#but he's interested in more than sex but he ain't spilling

[hellsgreatestperformance]

💬 + you've got a thing for the radio demon.

@bitchfluencer

Send 💬 + a rumor and my muse will react to it. / Accepting

「🕸️❝ Where the fuck did ya hear that? I ain't got a thin' fer, Smiles. What? He's hot. Ain't a crime ta think that. ❞ Shit, was it that obvious? Wait, shit! Responding like this was worse since it wasn't normal.

❝ Alright, bitch, ya caught me. So what if I wanna fuck the Radio Demon? I'm all 'bout a good time, baby, an' he's on my ta do list. Wit' enough rizz, I'll be checkin' em off real soon. ❞ Perfect save. 」

[yeyinde]

victory lap

“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day-old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch.  “an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—” “Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. His hackles raise on instinct, everything inside of him hissing to back away. “Got something else in mind.” Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture— And all his for the night. or: John strikes a deal with young Simon Riley. his cooperation on a team they're putting together in exchange for a night with you. naturally, it goes awry.

18+ SMUT. implied noncon, dubcon. under-negotiated kink. bondage. overstimulation. size difference. size kink. messy, sweaty gross sex. rough sex. unsafe sex. mean Simon. smitten Simon. bullydom!Simon. spit kink. degradation and humiliation. young!Simon (pre-mw2019-2022 when he was still a Seargent; 25-28ish). manipulation. attempts at taming a stray dog that goes as well as you'd expect.

It's John who takes his muzzle off.

Dangles the key on his finger when he kicks open the door, letting his Lieutenant glimpse what lay behind it. Giving a gruff, like what you see? when his eyes finally adjust to the low light flooding in.

It takes him half a second. Enough time to commit the scene in front of him to memory.

It's you, of course.

good dogs get rewards, don't they, Simon?

Waiting for him. Pretty as a picture in sleek silk chiffon ribboned in intricate shibari around your chest, stomach, and thighs. Legs spread on the table; ankles tied down to the sides in nude jute rope. Hands clasped together, fingers laced; wrists tied above your head. The blindfold wrapped around your head is a pale pink ribbon, thicker than the silk on your body. Wrapped twice over your eyes, and tied in a pretty bow behind your head, he imagines.

In the split of your thighs, he finds you already slick. Wet. It drips down onto the table, puddling beneath your ass. The spread of your pussy, glistening in the flushed light; the small, pink vibrator taped to your clit makes his cock twitch. 

"All for me?" He rasps, eyes fixed on your cunt. On how pretty it looks. How inviting. A soft, ripe peach offered in the heat of summer, and he wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into you. Her. "'ow sweet o'you."

And Price, he thinks, eyes slanting sideways as he glances at the man sliding into his chair. It stands to reason that this whole thing, you on a silver platter for a starving wolf, wouldn't have happened if he hadn't seen the look on Simon's face when you first met him. The hunger.

Simon's not stupid, of course. He knew you were off limits the moment Price put his paw on your nape, squeezing once. Owned, claimed. The intention, the message, clear. Mine.

Don't touch.

And the way you lit up, stammering out something about how good it was to meet him, told him everything he needed to know how your willingness to be shackled to his Captain.

But even so—

He couldn't take his eyes off of you.

(and in his intense cataloguing of everything you did, he couldn't help but notice how you kept touching your neck when Price was dragged away for a conversation leaving you all alone in a room rankled down his spine. almost as if you were reaching up to fix a collar—)

The memory alone makes him shudder.

"All yours, Simon," Price drawls from his perch on the throne. Between two fingers, a cigar sits, unlit. Ghost huffs.

The words are a vicious bite to the want pooling low in his belly. "That so?”

The room seems to shake when he steps inside. Floor creaking ominously under his weight. It makes your mouth drop, heavy breaths spilling out between dull teeth. Chest rising and sinking shallowly with a wild sort of nervousness that flits across the expanse of your cheeks, in the tremble of your lower lip. 

Despite your unease, your legs stay open. Held aloft by the rope, he knows, but also—

A testament to how trained you are. 

He prefers his pets wild. Unpolished. Vicious little things that he gets to bring to heel with a sharp bark and rough hand glued to the back of their skulls, pushing their head into the dirt, to the floor, where it belongs. 

Fine china broken at his feet. 

But you—

Manicured. Groomed to perfection. Save for the harsh breaths and the shake in your joints—both an indication of just how new you are at this. A novice. One slowly being crushed under the leather boot of a man who reeks of smoke and whiskey. 

But knowing his captain and the furious need for control, he imagines you're better than some of the seasoned ones he'd come across in his lifetime. No room for errors.

And certainly no forgiveness for them, either. 

His cock twitches again—a heavy, aching weight against his thigh—and he reaches down to cup the thickness of it, crushing the flesh in his palm to stave off the need burning in his loins. The urgency to sink inside of your pretty little cunt rewiring the part of him that likes to mess his pets up first. Ruin them before he takes them. Fucking them to the point of unconsciousness—and sometimes, beyond it. 

But you—

You've been a phantom taste in the back of his throat for months now. A tease between his teeth. Sinking his jowls into you is the only thing on his mind. 

And when you're offered up so enticingly—

Well. 

Price can't blame him much for how badly he's going to ruin you. 

He reaches out, fingers pressing cruelly into the slim, thumb-sized vibrator Price has locked against your clit. A mindless, incessant torture, he's sure. Pushing you over the edge on a constant, unrelenting loop. 

“Messy girl,” he rasps, the starchy fabric of the mask glueing to his balmy skin. 

The reprimand makes you flinch in shame, but the flutter of your cunt belies the contrition that drapes over your brow in a shallow mimicry of sorrow. He can see why Price latched onto you so quickly, and doesn't bother fighting the stab of envy that brims in his chest. 

“Didn't your old man ever teach you any manners?” He mocks, dry and derisively. Quietly amused by the soft mewl you let out, one that only just eclipses the snort from Price. “Daddy's been slackin’, ‘asn’t he? Let his little girl turn into a messy fuckin’ slag.” 

You try to close your legs to no avail, the rope keeping you spread. In part, he thinks, from shame—blistering, burning, and vibrant when it streaks across your face—but mostly from the slick gush that leaks out of your drenched pussy at his foul words. Trying to hide it from him. To keep him from knowing just how much the brassy roll of his ugly words makes your empty little cunt ache. 

“Look’it you.” He rumbles, enjoying the shiver in your joints. The way your head rolls to the side, nose pressed tight to the skin of your arm. “Messy pussy just achin’ to be fucked.”

He adds more pressure until you choke. The scream lodged in your throat. Your toes curl. He hears the soft pop of your joints when you arch your back like a cat in heat yowling for attending. 

“Want it bad, don't you?” He taunts. “Daddy must’a spoiled you too much—” another scoff from Price. The creak of leather. The clink of ice against glass. “Didn't teach you any manners—”

He wants you to beg. Wants to hear the peal of your voice—rough and ragged and begging him to sink inside you; fuck your little cunt until you can't walk anymore—but that's not what he's here for. Not why Price dragged him up to the room. Gave you to him. 

And with the silk gag in your mouth, he knows he won't get it, anyway. Tied in a pretty bow behind your head. Wet with your spit already. 

Simon's fingers slide down, dragging over the folds of your cunt. You're wet. Soaked. Drenched in a way he's never seen before; folds glistening. Thighs wet. Sticky. He licks his lips. Tastes the brine of his sweat. He wants to eat your pussy. Spread you wide on his tongue and make you beg Price to let Simon make you cum. 

The thought roots in his head. Burrowing deep. He can already hear your sweet voice pleading with his captain—please, please let him make me cum—but he pushes it down when Price makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat. 

He knows why he's here. 

And wonders, then, when he steps back and drops his hands to the button on his trousers, how many times you've been punished like this. The thought is a sour smoulder in the back of his head. An ugly, foul thing unfurled over the soot-stained walls of his skull. 

(he'll ask later. get the names of every man Price let see you like this, and pluck the memory of you right from their skull—)

“So needy,” he drawls, dragging his cock out of his slacks as they fall low on his thighs. “Even after this pussy’s been spoiled so much?”

It makes you keen, and the noise is a searing knife to his guts. He groans with it—low and rough, the noise scraping over the flesh of his throat until it hurts. 

“Gonna have to punish you, ain't I? Needy fuckin' thing—” so he says, but his cock is just as sticky as your thighs, weeping a steady stream of pre-cum that pools in the tangle of hair at the base, dusting over his heavy, fat balls. 

He shuffles closer, and reaches out to your knee, slipping his fingers behind your shin. The squeal of naked flesh against the metal tabletop shouldn't make him throb but it does. Cruel man, he thinks, and drinks in the way you wince. 

He presses his cock against your slit, mouth dropping in a harsh pant when he takes in the hideous sight it makes. Your pussy is covered up by his girth. The tip of his cock bobbing over your belly button, dripping pre-cum into the divot. 

Simon pulls his hips back, letting his cock glide over your silken flesh. The wet squelch it makes when he thrusts forward, cockhead tapping on your belly, has him grunting like an animal. It's obscene, this. The way he can't even see your folds over the wide spread of his cock. Pussy tucked neatly under him. 

He can't even begin to imagine how you'll take the full length of him inside of you when his cock nudges past your belly button when he lets his balls rest on your molten slit. Poor thing. 

He doesn't know if Price stretched you before this. Got you ready for him. But the man makes no move to intervene when Simon pulls back until his head slips down your seam, bracketed between your plush, swollen folds, tight against your entrance. All he has to do is—

Push

And the tip of his cock slips in. 

You make another noise at the sting, and he thinks you might be crying but his eyes are riveted to the spot where you open for him. Pussy so small, so tiny, compared to his cock in a way that's sickening. Garish. But your little cunt drools on him. Rim fluttering like a heartbeat on his glands, pulling him deeper. Enticing him to sink inside. All the way. Until he can feel the hitch of your breath on his cock. 

He leans back to get a better view, the motion forcing another inch inside of you. The noise is slick. Giving as your silken flesh parts around him, eagerly taking him in. But as wet as you are, as pliant, the stretch is unbearable. It chokes the air from his lungs when you tighten up around him—

“Fuckin' hell—” he snaps, his upper lip curling up beneath the mask. Your cunt makes him angry. Suddenly, viciously. The fury drips down his spine, pools at the base of his cock. His hand slips out from between your thighs, roughly grabbing your waist. Holding on tight as he jerks his hips harshly against you. 

You feel good. Perfect. Wrapped snugly around him. A hot, wet embrace. And he huffs at the bitterness that clots in his lungs; the surge of pleasure so blisteringly intense, it nearly makes him gag. Makes him sick. 

Price has this every night. 

The thought alone is a poison. It needles in deep, lashing at him with foul, rabid teeth. Cruelly, he pushes deeper, sinking his cock in another inch, another, another—mindless in this pursuit to tear you apart well before you're ready for it. 

He wants it to burn. To ache. Wants to be the worst fuck you've ever had; cock too big for you to take, but he feeds it to you in full. Gives you all of it. Every inch. Until your stomach churns with every press of his cockhead against your cervix, his glands sliding over that spot inside that makes your knee jerk and your eyes roll. 

Wants you to remember him as a beast. To think of his cock and feel nauseous. 

To sink deep inside of you—brutal and savage—until you can still feel him in your pussy for days. Each step causing a sharp pang in your lower belly. 

It's awful, he knows. Terrible. But he forces himself into you anyway, feeling your flesh split around him. A blunt, unyielding pressure until his balls tap against your ass, pussy spasming around the fat length he punishes you with. He's sure he's deeper inside of you than anything—any man, cheap silicon—has ever dreamed of being. Kissing places in you that nothing has ever touched. Feels it in the nervous flit of your muscles pulsing around him—this foreign thing bludgeoning into uncharted territory, stretching you wide. Almost virginal all over again. It makes him groan. 

Your pleasure is a muted ripple down his spine. The vibrator forcing you into enjoying the sharp sting of your rim pulled taut around the plug of his cock, skin blanching from the strain. He wants to stay just like this—grinding his hips into the backs of your spread thighs, cockhead chiselling into the molten seal of your womb with every gyration until the line between pleasure and pain begins to blur. Until you gag from how badly having your walls battered burns, hurts, but the bloom of pleasure deep inside your groin keeps you in place. Makes you arch your back, wanting more. 

Desperate for it. 

But this isn't what Price wants, is it? 

No—

He voices his impatience with a muffled grunt. Get on with it, Simon is pinched out between the silver of space between his teeth, the butt of a burning cigar keeping his jaw unhinged. The heady, sour-sweet stench of smouldering tobacco, nicotine, staining the words. 

You clench at the sound of Price's voice, pretty pussy drawing all tight around him. Perfectly trained. Sweet thing, he thinks, pulling out of you slowly. Just a few inches. Feeling your skin glue his; the glide of your walls over his shaft sickeningly good, nauseatingly so. He holds it for a moment, staring down at you through the eye holes of his mask, breathing heavily. Sweat drenches his skin. Tacky, hot. The starchy fabric clings to his flesh, peeling away each time he moves his head. 

The exertion of fucking his cock into you shows through the muted pulse of his joints, muscles aching from the strain of pushing forward. 

(Holding himself back.)

You blink at him blearily, eyes misted with tears. A smaller puddle sits on the table near your temples. 

Up close, he can see the full detail of the intricate shibari binding you tight. The sleek pink ribbon weaving over your chest, your breast, stomach—hishi karada, Price said. At the base of your neck is more silk in a mockery of a collar. And he wonders if you miss it, then. The solid weight of leather on your skin. If your hands weren't tied up, he imagines they'd be there. Holding firm. 

Just like the night he first met you. 

The silk rope, the loss of your collar—

“Your dad's a cruel man, ain't he?” He mocks, sliding his fingers over the delicate trim of silk bound tight under your heaving breasts, peppering across your nipple, down the slope. Resting at the base of your throat. The thin slip of fabric is not enough to give you what you need. The pressure, the friction. The sense of being owned. “Didn't even give his little girl a collar.” 

More of that tantalising shame rake over your expression. Tears dribble out in hot drops, spilling down the side of your face. 

He hums, slips this fragility into his back pocket. “Want me to give it to you, little girl?” 

He spits the words out like they're wrong. Awful. Takes in your flinch, the downward twist to your lips, and shoves that, too, into his pocket. 

Simon has no intention of waiting for an answer, for permission—he reels back, hand still splayed wide over your sternum, and pulls his cock out more until only the flare of his glands peaks out. He's soaked—glistening with your slick. So wet that it drips out of your plugged hole, gliding down the cleft of your ass. 

He wonders if you always get like this—

Bites that thought clean through with an angry groan, and pries his fingers out from the back of your knee, dragging them to the end of his mask. Rucking it up over his skin, bunched against the bridge of his nose. 

If the mess of his mouth, chin, the crooked, angular slope of his nose horrifies you at all, you don't let it show. Content to quietly sob on the table, eyes flickering between the thick plug of his cock between your thighs and the Price. 

He hates you, he thinks. And then he spits on your pretty pussy, right over your taut rim. Watches the foamy mess bubble, drip down to the skin behind his mushroomed head. When it pools there, he pulls back until the widened flare of his glands slips free. You whine—a noise of bright hot disgust, humiliation—and he lets it burrow under his skin, trickle down his spine. Then he pushes forward, popping the head back inside of you. 

The spit—his spit, too. 

And he does it again. The same thing. Pulling out, spitting. Feeding it to her. Letting it rub against the slick, wet (wetter now) walls of her cunt. 

Price doesn't say anything about this claim. Schoolboy possession—childish and immature when you're used to fine leather gripping tight around the slope of your neck.

Still. 

He pulls on your proverbial braids until it burns. 

The hum of the vibrator takes some of the sting away when he shoves inside of you again, cockhead bullying into your cervix with an unmatched cruelty. Leaking slick, steady, over your seal. Drooling, thick and viscous, against your walls. Staining you. 

Ruining you.

Each breath is punched out when he bottoms out. Forced from your lungs. Winded. He knows it hurts almost as much as the thick bludgeon of his cock pressing deep, but as he scrapes and claws at the rot concealing over his humanity, morality, he finds nothing inside of him left to care. 

He stops looking. Stops searching. 

Simon fucks into you with vigor instead, laughing mockingly at the lewd, sinful squelch of your cunt. “Think that's the sound of all my spit, birdie? Or is your sloppy little cunt always this fuckin’ messy?”

Each piston makes his pelvis slap into the vibrator; he can feel it through the tangle of coarse hair spooled above his cock. Buzzing incessantly against his skin. The spike of sharp pressure has you yowling beneath him, hips twisting, turning, trying to flee from the brutal onslaught. Pleasure and pain balancing on a knife's edge. 

He holds you there. Dangles you above the precipice just because he can—

A lazy flick of his waist. The savage grind of his hips. The softened bulge of his lower belly tapping against the plastic toy—

And it breaks you. This careless, effortless attention he pays to you has you tightening up around him like a knot, a vice; cunt squeezing, squeezing, before you shatter. Wave against a cliff; you spasm on his cock in a series of shallow, tight throbs pulsing along to the rapid fire of your heartbeat. 

His eyes are locked on your face. Pretty, lachrymal. Tears bleed down your temples, soaking into your hairline. Puddling underneath. 

His own little sea of your miserable pleasure. 

Eyes rolled into the back of your head. Toes curling. Hips jerking, twisting. Trying to run from the ugly, awful way he makes you cum. Makes you gorge yourself on pleasure. Force-feeding you pain with each sloppy, brutal thrust into your sopping, messy cunt—swollen, bruised; battered. And his—

—ice clinks against glass. A clicking swallow follows. The hollow thud of glass on wood. Scraping over the veneer as it's pushed back into place. Tobacco is chewed up by flames, popping and sizzling; smoldering with each inhale as the playwright watches the show he weaved together unfold—

—his. 

The silk around your neck comes loose with each thrash of your head rolling from side to side, shaking with quick, successive no, no, no’s that go unheeded, ignored. Every animalistic rut of his hips makes you change your mind, anyway. Turning those devastating no’s to yeses so eager, your teeth clack with every thrust. 

As it slips, sliding down the sweat-slicked column of your arched throat, he finds a stripe of red. A scab. Right at the knot where your collar would sit. A pretty gem in the middle. Your name, or maybe something that would amuse Price more than the perceived idea of your autonomy—bitch in glinting gold. His name and number etched into the back. 

if found, return to John Price. 

A foldhold, perhaps. Tailor-made for his boot. 

He hunts, Simon knows. Walked in reeking of leather and smoke when they first met and casually mentioned how good he was at Big Game hunting. A threat, then—however thinly veiled and erring on the side of mordant humour it was. But he wonders if Price personally made the collar you mourned the night he swung you into Simon's path. 

Your neck was bare, then. Blemishless. 

A collar too small. Tightened too much. Punishment, he supposes, and feels a sick sense of satisfaction roll down from his nape to the bottom of his spine where it pools in his groin—hot, molten oil—as he wonders just how much convincing it took you to agree to this. To spread your pretty legs for the ugly brute Price dangled you in front of. Who watched you all night from the corner of the room, chest heaving and eyes wide, wild, and furious. Reeking of rot. Want. To let him rut you like an animal while Price watches from the corner of the room—

A bead of sweat follows the phantom trail. 

“Fuck, birdie,” he's rasping, voice uttered wrecked. Mangled in his throat. “So fuckin’ tight f’me, ain't you? Must want me to cum inside this pretty cunt—”

You shiver. Knee jerking. There's a real sense of panic in your eyes when they dart over to Price, silently nursing another glass of scotch. He follows your gaze, catches Price glaring at him with his chin dipped low to his chest, peering out through his lashes. Brow furrowed. A flat line. 

Simon doesn't stop thrusting. Keeps a steady pace despite the anger brimming inside of him as the pleasure grows. Festers. 

Then—

Barely discernible: a nod. 

Shadows fall over his cheeks. He brings the glass back to his mouth with a surly mm between the mouthful. An irrevocable fuckin' get on with it. 

And Simon does.

The look he gives you pure predatory hunger. Victory in the potent stench of charred bones. He lifts his chin, stares down at you—all spread out like a gift to a god—and surges forward with a rabid hunger brimming in his guts. Unquenchable. Horrific. 

—wants you to eat you alive. Consume you whole. Leave nothing for Price to pick at, to mourn over,

settles instead for ruining your pussy. For fucking you raw. Cumming deep inside of your quivering cunt even when he knows you don't want that. Are silently begging Price to reconsider. To get this ugly fucking mutt off of you—

It churns his guts. Makes him viciously excited over the image that brims in the back of his head, tears raining down your cheeks as you bring a shaky hand to your aching, swollen cunt, feeling the thick, viscous glob of his cum leaking out.

Or before that, when you have to lay there and take it. Feeling his cock throbbing, pulsing as it spits cum inside of you. When he pulls out, and a milky trail follows, dribbling down between your cheeks. At his mercy the whole time, too, because Price won't get up right away to untie you. You'll have to lay there in his filth, feeling it ooze out of you—

He wants it. Badly. Feels it scorching his hindbrain, burning him up from the inside out. 

Later, he thinks, he'll fuck you with more finesse. Make you cum on his fingers—stuff them inside of your sore, aching cunt to the last knuckle; give you three of them to squeeze around, to cling to, and watch the ink on his bruised, scabbed skin disappear inside of you over and over again, pulling them out all slick, pearlescent with a mix of his cum and yours. On his tongue, too. Keep you in this pretty frogtie, unable to push him off—or pull him closer. Forced to take it. To let him lap at your pussy until he quenches this uneasy hunger festering inside of his stomach, growing bolder, greedier at the sight of you splayed out like this, exhausted already even though he's only just begun. 

Fuck you again, too, just because he can. 

all yours for a night, Price had said, sealing your fate with a sharp, decisive nod. 

He plans on making the most of the twelve hours until sunrise that he has. 

This, then, the appetizer—

It curls over his shoulders, tar-stained fingers digging into the tight coil of his muscles, easing the tension in increments. Soothing out the fear that still clings to him of missing out. Still, very much, that hungry little mutt on the side of the street, peering into the bakery at the family's milling about, smiling happily. Content to ignore the brat in rags glaring at them from an alcove with bruises on his chin, and a black split on his lip. Diving for scraps because the alternative is going to bed with an empty stomach in a house that reeks of flat beer and stale piss. 

There's nothing to miss out on here, it reasons, when he has you all night. All his. 

“Beg me,” he huffs, sniffing through the balmy, damp mask when it slips down his crooked nose. “Beg me not to cum inside you.”

All you can do is make a small, keening oomph behind the loose gag, words muffled by wet silk. His head rolls back, eyes narrowing down at you in mocking delight—catlike, leonine, in the dwindling glimmer of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains. 

“C’mon,” he taunts, rolls his hips into you just to hear the loud, wet squelch of your pussy taking the full, fat length of his cock. Lets the noise box through his ears in a vicious, heavy punch. “Or I'll cum inside you—”

He's already there. Edging toward the precipice. 

Simon grabs the tops of your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table until your ass lifts. It opens you up wider for him, knees notched wide, nearly level with your ears. The new position lets him push in deeper, fucking you in full now. Balls slapping against your ass with every brutal stroke. 

He leans down, knee lifting to the table as he climbs on before dropping the full heft of his weight onto you. Forearm braced above your head, the other catching the column of your bare, scratched neck in the wide spread of his palm. 

The size difference before was intoxicating. A rush that pooled in the back of his head before rocketing down to his spine, filling his cock, but this—your knees bracketing around his waist, spread so wide they're forced down flat to the table below in a split that lets his cock sink in deeper, head tucked against his collarbone, swallowed whole beneath him, is his undoing. 

Arched over you like a beast, he grunts. Ruts into your sopping cunt and feels the whines that spill from your throat at the rough way he batters into you. 

The softness of his lower belly grazes the vibrator humming on your clit. The pressure makes your eyes widen, and roll into the back of your head. Neck trapped in his hold as you thrash beneath him, sobbing in earnest. In dismay. 

He's sure it hurts. The pleasure careening into overstimulation—the kind that burns, bellows too much, no more. He huffs out a derisive snort, and eats your misery from your parted lips, dipping his head down to catch the seam of your mouth in a mockery of a kiss. The silk wrapped around your head, tucked neatly into the corners of your mouth, keeps it from being anything more than a messy smear of his scarred, torn lips and your muffled gasps. The band prevents him from really tasting you, and he makes do with curling his tongue over your teeth, catching the drool running down your chin. 

It's gross. Messy. He slurps you up, and hums in pleasure when he tastes the brine of your tears. 

“Gonna cum,” he grunts into the silk before catching it between his crooked teeth, nibbling on the wet hem, sucking on your spit soaked into the fabric. 

Your pussy spasms around him. Eager, he thinks—pulsing like a heartbeat and starving for it. It blooms under his skin, burning hot like a fever. His tongue slips under your gag. Eyes glued to yours, listed in quiet, merciless delight when you grimace as he slides it along yours, nearly gagging you on it. 

It's almost sweet. A pastiche of loving making—as close to the real thing as he's ever come. The thought is a bludgeon to his head, making his ears ring—

And he runs from it. Rears back from the sloppy kiss, eyes creasing, brow furrowing, as you stare up at him with wet, glossy eyes, rheumy with tears. Silently pleading for something he can't discern. He feels that trail of anger coiling in his guts again, sitting low in his belly as his hips stutter to a slow, softer roll. 

His finger lifts, settles on the corner of your unhinged jaw, holding your head steady. There are lines, he thinks. Walls, divides. Protective armour—

And some shouldn't be crossed. 

Simon spits on your gag. Squeezes the huff of disgust from your throat when he feels your chest expand with it. Bullies himself closer, smothering you under his weight. Owned, then. Claimed. 

You can't close your mouth around the gag, or fingers digging into the muscle of your jaw. He keeps you like that, degraded. Dehumanised. A vessel for him to use as he likes—

Nothing more, nothing less. 

Sinks into your bruised cunt again, hips slapping meanly into yours in a way he knows must ache. Sets a choppy, deep pace; humps your pussy and grinds the weeping, swollen head of his cock into your battered cervix. Loses himself in the messy, plugging rolls of his hips; the wet, tight slide of your skin—flushed and clenching around the thick of himself he feeds to you, over and over again. Mindless in the pursuit to ruin you further. Stain you with his cum—

The problem is:

You feel like heaven. Pussy wrapped tight around him. Silken walls hugging his aching cock until it feels like he's melting into the hot, wet squeeze of it. So good it hums inside his head like a purr, rattles his thoughts around until the ugly, bitter anger is turned inside out. Flipped. 

He thinks about lines again as his sticky, wet balls glue to the slick skin of your ass, peeling off in a way that has pleasure peppering along his spine, spooling in his lower back. He did that, caused it. Made you so fucking wet that his knees slide in the messy spill of it leaking all over the table. The loud squelch of him slamming into your cunt echoes in the room—shrill and bone-melting. Ego-feeding. Enough to gorge his pride on it until its belly threatens to burst at the seams. Overfull. 

Simon grunts. His face is soaked. The damp fabric of his mask is too drenched to even mop it up, sticking to his skin as sweat rains down from his shorn hairline, misting over his eyes. His upper lip. The dip of his chin. He's more water than man. Liquid. Melting into you. 

The heat is unbearable. “Gonna cum in this pussy,” he snarls, and it sounds like a threat. Is one. He's going to burst inside of you, molten and thick. Been a while, he thinks, and feels his balls draw up. Tightening in a promise as he fucks himself into a syrupy stupor above you. 

The inside of his ears are wet, and he thinks it might be his fucking brain leaking out—

The tight coil of his body snaps before he does, giving out in a heavy groan. He catches himself before he crushes you beneath him, still mindlessly thrusting into your cunt, cock pulsing, throbbing. Growing thicker, thicker, as he heaves into your temple, breathing in the pine scent of your skin. Loam, sea. Sweat. You smell like Price beneath it all—leather and smoke; scotch and wood—and his lips curl into a vicious snarl, teeth bared at the man in the corner, silent observer to this blasphemous confessional where he spills his guts inside of you, and you eat them up like they're made of gold dust. 

It rushes him. A kick to his soft stomach, a boot crushing his ribs. The force of it hurts when it hits, surging up from the base of his spine, too fast for him to brace for. Tensing, coiling. The pressure knocks the air from his lungs, makes his hips stutter. Joints whining, twinging with pain. 

He moans low and brassy, mangled deep in the rot of his chest, and cums deep inside of you. Sloppy, mindlessly rutting into the spread bracket of your thighs as pleasure burns across the back of his neck, his spine. His hips roll, shaking. Melting as he spills, spits thick globs of cum out, cockhead bullied tight against your plug. 

All you can do is heave beneath him, whining at the molten spend he pours into you. Poor fuckin’ thing—

His lips are sticky, slick with sweat. He rubs them against the tacky skin of your temple, your cheekbone, babbling nonsense out on a purr—

Breedin’ this tight little pussy right in front of your old man, birdie. Got ‘im watchin’ his little girl take my thick fuckin’ load inside o’her. Fuckin’ hell—

—things that leak out between the cracks in the armour. The thick veneer. Made worse, his personal hell, when he feels your hips bump into his, taking his cock deeper inside as you squirm under the heavy weight of him. With your thigh flexing, squeezing his hip, it almost feels like you want more. All of him. For him to crawl deep inside of you, cocooned in the bracket of your ribs—

“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he rasps, words slurring. Eliding into mush. Nonsense he'll come to crush between his teeth later when he buries himself back inside of you over and over again, feeding blood to this vicious seedling inside of him. 

Through the pounding in his head, your gasping little hitches in his ear, the undeniable silence from Price weighs on him even as the aftershocks of his release mute the noise in his head. A dense, hazy fog clouding over all thoughts. 

It doesn't feel angry. Jealous. If anything it reeks of victory—

He grasps through the blanket, the murk, with lazy hands until he finds what he's looking for, and—

Oh. 

Right. 

(“Got a proposition for you, Simon,” the man says, and Simon snorts. 

He reeks of the same brand of cheap cigarettes as always—stale smoke, day old tobacco; acrid and unpleasant. It makes his skin itch. 

“an’ I told you already, Price. I ain't interested in a team—”

“Not a team, Simon.” The look he levels him with is nothing short of malicious. Dangerous. “Got something else in mind—”)

Then through the door was you. Pretty as a picture—

He stares down at you now. The base of his cock is soaked with your slick, flesh throbbing, pulsing, as he cums inside of you. 

It's this—you, crying over the feeling of him spilling so deeply inside of you while your old man watches from the sidelines, unable to do anything but sit there as Simon fills his baby girl up—that he wanted. Wants. Needs, he thinks, more than the stale, humid air he breathes. A place of his own. Home. Even if it's made of paper mache, carved inside of someone else, someone who already has a collar. A brand—

But that's the point, isn't it?

A sick feeling curls over his shoulders as he thumbs the slim vibrator off of your clit, staring down at the swollen nub at the apex of your mound. Sore and sensitive and flushed bright. Bruised like an apple. Abused for hours. Poor thing, he thinks, even as he rubs the flat of his finger over it. 

His cum seeps out around the softening plug of his cock. But it's still thicker than anything you'd ever taken before, he's sure. Sick with the deep sense of satisfaction that rolls over him at the thought. 

It's worth it, then, even as the dawning realisation trickles over him like hot oil—

“What d’you like, Simon?”

A pretty bird in pale pink chiffon. Too good for the likes of him. Afraid of him, too. Cowerin’. Cryin’ somethin’ awful when he sinks his ugly, fat prick into them—

Price hummed. Curled his index finger over the top of his cigar, tapped the thick wrap twice with the tip of it, and then brought it to his lips. A flash of teeth beneath his beard—nicotine-stained; crooked in the low light—before they sunk into the butt. 

There was something measured in his stare. Predatory. 

Victorious. 

And—

He gets it. You were a dangling lure in the deep, dark of the abyssal layer. A glimmer of light in thick murk. Iridescent. Dazzling. He was always meant to sink his teeth into you, wasn't he? Always meant to take a bite—

hook. line—

—sinker. 

Or—

It would be if the fish Price caught wasn't a leviathan. 

—in the scorching trail the oil leaves behind, something bestial, primordial, inside of his cocks its head in consideration. he can make a feast from this, it says; and so, he does—

“Need my help, Price?” Simon drawls, arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at him, quietly amused, and John feels the pulse between his temples starting up again the same way it had all those years back when he bumped into the man with you on his arm. 

He grunts. “Sendin’ you to Mexico.”

“Tha’ so? I might be busy.”

He sucks in a deep breath, reaches for his cigar. The itch claws behind his eyes, in his gums. There's a headache, too. One he knows won't be soothed over with the numbing bliss of nicotine or a shot of scotch. Not when he'll have to slink home afterwards, this massive behemoth nipping at his heel, and deal with the aftermath of what happens whenever he sets Simon loose on you:

an icepack pressed tight against your aching cunt, a glare fixed on your face as he dotes on you after you made him clean up the absolute mess Simon left behind with his fingers and tongue—

“never again,” you'll hiss, wincing with each pull of his knuckles on your sore, bruised walls. “I mean it—”

(you always say that but the look in your eye whenever he pulls out the silk—the new assortment that Simon bought for you himself—tells him otherwise—)

He presses the heel of his palm into the crease between his eye and bone, rubbing until he sees phosphenes spark behind his eyelids. 

“She'll be in silk,” he grouses, sucking his teeth in irritation. “And you'll be on fuckin’ plane to Mexico the next morning, Riley. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” he draws lazily with a half-hearted shrug, but Price can see the mutt inside of him panting with glee. He pretends to huff. Then: “I want her in white this time.”

The fuckin' prick.

—Price’s gamble of using you to lure the big, bad dog in works. but maybe a little too well. because now his sergeant expects one every time he's sent on a mission. and they send him out a lot. 

—he now has a key to his captain's house. lets himself in whenever he wants. finds you exactly how he asked for it. usually tied up in silk, crying, and struggling to get away when he stalks inside the room. on your knees, begging him so sweetly not to fuck your throat too hard. you have work tomorrow. or fighting him off as best as you can until he pins you down, works his cock inside of you. 

—in full view of the cameras, of course. non-negotiable. Price gets to see everything his brutish sergeant does to his pretty bird. everything. 

—Simon is the one who keeps you company when Price is sent off to work with the CIA. keeps you stuffed full of his cock in the bed you share with Price, his little girl sobbing into the pillow that reeks of smoke and leather and sex as Simon forces every inch of his stupid fat cock inside you

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

WOW I can't believe you opened them! I adore you! Please Tumblr lacks Krueger fanfic, can you write something NSFW enemies to lovers, where he and the reader joined Chimera at the same time and are at "war" with each other mainly because reader is an ass, she likes to annoys Krueger by constantly reminds him that she is younger (like four/five years, no more) than him and more skilled as a soldier and sniper making Krueger get on his nerves? Sorry for my wtriting, english is not my language and i'm not good at it, i hope i was clear enough and i also hope i formulated the right question without violating your requests. Thank you and good job at the flower shop!

—Ain't Giving Up My Pride

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [You get on his nerves, partially because you want to. But what happens when he finally snaps?] ❞

You have to wonder if you expected to be ass-up and face-down getting fucked in the back of a storage room today, and you have to admit, the answer is most likely a resounding negative. 

But war is always interesting.

Krueger and yourself had a little…thing…going on. Call it what you will—a rivalry, a large annoyance, whichever word better fits the state of twin crashing atoms constantly waiting to prove something to the other. To you, any real satisfaction can only be drawn by the way his shrouded head would look your way with obvious scorn—imagining a sneer to his lips as you walked past and smirked, loudly talking about your success at the firing range. 

About beating the top mark yet again. Krueger. 

“Interesting, hm?” He grunts to you now, belt jingling as you hide your burning face into your arm; pelvic bones getting repeatedly pushed into the crate. “Little winner, yes? Willing to bet she only feels good when she gets filled up by my cock.”

You open your mouth to speak, but his hands on your hips drive them backward and forward, skin smacking rapidly as your speech is reduced to garbled whines and loud moans. It was pathetic how fast he was already working you to that point—pussy spasming and legs kept open by Krueger’s hands. 

“Hm?” The man leans in close, his fully-geared chest stapling itself to your spine. “What was that?”

“F-fuck,” you blink quickly. 

He chuckles, covered face hidden from you. “That is what I—”

“Fuck better than you shoot,” you gasp, hips instinctually meeting his thrusts as your toes curl, pants at your feet, and a stain of fluids dripping down to them. The man falters, pace stuttering as you shove yourself back into him with a shiver down your vertebrae. 

His throat releases a low growl moments later, hand going to the back of your neck as you smirk. But any chuckle is lost as you’re pulled by the collar of your shirt backward, getting kept to Krueger’s front as the prodding ruthlessness of his member drives itself home again and again.

You gasp loudly, eyes snapping back and mouth releasing tight moans before a hand covers your lips, a low snarl in your scalp. 

“You always have such a mouth, Vögelchen,” he grunts, feeling the effect of your tight cunt himself as he draws closer to his finish—what you did to him was criminal; no one should make him act like this, like a heathen in the back rooms seeking a carnal release into your womb. “How do I fix this, then?” 

You pant from behind his hand, letting him play with you like a doll because, damn if this wasn’t the best sex you’d ever had. 

“Ah,” he replies to himself, that smooth voice right in your ear as he moves a hand down to play with your clit. You tense up, noises of pleasure heard from behind the tight press of his grip. “Yes, that’s it.” Your release snaps through you like a storm—not even a proper build-up before it shatters what little of your mind is left at this point. Not once did Krueger’s hips slow or stop, pushing you through it until you were whining like a dog, another round started just like that even as the man rides his own high, spilling into you.

The wet splatter of cum leaks to the floor as you’re back facing the crate, eyes rolling back into your head and body shaking with unchecked pleasure.  A shuddering growl is right in your ear, a heavy body rocking against your spine.

“I have to fuck it out of you.”

[sippinggossip]

Ethan might be messy in his love life, but I don't think he's dishonest. He has always been very upfront about his non-monogamous lifestyle and his love for sex. I don't think it's a phase for him. This is him for life.

You know what you're getting with him.

The problem is, however, is that the women he has dated have tried to make him monogamous, and yes, that includes Laura. I believe Laura roped him in with sex and once she felt that she had him where she wanted him, tried to make him exclusive with her and her only, but that ain't Ethan. He has made it very clear that he is all about freedom, including in love and sex.

What you see is what you get.

Laura was also in cahoots with THAT WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED in smearing Ethan's reputation with lies and accusations, but I digress.

Laura was vengeful about Ethan breaking up with her, yet, he still follows her on IG. Weird, if you ask me.

Far as the male lovers go, I will say I do find it interesting that the men Ethan has hooked up with have remained silent. As another anon said, the gays can be messy with their gossip and you would think that something would've been leaked, spilled by now, but maybe he's more selective about the men he sleeps with?

Maybe those queer men have more integrity than the so-called sex positive straight women he sleeps with?

Something to think about.

Hmm

[lindacuriosidad]

I wrote a story... 👀😯🧐

Chapter 1: The video recording. The video recording was done out of malicious intentions. Then it became fear of it being shown to the right person.

It's still a missing puzzle of how the two came to contact but here's what I got.

[Example of the characters names] Masculine#(1/2)

Feminine

Karmic M/F Friend#(1-4 etc etc)

Karmic Lover (M/F)

Karmic (insignificant factor) lol

A feminine was betrayed by two masculies that she was very much interested. In the same way that she has been betrayed in the past with KP

KL#1 and KFF#1. Except this time it played out with more emotional betrayal than the first time. The first past betrayal was accepted as a thirst for sexual satisfactions. however the second betrayal was done to make a mock out of the feminine and to remind her that she ain't shit. This is why the sex tape was made.

Feminines kff#1 slept with feminines masculine#1 however masculine#1 was also in relations with kff#2. Kff#2 is unaware of kff#1 and M#1 and that they talk but most def does not know that they have a video tape together. Within time that will also be revealed to her and on the day the lies spoken of the feminine to her will be dismissed of her having an opinion on this feminines choices.

Kff#1 does this out of a secretive delusional theory. They truly believe that they are a better catch than all women around them bc they can seduce immature minded men into having sexual relations with them that confirms this delusion for them. They are also very jealous of not having the attention on them of a man thy find attractive. They get a hunger of redirecting their bates attention to themselves regardless of who this individual is dating and is a professional at assuring herself by learning the best way to approach a man to let their guard down enough so she can seduce him into her reassurance.

However, she grew feeling for m#1 an wanted m#1 to choose her. Fake smiled Infront of feminines face and backstabbed her to win the m#1 at all costs because this new bate is going to be hers no matter what. She refused to loose him to other females. Except m#1 was just using her for the information she was giving, the dirty deeds she was willing Todo for him, the sex, and the drugs. Because m#1 showed to not care she focused on her initial relationship and convinced those around her she was happy because she wanted to be but low key wanted to make m#1 jealous for choosing to live his life with another female and ent the feminine and kff#2.

Upon recently the truth began to leak out and that leak cracked open a spill that she was not ever ready to be unleashed because she has created a false image of herself. This false image is her armour from her ugly truths being exposed to others as well as her self remorse. This is how she also protects herself from fully caring of the pain she will inflict on those she loves and continue to feed her hungry delusion.

Anyway because the truth is being revealed she is in a state of paranoia and anger and if she's gonna go down she is taking everyone with her. She's in panic alert and acting out of fear and control. She believes that she will win by exposing the he truth now. The truth will always set you free. But the lies will be the label of your character.

[angie-long-legs-moved]

Angel shrugged, a glint of mischief still lingering in his expression. He was far from backing down.

"Well, as long as you're here, I sure ain't," he smirked. "And if the rest a' the limp-dicks who ain't interested in gettin' it on with me are as dried up as you - I say keep 'em."

At first, Angel had found it incredibly frustrating that Alastor had rejected his advances with such blunt honesty. However, as time went on, he'd come to find it rather fascinating. His disinterest in sex opposed Angel's own sensibilities so drastically - the spider could barely comprehend not indulging in this particular avenue of filth when Hell was so chock-full of it. But Alastor's desires were far more malicious and blood-thirsty - and Hell certainly allowed for them just as readily.

For Angel, his sin of choice was lust. For Alastor - wrath.

The line between the two blurred more than Angel cared to admit.

"And, trust me- ain't nothin' miserable about it," he lied through sharp, bared teeth, a twisted mimic of a smile. How fitting, considering his company. "Bein' wanted is what it's all about, baby."

For a moment, he pondered their differences. Being wanted, while not in Angel's more crude definition of the word, had to be something Alastor could relate to.

"Y'know, we ain't so different, you an' me," he said, uncharacteristically candid. "Betcha get off real good thinkin' about how many fuckers ya got foamin' at the mouth to be the one to kill the Radio Demon. They want ya, real carnal want. That's some animal kingdom shit right there."

Suddenly, Angel was aware he was doing all the talking (not that this was unusual for him), while his tight-lipped companion, despite the ever-present smile, looked deeply uncomfortable. Angel almost felt sorry for him: stuck with his last choice for a company, somewhere he would never willingly set foot in, forced to listen as the drinking buddy he didn't ask for made cynical jabs about him.

He signalled the bartender with a wave of his hand.

"Two shots a' sambuca, please. Actually, make that four."

If Angel was going to be stuck at the bar with the demon who made no secret of the fact that he found him irritating at best and unbearably crass at worst, they both might as well loosen up a little.

Besides, maybe this was the secret to exposing the tender flesh that Alastor kept so neatly hidden behind that smile. Maybe alcohol was the key to making him spill his guts - it sure worked on everyone else.

@angie-long-legs continued from x!

Alastor had a lot of experience under his belt. He had been disguising his emotions for nearly a century now— ever smiling (although to varying degrees) and, typically, upbeat. Whenever someone managed to get under his skin, as happened far more often than he would admit, he opted to play it off with humor and pizzazz, and sometimes with thinly veiled threats.

What better way to turn down the advances of a poor, misguided soul than with a booming "HA! NO." and a joyful grin?

There was one thing about every facade, however... and that was that they always revealed their flaws in due time. As much as Alastor liked to believe that he was completely unreadable, that was not the case. His smile was a barrier, not a wall. It was but a white picket fence, when he had ordered an iron gate.

His eyes were his failing. They showed everything that was going through his mind, and he could do nothing to help it. His body language was something he had more control over, but that, too, often screamed out his true intentions. Those who knew him well enough could even read through his smile, which grew and shrunk and wobbled and tensed... always against his best effort to fight it.

Even his radio static, which filled the air more heavily whenever he was angered, excited, and a slew of other emotions, worked more against than for him. It was the cherry on top of it all.

The gold star on his legibility test.

Alastor knew that Angel targeted him on purpose, desperate for a reaction, as many were— but Alastor was determined not to give him one. Not even one tiny hint of one. Not this time.

Thus, they were at a stalemate.

The Radio Demon glanced down to his feet and Angel's, and then back up at the spider's face.

"I believe I am!" he observed, smiling cheerfully-- as opposite to his truth as possible. "Standing, that is. Whilst in the same room as you. Funny how that just happens!"

He wanted nothing more than to go play some classic tunes to drown from his mind the appetite-murdering story that he had just fallen victim to, but he couldn't.

They were at a club— a terrible place, and one that Alastor would never have stepped foot inside at his own discretion. Charlie, however, was convinced that she could recruit some new sinners to her cause if she, Alastor, and the rest of the hotel residents went out together.

Everyone had been right at the Radio Demon's side just a minute ago; Husk, Niffty, Vaggie, Charlie... but, appropriately, Hell had its way of sticking Alastor in unsavory situations.

The group had dispersed after the story, and Alastor, having been too wrapped up in the horrors to pay attention to them, now found himself alone at the bar with Angel Dust.

Just wonderful!

"And... EVERY sinner?" he backtracked, "Are you sure? What a miserable existence! You must be hard-pressed to find someone who isn't."

Leave, his inner voice screamed at him, but he didn't. He didn't have to indulge this, but he was.

Perhaps some part of Alastor was curious, too.

[jaegckerman]

Some domestic!KazuFuyu

CW: Manga spoilers! References to trauma related to prison, references to OCD, implied sexual content, descriptions of depression, mentions of past character death, mentions of abuse in the last one. Also, not proofread. And kinda long.

🔹Kazutora is deceptively clean. Chifuyu is the messy one out of the two of them; he'll spill something on the counter and just... not notice, so he doesn't clean it up. Kazutora is used to being yelled at or worse if he left his spot at the lunch table in prison anything but impeccable, or when guards searched his cell and found it dirty, so he notices every speck of dust, every lone sock out of place, and has to take care of it immediately. Inupi is the same except when he's working on bikes, so he tells himself it's nothing to worry about, it's a good thing he's hygienic, right?! But it's impulsive and bordering on OCD, and at first, Chifuyu took full advantage of it until Tora got sick and couldn't clean for a few days. The apartment wasn't that bad, Chifuyu paid as much attention to the little things as he could, but Kazutora still had a near panic attack when he got up and took a look around for the first time. So, slowly but surely, Chifuyu starts pulling his own weight and even manages to get him to relax on the couch with him despite the sink full of dirty dishes, or cat hair in the bathroom rug, and he even learns not to get distracted by the dust bunnies under the couch when they ultimately get bored of whatever they're watching and roll off of it to have more room for more interesting activities.

🔹Despite his messiness, Chifuyu is the one who's more organized. He doesn't have a calendar but somehow always knows when one of them has an appointment, when one of their friends has a birthday, when they're due to get Peke J the Second (ain't no way the original one is still alive, sorry) his shots or to the vet, whenever they've reached an anniversary for an important milestone in their relationship. Kazutora's brain is like a sieve - he started putting reminders in his phone, once he figured out how to use it, but he always swipes them away and immediately forgets again. The only exception is his and Chifuyu's anniversary - he forgot the first one, but by then, Chifuyu knew him well enough not to be disappointed, which made it even worse for Tora. His stubbornness and guilt never let him forget another one.

🔹Kazutora is always cold, but he refuses to put on anything other than a baggy shirt and boxer-briefs at home, preferring to push his cold toes and hands into Chifuyu and whining for him to warm him up with his body. If Chifuyu wasn't so whipped and horny for Tora, he might have been annoyed, but he enjoys the view, the voice and the requests for him to just lie down on top of Kazutora too much for that.

🔹They're both equally creative about "finding ways to warm Kazutora up." Surprisingly, it's Chifuyu who tends towards the kinky ideas. Kazutora is equally kinky and enjoys it, but after only having hurried, meaningless, semi-public sex in prison, he also really loves taking his time and strengthening their emotional connection with vanilla sex (or, as others would call it, making love).

🔹Kazutora gets on antidepressants and into therapy after his release from prison. Chifuyu had been trying to convince him for ages, citing his own experience as transformative, quietly admitting they probably wouldn't be here if he hadn't had help dealing with the trauma of losing Baji. It made Kazutora feel even more like shit, but the counselors and court-mandated therapy in the big house were seriously lacking, so he was very reluctant at first. However, his irritation and self-hatred reached a boiling point one night and he ended up yelling at Chifuyu for 20 minutes for forgetting to buy detergent after a 10 hour shift at the pet shop - because he himself lacked the energy to do more than go to the bathroom and back to bed. That was when he finally realized he had a real problem. Chifuyu was quiet all throughout the exchange, or lack thereof; he didn't get angry or defensive, he just stood there, and when Kazutora saw the silent tear tracks making their way down his face, that was when he realized he fucked up. His biggest fear was becoming like his dad. He didn't know why his father became abusive, and he didn't care, but on his current trajectory, he was terrified he was heading there, or become even worse than him again. He immediately apologized, shocked at his own behavior, and Chifuyu, of course, forgave him - he had forgiven him for much worse, after all - but the next day, he immediately started looking for a psychiatrist and a therapist. To Kazutora, that is just another way Chifuyu literally saved him. The meds don't come without side effects, the worst of them being migraines he never used to get, but they're becoming fewer the longer he takes his medication, and Chifuyu always stays in bed with him and babies him until he feels better, so that's another plus.

[rhettjmc]

More Trucker! Rhett & Truck!Stop!Link

Surprisingly, Rhett doesn't hit Link up for some kind of hook up.

Link truly expected it and - if he's completely honest with himself - he considered it. He's not really the casual sex type of guy, but there was something about the long haul trucker...

And, okay, Link's seen a lot of long haul truckers, but this one? So smooth and sweet and good looking? The wild hair, the jade eyes, the beard - the smile? The way he scrunched his nose when he laughed and yeah, Link probably did more than consider it.

But, amazingly, Rhett proved to be a true gentleman. When Link sat down at his table he really did offer him some of his mashed potatoes and he started asking questions.

He seemed genuinely interested in Link, in getting to know him and soon enough Link forgot all about the open flirtations and the implications of a potential random sexual encounter, instead losing himself to the possibility of friendship.

They had so much in common - both growing up in North Carolina, both liking Merle Haggard and both just... clicking. Clicking on such a level that when Link finally got a good look at the time he was amazed by how much of it had passed.

"I really should get back to it," Rhett admitted with some regret, "Gotta finish getting my load up to Arlington before switching my rig over to a shipment headed to Memphis."

"Oh." And Link's tone couldn't be more colored in disappointment if he tried. It must have been even more tragic than he thought, because Rhett chuckled, "C'mon, darling. It ain't that bad. Promise you, I ain't the most stimulating man you'll ever meet."

Link was pretty sure the pout he offered in response was what motivated Rhett's next words, "How about this - we exchange numbers and I send you a text now and then? It's always nice to have some to talk to when I'm on the road."

Rhett's next chuckle was no doubt clearly directed at the immediate smile that took Link's face at the offer.

And that was that.

From there the two started talking via text and it was far more than Link anticipated. A good fuck was nice now and then, but this? The friendship they formed? It was something else.

Days passed into weeks and weeks into months. Link and Rhett texted back and forth - Rhett from such exotic locations as Alaska and the Grand Tetons and Link from...well, from the truck stop.

But it was nice to have someone to communicate with - someone to make the long tedious days seem less so.

And when Rhett's route finally took him back Link's way, Link was more than ready. Their relationship as friends was solid, but there had been enough innuendos and double talk between them to hint at something more.

That something more came in the back of Rhett's truck on a hot, humid August night. Rhett had Link's bare body wrapped around his own, his back smacking noisily against the cool metal walls of the big semi as he held him up, as he thrust up hard and deep into him.

They rocked against one another, practically fighting as they fucked one another with reckless abandon.

Link's open moans echoed around them as Rhett surged upwards, his arms bulging with the effort of holding the other man up. Their lips were locked in filthy combat until Rhett tore away, groaning against Link's prominent Adam's apple, "Christ, darlin'...I'm 'bout to lose it..."

"Good," Link purrs, his hips driving downwards as he locks his lips, "Go ahead, baby. Fill me up."

With a sharp cry, Rhett does, spilling wet and hot inside Link's body. Link's own dick spurts between them at that and - for a long time - there's nothing but damp, heavy panting and deep inhales.

"Shit..." Rhett rumbles as he slowly lowers Link and Link stumbles some, legs weak and ass sore. Rhett sighs, " I wanted to wait, y'know. You deserved something better than a hot wild screw in the back of my rig..."

Link just shrugs, too deliriously happy to care, "Well, there's always next time."

"Next time, huh?" Rhett asks and Link just grins, confident. Rhett sighs and eases forward, offering him a soft kiss that very much contrasts their earlier actions, "Just what am I supposed to do with you?"

"More of what we just did, please."

"Ha! Yeah..."

They start redressing, but at the slight squeeze in his heart, Link whispers softly, "I'm serious, Rhett."

Rhett turns and looks at him. Link doesn't look away, "You'll come around again. And I'd...I'd like another next time. In fact..."

And now he can't help but look away as he confesses, "I'd like a lot of next times...you catch my drift."

"You asking me to go steady?"

The look Link shoots him makes Rhett laugh, but he sobers when he says, with sheer sincerity, "Nah, I know. I'd...I'd like that too, sweetheart. Like it a whole lot."

And, in that moment, Link knows he's one hundred percent a goner. He no longer shares just a friendship with this trucker - he shares his heart.

(might write more, I don't know - but hey! Sex! Amiright?!? 👍)

STOP. IM DEAD 🥵 YES, WRITE MORE @cellard0ors . 🥵

[coinofstone]

5x03 The Death Song of Uther Pendragon

Arthur went out to collect firewood while Merlin watched over the dying lady 🥺

They saved a woman from being burned at the stake for sorcery and she repays them with a super powerful magic artifact

"He's always like this at the anniversary of his coronation."

"I thought it was a cause for celebration?"

"It is, but it's also the anniversary of Uther's death."

I would like to refer everyone back to my 4x03 post where I point out that Uther was stabbed on Arthur's birthday, which is also the anniversary of his mother's death. Uther would've died a day or two later. So within the span of let's say, half a week, Arthur's got his birthday, his mother's death anniversary, his father's death anniversary, and his coronation. He needs a hug. It's gotta be the hardest week of the year for him, every year. Speaking from personal experience, I know I wouldn't be anywhere near as upright as Arthur is, for all his thousand yard staring.

It's a very nice sarcophagus but what is going on with Uther's left leg?

No srsly wut is this

Is it reeeeally swollen? Did he break his ankle in the fight or perhaps when he fell?

Ok I'll stop being mean

The ONE time Merlin knocks

You think this was a sex thing? I think it might've been a sex thing.

Spirit!Uther, while traumatizing in his own right, still isn't as frightening as actual King Uther could be.

Oooof I have Things To Say™️ about this. The reason Arthur chooses to use the horn, to use magic, is because, "there isn't a day that goes by when I don't think of the thing I wish I'd said to him." But when he gets to speak to Uther, he doesn't actually get to say very much at all, because Uther immediately begins criticizing everything he's done as king. Arthur doesn't get what he sought at all, instead of an opportunity to tell his father any of the things he wished to say, he gets spoken to, harshly criticized. It's a major blow. And he says as much, when the single man tear spills over and he says "this can't be the last time I ever see you" - yes the line is foreshadowing Uther's haunting of Camelot but it's also signaling that Arthur's been traumatized; he went from having had his father mortally wounded in saving Arthur's own life, to having seen his father 3+ years into Arthur's rule as King of Camelot, and point blank being told Uther is disappointed in him. Not proud of him - actively un-proud. We don't really know what exactly Arthur wanted, if he'd hoped his father would've seen all the good his way of ruling had done and praised him, but I think it's pretty safe to assume that was on the wish list.

Be careful what you wish for indeed.

I AMUSE MYSELF. (I spent two hours figuring out how to create this please appreciate me)

Merlin's angry face when Arthur tells goin what Uther said is literally all of us.

I feel terrible for this but when Percival is leaving Gaius' chambers and he stops to look at the wall-torch, I immediately flash backed to Alice Troughton on commentary in S4 saying "Percival's a bit of a wuss isn't he?"

This is also awful but this episode kind of makes me miss the castle-centric contained episodes of S1

Never any guards around when you're being attacked by the ghost of your husband's dead dad, typical.

I understand Merlin bringing Guinevere to Gaius but putting her in Merlin's bed??????

The way Bradley and Colin both convincingly jumped when they turned around and found Gaius had snuck up right behind them kills me every time.

"Poetry". What he means to say there is, 'why didn't you just tell him we were fucking, since that would actually sound less gay'

So. Merlin took the ghost visibility potion but he can't see Utter knocking over barrels and shelves and things to trap in that store room.

Also why is there a pigeon in a windowless store room? Now I'm wondering why there aren't more birds randomly flying into the citadel, cuz they do have quite a lot of open windows... you'd think that might happen now and again.

Mmmmmmmm

Hmmmmmmm

Ooooof I love a bamf husband coming through to deal with a shit-for-brains abusive father... ghost.

^^actual canon scene

Was Tony shot entirely on green for this? That unearthly blue glow even in close ups where he doesn't look like he's on a green scene makes me wonder.

The 'horseplay' scene at the end was so full of sexual tension and d/s undertones that I literally do not want to say anything lest tumblr flag this post for content.

Commentary is Angel and Rupert. The two regulars who were in the least number of scenes in this ep. Since this post is already crazy long I'll keep this brief.

Aaaaand it's the first time either of them have seen this episode 😂 wow.

They've made 'horn' jokes and Rupert's gone full on tongue in cheek dad jokes.

They are also cracking jokes on Colin being all jacked up for S5 compared to previously when he was so skinny hehe... personally I ain't mad at him 😂

Fifteen minutes into the episode and Leon makes his first appearance

The little bottles and decor things in Gaius' chambers are part of a static set so they pretty much just sit there... Angel says that some of the contents have started to go moldy and they found maggots in one of them 🤢

They're talking about Gwen's new hair and while Angel is being really diplomatic, I get the impression she's as annoyed as I am by it. It literally doesn't match her own hair at all. But she also said some people saw her without the piece on and just said 'omg you cut your hair' so I guess 🤷‍♀️

The scene where Gwen is knocked out by a vase smashing her head - Angel says she was hit with the heavier bottom piece of it, which hurt more than she was expecting, and she wound up with a bump on her head from it.

Not a word about Colin picking up Angel 😢

They're talking about childhood pets and a beverage called lilt? Anyway Angel is really clever and Rupert's corny af but he's funny and I love them both.

Oh this is interesting: Rupert says he and the director talked about having Leon walking through the corridor hand in hand with the cook when he stumbles upon Merlin and Arthur's 'poetry lesson', but they weren't allowed to do that bc it would've been just a little bit too much, or a little too tongue in cheek. Which I'm taking to mean, would've accentuated the subtext of 'poetry' too much.

Angel and Rupert didn't know how they got Uther all glowy either, though Angel said it was probably lighting

Rupert says the line where Utter got caught off, what he was gonna say was "Merlin has ... been to the gym!" 😂😂😂😂😂

They really are great together doing these things

Rupert's story was the horse he had been riding all season had a foal, and nobody even knew she'd been pregnant. They just came out one morning and saw she'd given birth, and he got a call to inform him. That's kind of sweet. I wonder if he sent them some apples or something.