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ceilidho · 10 months ago

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sirius c

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 7; ghoap x reader) [tags: noncon, implied cheating (in the context of Ghost's refusal to be a negotiation king lol), very nsfw] masterlist

No one tells you what to do when you finally notice the larger animal watching you from the thicket.

It's been awhile now, you suspect. So long that it's managed to follow you all the way home.

Now they insist on helping you around the shop while you try to work. Try being the operative word. It’s hard to get much done with Simon scaring off all the customers and Johnny dogging at your heels, practically glued to your hip. You briefly consider stabbing him with the snips but then think the better of it. Simon’s stare follows you too closely for you to think you’d get away with it.

Plus, after this morning—you cut that thought off at the root lest embarrassment make your eyeballs burn right out of your head. Despite the fact that he never brings it up, you can’t shake the thought that Simon knows. His face is just as expressionless with the mask off, which rests like a heavy weight on the kitchen table, imbued with a meaning too potent, too loaded, for you to fully digest or, really, understand in any concrete way.

But the glint in his flinty eyes flirts with amusement. Brushes close to it.

“What?” you snap, eggs dangling precariously from your fork.

His stare hasn’t wavered once since sitting you across from him. He doesn’t smirk nor snicker, but you can feel the laugh like a phantom limb that aches until you try to scratch it. He has a face carved from marble or granite, subject to some horrific fate. A statue pulled down from its pedestal and hauled into the river, now dragged out waterlogged and barnacle-crusted. Something terrible happened here and now something else wears its face.

His knees knock against yours under the table again, forcing one leg to spread to accommodate him. You stare at the elbow resting on your table as he chews off the end of a strip of bacon.

He doesn’t say anything, but you know he must have heard you and Johnny in the washroom earlier in the morning. Simon hadn’t even attempted to feign sleep when you’d come out flustered and turned around, stomach in knots.

You can’t even look at Johnny for help because he stands behind the two of you at the counter, no space for him at your small kitchen table. Your life isn’t built to accommodate two men of their size; it’s hardly able to hold space for just the one.

Nevertheless, they stretch it to fit their needs.

Begrudgingly, you have to admit that Simon does help you out around the flower shop. He fixes the door to the supply closet that always jams, hoses down the sidewalk in front of the store where someone vomited near the entryway the night before, and even gives you a couple hours alone to yourself when he drags Johnny with him to do the bouquet deliveries.

They come back with coffee in takeaway cups and pastries in a waxy bag and you nearly moan when you notice the label on the cup. Coffee from the good coffee shop across town. You actually moan when you sink your teeth into an almond croissant and then blink your eyes open wide when you hear Johnny groan in response.

You steel yourself to keep your knees from knocking together.

It’s been a week since you saw him last. Hard to believe. You’ve been distant, rightfully so, contemplating the state of your relationship and coaxing yourself to the brink of texting him that it’s over, only to give up at the last possible minute. The tides receding again.

You don’t think about how much you missed him.

Since this morning, you’ve been on edge. Half tempted to corral Johnny into your apartment upstairs for some alone time. You don’t think Simon would allow that though, whether out of some sadistic glee in seeing you squirm or out of jealousy. It doesn’t seem unlikely. He acts like Johnny is his to do with what he pleases, and Johnny beams up at him like the sun and lets him.

You hadn’t realized there had been a third person in your relationship. Now it feels like his presence has always been felt. You can’t imagine Johnny without the half-shadow cast over his face.

All day, you wait for Johnny to break. Part of you hopes that it’ll be sooner rather than later. Unless he’s been entertaining someone on the side—and, for reasons unbeknownst to you, you discount that thought the second it comes to you, sure that you’d know if there was another woman—it’s likely that he hasn’t fucked in a week. He acts like it too, hovering close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. Every accidental step back comes with a chance of landing straight into his arms.

When you touch his arm gently to ask him to help you move a heavy flower pot, he looks down at you with irises gone black, ready to fuck on a dime. It’s not the right place or time, and you’re still tremendously pissed at him for letting his superior grope you in front of their whole platoon or whatever, but you’ve also gone a week without his dick, and you’re starting to think that your pride shouldn’t get in the way of good dick.

But then he looks over at the hulking figure haunting the doorway and draws back. The shadow on your relationship again. The tension breaks. Even though he postures and flexes when he helps you move the flower pot, it doesn’t come with an invitation to sneak away to your apartment upstairs. Johnny grits his teeth and holds himself back because Simon tells him to; because, in Simon’s own words, he’s a good lad.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask Simon when Johnny goes to take a leak, but he just stares at you with eyes still darkened by poorly wiped off eye black.

The oxygen is sucked out of the room when it’s just the two of you. He’s imposing from afar, accentuated by the innate knowledge—gleaned just from looking at him, nothing more than that, just the size of him in his line of work—that he’s the most dangerous thing around, but with no one else to hide behind, you can’t help but feel like a trapped animal.

“Means he knows who’s in charge,” he says.

Like that’s supposed to tell you anything.

The air still crackles with tension when Johnny comes back. He glances around almost nervously, pupils dilating.

“The two of ye finally gettin’ on?” he asks.

There’s a moment where you consider ripping the veil down and saying, no, we aren’t, Johnny. You quisling. You can see exactly how uncomfortable I am. It’s more than visible; it’s oozing from my pores. You’ve let a wild animal into my house and now it won’t leave. In fact, it’s pissing on my sheets to mark its territory. You let it in knowingly, and even though you know something’s wrong, you’re letting it get worse.

Simon’s smile is severe and whetted when he cuts off your train of thought. “Reckon we're getting on like a house on fire, eh?”

You can’t muster more than a weak smile and nod in response to that.

Around mid afternoon, a regular client calls in with a large, last minute order. You accept it because it’s nothing you don’t already have in stock, but it means you have to close the shop early to work on her order and then load up the van to drive to her place to drop the flowers off.

“I’ll come with you,” Simon grunts when you flip the sign and tell the two of them about your plans.

You freeze, a shudder rippling down your spine. “That’s not necessary—I can do it myself.”

“Don’t care.”

“I do it all the time when you’re not here!”

“It’s not up for debate,” he says, eyes going hard. Daring you to argue.

You’ve been getting the sense all day that he’s been trying to corner you, trying to get you on your own. You evade his efforts like a prey animal, but all that does is make him work harder for it.

You look to Johnny for any kind of reassurance, someone to back you up and agree that you’re more than capable since you do this all the time, but he just grins from behind the counter where he helps cut lengths of cellophane and ribbon for the bouquets. “Aye, hen, let him help. Ye cannae carry all of that yourself.”

Your brain clicks back on when you’re barrelling towards your client’s place at breakneck speed, far too fast for a residential road. It’s not you driving though. Simon has himself parked in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other dangling loosely out the window. His driving makes your stomach churn, nausea brewing. You bone-knuckle the grab handle reflexively.

“Could you slow down?” you hiss out through clenched teeth.

Simon ignores you until you start to scroll through your phone to distract yourself. He transfers the hand on the wheel to jostle your knee with his free hand. “Eyes on the road.”

“I’m not even driving you,” you squawk, heart thudding in your chest when his hand doesn’t lift off your knee.

“Tell me when to turn, doll.” The pet name makes your stomach jump. When he says it, his hand tightens over your knee, thick fingers with scraped up knuckles curling around, the width of his palm wider than your kneecap and you stare down dumbly, rabbit heart careening at the same speed as the van.

You’re so dumbfounded that you nearly miss the street. He takes the turn suddenly when you mention it instead of making the sensible call to go up the next street and then come back down, and you swear and yell when he nearly takes the van onto the right two wheels.

The sweat is still dripping down the nape of your neck when he parks in front of the client’s venue.

Simon ignores any attempt of yours to help unload the van. All you can do is watch helplessly as he carries multiple arrangements into the venue at once, leaving you to handle the contract and payment collection. The situation is spiraling rapidly out of your control.

Your client, a housewife about a decade or so older than you, eyes him as he passes with two flower pots tucked under his arms.

“I didn’t know you changed staff,” she murmurs, eyes following him into the next room and lingering on the backs of his thighs when he bends down to deposit the flower pots, making the material of his pants strain tight around his glutes and hamstrings.

“I didn’t,” you protest, shaking your head. “That’s—he’s my boyfriend’s coworker. Um, his boss, I mean. I think. He’s just helping out for the day.”

“Well, I know how I’d like him to help out,” someone else giggles. One of the venue staff, judging by her uniform. Even your client titters at that.

Simon’s more approachable with the mask off, it seems. Still verging on the preternatural, but at least without the mask he seems more human. All six-foot-five-inches of him, arms and legs packed with a generous helping of muscle and fat; a square jaw must be appealing to any sex-parched person within range. It makes your jaw clench.

“Here’s your receipt,” you grit out before ripping it off the payment terminal and handing it to her. She blinks at your dour mood, unused to a less than professional version of you, but that’s what Simon’s presence does to you. Sours you right up. A lemon squeezed right into the mouth.

He’s posted by the van when you come out still scowling and itching for a row. He frowns at the look on your face. “Fix your attitude. You’ve already upset Johnny enough.”

You halt in your tracks, dumbstruck. “I’ve upset Johnny?”

“Yeah. So fix it before we get back.”

You’ve officially reached your limit. All day, you’ve been waiting to go nuclear, bad mood settling deeper and deeper into you because you’ve never been good at managing your anger. The audacity to blame you for this whole situation nearly makes you lose your head.

Simon looks almost bored when you stomp up to him and stab a finger into his chest. You pointedly do not let yourself focus on how little his chest gives beneath your finger. “All of this was your fault for sexually harassing me in the first place. I don’t even think you were ever sorry for that—this all just feels like some fucked up attempt to break me and Johnny up.”

He stares down at you. “You think I want Johnny for myself?”

Heat flares under your collar, but you push on. “I do. And you know what? You can have him. I don’t need this. Johnny clearly values your approval more than mine anyway or none of this ever would have happened once he caught you groping me in broad daylight. If you want him so bad, nothing I do is going to work, so why even bother? He’s yours. The both of you can fuck off when we get back—I’m sick of having you in my space.”

The tirade leaves you panting by the end of it, and then you look into his eyes.

You wonder if it’s a universal phenomenon to sense the moment when you’ve made a grave miscalculation. It must be. The feeling is overwhelming; for you, it throbs in your very bones.

Simon’s expression never changes, but the light behind his eyes starts to flicker in a different way, and you are suddenly conscious of him not just as a man but as a man paid to kill. A professional at that. At least a dozen bodies under his belt and likely more, and yet you stand chest to chest with him like you’re somehow tougher than that; like all those bodies mean nothing, like his knife hasn’t quenched its bloodthirst ad infinitum, like his arms haven’t felt a neck crack until it’s become a habit, an easy kill, a morning fix.

You’ve never felt more like meat than under his gaze.

“Get your ass in the van,” he commands, and you listen because your mouth has gone dry and you understand now, somewhere deep in your reptile brain, a little creature hissing at you to turn and run, that he doesn’t warn. He just does.

Humiliation festers under your skin when he buckles you in. Your mouth opens on a smart remark until you catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye and it’s all anger leaking tar, mafic lava dark and flowing, smooth and lobed and striated with hellfire.

You think at first that he’s just going to drive you home. Your words might have offended him, but the lack of refutation makes you think that at his core, he must agree. Simon is just another man with an unholy allegiance to ego, an ugly incarnation of desire and pride that you might have briefly mistook as a person as complex as yourself until he snuffed that inkling right out with a hand on your ass.

Then, lost in your thoughts, you miss when he pulls over and puts the van in park.

You hear the click of your seatbelt, but your head doesn’t have time to turn before Simon hauls you over the center console and into his lap, a hand already clamping over your mouth to muffle your scream.

“I’ve had enough of the fuckin’ attitude, girl,” Simon snarls into your ear, shoving his hand down the front of your pants without any preamble, the stretchy jogger fabric not putting up any resistance. “I haven’t got the patience for it. We’ll sort you out and knock these stupid notions from your skull.”

You must shriek under his palm because his fingers tighten, digits pressed into your jaw to the point of aching. It’s hard to tell under the white hot fear that washes over you, nearly blinding you.

If it bothers him to find you dry under your panties, he doesn’t say anything. Calloused fingers spread your labia wide and trace over your clit lazily, trying to coax the slick out of you. You squirm in his hold, desperate to somehow wriggle out, but Simon chooses now to give you a glimpse of his strength, holding you tight to his chest. No matter how much you squirm, there’s no way out of his hold. Shouting behind his palm doesn’t help either; Simon just curls his hand tighter over your mouth.

Horror blooms in your chest when your core starts to warm up at his touch. The first traitorous bead of wetness nearly has you apoplectic with rage. His fingers saw up and down over your slit until he thinks you’re wet enough to handle two fingers shoved knuckle deep.

“Enough of that,” Simon grunts when you yelp and knee the underside of the steering wheel in your haste to get away. “It’s just two. You’ve been fucked before; you can take it.”

Your knee aches from slamming into the steering wheel, but it’s nothing compared to the ache of his fingers stretching you open, the skin around his knuckles delicate and febrile. For all his flaws, Johnny loves getting his mouth on your pussy before trying to cram his cock in, addicted to the taste of you on his tongue when he’s got you folded in half and taking his dick like a champ. Simon seems like he wouldn’t mind railing you in the back of the van without any prep whatsoever.

“Can’t wait to break you on my cock,” he growls, his breath hot over your neck, and lust stinking up the van so bad that the air is nearly rancid with it. Sulfuric. “You think you’ve had it rough with Johnny? You don’t have a fuckin’ clue what you’re in for with me.”

His hunger is a noxious, billowing cloud. Miasma like. It threatens to smother you. His shaft is hard under your ass, evident when he thrusts his hips up. Your ensuing yip makes him grunt, gratified, like his pleasure comes part from your shock.

“I’m not explaining this shit anymore. This is the way it’s gonna be from now on—no discussion, no arguing, no nothing. It’s not up for negotiation.”

Simon’s fingers piston into you without remorse, brutal hunger foisted off on your body. You again try desperately to push away from him, almost levitating out of his arms until he forces you back down and bites down hard over your clothed shoulder. The horn stays silent when you try to honk it, mocking you somehow. You wonder if anyone would hear your muffled cries from beneath Simon’s hand if they happened to pass by, or if they’d chance a glance into the van and see the devil himself playing with your pussy in his lap and keep on walking.

Your body plays you for a fool though, sweltering under his touch. When he growls in your ear, your pussy clenches up nice and tight, and slick drips down your inner thighs.

A third finger nearly makes you choke on your gasp. You go quiet after that save for the occasional whimper, all of your energy concentrated on accommodating his fingers, each as wide as almost two of yours. A fourth almost doesn’t feel fathomable, but then he sinks it into you and every thought leaks out of your head.

“Christ, you’re a dream when you shut your mouth, aren’t you, doll?” Simon breathes, nosing the corner of your jaw. “Johnny picked a nice little cunt for himself.”

He doesn’t pick up on the irony somehow. Even shaking in his lap, your brows furrow at his words, a barb on the tip of your tongue until a glob of slick leaks from you and wrenches you back out of your head.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth all condescendingly when your breathing goes hitched and panicked, so close to coming that you feel a hairsbreadth from it. When you jump at the sound of his tongue snapping in your ear, he chuckles, the broad chest at your back shaking with his laughter.

“There we go,” Simon murmurs, rubbing a soothing hand over your belly. “Tired, eh? Just need to come and have a nap. I know Johnny left you hanging this morning. Poor girl.”

You hadn’t even noticed that he’d dropped his hand from your mouth to your stomach, but there’s nothing to do about it now. All you can do is lean back against him and stare at the fine, blond hair on his knuckles as he drags it over your belly button in slow, languid strokes.

“Oh god—” you groan when he thumbs your pearled clit and sinks his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, your hole stretched too tight.

Sweat beads on your hairline. It feels like tears might be leaking down your cheeks, but it’s hard to say. The only thing you can do is focus on not coming apart at the seams.

The air in the van is moistened by your breath, the windows almost completely fogged up. Your lower back aches from arching into his hand. When it comes out in a sob, he tells you he’ll have Johnny massage it when the two of you get home.

“It’s always gonna hurt a little with me,” Simon says, and you almost mistake it for apologetic until he pulls you into an open-mouthed kiss that makes you twist your neck and ignores the way you whimper into his mouth.

You nearly black out when he finally makes you come, your head tipping back and resting on his shoulder. You tense in his grasp and open your mouth on a soundless moan when your walls spasm around his fingers. Nothing you can do but let it happen. Like splintering down the middle. It hits you so hard that your belly cramps.

Shame hits you so much harder. A half second after, like the sky splitting open and a voice thundering down, you know what you did.

Your leg gives a feeble twitch when he pulls his fingers out, his palm soaked with your juices. You’re a limp mess of sour sweat and come in his lap, reeking of sex musk and a warm, spicy scent.

You squeal and jolt back to awareness when he pushes a finger back in, sensitive to the point of pain. “Simon, I can’t—”

“Hold still; m’not done yet,” he cuts you off, irritation layered in his voice again.

You don’t have to endure it for as long this time at least; he paws at your overworked sex and pants in your ear like a bear. Luxuriating in the soft, wet folds of your pussy. His touch isn’t clumsy, but it feels like he’s making up for lost time. It almost makes you wonder how long he’s wanting to get between your legs, but that thought evaporates when he reaches further down to press his fingers against the rim of your other hole, chuckling into your hair when you clench up.

Then, after a few minutes, he pulls his hand out of your joggers and pats your belly with his wet fingers, leaving dewy strands of your juices on your skin before helping you back into the passenger seat. You don’t even have it in you to protest when he buckles you in again. You even accept it when he leans over to plant another wet kiss on your mouth, one with too much tongue and too much teeth, come drunk and aching for any kind of affection.

“Sweet as pie, eh?” Simon rasps, eyes half-lidded and heady. Almost lovesick. “Couldn’t have asked for better.”

You stare at the side of his head as he drives the two of you back to the shop, eyes glued to his cauliflower ear. Rough son of a bitch. Brute strength hewn into his bones, covetous need in his veins.

And this is what your boyfriend thought was appropriate to bring home.

He stops one more time to feed his cock down your throat before you make it home. Your tongue curls around the mushroomed head of dick when he drags your head down, the wiry hair at his crotch tickling your nose. The scent of him here is pungent, musky. Old lichenous rocks and rust like blood on your tongue. You’re so pliable that you hardly even gag when it touches the back of your throat.

His come is still hot and tacky on your tongue when he pulls you into his lap to let you cry it out, wiping up your tears with a rough thumb. It’s a while before you manage to settle down again.

Johnny’s still beaming behind the counter when you come in, Simon at your rear to keep you from running, his hand planted firmly at the small of your back. You can barely look your boyfriend in the eye. You’re afraid he’ll see it plain as day on your face, hair mused and lips swollen from sucking his lieutenant off in the van on the drive home.

“The two of ye have a good time all by yourselves?” he asks, either deliberately ignoring the obvious or naively trusting. You don’t know which would be worse.

You can hear the dry grin in Simon’s voice. “We had a nice chat, didn’t we, doll?”

All you can muster is a weak smile and croak, “Yep. We did.”

You hold off a flinch when Simon’s hand slips down and grabs a handful of your ass.

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost/soap/reader #ghoap x reader #ghost/reader #ghost x reader

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year ago

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This 1952 Craftsman-inspired home in Pacific Palisades, California is absolute perfection. 5bds, 4ba, $9.6M.

Look at that railing on the stairs, it has to have been custom made. I wonder if the statue conveys (probably not).

To the right of the entrance hall is this lovely sitting room. They seem to have a study in here, but it's a flexible space.

Such a pretty dining room- the light fixture is perfect and I love the wall border.

The wood in this kitchen is more authentic than some renovated authentic Craftsman homes we've seen. The cabinets are just beautiful.

The eat-in kitchen has a lovely dining area- look at the ceiling detail. So much storage, too.

Isn't this pretty?

The layout is very modern - there's a family room/kitchen combo.

Whomever buys this home will get a home office with built-ins. Love the wallpaper in here, it almost looks like leather.

Tiled shower room has a vintage pedestal sink.

The large primary bedroom has a wonderful private terrace with a view.

Lovely en-suite.

Even this secondary bedroom is beautiful. Aren't those window coverings unusual?

This bedroom also has a beautiful en-suite.

Light and bright children's room.

What a wonderful weeping willow tree in the pretty yard.

I've never seen a gate like this across a driveway, it's so unique.

The home is on the banks of the Pacific ocean. Look at the view.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/15921-Asilomar-Blvd-Pacific-Palisades-CA-90272/20541557_zpid/

#craftsman inspired home #houses #house tours #home tour

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katgametable · 5 days ago

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OX Deadlands Season 2 Chapter 1: The Beast of Bisley Bayou

Written 21 Mar 2025, immediately after watching, before release of further episodes.

The posse of Silas Flint, Garnet Munro, Edie Valentine, Nate Janssen and Delacy have set up a monster hunting agency called Monster Hunters Du Jour. They have been hired to deal with a monster at an exhibition. More specifically, they find out after they arrive, it is the badly taxidermied remains of the sasquatch they killed on the museum train, reanimated probably by proximity to magical artifacts. They fight. There is shooting. There is slashing. There is dousing both the sasquatch and Nate in lamp oil. There is a Burst spell that doesn’t harm the sasquatch but does set Nate on fire. There is a pedestal thrown at Garnet. There is an on-fire hug. Eventually the sasquatch dies again, and flops on top of Nate. (I should point out, Nate has a major hindrance called Trouble Magnet, but they don’t seem to need to use that mechanically.)

So Nate is trapped under an on-fire taxidermied sasquatch. Edie runs next door, finds a bucket of water, tosses that on the sasquatch, except it’s an oil fire so that just makes it worse. Eventually the others just pull down the tent on top of it to smother the fire, and Delacy fetches Nate’s medicine bag full of meat while the others free him. They then collect their pay and ride back to their office.

The office was custom-built with the funds from Victoria, and Nate is also running his side business Meat Strips Du Jour – and he’s brought back a whole sack of meat! Silas has a jail cell in the basement. Everyone has their own rooms. So they retire for the evening, while Nate gets to preserving his meat.

In the morning, a letter arrives from the neighbouring town of Bisley. There’s a monster in the bayou that keeps mauling their livestock and they’re scared it will come for their children next, so they’ve scraped together a bit of money and hope it’ll be enough. MHDJ decide that even though the pay is a bit thin, they should take the job anyway. It’s near enough to walk, so Silas foregoes a horse, and Nate decides to keep him company, rambling on about cornbread. They’re only about twenty minutes behind the riders.

They find the edge of the bayou, and there’s a man with a boat they talk to. His name is Beacon Joe, he has an annoying voice, and he runs tours of the bayou. His boat is the only one still going out on the bayou, what with the Beast. And he’s willing to take them on a tour for only $5 each. This seems rather steep, so they try to negotiate the price down by explaining that they’re going to be hunting the Beast, and that service should count for at least most of the price. Beacon Joe isn’t keen, so Nate suggests Delacy does some negotiating. Delacy climbs into the boat, pushes it off, and threatens to shoot a hole in the boat. The result is, Delacy sinks the boat and starts to drown. Nate, not needing to breathe, wades out to rescue him. The wild cards then manage to negotiate that they’ll repair the boat, and Joe will take them out to hunt the monster.

The bayou tour involves such things as papier mache gorillas and bad jokes. After a time, they come across the shredded remains of some deer – Nate collects the meat, but they also notice some footprints. Then there’s a big, reptilian eye, and lots of teeth, and a giant alligator emerges. Its long purple tongue lashes out and ensnares Delacy. There is much fighting. In the end, Nate makes a spirit roll, fails, and his manitou takes over, leaping on the alligator and tearing it to shreds – the description is very similar to what Johnny came up with in Wyrdwood. The result looks very like the shredded deer. Everyone gets rather freaked out. The wild cards manage to talk Nate down, and Garnet confirms his shoes match the footsteps. It becomes clear that Nate, or at least his manitou, is the Beast of Bisley Bayou.

Nate is absolutely devastated. Seriously, Johnny looked so despondent. Nate suggests they should just shoot him in the head to make sure he can’t do anything again. They convince Beacon Joe to be discreet about the true identity of the Beast, and ask him to distribute the money the town gave him, back to the townsfolk. Then they go back, Silas walking alone this time.

Nate gratefully shuts himself in Silas’ jail cage, although he doubts it will hold him for long if the manitou takes over again. Edie gives him a stack of books and he starts reading through them, eventually finding more details of what’s happening to him. The manitou will keep trying to dominate him, until eventually if takes complete control. However, he finds mention of an exorcism, a ritual using bell, book and candle, and a particular music box. Then Nate has a vision of a face, and it gives him two names: Totentanz, where there is a bell, and Luther Rackstraw, who has a candle. Garnet recognises the Totentanz, a riverboat that has invitation gambling parties. And Silas used to be acquainted with US Marshal Luther Rackstraw, a former lawman. They have a starting point.

Notes from pre-show pod commentary: Jane and Andy are talking about the season 2 beginning. Jane is very excited about same day releases on YouTube and podcast. Andy has been pretty exclusively working on Deadlands production, and playing Pirate Yakuza. Jane has been on a beaver safari. The team are also about to start filming Wyrdwood season 2.

Notes from post-show pod commentary: Jane is very proud of her Wild West style sunglasses that she was wearing throughout the entire episode. Andy reminds us that Deadlands uses the Savage Worlds system. Jane really liked that the same sasquatch as last time is back. They’re enjoying the recurring nature, and Andy is amused because his original thought, back in that first episode, was that they’d let the sasquatch go. The museum was loosely inspired by real touring museums such as PT Barnum. But the main plot both is and isn’t the Beast of Bisley Bayou. But Andy has a twist! Last time he waited for the finale for the twist but this time he put it right at the beginning. The driving force of the season is going to be Nate’s manitou. And Nate is so selfless he just immediately volunteers to be destroyed. But they have direction for the next two adventures. Jane will be going to the riverboat, and spent some time practising poker, but doesn’t think she’s quite got the vibe.

Select notes from Deadlands Epitaph: Andy picked the in media res opening with going straight to the sasquatch because he figured it would be the best way to introduce the characters and setting and vibe. He was worried that Deadlands and Wyrdwood would be too similar vibes-wise, so he’s been emphasising the Western setting. He also had to be wary of trying to escalate after taking on the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, which is why he went for something more personal. Andy explains several plans he’d had for the series and why he discarded them. Andy and Zack touch on Luke’s decisions for Delacy’s arc, and the difference between home game and actual play when it come to railroading and open world.

I loved this. I’m in the OX Supporters Club, so I was in Discord chatting along. I promise, I called Nate’s manitou being the Beast after they found the deer, about thirty seconds before the alligator turned up. The sasquatch was fun, the “you just put water on an oil fire” was fun (something that happened to The Guild multiple times). I didn’t find Beacon Joe quite as annoying as the players did, although the voice was a little grating. Also, Nate failing the spirit roll, I made a comment in the chat wandering if it was planned, and Andy confirmed it was not, but it worked so well. When the truth was revealed I was clapping in glee. I possibly got overexcited. I definitely want to see what comes next.

I also want to see Edie’s inventory; I think between this season and last she’s produced four different guns…

#Oxventure #Oxventure Deadlands #Deadlands #TTRPG

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voidsdamned · 10 months ago

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Wicked Natures - The Ghoul/OC (Female Character) Chapter Five

Summary: Bounty hunters are frequent customers at Mulholland's Saloon, and Rue's taken quite a shine to one gunslinger in particular: a cantankerous, old Ghoul in a tattered duster. Witness her unabashedly lust after him in all his irradiated glory (as we are all currently doing), as well as navigate the precarious relationship she unfortunately has with local law enforcement.

Minors, do not interact.

Content Warnings: more spice. Blood. Begging. Spanking. Roughness.

Enjoy.

Chapter Five: Stray Cat

Rue is fitfully sore when she wakes, and her back aches mildly, the curled-up position she slept in having done her no favours. She stretches until something pops –her left shoulder, maybe– and looks around the sunlit room. There’s not a soul in sight. No Ghoul. No Artie. She’s not terribly surprised. Artie doesn’t like staying too still, and the Ghoul… well, Rue’s equating him to a stray cat. He’ll just come and go as he pleases.

She drags herself to her feet, an old, grey bedsheet falling off her. It drapes over her feet, and she just stares at it for a moment, heart warming stupidly. She folds and stows it quick before shutting herself in the bathroom.

In the cracked mirror hanging above a pedestal sink, she can see the events of the night spelled out plainly on her body. Her neck is covered in splotches, the area around her pulse –where the Ghoul must have concentrated his efforts– is particularly bruised. Then there’s an ugly spot on her left shoulder where dried blood stains honey skin. There’s an outline of teeth amongst the bruising and split flesh having scabbed over. Telling bruises litter her breasts, and her wrists are a little red where the ropes rubbed her.

Rue, for once, is thankful she works in a glorified whorehouse. She knows a few tricks to disguise the marks the Ghoul left on her, and she’ll definitely have to. Deck may be out of town and his posse isn’t being as attentive as they should be, but they do still pop in on her. If they saw her in this state…. There would be a shitstorm when Deck returns, one Rue isn’t too keen on imagining. So, she doesn’t, she just sets to fixing the problem.

She’s quick about a bath. Quick to dress, donning a blouse with a more conservative neckline (but still standard for her). It covers the bitemark completely, and a bit of yellow concealer and some kind of cream almost her skin colour disguises the bruising on her neck decently well. She halves her hair, weaving twin braids to fall over her shoulders. With them providing more cover and a bit of shadow, Rue can’t even tell the Ghoul had gone to town on her.

As for the marks on her wrists… her blouse sleeves cover them mostly. But if anyone asks, she’ll say she got tangled up in the clothes line again.

Made up to the best of her abilities, Rue goes about the rest of the morning as she normally would: breakfast, laundry, and general tidying. There’s a period of time where she goes back into her bathroom, strips off her shirt, and studies the Ghoul’s handiwork again –and it gets her worked up horribly. She’s still sore, almost too sore to touch herself.

Almost.

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Rue leaves the house earlier than normal, heading straightaway to Artie’s to check on him. She finds him in the schoolyard, working on one of the garbage sculptures he likes to put together –and most of them aren’t bad at all. Some don’t even look like garbage anymore he’s done such a good job with them. Some of the smaller pieces, he even manages to sell.

He’s on his knees, bent over working on an abstract shape of jagged edges, all of metal bits and shards of glass. It glints brightly in the noon sun, causing Rue to shield her eyes as she picks her way across the yard to him. He doesn’t notice her, doesn’t look up from his project, until she’s tapping him on the shoulder and giving a very gentle, “Afternoon, Artie.”

Artie jumps a touch, head snapping up to look at her with wide eyes –well, eye. One of them is black and swollen nearly shut, and it hurts her heart to see it –and to see all those other bruises peppering him. The little cuts. But his nose looks straight and fine.

He settles once he realizes it’s her, giving her a bright, toothy smile. “Rue! Y’see this? Got the idea in a dream last night. A bright, burnin’ star sharp enough to cut.”

She crouches beside him, examining his work and nodding her approval. “It’s nice. Really does have a kinda starburst effect to it. …How ya feelin’ this mornin’?”

“Bit foggy when I first woke,” he tells her, fiddling with a piece of metal, “bit sore. And ‘course I can’t see all the way. Havin’ to keep an even sharper ear out for the Dust Devils.”

“Y’know, I haven’t even seen the first one today.” Rue hopes that will calm him, allow him to relax a touch more. “Thinkin’ that wind storm we had a few nights ago really scattered ‘em.”

Artie gives a deft nod. “Good. Real good. Get a breather in before they start congregatin’ again.”

“I plan to. …You manage to sleep okay?”

“Like a baby. That um… rum? Yeah, rum. It knocked my lights out. Don’t think I want it again, but it did help me last night.”

Rue smiles bright. “That’s good to hear, Artie. Oh, here. I brought ya this.” She pulls out a small, glass bottle of painkillers Doc Nguyen had given her when she twisted the hell out of her ankle a few months ago. “It won’t knock your lights out, and it’ll help if you’re havin’ any pain. Doc Nguyen told me it’s okay to take two every six or so hours.”

Artie takes the bottle from her hands, shaking it. Holding it to his ear as he listens to the contents clink around. “No worms?”

Rue shakes her head. “No worms.”

He nods again. “Thank ya, Rue. Can I keep the bottle once it’s empty?”

“Of course. I can bring you by that empty rum bottle, too, if ya want it.”

Artie nods ecstatically, that toothy grin taking his mouth again. “That’ll be just what I need.”

“Great.” Rue pulls herself up to her feet, dusting off her skirt as she rises. “I’ll bring it by tomorrow, and I’ll try to get your clothes patched in the next few days. Got ‘em dryin’ on the line right now.”

The artist’s toothy smile transforms, becoming something sweet and a little watery. “You’re always real good to me, Rue. I appreciate it.”

“You’re very welcome, Artie,” she assures, squeezing his shoulder. “And I’d love to stay and watch ya work on this lovely piece, but I’m already late gettin’ to work. Take the meds if ya need ‘em, and try to get some rest, okay?”

Artie nods dutifully. “Yes’m.”

Rue gives him another smile and a small wave as she bids him goodbye for the day, and Artie goes right back to working on his sculpture, pausing only for a moment to pop two pills into his mouth before moving right along.

She moves right along as well, into another long, busy night at Mulholland’s.

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When Jimmie Boone brings in a fresh shipment of moonshine, Mullholland’s tends to see a big crowd. It’s good shit, apparently. Volatile as rocket fuel. Rue’s never tried it, because it smells like it could kill her (she does have a gifted bottle of it at home, though). She also doesn’t like the particular brand of stupidity her tables exhibit when they’ve had moonshine. They get drunk, fast. They get clumsy. They get a little testy. They start throwing fists.

And then Rue finds herself watching full-out brawls transpiring in the midst of the saloon until Hal unholsters his revolver and fires a warning shot into an old dartboard pocked with bullet holes. That usually settles things down, but tonight… tonight, two men get a bullet to the ass and Hal gets so fed up he calls it early. He just about decides not to order anymore moonshine from Jimmie -but, of course, that’s a decision Deck will ultimately make once he gets back to town (and Rue already knows he won’t even consider it).

Rue meanders her way home in a fantastic mood. She seldom ever gets off early, and she really is looking forward to a long night of sleep after how hectic Mulholland’s has been lately. She also has a basket full of muffins curtesy of Hal, and she’s so excited to eat one in the morning for breakfast. They go beautifully with coffee, and she’d managed to get her hands on a small bag. She doesn’t have milk, though, which is unfortunate. But she can’t justify buying it when it doesn’t keep and she doesn’t have a fridge.

Home is quiet and dark. Rue sets all her belongings down on her wardrobe and shimmies out of her clothes, catching sight of bruises almost faded and a bite mark almost healed. All so faint, it’s almost like her encounter with the Ghoul didn’t happen. She needs him to come back around and leave some fresh ones (and she knows she’s stupid for that, considering the murderous prick of a warden she’s under the thumb of).

Rue dumps her caps into the slowly-filling, glass jar by her wardrobe, sighing long and deep through her nose as she gets on her tiptoes and stretches her arms high above her head. She doesn’t get a pop like she wants, but the stretch of her muscles feels good regardless. She tries again, rolling her shoulders, touching her toes, and twisting, but earns nothing for her efforts.

Giving up, Rue tosses herself onto the misshapen form of her couch, settling into the lumpy comfort of it. It doesn’t take long for her mind to go sleepily wandering, drifting further and further. She starts seeing a hare with antlers hopping around in her mind, every movement it makes sounding like the jingle-jangle of spurs.

Those jingle-jangles are a little too crisp and clear, and they tickle something in Rue’s mind into a state of quasi-awareness. Her eyes part a fraction, blearily focusing on a dark figure breezing towards her, steps soundless except for the jingle-jangle that excites her heart.

Rue pushes herself up onto her elbows, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand as her lips tilt sleepily up at the Ghoul. “Hey you.” She yawns largely. “Want a muffin?”

The gunslinger pauses, giving her a look that tells her exactly how stupid he thinks she is –narrowed, tired eyes and incredulity. “I ain’t here for muffins, ya thick thing.”

“I know it.” Her grin stretches, teasing and smug. “You’re here ‘cause I’m stuck in your head.”

He rolls his eyes (why does Rue delight in that so much?) and shakes his head. His steps towards her are slow, resounding in the small space. The jingle-jangle of spurs stokes a heat in her belly. “I’m here ‘cause I got an open invitation to ruin you any-fucking-time I want. Remember?”

Rue rocks a hand from side to side, feet kicking idly. “That sounds like me, though.”

He comes to the edge of the couch, close enough Rue could lean forward and plant a through-the-clothes kiss to his dick if she wanted to (and she kind of wants to). She licks her lips, eyes picking their way up to his, holding. His gaze is always so severe, so serious. Rue thinks he could peel back the layers of her with eyes like that.

“Think you’re cute, huh?”

Rue, not looking away, dips her head forward and presses her lips to the front of his trousers. “I think I’m adorable.”

And there comes the fire, that smoldering glint in whiskey eyes. His voice is gruff, a growl, as he orders her to, “Get up.”

Rue complies, drawing herself to her feet to stand pressed to his body –firm and cool with all that leather. “I was thinkin’ ‘bout ya not too long ago,” she shares, stretching her arms above her head. Her back finally pops, and she can’t help the pleased, little moan that escapes her. “All my lil’ trophies are healin’ up, and I like havin’ somethin’ to remember you by.”

Rue watches his trailing eyes, how they fix on a spot on her neck –one of the more lingering bruises. A cocky, little smirk twists at a corner of his mouth that she wants to pepper with kisses. “With the way you’re runnin’ that mouth, I dunno that you deserve ‘em.”

“Can’t help myself. You’re so fun to tease.” She reaches to touch his leather-vested chest, but he snags her wrist, holding tight enough to have her wincing.

He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Ya ought not tease a man like me, sweetheart.”

Rue sticks her tongue out at the mean, old man. “Would ya rather me just sit there all quiet like and take it?”

The Ghoul snorts. “I don’t think ya can be quiet.” His other hand ensnares her free one, and he pins them behind her back. “But I like to watch ya take it.”

Rue’s smile goes wide. “Challenge accepted.”

He cocks a browless brow at her in question.

“I won’t make a sound.”

He laughs, timber low and vibrating into Rue. “Shit, we both know I can getcha screamin’ if I want.”

Rue doesn’t say a word, only waggles her brows.

The bounty hunter gives an amused, “Hmp,” and tips his head. “Alright, then. Ya make a peep, and ya don’t come. I’ll just find out how deep I can shove my dick down your throat and be on my merry way.”

Just the threat of it makes Rue want to moan, but it’s much too early in the game. In fact, it just started. She raises her chin in a short motion she hopes he reads as, “Bring it.”

The Ghoul drags her in closer, letting her feel all his sharp edges and the hardening bulge of his cock beneath his trousers as he slowly ruts against her. Rue’s eyes flutter, and she bites down on her bottom lip to keep the whimpers in when his free hand tangles in her hair, pulling her head to the side so he can lavish her neck with his brutal brand of attention.

Against her pulse, he tells her, “I guess I can admit to thinkin’ a bit about ya –the kinda games I’d play with ya. What positions I’d put ya in. Thinkin’ I want ya from behind this go ‘round.”

Rue shivers and squirms, wanting that desperately. They didn’t get to that position last time, and she thinks it would hit like nothing else. She nods her approval probably a little too exuberantly.

The Ghoul grinds against her a final time before his body pulls back a touch. He fetches a length of rope from his belt, and Rue holds still as he binds her wrists behind her back. Then he takes a few more steps back from her, eyes thoughtfully, hungrily, scanning her body before they latch on hers.

Pure wickedness brews in those whiskey eyes, and the devilish curl of his lips promises her undoing. So do those goddamn hands when he takes his gloves off. He really isn’t playing fair.

And he’s playing rough when those hands greet her breasts, the tweak of her nipple something that wracks its way down her spine and has her biting down on her lip. She doesn’t make a sound, only shakes as his fingertips ghost against the flesh he’d just abused. And he makes sure her other tit gets the same treatment. Along with her clit, and goddamnit, is he particularly thorough down there, hooking his fingers into her, curling and coaxing. Flicking. That has her eyes wide around, and her hold on her lip harsh enough she tastes blood.

Rue silently quivering, watches the Ghoul suck his fingers clean of her. “Huh. Guess I gotta admire your determination,” he comments, eyes raising from her cunt and to her face. They go straight to her lips. The grin that takes his is feral as he licks his fingers. “Now, look what ya did. Makin’ a mess. I’m the one who’s supposed to be doin’ that.”

Why is that when he speaks she wants to moan the most? To whimper and swear?

The Ghoul grabs hold of her face and presses his lips harshly to hers, tongue trailing. The taste of blood intensifies as he deepens the kiss, as he bites at her. When he pulls away, his mouth is smeared with crimson. He licks that clean, too.

Rue almost goes to her knees, a series of swears threatening to spill from her battered lips. But she’s good at games, and she’s resolved herself to win this one. She wants to feel his body pressed to hers from behind, fucking her absolutely silly.

She steels herself and smirks, winking at him for good measure.

His eyes go half-lidded, dangerous. He clicks his tongue, a short laugh rumbling from him. “You’re just a glutton for punishment, huh?

Rue’s first instinct is to fingergun at him, but with the state of her hands, cannot do so. She settles for a nod and a slow, exaggerated licking of her lips.

The Ghoul is fast, grabbing and spinning her around. Pulling her down as he plops back on her couch. She lands across his lap, ass in the air and his fingers digging into the plushness of her left cheek. Which is all just fantastic, but what really has her attention is the way his dick presses against her stomach. It’s all she can think about until a breath-stealing, skin-searing, open-handed smack lights up her rear.

It robs her of her voice (most definitely the opposite of the desired effect), leaving her tense and wound tight as she awaits the next. And it does come, the sound sharp and the contact right where the first had been. But Rue was braced for it, ready, not a sound escapes her; but in her mind, she is gasping and giggling. On the outside, she squirms, toes curling and uncurling. Fingers clenching and unclenching. Her head hangs until a third smack has her snapping upright and biting down on her raw lip all over again.

“Tougher than you look.” The Ghoul hums, almost sounding impressed. His hand leaves her rear to grab her by the hair, tipping her head back further and making a “tch” sound. A scarred-up thumb drags across her cheekbone. “But ya sure are pretty with tears in your eyes.”

That small touch has her wanting to whine. She swallows thickly instead.

“That’s nice, too.” His thumb drags over her lips. “Wish I could see from this angle when you’re swallowin’ me down.”

Rue could make those dreams come true if she could get him on his back. Then she could approach from his right or left side, and he could have a nice side profile of her going to town. And if he was feeling sweet, he could finger or spank her. Or nice mix of the two.

Fuck.

Thinking of it has Rue squirming, needing some kind of friction below. There’s a pressure, a pulse, down there fast becoming unbearable.

Another disapproving sound from the Ghoul as his thumb withdraws from her mouth and his hand from her hair. “Nuh-uh, sweet. None of that. Not ‘til I say so.” One hand ghosts down her spine while the other rubs the tender spot on her ass in slow, lazy circles. Then pinches. Rue’s whole body goes tense, winding so tight it’s almost exhausting.

But I’m gonna win.

She chants that to herself, and almost immediately loses when that cruel hand slips between her legs to be so sinfully sweet she wants to purr and plead. Her head and eyes roll, breath gone completely erratic. Heart a mile a minute. Building and building and building, and-.

SMACK.

It truly takes every single drop of Rue’s resolve, stubbornness, and self not to scream. To shout and gasp raggedly and likely sob just a little. All she can do is shake and bleed and feel tears slip hotly down her cheeks.

The Ghoul huffs. “I was sure that’d get ya.... You don’t wanna sing for me, Rue?”

A dirty, fucking play to use her name, but she nods her head like crazy, curls spilling all around her shoulders and face until she’s shrouded by them.

He’s back to sweetness, touches gentle on her thighs and the spot on her ass likely to be as raw as her lips. Then he’s shoving her off his lap, and Rue’s hitting the floor with a bang that shakes her vision.

“You’re gonna,” the Ghoul promises, voice rough, husky, and even vaguely threatening. “You’re gonna sing and scream and pray for me.” His spurs jingle-jangle as his boots hit the floor as solidly as Rue had. She hears his belt buckle jingle, too. A zipper unzipping. Fabric sliding.

The Ghoul is on the floor with her, hands on her hips, jerking her onto her knees as the left side of her face scrapes against the floor. A knee firmly spreads her legs, and Rue, so excited, tries not to quiver as she feels the hot, rigid girth of him prodding at her from behind. The sharpness of his hip bones pressing into tender flesh.

She doesn’t expect gentleness, and she doesn’t get it. He’s as forthright as he was the first time, slamming his way into her completely in one, debilitating stroke that nearly pulls a whispered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Yes,” from her throat.

The Ghoul’s groan does something to her, that deep, throaty, purely pleasured sound. It stokes the fire he’s built up. She wants to hear more, loving to know the feel of her can draw out such a musical sound. That she can make him sing.

But the Ghoul’s grip is like iron, not allowing her to shift or angle her hips any differently. Or let her attempt bouncing off him herself. His fingers only dig in deeper, aggravating the spot he’d favoured, and Rue’s body clenches. The Ghoul’s hands hold tighter, an expletive hissing raggedly out of him.

He spanks and grasps her ass, tone rough and chiding, “That ain’t fair.”

Rue wants to laugh, to risk a glance up at him, but she thinks her smile would only work him up more –which isn’t really a bad thing, but it would only make the game harder. She’s struggling with it now. Really, really struggling when the Ghoul pulls back only to stroke roughly, fully again. Her eyes flutter. Her heart stutters. She needs to claw at the ground. She needs something to bite down on. It’s so good. The friction. The feel. Scratching at an itch so deep she wasn’t even aware of its existence.

She wants to tell him, “Again,” but doesn't have to. He’s a mind reader (more likely he planned on it already) because he does it again. Again. Again. Slow and deep and firm. Excruciatingly saccharine and biting. Something croaked and begging tries to escape from Rue, but she bites down on it with all her might, breathing roughly. Wildly.

She wonders if breathing counts as a noise? Hers is loud and unbelievably lewd right now –even to her own ears.

“So close,” the Ghoul muses, a genuine, wolfish delight underscoring the deep timber of his voice. His hips still. “Ya need a few more of those, huh?”

Rue bobs her head like a desperate fool.

“Ya gotta beg me.”

She shakes her head firmly. She wants to come. She needs to. She can’t have him running off on her tonight, not when she’s in such a twisted-up, terrible way.

A sharp smack greets her ass, and mercifully, it’s not on the likely-bruised cheek. She doesn’t make a sound, but her cunt throbs.

“Stubborn.” One of his steadying hands leaves her hips to fist in her hair, dragging Rue up, pulling her taught against his chest. The hand on her hip snakes to her front, between her legs to press firm, dragging circles against an overly sensitive bundle of nerves. The hand in her hair disengages, reaching around to grasp at her breasts.

Rue’s shaking from her head to her toes. Dizzy. So close to losing her mind.

“Beg me, Rue,” the Ghoul coaxes, voice low and beguiling. “And if it’s sweet enough, I’ll let you come.”

Grey eyes flutter open. She wants to ask him, “Promise?” but she doesn’t trust the offer in full. She wiggles her pinky against his chest.

The gunslinger pulls back a touch, the motions of both hands stilling. He scoffs out a disbelieving, “Really?”

Rue bobs her head.

An aggravated sigh and a grumbled, “Fine then.” A hand leaves her tit; the Ghoul’s pinky hooks with hers. “You’re a bit of a brat. Y’know that, right?”

“And you’re everything,” Rue gasps out. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Please, keep doin’ what you’re doin’. Please. I want you so bad it hurts. I’m about cryin’ over it in the best fuckin’ way.” She tilts her head back, hitting against his shoulder and finding his eyes. They’re hungry, dancing, delighted. And she knows hers only help her case. Wet, wide, and pleading. “You fill me up so fuckin’ good. It’s all I can think about. Please. Please. Fuck me. Fuck me ‘til I see stars. ‘Til I can’t walk. ‘Til I’m screamin’. Make me scream. Make me sing. And, darlin’, if ya gave me a name, I’d pray to it.”

The gunslinger’s hips buck –involuntarily or not, Rue doesn’t know. She just feels everything so acutely that a reedy, pitiful whine rips from her, her head dropping, lolling. Another plea marked by desperation.

A pull back. A stroke that sends her eyes to rolling. The Ghoul growls into her neck, “Ya don’t need a name. Anytime I hear ‘oh god’ come from ya, I’ll know it’s for me.”

Rue decides she’ll give him plenty of that, and she has every opportunity to. The Ghoul hears her pleas, and he answers. He gives her the slow, powerful thrusts that feel as if they reach to her gut. Hands pushing her buttons all the while. His pace alternates, him holding her tight and fucking into her with wild abandon, the snap of his hips quick and brutal.

She’s nonsensical. She hears her voice but cannot understand the words she might be speaking. No thoughts exist in her mind other than those of the Ghoul and everything he makes her feel. She’s lost completely to the mix of aching pleasure and too-sweet pain. And it really doesn’t take him long to send her toppling over the edge. Coming hard and shaky and loud. Her entire body tautens, especially around him. She can hear the way he swears around the buzzing in her ears. She feels every touch, how grasping and desperate his hands become. The unsteadiness his strokes devolve into.

His grip on her torso disappears, and Rue cannot hope to keep herself upright. She has no strength, no control, and no hands to catch herself with. Her chin strikes the floor, setting her teeth to ringing and eyes to swimming. And still the Ghoul fucks her, his hands on her waist and hips until a final, broad, shattering thrust spells out his end. As well as a second one for her that disconnects her brain from her body. She floats, overwhelmed and awash. She could happily drown in such pleasure.

But the Ghoul's voice and touch keep her afloat. Has her trying to reattach her scattered parts as she picks up bits and pieces of what he says. A bit of praise, him telling her he loves the way her filthy, fuckin’ cunt milks him for all he’s worth. How she’s such a good girl taking it like she did, singing like she did. He could get used to being worshipped.

“I’d exalt ya every-goddamn-day,” Rue mumbles, barely there, not even realizing he’s untied her hands until he’s flipping her over and she doesn’t crush her own arms. They just flop out uselessly beside her. She hazily watches as the Ghoul spreads her legs and kneels between them, his half-hard cock on full, lovely display before her eyes roll back into her head and her body seizes at the way he fingerfucks his way back into her.

“Hell, that’s a fuckin’ sight,” he breathes. “Fillin’ you up and watchin’ me spill out.”

Rue half-whimpers/half-gasps/half-laughs. “Ohhhh, that’s... that's fi- filthy. I... l-love it. But ya -fuck– you’re killin’ me.”

The Ghoul laughs at the state of her (most likely), and through lidded eyes, she watches him sit with his back against the couch and tuck himself away. His head hangs, chest rising slow and steady, and sweat glistens on his forehead and neck. A fucking painting, a masterpiece, is what he is.

Rue can’t help herself. “You’re so handsome.”

He’s close enough to reach out and pinch her. “Gonna make you eat your own tongue.”

The pinch is easily ignored, nothing compared to what she just went through. “So, so handsome.” Rue rolls over on her side, grasping for the couch and using it to haul herself up. She’s not successful. Her limbs are useless. She grins lazily at the cowboy. “Think ya broke my arms… and my legs, maybe.”

A short, bark of a laugh. “Ain’t sorry ‘bout it.”

“Neither am I.” Rue gives hoisting herself to her feet another go, barely managing to get on her knees. It’s an even greater feat that she manages to get to her feet. She feels wobblily, like a newborn radstag, as she crosses the floor. “I look as silly as I feel?”

“Like an idiot, but that’s nothin’ new.”

Rue snorts, sticking her tongue out at the Ghoul before shutting herself in the bathroom where she cleans up just a bit. When she emerges, she’s pleased to find the Ghoul sitting right where she left him, head tipped back and his boots kicked off. She leaves him to relax for the moment, going to her kitchenette and fishing out the sealed mason jar full of Jimmie Boone’s moonshine. She also fills two glasses with water.

She returns to the Ghoul, handing over the moonshine and a glass before joining him on the floor, back pressing into the couch. She upends her glass of water quickly before tilting her head back to relax and bask in the presence beside her. But the tired hits heavy, letting Rue know she's about to have a proper sleep whether she's ready for it or not. She fights to keep her eyes parted, to enjoy the Ghoul for just a little longer. She watches him unscrew the jar lid and take himself a sniff. Or as good of one as he can. She doesn’t know how much he can smell without a nose.

“Think I’ve had this before,” he mutters before taking a swig. His face screws up. “Goddamn.”

Rue grins smally, drowsily. “Two people got shot in the ass tonight ‘cause of that shit.”

“If they were drunk off this, bet they didn’t even feel it.”

“Sure howled like they did.”

The Ghoul snickers and takes another draw from the ‘shine.

She smothers a yawn, asking, “Ya set to head out after another bounty?”

“Yup. Got some raiders in the hills not too far from here goin’ after caravans. Boy standin’ in for Deck’s offering a hundred caps a head.”

Rue perks slightly at that. “Damn, that’s good money. …Ya sure I can’t bounty hunt with you?” It’s a question made in jest, but… some small part of Rue is stupidly hopeful.

The Ghoul tips back the moonshine, taking a deeper glug. When he pulls the jar away, his sharp intake of breath sounds like a hiss. He shakes his head. “I maintain that you ain’t built for it, sweetheart. I don’t even think ya got a gun.”

He’s not wrong about the gun. Rue doesn’t have one. Deck won’t let her have one. No one in Dust will sell her one either on account of her being not quite right in the head. They think she’ll hurt herself or someone else. But she has a fucking pocket knife. That’s all fine and dandy.

“I used to,” she mutters, eyes too heavy to keep open. He really does wear her out in the best way.... “It was pretty. Bolt-action rifle. Real antique lookin’ thing with gleamin’ wood and all these pretty lil’ whorls carved in it. I think it burned up with the ranch.” Her lips quirk at the thought of it, the mental picture in her head. The blurry sensation of what it felt like to hold it and fire. To feel the assuring weight of it strapped to her back.

She felt tough enough to take on the world back then. She knows that’s still somewhere in her. She feels it stirring sometimes, making her want to rip her skin off.

“Always noticed you take care of your guns,” Rue goes on, voice soft and sleepy. “Appreciate that ‘bout ya.”

“Gotta. They make me my money.” A pause. A shift she can feel vibrate through the couch they both lean into. He might be looking at her? She thinks she can feel his eyes on her, but she can't check. “Ya gonna fall asleep like that?”

“Yeah.”

And she does.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Ghoul is gone in the morning, not that Rue expected any different of the stray cat. But she didn’t expect to wake up in her bed with the covers draped over her –or to find the glasses and jar they used last night washed and drying by the sink. It’s a nice, small surprise. One that has her smiling while she brews her morning coffee.

And her smile takes in her ears when she goes to grab a muffin from the basket on the kitchen table, finding half of them gone.

#the ghoul #cooper howard #fallout #fallout the series #fallout 2024 #fallout tv series

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