#cooperate needs you to find the difference between this picture and this picture

[leslieseveride]

4am and they're all i can think about rn.

[ngalu]

Your honor, it's the same face.

why does he always make this face with nancy

[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

[astmclaren455]

cooperate needs you to find the difference between this picture and this picture…

…they’re the same picture.

[eupheme]

— common ground [into the fire, part iii]

part i | part ii | masterlist

cooper howard / the ghoul x f!reader

rated e - 4k

tags: dubcon, power dynamics, vault dweller!reader, bounty hunting, pwp, sex for favors, 1 spank, sub/dom elements, light degradation, use of chems, shotgunning chems, riding, PiV, canon-typical violence and death

a/n: the scene where he complained about doing all the work had me like 👀 (reimagining), so here we go! 💖

“S’that right? Need me to fuck you? Fill up that greedy little cunt?”

His head tipping back as he hums, as if disappointed. Each word exaggerated, with his slow drawl, “Well, I’d sure like to sweetheart… but it seems to me like I’ve been doing an awful lot of work around here.”

“Findin’ this place. Cleanin’ it out. Gettin’ you clothes.” A sigh, before his voice drops, “Makin’ you come.”

“Think you oughta return the favor, don’t you?”

(Or - you take the Ghoul for a ride)

"Fuck!”

You crouch outside as another loud shotgun blast fires - the wooden door next to you peppering with bullets.

This wasn't what you had in mind.

You had thought you'd find a chem station in the next town. A pharmacy, an old hospital. Something somewhat respectable - not standing watch as the Ghoul blew his way through a long-abandoned two-story home.

The layered yelling dies off with each pull of his trigger, until everything going silent.

He finds you there a moment later, still curled in on yourself. A roll of his eyes when he sees you - still unused to the violence.

"It's clear." The Ghoul beckons, "Let's find that station."

You follow him inside, your gaze boring a hole into his back. Trying hard not to look down, nose wrinkling when you almost trip over a set of legs that sprawl across the floor.

A hand pinches at your elbow, keeping you upright.

"What?" He asks, at your expression.

"Did you have to..." You start, as he checks down the hallway.

It's empty - the doors leading to two bedrooms. The bed frames bare and rusted, the rooms already picked through.

A shrug, "They shot first."

"You goaded them."

You could hear him, even from outside. That knowing tone - some kind of warning. A rough laugh, and then the firefight had started.

"We're looking for a chem station, sweetheart." He scoffs, head cocking as he backs you up against the door he just closed, "Think they're gonna share with you like you’re on a goddamn play date?"

"They-" You blink up at him, "They might have."

He clicks his tongue, giving you a long look,"You still got a lot to learn, Vaultie."

A second, before he steps away.

"These weren't those kind of people."

You find it in the basement. A man slumped just outside the cracked-open door, the weathered lab coat stained and splattered red on the left-hand side.

Anything salvageable from above must have been brought down here. Three threadbare mattresses behind a makeshift wall. A long couch that faces a television that still runs, the picture blurry with static.

The station sits along the back wall. A beaker still bubbles over the burner, the smell acrid. Bottles litter the surface - something being made in a batch.

Your mind is already racing ahead, eyes scanning for things you'll need. Too-large gloves shoved on, disposing of the burnt mixture while you search for an empty glass.

Missing how he angles the couch to watch, feet propped up on the wooden coffee table. That ever-steady wariness waning with your focus, the tension in his shoulders easing as he sinks into the cushion.

You're too busy to notice. Sorting the different ingredients, littered across the counter.

There's an excess of toxic soot flowers, their petals papery between your fingers. Opened packages of Med-X, a spilled pile of Buffout. A jar of acid.  

Psycho. Cut with something else, something stronger. You think the Ghoul was right - maybe you had been foolish to underestimate them.

You try to shake the thought away, as you gather what you need. Antiseptic, from your own bag. Three jars of glowing fungus, found beneath the sagging counter. Ground up and tipped into a dusty beaker, the heat turned down low.

"Can you get me some water?" You call from over your shoulder, a jar held in your hand.

There's no answer. Silence, until something hard presses into your back, pinning you against the table.

It feels familiar, the way his hips nudge against yours, and it sends your mind back. An urge to arch - bend low. Mimicking the days before, where you can still feel the twinge of him with the stretch of your thighs.

"You think you're callin' the shots now, sweetheart?" His voice is low, the brim of his hat brushing your head as he leans over your shoulder.

"No," You squeak - caught off-guard, "I just-, I can't leave this until it thickens."

"Mm.” His hum is low. “Too bad. Would've liked to see you try.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks at his words, that rough drawl, even after the last couple days. A thin layer of suggestion in his tone, as he shifts closer - his chest bumping into your back.

Your mind flickering through possibilities, before his voice cuts through.

“Said you need water?”

"Yes. Please," The nod you give is small - you have to start your stirring over, losing your rhythm, "I saw a few cartons in the kitchen. If you don't mind."

"Polite little thing, when you're distracted," He husks, "I'll have to remember that."

The Ghoul makes no effort to move, though. Fingers wrapping around the glass. His other hand gripping the edge of the table, boxing you in. You wonder if he can hear the way your heart thuds in your chest, eyes fixed firmly on your work.

“Where’d you learn to do this?”

It takes you a second to answer - he’d had never offered many questions. Responses that were no more than a couple of words, over the stretch of long hours on the road.

“Uh, my Vault. We were short on hands, my mother was a chemist.” Your words are slow - a still-painful topic, “Used to make all kinds of stuff. Medicine and… and chems, alike.”

People who left were always brought back. Dazed and half-sick from the world above, whatever they had seen. Left at your doorstep to be patched up, if they made it that long.

You always told yourself that wouldn’t be you.

That when you were gone, you’d stay that way.

“Hm.” His tone flattens, “Wouldn’t have guessed. Don’t seem the type.”

“Yeah?” You head turns, catching his shadowed ones. Leaning into the welcome diversion, “What type do I seem like, then?”

The Ghoul’s eyes narrow, an unconscious flick down to your mouth.

“Trouble.” He husks, with a shallow roll of his hips. You can’t help the short inhale that he’s certain to hear, the way your fingers tighten around your instruments.

“Though I’m still workin’ out what kind.”

It’s there that he leaves you. Flustered and silently revisiting evenings before, a familiar anticipation curling low inside you.

The steps creak behind you as he slips upstairs. Returning some time later with what you need - twirling a dented pot found in the kitchen, so you can purify it. Folding himself onto the couch when you tell him it will be a while.

A cut glass decanter salvaged as well, that he drinks directly from. A rough gasp as the bitter alcohol floods through him. Helping himself to the chems that litter the tabletop - before his feet kick up, the hat tipped low over his face.

You think he does rest - a rarity.

You examine him then - as you wait for the water to boil, and then cool, before you can use it to mix with the other components.

Taking the rare chance to do it freely.

In the Wasteland you’ve learned to stay cautious. That you can’t fall behind. That surely he would notice, if your gaze lingered on him for too long.

But here, time seems to slow for a moment. Nothing to do but wait, as your fingers drift to your neck. Pressing into the bruise, as if you could feel the indents of his teeth.

His presence feels the same.

A mark left on you. Something you can’t help but want to touch, even if it aches. A reminder that lingers, and there’s a part of you that wishes it would stay.

It has you wondering, as your eyes sweep across him. Over the long-faded clothes, hiding rough and reddened skin - every inch of him wrapped away.

If you got close enough-

Would you find that he bore a mark of his own?

You make enough for a little over two weeks. Carefully poured and sealed into a variety of small bottles and tubes you’ve scavenged, scraping out every last bit that you can.

In the less-than-stellar conditions, it didn’t turn out so bad. The vials you had seen him buy was a thin, piss-yellow that had made you cringe. Poor work to begin with, and that was even before it was cut with more water.

What you offer out to him is thick - a sheen clinging to the glass as it sloshes, when it passes from your hand to his.

Liquid gold, in comparison.

“Mm.” The Ghoul hums - eyes greedy, as he examines, holding it up to the bit of light.

Before they’re focusing on you. Flickering from head to toe - considering - before his legs spread a bit wider. A hand clapping down against a thigh.

The look you give him is blank. A squeak when his fingers hook around one of your belt loops and pulls - hauling you onto his lap.

“You think I’m just gonna take somethin’ you cooked up?” His brow lifts, hands pinching against your hips, “Not a chance, sweetie. I think we oughta try this together.”

The Ghoul’s fingers slip up then, rucking up the hem of your shirt. His tone turning knowing.

“And I don’t think you’ve got enough in you.”

Your cheeks burn at his insinuation. More than aware, your breath catching as the rough tips of his leather gloves drag across your skin.

“Bet I’ve been leakin’ out of you since last time.” The Ghoul rasps, “Wouldn’t want to waste this, would we?”

He’s solid beneath you. Your thighs splitting on either side of his waist, knees digging into old cushions. Close enough to kiss - if you weren’t so certain he’d bite.

Lost though, on how to proceed. You don’t know the rules to his game. Always keeping you at arms-length - wrists bound, caught in his grip.

Would he let you touch him?

He mistakes your hesitance, his brow pinching.

“Spent enough time starin’. Lookin’ like you wanted to take a ride.” Acid slips into his tone, teeth bared, “Change your mind, now you’ve got a front row seat?”

That knocks you out of your thoughts - embarrassed that you were caught staring at him. Annoyed by his assumption. A scoff, as your hips start to move, a slow roll. Hands coming up to rest against his shoulders, meeting his eyes.

They’re pretty, like the rest of him. Shades of light brown - looking like they’re caught the sun, even underground. Thick lashes, above the deep hollow of sunken eye sockets, the split cavern of his missing nose.

Something that had startled you, the first time you saw him. Now, you hardly even notice. And his mouth -

“I’m not scared of you.” You murmur, watching the way his lip curls in a sneer. A soft sound bitten back as you grind down, feeling how he’s stiff beneath you.

You wonder how long he’s been this way. Hard, from watching you work. Waiting.

Another exchange, though you wish you could tell him it doesn’t have to be that way. You had meant what you said, when you had made your offer - even if you mean it a little differently, now.

Maybe you still could.

“You should be,” The Ghoul growls - hands ghosting over your sides, up to the thin cotton, “If you had any goddamn sense. Letting me touch you like this-”

A hand is cupping your breast now. A hard swipe of his thumb against your stiff peak, your fingers biting down into his jacket.

Your hips jerk against his. A soft moan, when the seam of your pants catches against your clit - leaving you clenching around nothing.

“I want you to.” You confess - catching the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head, “Told you, whatever you want.”

The Ghoul makes a rough sound in his throat, watching as you tug the cups down to fit beneath your breasts, putting yourself on display for him.

“Haven’t learned, have you?” He warns, his voice low, “Don’t make an offer you can’t follow through on.”

The pinch of his fingers sends an ache down to settle between your thighs, the hint of pain pairing with your pleasure.

Your own hand wandering, wanting to see more. Sliding against a leather vest, the stained shirt beneath that was once as blue as your suit. Frayed, looping embroidery on the faded collar.

Feeling the warmth of his skin as you tug at the snap at his throat. An inch, and then another, before he’s catching your hand.

Dragging it up to his shoulders, fixing you with a look, “You best keep those right here.”

“You don’t want me to touch you?” You ask, eyes flicking down to the peek of skin at his throat.

“I want these off.” He tells you instead, snapping the waistband of your pants against skin.

You have to leave him to do it. Watching the way his arms stretch across the back of the sofa, as you kick the pants off, then your underwear beneath.

Bare again, as you settle. Fitting yourself against the curve of his cock. Leather and metal kissing your skin as you move against him, until his lips are parted with a ragged breath.

You can feel your muscles clench. The slick slide of your pussy against his bulge, barely nudging at that deep-seated ache to be filled.

“Makin’ a mess, sweetheart.” He husks, his hips lifting to meet yours. Gloved hands moving to curl around your waist - pulling you down to meet him, coaxing a lazy rhythm from you.

“Rubbin’ up against me like a bitch in heat. Should make you clean that up.”

It coaxes a whine from you, as you let him move you. The sound does something to you - the layered approval in his tone, the low rasp of his voice. Not so unaffected as he seems, with how hard he is beneath you.

He must see it in your expression, a hand leaving the couch to grasp at your chin. Flexing up and into you, letting you feel the hard ridge of him.

“This what you want, sweetheart?”

Making you meet his gaze, as you answer. All dark eyes and the flash of teeth, under the brim of his hat.

“Yes.” You keen, “I need you, please-”

“S’that right? Need me to fuck you? Fill up that greedy little cunt?”

His head tipping back as he hums, as if disappointed. Each word exaggerated, with his slow drawl, “Well, I’d sure like to sweetheart… but it seems to me like I’ve been doing an awful lot of work around here.”

The hand leaves your chin to drop down. Slowly loosening a belt buckle, letting it pool on the cushions. Your cheeks heating when you see the slick shine to the front of his pants, where you’ve rutted yourself against him.

“Findin’ this place. Cleanin’ it out,” His eyes are on yours - your breath short as he tugs the zipper down. “Gettin’ you clothes.”

A sigh, before his voice drops, “Makin’ you come.”

You moan at that, a soft sound caught behind your teeth - fingers pinching into his shoulders.

Waiting for him to draw his cock out - fist wrapped around the base. Flushed and thick in his palm, inches away from where you need him.

The Ghoul does grin then, a wicked thing that shows his teeth.

“Think you oughta return the favor, don’t you?”

He’s giving you an inch - seeing if you’ll try to take a mile. A firm handle, still wrapped around a fist, but loosening the reins.

Letting himself watch.

“Seems fair.” You manage, breathless.

“Then go on,” He husks, “Show me how you can take it.”

Your hand reaches down, but then he’s clicking his tongue - fingers fixing back on his shoulders.

Leaving you to lift your hips. His cock slipping against your slick core, your teeth biting into your lip as you line yourself up - the rough head catching at your entrance.

It’s different this time. Sinking down on him, feeling each inch as it splits you open - instead of suddenly filling you to the hilt.

“Fuck,” You sigh, with the stretch. It twinges deep inside you, where his hips fit against yours.

Lifting yourself only to sink back down, his arms flexing beneath his coat as he lets you ride him, your pace slowly picking up until you’re bouncing on his cock.

As much as you enjoyed last time, there was something about this. Fully able to watch the way his lips part, hear the rattling groan when you tighten around him.

See the way his eyes skate across the bruise on your neck, only to drop down to watch the sway of your tits as your fingers lace behind his neck.

“Goddamn, sweetheart.” His hand flattens against the small of your back. The other gripping your hip, tugging you towards him, “You sure know how to ride.”

Not giving you time to answer, before his head is dipping. The brim of his hat knocking back when it hits your chin - the tips of your fingers just catching it. Slipping it on your own head for safekeeping before he can protest.

It earns you a sharp nip against the curve of your breast, before his lips close around the tight peak of a nipple and sucks.

You cry out, chasing the pressure that builds in your belly. Growing even more wet with the slick swirl of his tongue and the scrape of teeth - his cock grinding against a spongy spot inside you as you arch into his mouth.

“Please,” You whine, fingers flexing and then curling. Needing more friction against your clit, where your heartbeat has dropped and settled.

Trying so hard to listen, a whine between your gritted teeth. Your tits glossy with spit when he leans back, giving you a knowing look.

“You wanna come?” He husks - his eyes dropping, as you nod, “Only if you lean back and show me, sweetheart.”

Relief sings in you, as you adjust. Thighs spreading, as you grip onto his shoulder. Leaning back until he can watch the way he spears into you. How he shines, all slicked up, with each roll of your hips.

Your other hand loses its grip in his coat to slip down, press where your bodies meet.

Fingertips circle, a low moan at the much-needed touch. Your rhythm grows sloppy until his hands hook beneath your thighs. Guiding you into a harsh rhythm, each pound of his cock winding you higher and higher as the couch creaks beneath you.

“Come on, cowpoke.” He rasps, his hand cracking down against your ass, “Is that the best you can do?”

It builds - your fingers pressing harder against the slick bud. Whimpered noises that are more sound than words, as his thighs spread, feet planting so he can drive up into you.

“I said come on.” He growls, “Wanna feel you come on my cock again.”

Like before, it feels like the control slips through your fingers. Your own touch brings you close to that edge, but it’s the pounding of his cock that makes you fall.

Your back arching, crying out as your core clenches. Pleasure bursting deep inside you, racing up your spine and down to the tips of your fingers and pointed toes.

The quick thrust slowa into a lazy grind. A low “atta girl” that he grits out, as he feels the way you come hard around him.

Eyes dropping from your face to watch the greedy press of your fingers as you draw it out - until his own hand is wrapping around your wrist.

Tugging your hand away as the pleasure still courses inside you, hips still chasing the last ripples as you ride his cock.

Bringing your fingers to his mouth. Fitting them against teeth and tongue as his lips close around, tasting the slick that clings to them.

It makes goosebumps raise on your skin. The briefest thrill of fear. Certain that if you pulled your fingers free right now, the flesh and muscle would peel from you - leaving only bones behind.

He groans loudly around them, teeth indenting your skin. Tongue swirling against your knuckles, his hips rocking up to meet yours.

Freeing you, only to grasp at your hips - urging you to move faster. A loud slap of skin until his jaw is clenching - and he’s bringing you down once more against him with a rough sound.

Coming inside you again, but this time you get to see the way his head tips back with his snarl. How his fingers bite into your skin as you feel him throb - throat bared as he spills deep inside you with each rough jerk of his hips.

A flare of something flicking to life in your belly, knowing you did this to him. The groan he made when he tasted you echoing in your mind, giving you something to keep.

You make to move when he goes still, but a hand grips at your hip - holding you in place. Keeping you full of him, as the afterglow still glitters in your veins.

His eyes are dark, fixed on you. Taking in your shadowed, half-lidded gaze - sweat-dewed and bare skinned against him. His hat, still perched on your head. Looking like it belongs there.

A hand digs around in his bag. Pulling out the inhaler for his serum. Snapping it together without his gaze leaving you.

Bringing it to his mouth after - sucking in a deep, held breath. Those eyes closing with a low, contented groan.

A broad hand slips from your hip to splay across the back of your neck, fingers digging into your throat. Pulling you down to him - just as his head tilts to press his lips against yours.

Just as you soften, he exhales - the RadAway flooding through your parted lips. A stinging, metallic taste of iodine that makes you shudder, before you realize he’s deepening the kiss.

You lean into it without thought. The ache in your gums fading with the brush of his tongue. His grip anchoring you in place as he takes, licking into your mouth while his cock still fills you.

Leaving you breathless. Letting him, as your own arms wrap around his shoulders to keep him close. Meeting the messy scrape of teeth and swirl of tongue. The sharp taste fading, layered with the whisky and a hint of you that still lingers.

Before he’s pulling back far too soon, eyes dark as he pants.

“Fuck.” He rasps - his tongue tasting where yours had been, flicking across a lower lip. Before he’s looking at the inhaler - shaking it for another use.

“Looks like I might just have to keep you around.”

You make what you can with the rest of the supplies afterward - waste not, want not. An extra stimpak. Swiping the rest of the mentats, keeping the grape and berry ones for yourself. Refilling your canteen with more of the purified water.

The rest of the chems you gather - packing them in a tin. Tossing them his way, a low whistle when he sees what’s inside.

It’s late enough that the Ghoul decides it’s best to stay here, and leave at dawn. Certain that he will catch up to the bounty tomorrow, already sure of two places where he might be offloading the stolen wares.

You don’t mind. The uneasy thought of sleeping in a house with corpses quickly overshadowed by the real mattresses waiting in the basement. Stained but there’s still bedding - patched up blankets.

A fire, that he coaxes to life in the fireplace upstairs. Dinner, roasting over it.

It almost feels like something. A moment you can play pretend - that these walls will keep you safe.

That maybe you could clean it up.

That maybe he didn’t despise you, and maybe he’d want to stay.

It’s a foolish thought, a sigh as you push it from you. Digging a spoon into the rusted can of Pork ‘N Beans you had scavenged - not trusting the look of the skewer he had been tending.

A thumb running across your lower lip, as you chew. Remember how his had felt. Examining the angry marks pressed into your knuckles. 

His shadow crosses over you, then - you have to crane your neck up to see him. His hat back where it belongs, much like your own clothes.

The tilt of his head, as he considers you again. Before his hand is slipping into the bag that slings across his shoulder.

Gloved fingers curling around something - tossing it silently into your lap, before he’s disappearing upstairs to finish his sweep of the house.

It’s golden, in the light of the fireplace. Seems like he’s already done a little looting of his own. A rolled up bag, the tube and needle tucked inside.

And a bottle of the RadAway you made for him.

save a horse, ride a cowboy and all that 🤠💖 (thank you so much for reading! would love to know what you thought if you enjoyed!)

[something-something-sonnschein]

The Angel with the Serpent by Evelyn de Morgan, early 1870s

[dimmadoome]

I am nothing if not a details oriented person. I like to suss them out. I like to see the whole picture so I can paint one myself and of course, I've been looking at the picture of Cooper Howard.

Here are a few things I've noticed. As I've stated before, Cooper is wearing the same outfit as he was in the begging of the show. That blue, white and yellow cowboy outfit. His signature outfit. That's still there, hidden underneath the dirt and the grime and the old, ratty coat, leather vest and bandolier. You can see it in the details of the shirt and the silhouette of the hat. That has been discussed so I'm glossing over that.

Another thing I've noticed is his voice. Specifically his accent. The Ghoul and Cooper Howard have a different accent. Cooper is subdued. He's a regular man with a regular voice. Sure there is a bit if a drawl to it, but not the way The Ghoul has one. Anyone from the south knows what a real southern accent is and what a fake one is. The Ghoul uses a fake one. A larger than life one. That old Hollywood John Wayne fakeass accent. Sure his voice is more fried and that could thicken up an accent some, but that doesn't mean his accent would get more pronounced like THAT.

He's acting the part of The Ghoul. Probably to protect himself in this hellscape that he has been living in for centuries. Its clear that The Ghoul is not who he really is. Its a persona to be slapped over his real one to keep him safe so he can get to his family. I can't wait to see the next season when Lucy and her gung ho, be a good person attitude starts to rub at him more and peel back his layers to press into the soft underbelly underneath. Wether or not he wants to acknowledge it, (which he does. He knoes it already, said it already.) She's his mirror into who he truly is. He might corrupt her to keep her safe (evidenced by the fact that when he cut off her finger, she was given a rotten one in its stead) but she will be the one to pull him back from the brink of losing himself. (It was HER finger he sewed onto himself after all. Her pristine, beautiful smoothskin finger.)

I could also say the arc between Cooper's prewar self becoming disenchanted with vault tec/being betrayed by his wife juxtaposed by Lucy's arc of finding her dad/learning how he betrayed her mom and the world is also a pretty serious mirror as well.

I just.... I've got a lot of feels about Cooper and the symbolism that went into him, plus how he and Lucy are pretty clearly mirrors of eachother. I love it all and I'm gonna need more of this injected right into my brain hole. I need to lick the walls of that studio because HOLY SHIT this show has so much love and care put into everything it does.

[yaoyaobae]

Hello everyone! Thank you so much for following me, its my first time sharing about my twst ocs so I’ll give it a shot ✊

Warning: Hallucinations 🙇‍♀️

Alison Wondre

School: Royal Sword Academy

Favourite food: Cookies

Pastime: Reading children’s books, Daydreaming

Family: Mother, Father, Older sister

Role: Head of Alice/Wonderland dorm

Alison is a second year student at RSA and dorm head. Unlike Riddle who upholds rules, Alison is the polar opposite of him in every way.

Alison adopts a carefree and playful attitude, he enjoys teasing uptight people until they blow (like Riddle).

He tends to mention strange things like how he saw some singing flowers the other day or his craving to take a bite out of a bread-and-butter-fly. From the way he dresses to his wild, childish imagination its no surprise that many students believe he’s gone mad. But it is agreeably fitting for someone who is head of the Alice/Wonderland dorm.

Backstory:

Alison has an older sister whom he adores greatly and spends most of his time with. When he was a young boy, he didn’t listen to his sister’s heeding to not stray off from the path and ended up falling into a deep hole in a forest. He slowly started hallucinating monsters and cried himself to sleep, wishing he had listened to his sister. Thankfully, the authorities found him a few days later and he was sent to a hospital.

However, it was clear that Alison became an entirely different person after the incident. He began telling his sister stories about funny creatures he had met during his “adventure” which was rather worrying to her. While Alison was in the hospital for a few months,he picked up several children’s picture books which he still brings around with him in school till this day. As he grew older his imagination became wilder as he forgets the fine line between reality and his “wonderland”. He takes afternoon naps to “meet his friends”. Its a given rule to never wake him up.

Of course despite his eccentric character, Alison is still a caring and reliable leader when he needs to be(just that he conveys it in his own ways). He will not hesitate to listen to a fellow dorm mate’s worries and give vague advice, hoping they can figure out the riddle. He encourages them to “stay curiouser and curiouser” as life becomes a little more colourful that way when you experience new things. When it comes to thinking out of the box, no one can beat Alison to it.

Relationships

Riddle

Alison finds joy in teasing serious individuals, namely Riddle, until they throw a tantrum. He doesn’t mind getting the magic collar so as long as he can poke fun at the red haired queen. In serious situation, Alison would cooperate with Riddle and provide creative solutions.

If both of them share a similarity, it would be the fear of being held back and stuck in a dark place alone. Like Riddle who grew up having to follow his mother’s rules and forbidden to see his friends, Alison can somewhat share the same pain as he is still afraid of not waking up and/or seeing his sister again because of his ignorance in the past.

Chenya

Alison is generally carefree around others, but when it comes to this cunning cheshire cat he will not waste a single second to curse him. Many students find it strange how two eccentrics from the same dorm can never get along. Alison finds Chenya a nuisance who disrupts his afternoon naps, often pestering him. In addition, Chenya always gives Alison close-to-useless advice even when the latter didn’t ask for any. Guess its like a taste of his own medicine 😂

While the two do not get along, they are always seen together in school bickering nonsense. Sometimes Chenya would purposely wake Alison up from his nap to share about the strawberry tart he stole from his two childhood friends, the sleepy blonde would just doze off back to dreamland while nodding his head.

End

Well, I think that is all I can share about Alison! I hope you will like him too, thank you to those who have loved him since the beginning!! Talking about my children is fun ☺️

Until next time!

[sunnylolli]

I wrote an in-verse address speech........

And I think I made up a law.

Mathias Møller, national personification of Denmark, ladies and gentlemen.

Firstly, I want to wish you all a Good Evening.

I think we are all beginning to feel how tiring this past week has been.

Or at least, I know that I can feel it, by how sore I am from sitting in these uncomfortable chairs for a full week.

Secondly, I want to thank you all, for your many inputs and for your feedback. I appreciate the difficult compromises that have needed to be made between each and every one of us, and I recognize the nobility that it took, to overlook our personal biases in order to cast a look towards the bigger picture.

To look towards the future and find mutuality and unity, in wanting to make a world that is less divided and more just.

For centuries, some would say too many, rights have been a privilege, of the people, the flora and the fauna that builds beings like me, and has not extended past the threshold of the finite and the mortal. Justice has not extended her long arm to shade Nation Personifications from mistreatment. And the brief blinks in history, that have seen justice and care, have been just that. Blinks.

Most of us have suffered a great deal of pain and mistreatment, as a result of there being no juridical laws to prevent misuse, abuse, among many more unnameable things, done to us.

I, with a team of new-age scientists wanting to learn and expand on their, and our, knowledge of what National Personifications are, have in the past decade conducted statistics and voluntary and anonymous experiments, in cooperation with the Swiss and the Kiwi governments to answer a myriad of different questions that surrounds the mystery, of our existence.

We have made and handed out voluntary questionnaires to countries on a variety of topics, among them the topic of abuse and mistreatment throughout their lives, and to what degree said mistreatment has been and in what aspect of their lives.

The results have shown that every single National Personification, have in some way experienced, severely inhumane living and work conditions, as well as judicial and juridical injustice and dismissal, due to their nature and the uncertainty about our purpose.

I recognize that these statistics would include living and work conditions from long before the era we are in now, however; Which is why we conducted a more specific statistic, narrowing the timeframe from the mid 20th- up to the -21st century, where the percentage wound up being about 87%.

Although it is a fantastic discovery that conditions have fallen from the staggering 100% from the first questionnaire to 87%; Such a percentage is, frankly, unacceptably high.

We are people, just as much as the people we inhabit.

We look, speak and hurt the same, we eat and drink the same, and we have relationships and feelings that are the exact same as any other human being on this planet. I know many, if not all, of us have family systems and partners that we care for, and have cared for for longer than most of you heads of state have been alive. I have a family the exact same as you do, I have people I regard as children and I have people I regard as siblings and lovers, and there is no divide between how I love them and how you love your relations.

We have all been victims of gross discrimination. Discrimination that falls synonymous with cruel, devious and outright tyrannical. And to think such discrimination is still legal practice today, 2 decades into the 21st century, is insane.

It is therefore with this context, that I am pleased to announce the passing of the first National Personification Rights and Protection law that has ever existed in the history of mankind.

The National Personification Rights and Protection law, (NPRP) for short, extends to us Personifications, Human Rights and the right to compensation, on the background of tragedies committed on National Personifications by our own or others’ governments.

This is on the grounds of several conscious acts of treason, countless counts of murder, falsification of evidence, etc.

Additionally, NPRP gives Personifications the right to free health- and emergency care, the right to free counseling and grants us complete personhood.

The NPRP law will draw 0.5% of global BNP to finance the compensation and the free utilities aforementioned and officially grants national citizenship to every National Personification. Thus giving us the right to live in our own state and relieving us of the uncanny and unlabeled status as stateless immigrants and/or state property.

For my closing statements, I want to say thank you to all of the heads of state that are here today, for your cooperation and willingness to make this change possible. I want to thank my fellow Personifications for sticking it out and being patient and for contributing and participating in the steps it took to get this through to the UN to be passed as international law, rather than keeping it strictly to the EU.

Thank you and to the National Personifications, including myself, Congratulations.

[yuri-is-online]

I've got a theory question for tdb (bear with me, I've blazed through story so remembering the beginning is a little difficult)

So at the beginning, the anomaly we met was actively texting us right? Said something about how they've "been waiting to see us" or somethin like that

Which we know anomalies can be sentient (especially if we run with the theory with towa). And I dunno, I wanna loop in the time loop theory somewhere here. If we go with the idea of mc being the girl in the tower and her jumping before a loop maybe, then what (or who) is the anomaly we met?

I've been going through the tdb tag to see if you've mentioned it yet and no one has asked, so I figured I would bc I like bouncing theories... I need to hop on tdb reddit

SO I lurk in the discord server some people on the reddit put together and it was pointed out there that shortly after that happened the dev's other game had a Rapunzel themed event 💀💀💀 so that's what the line about the girl in the tower was likely referencing since it makes sense someone like Taiga would "not be into that shit (i.e. not his game) at all." THAT BEING SAID I am so glad you brought up the anomaly in the beginning because there's some stuff about it I find interesting.

I went and took some screenshots from the summoning and the person who commented under that little theory was right in that the person who is falling does land in the woods, so it could be that whoever jumps off of the tower at the end of the loop does end up in the woods somewhere. It might mean nothing, but I'll hold onto this thought just in case.

Dorms rarely cooperate on missions, so Taiga and Haku being on one together is odd. Taiga also does not seem to have lines referencing Haku, but he seems to have given up on trying to escape the timeloop and wants "the others" to join him in his nihilism. I think this sort of goes with his being a gambler who says there is "no trick to winning you just have keep playing" but still desperately looking to the MC for "something I could do different" or a reason. He wants to have hope again but he isn't able to.

I personally think these "others" he talks about are probably Tohma and Romeo, Tohma because he seems to be one of the more active ones working to isolate the traitor and Romeo because that's his best friend. Oh and while I am on the subject of the traitor, someone brought up to me a crack theory about Luca being the traitor and I have seen some votes for Towa too. While I obviously think that it is almost certain to be Haku, I think there is a potential for a faction split between people who agree with whatever Haku's take on the ghoul's situation is and people who agree with Tohma. Luca is a very good candidate for someone who I could see being manipulated into siding with the "evil" side if he thought it meant it was the only way to protect his brother. Towa will go wherever Haru does, and I can't really see Haru siding with Haku if it involves hurting the anomalous creatures in any way. That and Haku seems very convinced that he's in whatever he's in alone.

But to finally answer your question/talk about what's been bugging me: the anomaly who curses the MC takes her into something that reminds me of a cursed domain from JJK and turns the scenery all red. And like you said they text her! Like it's been stalking her for a long time. I hope we get to learn about how Haku's flute works in the Hotarubi chapter because I want to know how and why he was able to take MC out of the anomaly's domain and return her to the train car. That almost made me think he could control it in some way... I'll have to level his affection enough to see what his pfp is in his texts because it it is remotely similar to the one the anomaly uses I will have a stroke.

As for what the anomaly is... it's profile picture is a spider lily and it uses the name "Mina" when talking to MC. It's head has roses, spider lilies and what I think are supposed to be poppies growing on its head. Apparently there is a Chinese legend about spider lilies and I keep seeing the same text copy and pasted everywhere about it, but I feel comfortable sharing what I found since I was able to find it on Wuhan University's English website: (x)

I imagine when we meet whatever monster cursed MC it will be a bit different than whatever is going on here, but MC is talking about how "if she knew it would end like this she never would have fallen for them in the first place." Sure she's just talking about how her favorite band just broke up, but maybe that feeling drew the spirit towards her since it is attracted to/preys on lost loves.

If I am allowed to cope a whole bunch here, I think it would make for solid timeloop building if MC's feelings weren't about the band at all, but about her lost love who jumped off the building at the start of the game. Since the loop has restarted she doesn't remember him, so she thinks her feelings are and directs them towards the band she used to love, but the strength of her disappointment comes from somewhere else.

Thank you very much for your question, it made me think a whole lot!

[cashmere-caveman]

hello everyone :) inspired by this post by @burrowingregg, please enjoy my thoughts on "what if crozier fucking dies and little becomes captain"

if he dies before sir john

one of two outcomes. sir john either doubles down ("we have to find the nwp for francis!"/"well now that the haters are gone its time to have Real Men Solve This Like Champs") or he goes hm. maybe this is a sign and actually this is a dire situation. perhaps we should pack it in men

i dont rlly have any thoughts on this except i am rlly curious what this would do to fitzy. does he ramp up the charming pretender routine now that he's the uncontested no1 son and crozier cleary didnt know what he was talking about or would this be an early wakeup call and jumpstart the fury beach convo w blanky?

if he dies pre ep4 (tuunbaq)

the lashing would not turn out this way bc little wouldnt have hickey punished as a boy -> less men would berth on erebus

mutiny later maybe? definitely different

(is this a good moment to squeeze in some solittle bc they have to cooperate to keep all the men in check.)

definitely better communication within terror command bc the lieutenants will know little is going to hear them out i think and since little sucks at asserting authority hed have to rely on them more than crozier did

weird tension between jopson and little i think. is it sexual. is it antagonistic. actually maybe i could see jopson joining a mutiny in a crozier dead scenario hmmm…. heres how hickeyjopson can still win !!1!!!!!

if he doesnt survive the withdrawal

jopson.exe stopped working

maybe i could see jopson joining a mutiny in a crozier dead scenario hmmm…. heres how hickeyjopson can still win !!1!!!!! (1).docx

joplittle coworkers to enemies speedrun. i think jopson would grieve so fucking much but then go Ah! We compartmentalise this emotion! Nothing easier than that :) and then hed be so fucking passive agressive as the new captains steward without even realising bc WHY does little walk around alive and hale when little was the one who got crozier the alcohol that killed him how is that fair (jopson is Not at a point where he is willing to confront the fact that he himself was just as much an enabler as little, if not more so)

also sidenote but he wouldnt shave little since that actually never was in a stewards job description in the first place lol no homoerotic blade to throat interaction for you, sir!!

i do think little and fitzjames would work well together! they did a good job on coordinating the carnivale and fitzjames is not someone who lashes out a lot, which is good bc little does not deal well w getting screamed at

i think blanky would become elemental. w crozier dead and (assuming carnivale still happens) mcdonald gone hes the last brit who speaks inuktitut fluent enough to communicate w silna Plus hes one of the v few remaining high ranking arctic veterans

(what would change in a scenario like this if my good friend and upcoming romance novel love interest graham gore - who was an arctic veteran and even competent and charismatic - was still around? food for thought)

what would hickey do? the object of his obsession is out of the picture so he cant get revenge for getting whipped, he still wants to go to his tropical vacation and i think w crozier dead he would switch to survival mode 3000 (he is always already in survival mode to begin with, but i mean the point at which he switches from playing defense to offense) sooner. if the captains dead theyre fucked for real whats holding him back? hickey voice in fact what is holding anyone back? men, we need to confront the situation!

i really think this might be where thomas "shouldve been a news reporter" jopson would shine. that nosy bitch knows about Everything going on, and in a situation like this where every information must be handled in a v tactical way so as to Manage The Situation i think there would be a great deal of avenues of action open to someone in a position like his. especially, i think, bc to me a great deal, if not to say the entirety of jopsons optimism and endurance and focus is simply build on this vast foundation of trust he has in crozier and w crozier gone, what happens to all of that? there are a few ways this could play out imo

a) he instead reorients himself toward the next Authority Figure, which in this case would probably be Fitzjames. I do think it is unlikely, simply bc due to crozier dying during withdrawal the fences would not yet have mended entirely and jopson Will Hold A Grudge. it wont be little, for previously mentioned reasons, even though i dont think jopson would be able to realise that himself. he does not have a lot of interactions w the other lieutenants up until then (not counting serving dinner etc) and since iirc they had not been called into the Sobriety Meeting i dont quite know about how much he would trust them. so unless sth drastically changes during the walkout the options would be fitzjames or little and i personally vote no on both

b) he would retreat into himself and simply Wait. wait for what? u ask. well :) he would wait. and then, maybe one day he might even React. but for now, he would Wait, and Pay Attention

c) i realize this is quite a shrewder reading of jopson than what dave k has said of how he sees him but as i said earlier to me a lot of jopsons "goodness" hinges on crozier providing him w the trust he needs to unfold these qualities. and w that gone, i think that leaves him as someone v smart, in a position where he has access to a lot of information, and also in a state of absolutely crushed hopes and reopened trauma. and that certainly does put you in a state of mind doesnt it?? atp his trust in the remaining leadership might be v fragile and he would certainly wonder how any of this would go on. so hed either implode and fucking idk. wither. (which, for the record, i think he would Not do) Or! he would decide that alright. no one left to handle this but himself so time to take matters into his own hands! youve shot smaller hawks than this tommy its time to get out of here! which, again, is where i think a possible hickey alliance, maybe via billy, might take place. if jopson and hickey would team up for a mutiny they would definitely constantly be daydreaming of killing each other <3 not to be me but i would read the fuck out of a hickeyjopson mutiny vs a solittefitz alliance. give me intrigue! give me bastardry! give me some fucking losers dishing it out in the canadian arctic over the worlds worst buffet options!

this is not necessarily a full point on its own but more of an addendum: i genuinely think jopson has it in him to pull a dundy. aka i think he v much does strike me as someone who would stage a quiet not so much mutiny but a quiet usurpation of power through simple calculated ruthlessness. which! speaking of usurpation!

option d) jopson decides that hes the only competent bitch left and the only way to ensure everyones survival is to go full grima wormtongue and become the puppet master advisor to littles captain. little would actually let this happen and might even welcome it. we know this guy is genetically engineered to follow orders. dont say i never did anything for joplittle enjoyers!!!

crozier dies during the walkout at any point:

i dont really have anything big for this. it would be bad but depending on what has happened at that point (how scurvy ridden is fitzjames? is jopson a lieutenant yet? has hickey killed irving already?) it might not change too much tbh

if he gets shot during morfins suicide it would be disastrous i think but it might actually make the men come closer together again maybe? if little becomes captain then and there maybe the mutiny might get prevented or at least postponed bc little would let the marines get their armed patrol and thus they might not be as resentful/mistrusting toward command. ofc little As A Captain trusting tozer and getting fucking bamboozled by him if the mutiny still happened would be an even worse look lmfao. that is if morfin shot him. if it was however a Marine who shot crozier…… well. i think thered be an execution first thing at daybreak! and any and all weapons would be under lock and key w extra attention to the point that i think not even armitage would hand them out. plus lbr it wouldve been tozer in this scenario w the killing shot so! armitage without tozer…. does that poor lad even know how to exist when he is not in sols orbit. how would hickey exploit this….. (also extremely evil version is jopson shooting crozier which is so evil that we do not consider it. goodbye)

if crozier dies pre tuunbaq attack id be curious if the (attempted) hanging would still happen. i personally think it would, simply bc hickey would definitely try to start some shit and fitzjames would be wary enough to order a post mortem on irving plus jopson would definitely catch that rat. maybe he would actually hang, even, but that depends on whether little as his captain or fitzjames as the overall expedition commander would give the little speech beforehand. if it's fitzy, either him or hickey in his response would run out of time before the tuunbaq shows up and hickey would escape, but if it's little theres a real chance he would shortly state some dry facts let hickey speak for two sentences of last words maximum and then get it over with. and now That would be a fascinating scenario to explore. crozier gone, hickey gone, camp in ruins, dozens of men dead, fitzscurvy left in charge. would there be a second mutiny? des voeux, perhaps? or billy himself (he was also an architect of this!!! he went to burn the fucking maps!!! billy was not regular rat who marrydivorcemarried the evil rat he was evil rat no2!!! simply a less flashy (fleshy….. hah) flavour!!!) just quietly absconding w a bunch of men into the fog? what would tozer do, if he had survived and hickey hadn't?

last minute death scenarios

anything w crozier dead before hickey could capture him would not change much i think. maybe hickey would deflate some upon the news but hed still capture goodsir and still die as a wannabe new god. i think the real tragedy would be if little was left as the only captain after fitzjames' death. that man was Not made to carry such a burden and dundy would smell the blood in the water and ursurp him early i think, which ironically might lead to a scenario where there could be a sliver of hope for survival for the healthier parts of the crew

if crozier died during the capture bc hartnell didnt take the bullet hickey would fucking kill whoever fired that shot (i do not remember who it was. golding? was it golding? i fucking hate that guy i can easily belive it was golding) and i think hartnell and little and whoever else was there would either escalate the situation into a shootout to avoid the mutineers taking croziers body for food (lbr hickey would love to eat that old man) and die right then right there or maybe get themselves captured bc everything is just pointless now (unlikely outcome imo the tension would be too high) OR theyd somehow get the fuck out of there, organize a party of men to take the mutineers and have a final showdown (unless dundy intervened and ursurped ofc) which means: tuunbaq survives!!! yay :D good ending for silna :) she has not lost the tuunbaq so maybe even no exile <33

if crozier just died during the final tuunbaq fight: no changes at all

which concludes my thoughts! this turned out way longer than i expected and honestly did not focus on little v much but it was super interesting to consider all these scenarios so thank u burrowingregg for giving me the idea to begin with :) i would also be super curious to hear everyone elses thoughts on this so please do chime in!!

[kafka-ohdear]

cooperate needs you to find the difference between this picture and this picture

[queerromancerecs]

Rules and guidelines

This is for recs of published queer romance and romantic fiction. What does that mean? Romance must central to or a significant part of the story, and at least one of the main characters must be lgbtqa+.

Published works means traditionally published, indie-published, or self-published. This includes free works and works published by authors available through their blogs or websites. It does not mean fanfiction. Fanfiction rec blogs exist already, please use them.

Fiction includes purely prose work as well as webcomics and graphic novels.

Romance means genre romance and also fictional works with a strong romantic element. The difference between the two is that genre romance requires a happy ending or a happy-for-now ending, and romantic fiction does not. This should be made clear in the rec itself under Genre. If the story is part of an ongoing series and the ending is not yet clear, please say so in your recommendation. Erotic romance is also allowed but again, indicate that under Genre.

(e.g. for a genre romance book that is also fantasy, label it Genre: Romance and then add a sub category if you like. If it's a fantasy novel primarily, then label is just Fantasy.)

Lgbtqa+ means queer. It can mean m/m. It can mean f/f. It can mean nb/nb. It can mean an m/f romance with a bi heroine, a trans f/m love story, an aro character finding a life partner and feeling weird internal feelings about it, three ace people falling in love and never having sex, and so on and so forth.

Content tags: You don’t need to list all triggers, as that is impossible. But please at least list any of the obvious ones under "content tags" Suggested content tags would be like: SA, attempted SA, CA, CSA, graphic torture, etc.

Recs can be only a few sentences or a full essay. Just say what you like about it and why you feel others should read it.

This blog is really to help promote the smaller creators, but trad pub is cool too. Just remember to check the blogs tags for the title first because trad-pubbed stuff tends to get recced all the time everywhere and might have been recced already.

Recs must also include a link to the work: the author’s website, Smashwords, Amazon, wherever, but at least one, as well as a picture of the cover. (In the case of art-heavy work, more pics can be used.) Please use alt text for any images.

No self-promotion from authors. No non-romantic genre fiction.

Required format:

Cover Image (if it has one)

Title (including series name if applicable)

Author

Summary: (c & p the professional one or write your own)

Genre:

Ship type: (m/m/m, f/f, nb/trans m, etc)

Why you like it:      

Content tags if applicable                                                                          

Link

If you have questions about a rec, you can ask about it. Situations will be assessed individually.  

Entries with incorrect format will not approved but you will be contacted for any necessary corrections/additions.

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In the interests of disclosure, this blog is run by R. Cooper, a queer romance author. Obviously, I will smile and be very happy if my work gets recommended here, but I am not going specially tag it or comment because it feels a little sus for me to do that. If the format is correct, I will just approve any such posts like the others.

[slashingdisneypasta]

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!! Omg I'm so happy you like them!!! I glad I got your OC's right too ^^

Ok ok. Remember, other than Poppy, these are mainly me spitballing ideas until I find a design that works best. With that out if the way, let's get to it in alphabetical order ^^

Ben Cottontail/Ben Cooper

This is the second one I feel most assured in design. I want him to look as plain as your typical perfect school boy looks. Basically, you can tell that he values too much in the wrong things just by looking at him. I was trying to go for a strawberry blonde look, though I doubt I succeeded 😅

Henry Foxworth/Henry Worthington

Henry on the streets VS Henry being blackmailed into marriage by you-know-who. He is meant to have a more dirty, cheating Flynn Rider look. Or, as you perfectly put it, a fusion between Nick Wilde and Prince Hans. I want his hair to stick up anime style like your drawing of him showed, but this app didn't have that option XD

Moony Wolf/Marcus Wheeler

Moony's design I'm having the most trouble with. Both as a toon and a human (as a toon, I want him to look scary while also keeping the 30's-40's cartoon style. As a human, how can I humanize Moony if I don't even have his toon design fully developed? 😅). I do know I want him to be African American at least, though. And I want his eyes to be a reddish brown to best replicate his red eyes as a wolf. I tried to make him look roughed up while simultaneously make him look like he's actively taking care of himself. I still have a lot to figure out about Moony's design.

Poppy O'Hare/Sophie O'Brian

You already know what Pops looks like, but I still wanted to include her... Not to mention the blood effect did make me think of how, as friends with gangsters, she had to have witnessed at least one murder...

Shiny Weasel/Miriam Hill

I was originally going to make her Augurn, but then I realized she started to look too much like Jessica Rabbit. So bright brown hair it is XD she is also supposed to have freckles... But I forgot XD (she does wear foundation at work, though. So we'll say that this is her club look). I'm thinking about making her African American as well, or mixed race.

Terry Ratt T./Terry R. Jordan

Terry's was simultaneously fun and frustrating to do. I needed to make him look as ratty as possible XD I think this one is my favorite most of all.

Now, the most important question... Would Rena smash or pass? I'm kidding I'm kidding XDD (unless... 👀)

MOONY, my wolfy husband,

IS EVEN H O T T E R

THEN I THOUGHT.

ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?? 'roughed up while simultaneously make him look like he's actively taking care of himself'- I'm looking at him through this excellent lense, as well, and ohhhh boy ❤💕❤💕❤💕

I love how Ben has such an angel face XD And HENRY OH MY LORD- you wnat me to throw away my morals dont you?? You want me to throw off the Hunt?? Call Greasy and Bugs off the search for him dead or alive??? I refuse!! No! XD But he is hot 😅XD Oh my lord.

Poppy, of course ^^ She's so pretty ^^ And now that we have the guys looks, I'm having a lot of fun picturing that sweet lady with them!! Her and Moony are p a r t i c u l a r l y cute! XD

SHINY IS B E A U T I F U L !!! I love her hair and eye make up! Its not what I was expecting at all but its different and unique and so Her!! Kinda like a beautiful and colourful, dangerous bird or plant-- which is SO SHINY!

And... I just love how ratty Terry is XDD Love him definitely XD

~

Omg is that a real question??? THE ANSWER IS YES. RENA WOULD SMASH THEM ALL. So would Ryan (Well- Moony, Poppy, Terry and Shiny (though she and her drama are on thin ice- he already has Kingston and his drama's to put up with) at least. Platonically XD If they needed it and simply asked.).

[best-titan-7274]

Loved your drabbles so far! :) maybe bt picking up cooper like a hamburger and carrying him around (it's a separation anxiety thing) and him being so used to it he just keeps doing what he was doing before while being held. Or doing the good o'l fastball special when other pilots are around. Knowing pilots, getting yeeted by your titan will be a sport in no time lol

Hope you find these useful :)

On the topic of fan songs "man and machine" by miracle of sound is one I know of

Oh man I love Miracle of Sound, the Bioshock and Fury Road songs especially are 10/10

Jack’s well on his way to the training grounds when something swoops him up from behind. Normally, most people would panic about something like that, because it doesn’t happen too often.

But Jack is forever bonded with a giant robot who doesn’t like being alone, so he’s used to BT scooping him up at random moments. BT says it’s only when he sees something of concern in the environment, but Jack’s not too convinced. He’s pretty sure that sometimes BT just likes to have something to hold.

Like people who have cats, right? Sometimes you gotta just pick them up to keep them out of trouble. BT thinks that Jack gets into a lot of trouble, too, but Jack strongly disagrees with that. The water balloon incident, and jumping off the roof without asking if BT was here first, and talking back to his commanding officer at the suggestion of leaving his Titan behind, and driving the way he does, and cold-cocking Davis, they were all calculated decisions.

Maybe not calculated well, but calculated all the same. Just because BT’s better at numbers doesn’t mean he’s going to understand human calculations.

Of course, that’s because BT insists that there is no way to understand humans because they’re so illogical, but Jack’s been making headway. He got BT to understand the appeal of video games, even. Or maybe BT just wanted to get out of the illogical conversation and go back to… whatever he does in the hangar, when they don’t have a fight to run to.

“Hey, BT,” he says, aiming for a casual tone. “You wanna put me down, buddy?”

“No, Pilot Cooper.”

“Then can I embark?”

“There is no need. You are perfectly safe where you are.”

He’s also got his legs dangling in the air like he’s a misbehaving small animal of some kind, and he’s pretty sure it’s only so long before there’s a picture circulating around the Pilots’ social networks. He’d like to maintain whatever dignity he can.

“If you drop me, won’t you step on me?” he asks.

“Correct. However, the likelihood of you falling is so slim as to negate any concern.”

Robots and their numbers.

“What if I get slippery or something?”

“Humans do not produce mucus in such quantities.”

“C’mon, BT, throw me a bone, here.”

“I would never throw anything at you. You could be injured.”

Right. The whole protocol about not firing in a Pilot’s direction without targeting systems. Honestly, Jack would have appreciated a blind strafe while he used his jump kit to get into the air, but it was hard to think of any strategies while being shot at. He’s pretty squishy compared to BT.

“You throw me at things, though,” Jack points out. “What’s the difference?”

“Your trajectory is much easier to compute. I am familiar with your shape and mass. An object I have never seen before is a much bigger risk.”

“Aw, you’re looking out for me. That’s so sweet.”

“Protocol 3 requires it.”

BT does have a way of ruining nice moments with his logic. Jack’s not annoyed with him, though. He rarely is.

“Can you throw me at something near the training grounds instead of carrying me the whole way?” It’s a bit of a last-ditch effort, but it beats dangling like a ferret for the rest of the walk. Getting fastballed is a lot of fun, too, and an adrenaline rush just like piloting a Titan.

“This is acceptable,” BT says. He moves his hands together a little bit at a time, giving Jack plenty of room to move to crouch in one of BT’s hands instead of being held between them.

Good thing he’s got his jump kit, because otherwise, BT would never consider this.

“Ready when you are, BT.”

“Calculating. Recalculating. Finalising. Complete.”

And that’s all the warning Jack gets before he’s launched into the air at a bajillion miles an hour. Not the formal, scientific unit, but nothing about this is formal.

“Good job, BT,” he yells from the rooftop, giving a double thumbs up even though BT probably can’t see it at this distance. He’s lucky he had his helmet with him, too, or the wind burn would have been unbelievable.

“Did something just throw Cooper?” he hears below him, and peers over the edge of the roof. He’s three or four times higher than he’d ever go without his jump kit, and he’s kind of surprised anyone can tell who he is from the ground level.

Still, he steps off the edge, letting the stomach-flipping gravity of freefall wash over him for a few too-short seconds before he has to engage the jump kit to avoid splattering on the ground.

“What’s up?” he asks, tucking his helmet under his arm like he does stuff like that every day. Not nearly, but every mission… that’s a closer mark.

“How’d you get up there?” Martinez demands, clearly already trying to figure out a way to get launched herself.

Jack grins, knowing that he’s about to introduce an absolutely bone-breaking form of entertainment to the other knuckleheaded adrenaline junkies that he shares the base with. This can only end in disaster, but he’ll be sure to bring some nice get-well-soon balloons to medbay.

“So when I need to get somewhere fast,” he begins, “BT gives me a hand.”

“Incorrect,” BT says. “I have never given you any of my extremities.”

“Thank you for clarifying,” Jack says, like he always does, even when the clarification is annoying. “And for everyone else!” He grins and claps his hands together. “Let me introduce you to the fastball.”

[jhsharman]

ferocious fems, the chaperone

Dexter Taylor may have something here, the young ones prone to skipping any even unreasoned argument and just physically pounding at each other.

Okay. So. Football, of all things, in 1949. But. The reason? They need to raise money for what they really care about, a beauty pageant! Okay, fingering that fine line between sexism and misogyny.

1975. A girls' baseball team. Is that particularly crazy from this vantage point? Yes, the first blushing of Title 9 did have some women with zero interest before scholarship opportunities pulled them in -- anecdotally I know a couple woman who never picked up a stick before and for that matter ever again but now were indeed in the early 1970s woman's hockey players -- and a women's athletic culture developed from here after being squelched for quite some time. But. We are a year off from Amanda Whurlitzer as the star pitcher of The Bad News Bears. Betty Cooper herself is a good baseball player over the past two decades when the story calls for it, and not good when the story calls for that. Actually, from whence comes everyone joining a baseball team for its own sake off of the comically exaggerated amount of ignorance we will see?

The mainline Archie version has some teen boys horny to see these "dolls in action". Not a plot point that is going to be adapted to Little Archie, though I do have to wonder about Little Mr. Weatherbee here -- probably just how I assign the line in the original. Semi-cutely, Little Archie sneaks us some zap action from Little Sabrina. The one thing with this era of Little Archie is where we see a good reason a reader would view much of the material as stuck in the 1950s, the Little Sabrina slot comes in new.

I have no clue what size crowd my high school's Powder Puff game drew. The only reason I know there was at least one was that I was in the same room while some of the planning took place, hearing them deciding on where to limit it to as short a time as they could get away with because -- really no one was there to see some great competition. Today you can probably scour old yearbooks to find pictures from these events to see if you can embarrass a politician making hay over a Drag Queen Story Hour.

The abstractions of money get lost in the Little Archie version, dollars traded in for sodas. Conflict of interest anyways -- what athletic association allows the umpire / referee from one of the same schools? Jughead is corruptible -- 1957's "Buck Chuck!" Is this same gag.

The line on "The deuce / to heck with the ball" gets a different meaning with the Little Archie variant, an extension of their ignorance on the game as opposed to the desire to just kick the living snot out of the other girls for perceived personal gain.

The "playing rough", I should note, was run of the mill baseball playing -- ball hit toward you, tagging you out. But. Either way, melee time. And after this they beat the living snot out of Reggie. The End.