wouldn’t take very long for a keen listener to figure out what was going on. “Is this my penance?”

“God, yes,” he groaned, his strong hands kneading your ass.

You chased your orgasm, finally finding it when he moaned your name in your ear like a prayer. Rode out your ecstasy on his thigh, a sick thrill rushing through you at the thought of the wet spot you’d leave on his pants, the physical evidence of your debauchery, if the only witness to it was the ever-silent, omnipresent, judging eyes of God.

“Is that all, Father?” you asked breathlessly, glancing down at the prominent tent in his pants.

With a shaky sigh, he leaned his head back, palming his crotch. “Go—go say ten Hail Marys.” 

When you knelt down at the pew just outside of the confessional, you began the first of your penitent prayers with the sound of his groans and soft curses echoing in your ears.

[lostloveletters]

When Your Heart Beats Next To Mine (John Brady x OC)

Summary: Day 23 - Breeding Kink. Woody decides she's finally ready to try for kids, and her husband is more than enthusiastic about the idea. [AO3 link | Kinktober 2024 Masterlist]

Note: This one’s for all the Woody/Brady babes out there. Y’all are incredibly passionate about them and I love you for it🖤

Word count: 1k

Warnings: Mentions of Catholicism. Sexually explicit content involving elements of breeding kink.

They’d only gotten married a few months earlier, after an almost agonizing engagement of three years, two of those spent apart. The majority of the last year had been spent waiting for Woody to finish catechism, but the Monsignor delivered on his promise of letting them have a coveted spring wedding. But even before the date was set, the extended Brady family bombarded her with their well-meaning comments along the lines of ‘You two will have the most beautiful babies.’

Woody remembered shifting uncomfortably in the cold metal folding chair when it was brought up in catechism—god had created sex for a purpose: procreation. It all went over her head, back then, the homilies that emphasized the sanctity of marriage, of the bedroom.

Pleasure, the cornerstone of her and John’s intimacy, was only incidental. She couldn’t believe she used to cringe when she heard the term making love, but with him, she found it the only adequate way to describe the sensation, the experience of affectionate hands and lips taking the utmost care of her, adoration otherwise reserved for the holiest of holies directed toward her. Whereas in the past she forced out moans and faked orgasms through mechanical, impersonal sex with men who didn’t give a damn about her, she never had to fake a thing with John. 

Sex seemed different when it was so purposeful. Tracked her cycle, planned it so if she got pregnant sometime within the following weeks, John would be home to help with their newborn. Anxiety would’ve put a damper on her desire if it weren’t for her husband, far more understanding than she felt she deserved.

Of course, they’d had sex without condoms before, and she might have liked the way it felt when he emptied himself inside her just as much as he did if it weren’t for the worry that crept up on her when she came back to her senses and made a beeline for the bathroom.

For all her trepidation, she insisted the lights be kept on. She’d gone nearly two years without seeing his face, and in the time since, wanted to look at him at every available opportunity, especially when they were intimate.  

“I wasn’t even this nervous before I lost my virginity,” she admitted, lying naked on the bed, looking up at her husband’s adoring face. 

“If you want to wait—” 

“No, I want this. I want to have a family with you so bad, John.”

He smiled, kissed her softly before murmuring against her lips, “I’ll take care of everything, sweetheart. All you have to do is lay back and look pretty.”

There was always something about the way he looked at her, even when he was more reserved, like when they’d been hiding their relationship at Thorpe Abbotts or keeping up appearances for his family, that she knew he wanted her just as much as she wanted him. Any exasperation toward her near constant hunger for him was just for show.

“You know how long I’ve been thinking about this? About getting you pregnant?”

She shook her head.

“Since the first time I saw how you were with the kids back in England,” he confessed, making her breath hitch. “It was just for a split second, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Got me through a lot of cold nights, knew I needed to get back to you so I could do this.”

Woody never dreamed she’d have kids, her own mother and father so undeserving of their titles, she figured their inability to express any kind of parental affection was probably inherently in her also—to know John had seen the opposite in her from the start, before he even knew her that well, whether from lust or otherwise, made something in her chest bloom. It was him, only him who could make her feel that way, confident enough to take such a big leap.

His palm pressed against her belly, holding her down as he pushed his cock inside her. It wasn’t painful, hadn’t been in a long time. Still, she grabbed his shoulders, seeking a way to ground herself as he sought his release. His mouth on hers, with a curl of his tongue he swallowed her moans, thick and syrupy with desperation.

Her hands had mapped his body so many times, she could reach out for him in the dark and know exactly what she was touching—the cool metal from his wedding band on his ring finger, the slope of his shoulder, the fleshy part of his thigh. The same rang true for him, but her body would inevitably change, be transformed by his love for her, the evidence of their devotion to each other more visible with each passing day.

A string of strained ‘pleases’ fell from her mouth like a rosary.

"Shh," he soothed, "I’ll take care of you. Gonna give you what you need."

“I need you,” she whined.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m getting there, won’t be much longer till I put my baby in you.” He put his hand over her stomach, then, his nails scraping against her skin possessively. Heat spread across her abdomen at the intensity of his gaze. “I think I’m gonna like the way you look so much, they’ll have to put you on bedrest, anyway. Won’t be able to keep my hands off of you.”

Almost wondered where the hell this John had been hiding, lying dormant in the man she married, ready to pounce when she said the word, primal and relentless upon her consent to be bred. Frustratingly coherent when she felt as if her brain had turned off completely. If this was part of being his good Catholic wife, taking him raw just to parade around half a dozen kids at Mass every Sunday, she’d do it the world over for him.

“Doesn’t it feel good,” he asked, his voice teasing, “doin’ what you were made to do?”

God help her, she couldn’t manage more than a whine.

“How many are we gonna have, sweetheart?”

“As many as you want,” she breathed.

He grinned. “Good answer.”

[lostloveletters]

Fics I’ve written for Kinktober 2024! Full warnings are on each fic. Do not interact if you are under 18.

Fandoms: Masters of the Air, The Godfather

Main Masterlist | AO3 series link

Day 21. Gun Play - John “Bucky” Egan x Holly Dean (Masters of the Air)

Day 23. Breeding - John Brady x Kate “Woody” Woodward (Masters of the Air)

Day 24. Somnophilia - Gale “Buck” Cleven x Leona Spinelli (Masters of the Air)

Day 26. Dub-Con - Michael Corleone x Gloria Marino (The Godfather)

Day 27. Breast Worship - Bucky x Holly (Masters of the Air)

[lostloveletters]

Baby's Got It Bad (John Egan x OC)

Summary: Day 27 - Breast Worship.  Holly knows how to take care of her darling, exhausted husband after he's been away for so long. [AO3 link | Kinktober 2024 Masterlist]

Note: I’m not gonna lie this fic would not exist without Elizabeth Shue’s performance in season 1 of The Boys 🫡

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content involving gentle femdom, breast worship, praise kink, handjobs, come-eating.

When she heard the front door open, Holly glanced away from the movie magazine she was reading to look at the clock on her bedside table. 9:37. Not too late, but from the lack of fanfare upon Bucky’s arrival home, his prompt trudging up the stairs, footsteps slow and heavy, she knew her husband was exhausted.

He sure sounded it on the phone earlier, letting her know with weariness in his voice that he’d be getting in later than he thought. Could’ve sworn she heard him stifle a yawn on the other end of the line, but even if she had told him to call a cab, and they could get his car in the morning, he’d insist it was nothing a cup of coffee couldn’t fix.

He opened the bedroom door, setting his suitcase down beside it and offering her a tired smile. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

“You’re one to talk,” she said. “Did you eat? I made a plate for you.”

He shook his head. “I’m wiped.”

“Poor thing,” she said, the sincerity in her voice sent warmth flushing through his tired body. “C’mere then and get some rest.” She set her magazine aside, revealing her bare breasts and extending her arms to him. 

He undressed, his clothes haphazardly left on the floor before rushing into her embrace. Burying his face in her chest, he let out a sigh like a sad old street hound. Her heart lurched. She carded her fingers through his curly hair, gently petting him as he nuzzled his nose against her tit.

“I missed you while you were away,” she said. “Did you miss me?”

His answer was a muffled moan against her soft, supple breast. 

“I know you did, baby,” she cooed. “You called me almost every night to tell me how much.”

Her eyelids fluttered shut for a moment, taking in his mouth on her skin, warm and full of worship. His tongue lavished attention on her nipple, and his big hand took care of her other tit, massaging until it was tender. She whimpered his name, cradling his head against her chest.

By the morning, there’d be a mark above one of her breasts, soft lilac that would threaten to peek above a daring neckline. Once in a while she’d wear something low-cut on purpose, just to catch the silent recognition in people’s eyes, watch them play the scene to themselves, and then attempt to keep their gaze off of it, almost impossible once they noticed.

“I hate when you’re away for so long.” She hummed pleasantly when he caught one of her nipples between his teeth. He glanced up at her to shoot her the slightest smile, earning her fingertips scratching against his scalp. “Almost makes me forget how handsome you are.”

Back in England, he returned to her with scars littered across his skin, his mind too, leaving him with nightmares or odd hang-ups. She didn’t adore him any less for it. Made her want to take care of him the way he did so well for her. Sometimes, she felt like he was the only person who really understood her, and for that, he deserved unending affection.

“Let me take care of you, baby. I know it’s been a while,” she said.

He whined in relief against her breast, his retreating mouth leaving a glossy strand of saliva from his pouting bottom lip to her nipple.

Kneeling in front of her, presenting himself to her, she saw the vulnerability in his eyes and all the trust that came with it. Her chest ached with excruciating tenderness. She never loved anyone the way she loved him.

She held out her hand, and without further instruction he spit into it, keeping eye contact with her like she usually wanted. He moaned when she wrapped her hand around his shaft, spreading his saliva on his aching cock. 

His panting filled the room, a sound so heavy it moved through her. She studied him, her eyes darting across his body for the tells she’d come to recognize so intimately. A shaky breath that rattled through his chest, his big hands clutching the covers once, twice, then a moment of hesitation because he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands before grabbing at the floral patterned duvet again.

Her fingernails scraped gently against his trembling thighs. “Are you close?”

“Yeah,” he managed, would’ve been embarrassed at how desperate his voice sounded if it were anyone but Holly in front of him.

“You can cum whenever you like, baby,” she said.

He groaned in response, his head lulling back as his hips jerked. Bucky never came quietly, but long gone were the days where he had to bury his face in a pillow or her neck to stifle his moans of pleasure. Sometimes she still shoved her panties in his mouth, just because she liked the way lace, spit, and desperation looked on him. But watching his throat as he came, she knew it wasn’t the night for that.

“That’s it,” she said, her voice soft as she encouraged him, pumping his cock until it was limp in her hand. “Let it all out.”

Chest heaving, he stared at the cum painted across her chest with bleary eyes until she cradled his face with the same hand she used to bring him to climax.

“Be good and clean up after yourself,” she ordered gently. 

Without hesitation, he lapped at her breasts, his head spinning, stomach doing flips at the taste of himself on her. Sweat, semen, and soap intermingled on his tongue, not entirely pleasant, but the way she looked at him made his breath hitch. So warm and loving, he wanted to be good for her, to make her happy. Waiting up to take care of him the way only she could.

Holly smiled, pleased with how well he cleaned her up. “That’s my Bucky.” His lips glistening with spit and cum, blue eyes hazy like a warm lake after a cool summer rain, his dark, curly hair soaked with sweat—he looked as if every wet dream she ever had came true. “Why don’t you kiss me so I know how much you love me?”

In less than a heartbeat his mouth was on hers. She reveled in the taste, an intimate tang that made her moan softly as it settled on her tongue. Caressing his cheek, she smiled when he leaned into her touch.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice strained. 

Poor thing could barely keep his eyes open.

“I love you, too.” Her gaze was fond as she brushed her thumb against the corner of his mouth, barely resisting the urge to push it between his swollen lips. “Get some sleep, baby.”

[lostloveletters]

Night Fever (Gale Cleven x OC)

Summary: Day 24 - Somnophilia. It's been a while since Gale's had something nice to come home to—a full house, a soft bed, a warm body all his for the taking. [AO3 link | Kinktober 2024 Masterlist]

Note: I’d been wanting to write this concept for Gale and Leona anyway, so I was glad to see it on the list🤭

Word count: 1k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content involving consensual somnophilia. 

Gale walked into the house, so unnervingly dark and silent he would’ve thought it was empty if he didn’t know otherwise. Coming in late meant the absence of Luke rushing to the door to greet him with a hug, and Leona not far behind, giving Gale a kiss, her soft, pink lips pressing against his before whispering a soft, “Welcome home.” 

All he could think about as the clock ticked on was finally getting back home, to his family, his own bed, his wife’s loving embrace. She tried to wait up for him, and sometimes did, with a half empty mug of coffee, offering him a sleepy smile. Between Luke and housework, she’d usually call it a night around nine.

He paused when the floor creaked beneath his feet, only in his socks, as he left his shoes at the door. On nights like this, he could get ready for bed in five minutes without making a sound, though he nearly cursed to himself when he heard a quiet, “Gale?” as he approached the bed.

“Did I wake you?” he asked softly, stroking her hair.

“No,” she mumbled, “he was a handful today.”

“Go back to sleep, Lee. You can tell me all about it in the morning.”

He pressed a kiss to her cheek. Without much more convincing, her eyes fluttered shut, her breathing slowed again. 

Crawling beneath the covers, he held her close from behind, her soft body radiating a warmth he desperately missed whenever he was away.

His hand fell to her knee, right to the hem of her nightgown. Slowly, he pushed it higher up her leg until it was nearly hiked over her hips. He groaned when he felt it, or lack of it—she wasn’t wearing panties, and after the day he had, he couldn’t have been more grateful for their little arrangement.

Almost couldn’t believe it was her idea in the first place. The way she avoided his gaze, seemed shy bringing it up, as if he’d dismiss her in disgust. But he was morbidly intrigued by the thought of it, if not a little turned on that she trusted him so much.

Despite how many times he’d done it already, it still felt dirty enough to send a thrill through him. Slipping his hand between her thighs, he hummed in appreciation at how wet she was.

“You been dreaming about me, honey?” he asked, receiving a whisper-soft whimper in response when he pushed his fingers between her folds. 

Her body shifted, keening into his touch, coating his fingers in her slick warmth. He leaned up on his elbow to get a better look at her. Rubbing circles in her clit, he watched the rise and fall of her chest become more rapid, her nipples poking against the thin fabric of her nightgown.

She didn’t bother with a housecoat when they were alone together. Almost like she did it on purpose, made it nearly impossible for him to keep his hands off of her. He lost track of how often he’d gotten carried away with her—in the shower together, while she was applying makeup, or before they’d even left the bed, and he nearly made himself late or had to run out without eating breakfast. There was no rush at night, he could take all the time in the world if he wanted to, but he felt especially pent up.

He slipped his fingers inside her with ease, and his half-hard cock twitched in his thin pajama pants at the thought of being buried in her. Felt almost like a dog in heat the way he was rutting against her, his nose pressed against her skin, taking in the smell of her—the heady scent of gardenias and sweat especially strong beneath her humming pulse. His hips jerked when she clenched around his fingers.

Pulling his hand from between her thighs, it took some maneuvering to free his cock from his pants.

“Fuck, Leona,” he groaned, his voice strained and husky as he tried not to wake her despite the lust and frustration pumping through his veins.

He grabbed behind her knee and pushed her leg over a bit for better access. Easing himself into her so he wouldn’t wake or hurt her, he caught his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down as he thrust inside her.

He drank in her whine, pressing his lips to her neck, his breath hot on her skin.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured. “Takin’ me so good.”

His fingers dug into her fleshy thigh, wanting to feel as much of her as he could while he took her. Didn’t want to abuse the privilege she granted him, laid out in his bed like a soft dream, her pillowy body all his for the taking. He couldn’t help when reached over to squeeze one of her breasts a little harder than he intended.

Having sex with her while she was asleep made his heart pound in a twisted way, but he liked it better when she was awake, watching her struggle to keep quiet with her son sleeping just a few doors down, her cheeks turning pink, tears of frustration welling up in her pretty brown eyes when he’d gently scold her to keep it down. ‘It’s like you want the whole street to know you’re getting fucked, honey.’

Her whines grew a bit louder, not enough to indicate she had woken up, but rather that she was close, could feel it by the way she squeezed him. 

“So fucking good—can’t believe you’re mine.”

He slid his hand down to her abdomen, where her nightgown had been bunched up. Thought about how she told him she wanted a bigger family—fuck, if he wouldn’t give it to her. His body seized, muscles ached as he released inside her, all the tension from the day disappearing with it. 

With a ragged sigh, he kissed the top of her head, waiting a few moments before pulling out of her. His arm draped across her plush stomach, just under her breasts, he settled against her, silently hoping he’d get up early enough to wake her in the morning.

[lostloveletters]

Spellbound (Michael Corleone x OC)

Summary: Day 26 - Dub-Con. Gloria Marino’s got most of Las Vegas wrapped around her finger, except the one she really wants—but it won’t be long before Michael Corleone’s under her spell, too. [AO3 link | Kinktober 2024 Masterlist]

Note: This AU is heavily inspired by The Love Witch (2016). It was a lot of fun to write evil!Gloria and turn this power dynamic on its head🤭

Word count: 1k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content involving dubious consent (use of a love potion for sexual coercion)

Gloria didn’t regret her move to Las Vegas one bit. New York was cramping her style. Every damn witch in the city knew each other, no matter their practice. Her mother, an old guard strega, didn’t approve of her using her powers so frivolously, preaching honor and responsibility.

The City of Sin offered Gloria all the debauchery she could dream of, her job as a hostess in one of the casinos’ restaurants was a revolving door of men she could use how she wanted and then kick to the curb whenever she was done with them. This routine suited her perfectly well, until she met the casino’s owner late one evening. Each subsequent encounter with Michael Corleone made her feel like she’d been struck by lightning.

Handsome. Dark. Powerful. Woefully disinterested in her—at least on the surface. She caught the lingering glances, felt his eyes walking all over her, even when she wasn’t looking. His latent desire was more than enough to work with. She dug her great-grandmother’s spellbook out from its hiding place beneath her bed late one night, full of dark magic her mother unequivocally shunned, but her grandmother held onto out of respect for tradition, passing it onto Gloria on her sixteenth birthday. Carefully flipping the worn, yellowing pages, she found the one she was looking for close to the end.

The ritual required consumption and copulation, with a complicated potion at the center of its successful execution—dangerous in the wrong hands, but she couldn’t think of a better purpose than binding a man like Michael Corleone to her, the kind of man she deserved. 

Pleased to have found most of the ingredients in one outing, she wasted no time in making the potion when the conditions were finally right. Gloria couldn’t cook a meal for her life, but her cookware had seen plenty of use. She spit into the pot on the stove, watched the thick, crimson liquid reach a boil, and then quickly removed it from the heat. When the mixture coagulated as it cooled, she sliced her left palm open with a steak knife. The blood dripped, melding with the rest of the potion with a sizzle.

Just as the recipe promised, it was sickeningly sweet. She frowned. A snag in her plan. The love potion would be easy enough to slip into freshly mixed cocktails or decadent desserts, but Michael indulged in neither. Tapping her manicured nails against the countertop, she considered how exactly she could slip him the potion. The best she could come up with was pouring some in the coffee he always ordered after dinner and hope he drank enough for it to have some effect on him. 

Her stomach twisted the following evening, watching him grimace as he took a sip of his coffee. He set it down, pouring cream into it before taking another gulp. No good. He waved the waitress over and asked for it to be sent back.

Gloria turned around, hardly able to focus on the list of reservations in front of her. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand on her arm a few minutes later.

“Gloria, before I go, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about,” Michael said, his gaze especially dark as he stared into her eyes.

She smiled. “Of course, Mr. Corleone.”

“It’d best be discussed in private.”

“Well, my shift doesn’t end for another—”

“They can find someone else to cover for you.”

He ushered her out of the restaurant, and she couldn’t contain the smugness in her expression when he placed his hand on the small of her back on the elevator ride up to what she could only assume was his hotel room. 

The door hardly opened and shut before she was pushed against it, his mouth hungrily on hers, more teeth and tongue than lips, as if his intent were to devour. She resisted the urge to laugh. If only he knew, she’d have her claws sunk deep into him soon enough. 

Heat radiated off of his body, his passion for her so intense she was hardly able to pull away from his embrace for a moment.

“Mr. Corleone, I had no idea you felt this way about me,” she said breathlessly, the mirth in her voice betraying her ingenue facade.

“Ever since I saw you—I thought I had it under control, but—”

“Then don’t fight it, Michael,” she urged. “Don’t you want to make love to me?”

He still had some troublesome resolve in him, as he nearly mumbled an excuse about his wife until Gloria kissed him, pressing her pouting lips against his, practically smearing her freshly applied Rouge Dior across his mouth. Dug her fingers in his hair, unkempt and wild at her hands, and she hadn’t even gotten him over to the bed yet.

He finally gave in when she tugged at his belt, her hand brushing his growing bulge. 

A soft moan tumbled out of her mouth when he pushed her back onto the bed, his gaze white-hot and wild as he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. She just barely managed to shimmy her panties down to her ankles when he threw himself on top of her. 

Taking his hand in hers, she brought it to her pussy. “Do you feel that? It’s all for you.”

“Only me, Gloria,” he said, his voice low, almost dangerous if she weren’t certain she was in control as he pushed his cock inside her. The potion had done most of the heavy lifting, enhancing his existing lust for her, dissipating his resolve with each passing moment he wasn’t penetrating her.

Her wavy hair fanned out on the bedspread in serpentine tendrils, a dark crown haloing her head. She wrapped her arms around him, prepared to damn him in her embrace. He was close, she could feel it, the way his hips stuttered, his thrusts longer and deeper inside her. Gloria knew what they’d call her after everything was said and done—homewrecker, slut, witch, spewed from lips curled in jealousy poorly disguised as disgust. 

Finally, finally he came, didn’t even try to pull out, effectively signing himself over to her. 

Pleasure cracked down her spine like a whip as she cried out in ecstasy, “You’re mine now, Michael. You’re all mine.”

“Strega,” he uttered in horror, as if his release allowed him to come to his senses.

She threw her head back and laughed and laughed and laughed.

[lostloveletters]

Hi! I’m Battie (she/her) and I’m in my 20s🖤 This is a sideblog where I post about my OCs and fics for The Godfather and HBO War. There's also some vintage aesthetics as well as classic Hollywood and world cinema thrown in, too (but my heart belongs to horror and mob movies). 💌 My fics are cross-posted on AO3. 💌 I have a page for my OCs here. 💌 I do not take requests. 💌 When I write reader-insert fics, I write in second-person POV and try to be as non-descriptive about the reader’s appearance as possible for the sake of inclusivity. In my note before the fic, I call out what the reader’s gender is and if I’ve used any descriptors. I also try to avoid using any variation of “Y/N” when possible.

🦇 My main blog is @venus-haze where I write for various slashers and the show The Boys. Please keep in mind the many of the themes I write about on there are dark, so those fics may be disturbing or distressing to some people. I put detailed warnings on each of them, so please look at them carefully if you decide to check those out.

📔 Fic recs | Pinterest | Letterboxd | Storygraph

‼️ Do not interact with my blog or content if you’re under 18, a terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content. I will block you.

MASTERLISTS

The Godfather

Series

Bruised Fruit (Michael Corleone x OC)

You Want It, You Take It, You Pay the Price (Sonny Corleone x OC series - COMING SOON)

Reader-Inserts

HBO War

Band of Brothers

The Pacific

Masters of the Air

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

[zepskies]

Speaking of your Soldier Boy fics crossing my dash!! 😏

Every subsequent word that came out of his mouth was vile, objectifying—should’ve repulsed you instead of going straight to your pussy. Your brain was screaming at you to go back to the couch and pretend you didn’t see anything, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

Ughhhh, there in lies the problem most of us have with Soldier Boy. We're repulsed, but we can't look away because there's something about him that draws us in. (Probably that scruffy, traumatized part.)

Could you even bear to wear them again, knowing all the things he said and did with them bunched up in his hand, picturing you in their place, bent over the motel room sink, or anywhere else he could think of in that deviant mind of his.

“Don’t bet on it,” you mumbled.

LOL I feel like his attempts to convince her would be very entertaining, if you ever decided to do a Part 2. 😘

Like the reader, I had mixed feelings while reading Soldier Boy be his crass, disgusting self, but it was a very fun little ride, my friend. 😂💚💚

Sick as a Dog (Soldier Boy x Reader)

Summary: Day 25 - Underwear stealing/sniffing. Soldier Boy is America's first superhero. The greatest man who ever lived. Larger than life itself. A sleazy chauvinist who's getting off on your panties in a motel bathroom. [AO3 link]

Note: Written for @cozycornerevents Kinktober! Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. I think this is my first Soldier Boy fic set in modern day…anyway it was fun writing mean and gross Soldier Boy🤭

Word count: 1k

Warnings: Soldier Boy-typical misogyny. Sexually explicit content involving masturbation, panty stealing/sniffing, degradation, voyeurism.

You couldn’t relax around Soldier Boy, not when Butcher and Hughie left you alone with him in that damn motel room. It was almost impossible to focus on the TV with him so blatantly eyeing you like a piece of meat. Tried to do the arm-over-the-shoulder move so he could grope your breast, and called you a prude under his breath when you scooted further down the couch. 

Sure, he was attractive, but you weren’t about to mix business with pleasure—especially not with a guy who, when introduced to you, asked Butcher if they only kept you around as “stress relief,” as if you weren’t even standing in front of him. Maybe you should have gone with MM and Annie after all.

“I gotta use the can,” he grumbled, scratching his crotch before standing up from the couch.

The tension slowly released from your body the further away he got from you. Picking up your phone from the coffee table, you saw a missed text from Hughie: Sorry to leave you on supe-sitting duty. Everything good?

You sighed, your thumbs hovering over the keys before sending back: Yeah. Nothing I can’t handle.

Threw in an emoji at the end so he wouldn’t feel too bad. It was kind of your own fault, anyway. You decided to go along with Butcher and Hughie because part of you still naively believed in Soldier Boy’s heroism, his authenticity. And then you actually met him. Heard the shockingly crass way he talked, a relic of a time you had no interest in reliving.

You were just about to text Annie when you heard it.

A name. Your name. Low and gruff and mean coming from his mouth.

Putting your phone down, you glanced in the direction of the bathroom. 

You knew your best option was to just ignore it when you heard him say your name again—turn up the volume on the TV and ignore the way heat flared up between your legs at the grunts he didn’t even try to keep down. Instead, you stood up, your heart beating faster with each step you took. The motel room wasn’t all that big, didn’t take very long at all to get to the bathroom door, look in where he’d left it open a crack. 

Had he been careless? Or did he want you to watch?  

You gaped openly at him, pumping his hard cock with a pair of your used panties bunched up in his hand, sliding it up and down his length. Black, satin with a little bow, it was one of your favorite pairs you brought with you, too, and you weren’t sure how to feel about him having chosen that one to get off with, to ruin. You looked back at your duffel bag, wide open and clearly rifled through. Supposed you were trying too hard not to pay attention to him to pay any mind to his violating your privacy.

“That’s right, take it, you fucking slut,” he growled. “You might not be their stress relief, but you’re gonna be mine.”

How the hell was this the same guy whose PSAs you watched throughout your school years, telling you to pledge allegiance to the flag and say no to drugs? He was sick, hypocritical, a symbol of the worst of American debauchery. Every subsequent word that came out of his mouth was vile, objectifying—should’ve repulsed you instead of going straight to your pussy. Your brain was screaming at you to go back to the couch and pretend you didn’t see anything, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

“I’ll make sure you can’t fucking walk tomorrow, have to carry you over my shoulder and tell everyone what a slut you are for my cock.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He squeezed his cock harder, his pumps more punishing, frustration radiating off of him as his precum soaked through your ruined panties. Could you even bear to wear them again, knowing all the things he said and did with them bunched up in his hand, picturing you in their place, bent over the motel room sink, or anywhere else he could think of in that deviant mind of his.

“How bad do you want it? C’mon, I wanna hear you beg.”

“Please,” you whispered despite yourself.

“I know you’re out there,” he taunted, startling you. “I can hear you panting like a bitch in heat. Why don’t you come in and give me a hand?”

With a gasp, you found your legs again and ran back to the living area. Fell over yourself to get onto the couch and make the TV louder, anything to drown out the sound of his groans, your name mixed with curses as he came just a few feet away. 

Your face was on fire, and you sat with your hands folded between your legs, trying desperately to ignore the want that had overtaken you while watching him. You were better than that, better than debasing yourself for someone like him. Still, a shiver ran down your spine when you heard a gruff, drawn out “Fuck” over the sound of the stupid Vought A Burger commercial that was on.

The sink ran. Toilet flushed. Your head was pounding when he walked out of the bathroom and back to the couch. 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, throwing your panties at you.

The balled up garment landed on your lap, wet and heavy with his cum. With a reluctant, trembling hand, you pushed it onto the floor.

Your voice cracked as you half-heartedly told him, “You’re disgusting.”

He scoffed, his arm draped across the back of the couch, the tips of his fingers brushing your shoulder. “You should take it as a compliment. There’s plenty of other broads I could’ve jacked off to—Hayworth, Bardot, Fawcett—”

“But none of them had their panties lying around here, did they?”

“No, they didn’t.” He was silent for a moment before breaking into a grin. “I’m gonna get you to fold sooner or later. Then, I’m really gonna make you beg for it.”

“Don’t bet on it,” you mumbled.