#drawer knife insert

[meizhen-illustration]

L-Shape Home Bar in San Francisco Inspiration for a small modern l-shaped medium tone wood floor dry bar remodel with no sink, glass-front cabinets, black cabinets, solid surface countertops, black backsplash, quartz backsplash and black countertops

[caughtinahustle]

San Francisco L-Shape Small modern l-shaped dry bar design idea with no sink, glass front cabinets, black cabinets, solid surface countertops, and black countertops.

[irmisc]

Modern Home Bar - L-Shape Inspiration for a small modern l-shaped dry bar remodel with no sink, glass-front cabinets, black cabinets, solid surface countertops, black backsplash, quartz backsplash and black countertops

[m-mihalyiova]

San Francisco L-Shape Small modern l-shaped dry bar design idea with no sink, glass front cabinets, black cabinets, solid surface countertops, and black countertops.

[eagledovetail]

Have a Knife Block Drawer Insert, from Eagle Woodworking. This is a custom dovetail drawer to keep your knife and can be custom fit to any size under 16” wide. You can install it in a 4-inch high drawer to keep your knives stored, and you will not have to keep searching when you need it the most. We make each drawer with Appalachian clear maple and other hardwoods.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Mother, I am hungry☹️ could you please give us a list of Kinks you think Konig would have to satisfy my hunger?🙏🏾

Hooooo boy!

CW: PURE FILTH below the cut, 18+ only. Light dom/sub, disciplinary/power play, exhibitionism, light bondage, domestic servitude, somnophilia, yandere!König killing someone who saw you naked, squirting, porn, M/F/F/F

Nature lover. The blowjob in the forest fantasy wasn't a lie! König thinks it would be romantic to make love to you in the middle of a dreamy glade, rut you against a sturdy tree, or have you take him in your mouth on some picturesque beach empty of other people.

He would also love to "warm himself" during a nice little wintertime walk, perhaps push you on your belly in the snow and tug your pants down just enough for him to slide inside your wet heat. The contrast between the frigid air and your warm, wet pussy drives him over the brink in mere minutes, and it's cute to watch you pout all the way back home – he knows his cum is spilling out of you, staining your underwear. He should give you a wash when you get back to turn that frown upside down ❤️

Powerplay. König loves to be in control. He would like to set a few rules for you and punish you when you "accidentally" break them. Those rules would be nonsensical and superficial – such as that you must greet him in nothing but your underwear when he comes home, ensure he always has clean clothes in the drawer, cook his favorite meal on Sundays, things like that. "You know what this means, Schatz," he mutters on your neck upon noticing you've broken his Sacred Rules, much to his delight – because the disciplinary action is that he's allowed to take you right then and there.

It's even better if you beg him not to punish you, explaining that you're tired or that you forgot. It's too bad, because only a safeword will save you. König is already getting his leaking cock out while you're on your knees, asking him to be merciful, just this once. "You know I have to do this… It's the only way you'll learn," he says before commanding you to either open that pretty mouth or turn around and bend over.

Squirting. He would be overjoyed if he got you to squirt. König has mainly watched amateur porn because regular porn is too emotionless and unnatural in his opinion. His preference is women doing solo – that's when he learned what squirting was and immediately vowed he would make his future wife squirt one day.

Exhibitionistic tendencies. This kind of ties in with the sex in nature fantasies: König would secretly love to get caught while having sex. He would particularly love it if the one catching you was a man, so that a "rivaling male" could see 1. how a woman is supposed to be fucked 2. how much you enjoy being fucked by him 3. what they can never have, i.e. gorgeous, whimpering, devastated you.

Yandere König would also kill the one who witnessed you two (and what's worse: witnessed you in a vulnerable, naked, quivering state), and I mean kill him right away, then come back to continue the session as if nothing happened 💀 In his mind, it's all very simple: he has to get rid of the one who laid eyes on you, then give you and himself an orgasm. In that order.

For him, there's nothing odd or wrong with striking a bloodied knife on your nightstand when he returns from his quest for blood. He'll insert his still hard cock inside you while speaking sweet nonsense in your ear, cooing how tight you are in a shaky, adrenaline-filled voice. You try to ignore the fact that he now has dried blood on his muscles, but it's no use. König reminds you of what he just did when your face distorts with tight pleasure. "No one is going to see you like this and live," his voice is almost a growl when you cum around that torturingly long cock.

Dominance and prisoner play. König would love to tie you up and use you as his personal fucktoy. And not just for one session… But for a solid, good 24 hours.

He wouldn't tie you too tight, just enough to prevent you from escaping the bed while he goes about his day, drinks a beer or two, comes to you every few hours to either make sweet, slow love to you… or fuck you with pent-up lust.

You being tied and helpless like that makes König attentive and tender one minute, and needy and greedy the next. You never know how it's going to be when he walks through that door, all you know is that he's going to pump you full of his cum.

He stays to watch it ooze out of you – it's actually one of the main events of this whole show because it means he'll have to fill you up again soon. He might also give himself a fap if you look too used and miserable or if you beg for mercy and whimper that you're sore. It's no problem: he's more than happy to cover your body with his seed. He's merciful like that.

When the day is done, you're a mess – inside and out – and he's fucked you stupid more times you can count, giving you so many orgasms that you feel soft in the head. What's fun though is that the man himself is in no better shape: you notice his legs are shaking when he finally comes to release you, looking like he has lost more than a few brain cells due to breaking the Guinness record of fucking you and himself senseless.

If you ever want to fulfill this fantasy, you will receive abundant aftercare. And I mean abundant. Bathing, cooing, pampering, treats, praise, and cuddles galore!

Mirrors. Fucking you in front of a mirror is like watching the best porn ever. Anything with a reflection will do, as long as König can watch you come undone, helpless and needy for his cock while he gets to display his strength. This man will probably install a mirror to your bedroom ceiling without asking your permission, but he prefers doing you from standing, prefers to do the lifting and the work.

Ballet dancer from behind and a stand & carry variation of Nelson are his favorite positions when using mirrors. All you have to do is enjoy... and obey when he tells you to watch what he's doing to you. "Look at that... You like being fucked like this?" he pants in your ear with strain and love while you both can see just how much you like it – his cock is practically glistening from how wet you are.

I'm sorry, were you busy? God forbid if you're wearing a dress or a skirt while making an important call. It doesn't matter if you're sitting: König will approach you, gets on his knees and then starts to kiss his way under your skirt.

Good luck trying to concentrate on that call when there's a horny giant forcing his head under your cute little dress. Soon he's sniffing at your cunt and tries to pull your underwear aside with his teeth. Try keeping your voice normal when he actually succeeds and you feel the first lick sweep over your pussy, flat tongued and hot.

You don't dare to fight him or tell him to stop in the middle of your serious, official and important call, which means you can feel the smiles on your poor wet heat. Of course König notices you're starting to sound like you're half crying... It only spurs him on!

You're a bit disoriented and don't register it at first that this hulking man is already climbing on top of you. It's rare for him to beg, but as he continues to dry hump you and then forces his cock between your thighs in search of your wet heat, you can hear him whisper: "Engel? Bitte... I have to put it in. Don't say no…"

Somnophilia kink. Yep, he has it, because the more helpless you are, the more "loving" he gets. König loves to watch you sleep, safe and secure there in his bed and in his arms. He caresses you like you're the Sleeping Beauty and if you happen to sleep naked (like he always does, this guy is a bit of a nudist at home), his fingers soon drift down to tease your clit, his hips start to slowly grind against your leg until you stir.

Gangbang fantasies where he's the one doing all the banging. One of his fantasies is to have multiple women all to himself. König would never seek to fulfill these fantasies in a committed relationship, but when he was lonely and only had his hand to keep him company, König used to dream he could have a row of women waiting for him when he returned from a mission 🙄

Usually three ladies who all want to worship and touch him and tell him how big he is, how heroic he is. He will command them to all fours, and they obey happily, ready and willing to be used. He does these ladies from behind, switching between them until everyone, including him, is on the brink of an orgasm. In these fantasies he always makes those women cum first. No one can say our King lacks manners! (How cute that he's so sure of himself... Would König even have the willpower to switch from one pussy to the next, not to talk of outlasting three women? I highly doubt that.)

Or how about these girls getting on their knees to suck his cock? In König's desperate, lonesome fantasies, these cute ladies love him so much that they start to fight over who gets to take him in their sweet wet mouth. They will eventually solve the fight by forming a queue – every woman gets half a minute with their King before changing. The long seconds when his cock is bouncing there in the cold air, devoid of a warm mouth, are torture. But he would stand strong!

Our brave soldier falls asleep while imagining how these purring, warm babes would cling to him for warmth and cuddles. Everyone is happy and pleased and he has been loved and worshiped thoroughly. In truth he just came in one minute, then tries to curl into a fetal position in a bed far too small for him. Cooling down from the day's highs, this Goliath is all alone, his last thought being that if he could get just one real woman to admire and love him and hug him before they go to sleep together, he would be the happiest man in the world.

[incorrectbatfam]

If you could create and add a new DC character, what would they be like?

I'm going to tell you about David, and knowing you guys, you'll agree with me when I say he should have his own comic.

David has been my best friend literally since we were 8. He is the only constant I've had through my life. He introduced me to the drums and helped me get a motorcycle after I got my license. We are each other's platonic ride or die. If he asked me to bury a body, I'd do it no question, and I know he'd do the same for me.

That said, I clearly have the braincell in this friendship.

Don't get me wrong, he's smart in certain aspects. He's a talented musician, good athlete, taught himself to fix most plumbing issues, speaks decent Japanese, easily clicks socially, and is super empathetic. But in others, he's like a plate in a knife drawer.

Some highlights from over the years:

He ate the brown paper bag his lunch came in on a field trip

He thought hot chocolate was just cocoa powder (no milk or water) in a mug and the microwave would melt it. His sister had to call the fire department

He gave a stray dog his scarf for warmth and never saw that scarf again

He licked the dust off an XBox controller

He got a speeding ticket outside the DMV literally five minutes after getting his license

He made gender reveal cupcakes to come out to the rest of our friend group when we were 17, but he threw them into a Ziploc and they jostled around his backpack for half a day before lunch

He thought closing a browser tab would get rid of a computer virus

He tried hotboxing his own car while driving

He almost seasoned his food with pepper spray before someone stopped him

He had a tire swing on a tree in his backyard. He decided to stand on it while swinging and smacked his forehead against a branch in front of him. It was literally the most hollow thwock ever, as if confirming his lack of braincells. He then proceeded to get pissed off and punch the tree. He said it was his most gender-affirming experience

He brought me along on a family road trip and used me as a footrest in the car

He frequently writes drum tabs the way he'd write guitar ones (in short the two are very different kinds of sheet music and I'd need three hands to play them). He absolutely knows better. I think he's messing with me at this point

He mistook wasabi powder for matcha

He once got drunk at a frat party, crawled out the lawn of the house, and began eating grass like a cow

I wanted to know what kissing a dude was like out of curiosity and this was before he started physically transitioning, so to make it a more "authentic" experience, he gargled Gatorade beforehand

He tried to make his first battle jacket with washable Crayola markers

He also tried to dye his hair with his sister's watercolors

He's worn the same sweatshirt since he was 14 and I think I can count on one hand how many times I've seen him wash it (I was over at his house a lot)

He's the motherfucker that wears running shorts in the snow

He thought his area code would automatically change when we moved to a new state

He once kicked a soccer ball into an oncoming train

BONUS: when he came out to his parents, they were accepting and while he was at school, his dad mounted a fish on David's bedroom door because men I guess

So yeah, if I worked at DC, I'd insert David in the background of every comic just being his chaotic himbo self. David is beyond space and time. There could be a battle on fucking Oa and David would just be there doing a kickflip. That's who I'd choose.

[spookynaught]

Come to think of it, Vincent had everything under control. He was pretty much aware of Rody's intentions, but preferred to observe, just to wait and see. And once things went too far, he made his move. When Rody stole freezer key, Vince appeared right after with a knife behind his back. He knew Rody was snooping around (he got himself busted when asked Vince about photograph in a trashcan), so spotting this guy standing right next to the drawer where key to all answers was, mildly speaking, tensed him up. But still, Rody walked out in one piece. Not thanks to half-ass excuses for sure (If you see someone entered your room without permission, would you believe that they only wanted to doze off or were looking for the bathroom?) Seems Vincent just played along. But from that moment on he was ready to strike if situation were to escalate. He took a knife to the restaurant. He was spying on Rody through hole in the wall. One wrong step and Rody's little investigation would end once and for all. Even after obtaining the key Rody still can finish the shift like nothing happened and Vince won't do anything. He signed his death warrant upon inserting key into the keyhole, upon reaching the point of no return for them both. This is when Vince switched to extreme measures. He swiftly knocked Rody out almost immediately after he entered a freezer, because he knew what waiter would do. He saw him leaving serving area. He probably noticed his tension. He may have even heard a click of the freezer doorlock. Only when Rody found chef's skeleton in the closet, Vince dropped the act and came into play, "reminding" who is in control. So far everything went smoothly only because Chef let it slide. But we all know what happens when he's dissatisfied. 

[thesandsofelsweyr]

THE SUS BOY NEXT DOOR

《 PART 2/3 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

After coming back from a terrible blind date your asshole neighbor is the last person you want to see right now. He doesn’t have his signature scowl for you tonight, however. Tonight he seems terrified.

《WORDS》 2,748 《CHAPTERS》 1 2 3

《PAIRING》 Arkhamverse Jason Todd x Female Reader

《TROPES》 Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Neighbors, Pre-Relationship

《WARNINGS》 Aftermath of Torture/Violence (canon typical), Panic Attacks, Scars, Blood and Injury, Swearing

《TAGLIST》 @tild3ath @iiirhiane-g

《NOTES》

This takes place immediately after Jason leaves his failed Batman confrontation and run-in with the Joker from Arkham Knight: Genesis Part 6.

Reader is a true crime addict who enjoys red wine 🍷

This is my first attempt at a reader-insert fic 🙃

Please consider reblogging if you enjoy the read ❤️ (Thanks for all the support you've given my lil story so far!)

《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated!)

You push yourself to your feet and hurry over to his kitchen, flipping on the recessed lighting overhead. The kitchen is as bare and spotless as the other rooms you’ve seen, its countertops clear of the usual clutter you’d expect. No rags nor paper towel roll. No knife block nor coffee maker nor toaster—the appliances are the ones that come standard with the unit. No stacks of unopened mail nor candles nor cookbooks nor a sink full of empty dishes. No signs of life except for the adorable houseplant and some liquid hand soap beside the sink (which is good—you need soap).

You pull open drawers and cabinets, feeling a twinge of guilt for invading his privacy like this but it can’t be helped. Even those are mostly empty, only containing the barest amount of necessities like cups, dishes, and flatware—run-of-the-mill kitchen items that were probably provided with the furnished unit. You do manage to find some clean rags and paper towels (and a coffee maker), but nothing like sandwich bags for the ice. On a whim, you check his freezer and bingo! No food or decapitated heads but plenty of ice packs along with an unopened bottle of vodka. You arch an eyebrow at the curious yet amusing stash. Perhaps coming home injured is a typical Friday night for him.

You turn on the sink faucet then tear off a few sheets of paper towels from the roll, wadding them up and wetting them before adding a few pumps of soap then working up a lather. You can’t get the sight of his bleeding face and swollen neck out of your head. It’s hard to imagine anyone doing that to him against his will. He’s an intimidating guy, to say the least. Over a head taller than you, powerfully built with broad shoulders and thick thighs (and a nice ass). Perhaps he got jumped on his walk home—an all too common occurrence on these crime-ridden streets—and his stubborn pride was too wounded to go to the ER. Or maybe it was a gang thing… some sort of hazing ritual? That could explain the bloody letter on his cheek, too, you suppose. But then you remember his shaking hands and fumbling fingers as he tried and failed to unlock his door, and how he jumped at the sound of your voice. He was scared, you realize, your heart swelling with sudden pity. He was more afraid of you than you were of him. Afraid, and probably hurting, too. That thought makes your heart swell even more. It also leaves you a bit shaken. What in God’s name could frighten him? You can only hope that whatever it is doesn’t plan to make a house call anytime soon.

With the items in hand—ice packs, wet and dry rags, soapy paper towel wads, paper towel roll—you return to his side. He still doesn’t appear to have stirred, which is troubling, you have to admit, but you put it out of your mind for now. You set the items down on the floor beside the corpse-like body before grabbing a throw pillow from his couch. (Yes, a throw pillow. There’s a throw blanket on the couch, too. It’s the strongest evidence yet supporting your furnished unit presumption, since he definitely doesn’t strike you as a throw pillow kind of guy.) You kneel down at his side, then, ever so gently, you slip an arm behind his neck and lift his head enough to pull back his hood and slide the pillow beneath him. Next you take off his cap, revealing a mop of sweat-damp black hair. You sweep the soft locks back from his forehead so that you can place a cold rag against that warm, sweat-slick skin.

That’s when you notice the scars. You’d never been close enough to him to see that his face is absolutely covered in them. Faint white lines that cut through his features: his dark brows, his full lips, his freckle-dusted cheeks, the bent bridge of his nose. The worst one (aside from the J on his cheek, that is) is a deep gash that slashes across his right cheek and his nose, all the way up to his forehead. Another knife wound? Is this guy a masochist with a knife fetish or is there some freak out there who gets off on slicing up this poor guy’s face? Those marks on his neck imply the latter—the more sinister of the two—and that sends a cold chill shuddering up your spine.

Almost magnetically your eyes are drawn back past the (cute) cleft in his chin to those sunken bands of red ringing his throat. A thin line of blood has surfaced along the outer edge of one of the bands, where whatever was used to strangle him had cut into his skin. As you wipe away the blood with one of the soapy paper towel wads you spot several scratches on his neck, and for a moment you wonder if the assailant also used his hands to choke him. But then you feel your own throat constrict as the horrible realization sets in: those are claw marks. Gouges from his own fingernails where he desperately struggled to pry the ligature away and free his windpipe so he could breathe. Defensive wounds where he fought for his life.

You set aside the wet wad, then, driven by some morbid curiosity, you find your fingers returning to his throat. Ever so delicately, as if trying not to wake a sleeping lion, you touch one of the raw indentations in his swollen flesh, tracing it with your fingertip, feeling how the abraded skin had folded inward around whatever had coiled around his neck and tried to choke the life out of him. His throat vibrates gently against your probing fingers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. You lay one of the dry rags across his throat, hiding the hideous damage, then place the ice pack on top, as instructed by the health article you Googled. You do the same for the back of his neck as well.

Now you turn your attention back to his scarred, haggard face. After swiping away the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth you press the soapy paper towel to his cheek, which gradually turns from white to pink as it soaks up the blood seeping from the J carved into his flesh. Once you staunch the bleeding, you lift the towel to replace it with a fresh one, and you get an unimpeded view of what was hiding beneath the cut and the blood, beneath his hat and hood all of those times you passed him in the hallway, all of those times he ducked his head between hunched shoulders to avoid eye contact with you. You pull in a sharp breath. It’s not a J-shaped scar; it’s the letter J branded into his cheek. You can tell by how the skin is puckered around the too-precise curve of the raised letter, by its faint red outline, by how it seems to tug uncomfortably at his cheek.

Your mind rewinds to a few weeks back when you accidentally burned your neck with your curling iron. You’d shrieked like a banshee then thrown the damn thing across your bathroom. The blistered patch of seared skin had throbbed for the rest of the night, and was still sensitive to the touch for the following week. That was the result of hot ceramic glancing against your skin for maybe half a second, if that long. You can’t even begin to imagine how much it would’ve hurt to have held the infernal thing against your neck for long enough to melt a fucking letter into the flesh. And not just any flesh. His cheek; that tender skin right below the orbital bone, less than an inch from his eye. It probably felt like his eyeball was boiling in his eye socket from the immense heat. And the smell! His own flesh barbecuing like meat to be served at a cannibal cook-out…

You don’t want to think about it anymore. You can’t think about it anymore or else you’re gonna be sick. And luckily you don’t have to because a low moan slips from his lips and his lashes begin to flutter. A rush of relief floods through you at the small signs of life, and you absently begin to stroke his soft hair with your hand. Heavy eyelids strain to lift then glassy blue eyes are peeking out from between the slits. You smile down at him, your fingers caringly combing through his tousled hair, easing his way back into consciousness. You expect him to groggily ask where he is or what happened to him.

Instead his eyes snap open, and the romantic portrait you’ve painted inside your mind of this moment is ripped to shreds.

He bolts upright, sending rags and ice packs flying away from him, then that massive wall of muscular torso turns on you. Time seems to somehow speed up and slow down simultaneously as those large, dangerous hands of his are reaching for you, and in that terrible instant you know without a doubt that he means to strangle you. A tiny, panic-stricken sound—the choked cry of ensnared prey—comes from your mouth as you throw up your arms across your face and neck in an comically feeble attempt to defend yourself from certain death, and the thought that flashes through your mind—maybe the last thought you’ll ever have in this lifetime—is that you’ll never have the chance to open that bottle of merlot.

But his hands don’t wrap around your throat; they land on your shoulders, and then you’re sliding, falling backwards from the force of a violent shove, your vision flashing to black as your head bounces off the hardwood floor.

“Ow!” you squeal as a bright burst of pain rings through your skull, leaving you stunned for a split second until your fear takes over, clearing away the haze and stars. You push yourself up on your forearm, blood pounding through your ears as your eyes frantically search for your attacker, heart lurching as you find him.

The guy is scrambling backwards away from you on all fours like some frightened beast, slamming into a floor lamp in his haste to escape. The lamp reels drunkenly, throwing light madly around the room as it whirls, like a waving searchlight at a festival. Then he’s pressed into a corner, able to go no further, yet his hands and heels are gripping the floor for purchase, as if he’s trying to push himself into the walls. As the lamp settles, somehow still upright, its light illuminates the hulking figure backed into the corner behind it, and you notice for the first time that the front of his red hoodie is splattered with an even darker red.

You’re sitting up now, frozen like a deer in headlights, your fight or flight reflexes canceling each other out because you’ve realized that you’re the toothless predator, not the prey, and the guy you’re gaping at with his bloodless face and wild eyes is a cornered animal who’ll do anything to survive. Then, to your horror, that cornered animal seems to remember his claws and reaches for the gun that’s not there, and you thank the universe and every holy entity within it that you disarmed him.

His wide eyes narrow as they lock onto you, and the fear that had filled them only a heartbeat ago has vanished, replaced with a look so cold, so devoid of anything but shadows and darkness, that it turns the blood in your veins to ice. 

“Who are you? What’re you doing in my apartment? What the fuck did you do with my gun?” Some of the wildness returns to his eyes as he shouts at you with a scarred voice, wheezing between each sentence. You shrink back, shocked that the guy can speak louder than a mumble, then your attention is caught by something more unnerving than his shouting, something that clutches at your insides. His eyes… The little hairs on the back of your neck stir again as you study those pale blue irises flecked with green, barely visible beneath his blown-out pupils yet still trained on you like a sniper’s laser sights. There’s something wrong with his eyes… But before you can figure it out he roars: “Answer me!” and you can’t help but jump at the hateful ferocity, his deadly strength palpable in his tone.

Your heart’s in your throat again, and your mind is racing out his door, terrified all 200-something pounds of him are about to pounce on you, so you’re surprised when you not only find your words, but shout them back at him, just as vicious.

“Take it easy! I'm your neighbor, remember? You passed out. I was trying to help you. I thought you were fucking dying!”

You see a flicker of recognition flash over his face before a coughing fit takes him. Then it hits you, like a punch to the gut as you watch him clutching at his blood-splattered chest again as he gasps for a breath. His eyes… they’re red where they should be white. All of the binged episodes of Forensic Files come flooding back to you and you even remember the term for it: petechial hemorrhaging. Burst blood vessels from strangulation. His strangulation.

The rush of pity that wells up in your chest at the awful realization calms your fear enough that you crawl a tiny bit closer to him. “You’re hurt,” you say gently, trying to keep your nerves from shaking your voice. “Your neck…”

You trail off as his eyes snap back to you, pupils still blown wide. You try to hold onto his skittish gaze, praying he won’t notice his gun behind you and lunge, but his eyes fall away to the floor. He raises his free hand to his neck, as slowly as if his wrists were chained to the floor, and touches one of the red furrows there. Then his trembling fingers move to his brand, where fresh beads of blood have surfaced. You hear him mutter something so low and tremulous it’s barely audible, but you think it sounded like… “Plan J”?

“I cleaned it with soap and water,” you reply as he stares blankly at his bloody fingertips. “But it’s deep. You may need stitches. I can bring you some Band-Aids,” you pause, feeling really fucking stupid for suggesting Band-Aids for the guy who’s been strangled and cut and branded. You blurt out the rest: “If you need them… for the time being.”

His eyes have glazed over, as if he’s gone somewhere far away. Somewhere terrible, because his rasping breath quickens and his whole body starts to shake, as though he’s reliving something. His attack? His branding? All of the times that monster of a person cut his face? You desperately want to reach for his hand, to pull him back from whatever hell he’s been sucked into, but you’re too scared to wake that cornered wild animal again.

Finally he snaps out of it, and his eyes close as his hand drops limply to the floor. You watch helplessly as the tension drains from his body and he sags forward, like he’s been crushed by whatever was waiting for him in that flashback.

“You should go,” he mumbles to the floor, barely louder than a whisper.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself agree. As you stand you remind yourself that you can finally have that glass of wine, but the notion isn’t as appealing as it was earlier in the night.

You gather up your phone and bag. You start to ask if you can get him anything before you go but you know his answer so you turn to leave. 

“Thank you.” His small voice cracks like a little boy’s when he speaks, and you know he’s started to cry.

“Yeah, sure,” you say softly as you turn the knob and push open his door. You glance over your shoulder at him one last time. The sight of the broken boy—the boy whose name you still don’t know—huddled in a corner with his knees pulled to his chest, weeping into his hands, wrings your heart out like a wet rag, and you feel your own throat tighten up with tears. You hang your head as you shut the door softly behind you.

[erajoie07]

𝘾𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙃𝙚𝙡𝙡: 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙭 𝙁𝙚𝙢 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

Writer's note: This was a request by @twinklestarslight . Hi! I'm sorry it took so long to write your request. I hope you like it! Enjoyyyy

“Come back early though. I have a surprise for you.”

Nothing could prepare him from what was stored back home. Though he expects something good, it could be far from what he thinks.

Now a group of no-good-for-now men stretch from where they last sat and marks their approach towards him with unknown motives, but fierce strides of retaliation.

Reacher's POV

A good rule to know is when you come across a group of no-good men, identify the gang leader then take him out.

“Give me your money,” he barks, this men, with a no-good-looking hair color that fades in the roots. Another two proceed to guard him, one in the back, and the other in the front, with a knife, a small kitchen knife.

“You won't stand against us, old man.”

I don't impossibly look old, hell! YN remained her juvenescence through the years. Now's not the time for intrapersonal talk.

He set down on the ground the bag of groceries and proceeds to mark his way towards the main one, “I am giving you two choices: leave-” His physique is unmatching against them.

“Or what?” he taunts

Reacher stuns him by hitting his frontal with his forehead and shoves him to the nearest wall and matches it with three hits by the arm, knocking him out cold. The others seem to back away, leaving the man on the ground.

“Get him out of here.” Reacher commands, and they follow, carrying him by his hands and ankles.

Reacher puts on his glasses and lifts the bags onto his arms and sets off home.

“Howdy!”

He meets neighbors and greet him so. He smiles gently.

He gets home and sets the keys down on the bowl by the door and dashes into the kitchen.

“Sweetheart, I'm home!” Seldom she would rush but therevare times when she is busy doing some things and so he goes to her, which sometimes get end up fucking on the couch or bed. Usually, she would put music on as she gets through her work and the doors would still be ajar. When he turns and she is not there, he misses on some thing. He puts the frozen desserts in the freezer and the rest on the drawers and fridge.

Afterwards, he goes to the room and can hear a buzzing noise behind the door. Odd for she wouldn't work with that kind of noise. But he scrunches his face a little, it's strangely quiet inside. There had been no sign of break-in and footprints. He slowly twists the knob open and pushes it a little. Through the crack, he could see her legs spread open, his eyes squint and brows furrow. Then he slowly pushes it open and he hears his name being softly called upon. In her sweet deluxe, his name flows out so smooth like an angel whispering in the night. Her noise-cancelling headphones allowed her to continue feeling lost in ecstasy with her eyes shut tight and lips gasping. He sees a wet spot on the towel underneath and the vibrator mimicking the vibration of his fingers as it torments her glistening and wet clit. Reacher sees her slowly move it downwards into her hole and inserts it. Shuddering and gasping for breath as it takes her away, and she whimpers his name o' so sweet and desperate for him to be here. Her fist scrunch the bed cover and her toes curl with every vibration that goes to her clit. She bucks her pelvis, mimicking the way she'd ride his cock.

“Oh-Oh, please! Please!”

Is this my surprise?

“O' Reacher- fuck me,” she moans, swirling the head on her clit. “Yes, yes, I want it. I want it so bad.” She says as if she is using a VR device.

“No! No! Don't stop!”

Then she opens her eyes in utter desperation and need and is surprised to see him standing near her. She immefiately removes it and shuts her legs, pulling the cover towards her.

“That's not something I haven't seen. Is this my surprise? To find you fucking yourself while I was away when you could've waited a bit more for me?”

“No, it's not. This is not the surprise.”

Reacher smirks, “Sure seems like it. Tell me, sweetheart, did you enjoy yourself with that toy?”

She looks at the wet vibrator and sits properly, letting yhe cover fall and reveal her breasts. “Yes-but I will feel more satisfied with your cock inside my pussy.” She removes the cover and parts her cunny with her fingers. “I want you on this bed right now.”

He is hesitant and decides to take it another way. “I have a better idea.”

“Look into the mirror. Watch yourself, sweetheart,” He commands as he thrusts his cock inside her pussy and points the vibrator's head on her clit. She struggles to open her eyes and convulses when he speeds both his thrusts and vibrator up. Squelch! Squelch! Buzz! Buzz! The sounds added with her vivid moans and profanities.

“If this is what I would come home to, I would have never entered that street and fought with that gang.”

She opens her eyes and forgets a little of her pleasure, “What gang? What happened?”

“Nothing to worry. Focus on your pleasure.”

Reacher carries her back to bed and continue fucking her, hitting the sweet spots her vibrator couldn't reach. She tilts her head back when his fingers match the vibration of her toy and cock.

“I'm coming!”

A few more thrusts and she releases a pitch scream. He releases his load on her stomach after he has gone into his sloppy seconds, his cock softening. She catches her breath and he watches her glistening body with sweat and his cum. He lies on his side and graze his fingers on her stomach up her chest, “I wouldn't just dream of coming home to you with a vibrator...maybe you'd be waiting for me on the fouch or something.”

“I was just horny really, but this isn't my surprise.”

“What is it then?”

She gets out of bed and drags him to the bathroom, “You'll see, go take a shower. I'll fix the bed.”

He halts and looks at her, “Go!” she laughingly says, pushing him inside.

Fortunately, they have another bathroom.

She finds him sipping coffee again. Her hands are behind her and she shows him a bright smile.

“Here is my surprise. I was just waiting for the right time to give it to you.” then she thinks, “But not through the sex earlier. That was unplanned. Open it.”

He lifts the cover and pulls out a white paper inside.

“I have thought about this for a long time.”

It was a document.

Then his eyes grow wide and it moves each line as his lips read it fast whispering. “You're going to work here?” He says surprised

“Yes, a career change. I have been stuck at my old job for so long, it's a good time actually to shift now. I am forced to or anything. I simply think it's a good idea and my skills match the job I have now. I'll start in a month but I will have to go there this Monday for preparations and such.”

He stands on his feet and wraps his arms around her. “I never would've thought that you stay here.”

“I really wanted to stay here. My uncle is also a city away. I want to move forward from my old home...with you, to you.”

“But you'll be starting again to zero.”

She smiles, “It's fine. I can handle it as long as I can come home to you.”

[celtic-crossbow]

Whumpuary Day 25-26 & 29-31

Prompts: Can’t stay awake | “You’re safe.”

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Drugging, Overdose, Allusions to past child abuse

gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams

“What the fuck are you doing?!” You shouted, keeping your eyes on Daryl while Tomi loudly rummaged through cabinets and drawers behind you. “Daryl. Daryl, stay awake.”

“M’tired.” The archer mumbled, eyelids heavy, breaths slowing before your eyes. 

“Tomi!” You snapped again. 

“They injected him with some sort of opioid. I need narcan.” Things were flying around, hitting the floor as the surgeon continued his frantic search. “How’s his breathing?”

“Too slow.” You shook Daryl again. Each time he responded, you felt a short lived relief but it never lasted long. “Daryl, stay with me. Look at me.”

“Y/N…tired…”

“I know but you can’t sleep.” Those normally sharp blues were dull, his pupils contracted to barely there black dots inside the pale cerulean. His eyes closed, head lolling forward. “Daryl? Daryl!” He inhaled sharply, giving you hope that he might regain a normal breathing pattern. 

He didn’t. 

“Can’t…can’t stay…”

“You have to. Just for a few more minutes okay?” You hadn’t seen when the man had used the syringe, only catching Daryl yanking it from his neck to angrily toss it aside before plunging his knife through the attacker’s skull. It wasn’t even a minute before the archer staggered back against the wall and slid down to where he still sat. “Tomi!” When Daryl’s eyes closed this time, he didn’t reopen them. 

“I’m trying!”

“Daryl!” His breaths were further and further apart, agonizing torture to know that one would eventually be his last. 

“If he stops breathing, you need to breathe for him.”

“Al-alright.” You could do that. You placed two fingers to his neck, counting the beats over and over, witnessing that number fall each time. “Please, please.”

“Got it!” Tomi dropped down beside the archer, foregoing any measure of sterilizing to just jab the needle into the muscle of Daryl’s bicep. 

“What now?”

“We wait. He never stopped breathing. The narcan should level him out enough to move him safely.” The nod you gave was curt and unbidden, your sole focus was the rise and fall of Daryl’s chest. “Okay. Okay, good. It’s picking up. I’ll get a stretcher. Keep watching his breathing.” Another nod. 

“Daryl, can you hear me?” Unresponsive. At least each breath was coming in at a slow, but steady pace. You could work with that for now. The wheels of the stretcher were loud in the otherwise empty hospital.

“Vitals are stable for now. I grabbed all the narcan but we need to have access to intubation supplies and IV fluids.” At your confused expression, he added, “I’ll need to insert a tube to help him breathe for a while if he struggles to on his own.”

You nodded calmly before the two of you struggled and fumbled to get Daryl onto the stretcher. Truthfully, the thought of Daryl needing a machine to keep breathing was horrifying. For that moment, you just continued to watch his chest, breaths remaining steady and unlabored. 

It took only moments for an IV to be inserted and fluids to begin running into the archer’s hand. His breathing slowed only once more and one last dose of narcan was administered. 

Hours later, Tomi concluded that Daryl was out of danger and would likely wake up at any moment. So you waited, instinctively listening for danger as employees returned to the hospital, the walkers having been cleared as well as the living threats, thanks in part to the man on the bed in front of you. 

You couldn’t wait to get him home and sleep for at least a day, snug against his side with your head over his heart, able to hear each beat and feel each breath. 

Finally, his fingers twitched in your hold, his head rolling back and forth on the pillow, face scrunching. 

“Daryl?” You stood, leaning over him. He hated hospitals. The memories of so many visits when he was a child, broken bones and open wounds at the hands of his father. You wanted to be the first person he saw and heard, in hopes of easing that anxiety. 

His eyes were clouded, tired and unfocused, when they finally landed on you. “Where ‘m I?” He slurred, still appearing to be exhausted and slightly influenced by the drug working its way through his system. 

“You’re in the hospital. You’re safe and you’re gonna be okay.” You squeezed his hand, smiling when he weakly reciprocated. 

“Tell me what happened?” His eyes were already trying to close, most likely without his permission but leaving him with no choice. 

“When you wake up. I’ll tell you everything when you wake up.”

Daryl hummed and inhaled deeply before settling into a peaceful sleep; one you didn’t fear and from which you knew he would wake. For now, though, you’d rest your head on the hand holding his and count his breaths like counting sheep until you joined him in blissful unawareness. 

[ghostskiss2-0]

The Interrogation

Summary: Ghost has finally gotten a tail on you. After the Russians took you and your men down during the Black Bag Operation, you disbanded from the Shadow Company completely. You’ve been laying low trying to get a hit on the very man that set you and your men up. Graves. Ghost believes you’re spy and know all of Graves’ plans. Set in Las Almas, roughly after Ghost and team were betrayed by Graves. Soap is MIA.

Disclaimer: This is purely a work of fiction. It is loosely based in the 2022 reboot, with “You” inserted as a solider previously under command of Phillip Graves, Shadow Company. Explained more inside, but please don’t take everything to heart, COD game wise. Spoilers for game below, don’t proceed if you plan on playing the game.

Warnings: 18+, SMUT, interrogation, mask!nk, AFAB reader, no Y/N usage, praise, fear k!nk, penetrative, fingering, creampie, bound hands, rough

Word Count: 3.6k

Days. Days you have been here, in this town. In this home. You had found the base at the edge of town, far enough from most of the cartel, but close enough to get to them if you needed. You’d offered a money – a lot of it – to the family that lived here to leave. It was the perfect cover. No one would think you were lying low in a loving home, pictures of the family hanging on the walls, food in the drawers.

It was perfect.

Until now.

You’d just gotten back from trailing after a couple of Shadow soldiers. None you’d known or worked with; it’d only been a few months and Graves already had more soldiers than you could count. You were only one person, granted you were trained, but there was only so much intel and ground you could cover. It’d been a long day, you tell yourself, with the hair on the back of your neck on stand and shoulders stiff. That’s why I got caught off guard, you think.

You know better. You know what this is, who’s behind you in the dark corner of the kitchen. You can feel it in your bones. The very core of your essence. But that doesn’t ease your fear. No. It makes it worse.

Throat closing in fight with fear, your head barely moves an inch, chin dipping to your shoulder to cast a glance over it. Fingers trembling at the hilt of your knife strapped around your thigh.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you, love.”

The bass of his voice shakes your bones with anguish. How long had it been since you’d seen him? Years. Way before the incident that had left you scarred. The incident that had brought you here now, on the hunt for Graves.

“Ghost.” Your voice in a whisper. It wasn’t a question. Even before you heard his voice, you knew it was him. The very air changed around him, no matter where he was. His presence was a void. Dark and dangerous.

The man behind you doesn’t confirm, but instead steps out from the shadowed corner, the moon from the window adjacent to you casting a subtle light on him. His eyes gleam. You feel like prey, standing like this, shaking like you aren’t a trained soldier. You know this isn’t a friendly visit. Slowly, he makes his way in front of you, and you concentrate on not allowing your body to take a step back from him. His shoulders are wide, blocking your view of the window, of everything until there’s only him. Ghost’s gloved fingers brush against yours at the hilt of your knife, unsheathing it from your leg. Your gaze trails up from his chest to his eyes behind the mask and you suppress the urge to shiver. You can’t read him at all.

“Why are you here?” Your voice comes out with more conviction than you feel.

Pocketing your knife, he takes a step away from you and suddenly you can breathe. With a clearer head, you take all of him in. He has blood on his clothes, his chest moving with his breaths, like he’d just gotten done from running. You watch as he turns his back to you, a slight insult that you knew he was saying you weren’t a big enough threat to him to stay on guard. It makes you clench your fists in anger. He’d always looked down on you in field, going so far as calling you ‘Princess’ instead of your respected call name.

Ghost turns back to you, revealing a chair he’d pulled from the table. Gesturing to it with a hand he starts, “Have a seat. Nee’ta have a chat.”

A part of you wants to tell him to go fuck himself. It’s the fear of what he’d do that has you wetting your lips and listening to his command. If he was here, then he’d run into Graves. Who knew if he was on the Shadow Company’s side or not. He hadn’t killed or harmed you yet. Settling down, you yelp as he grips your wrists, bending to tie them behind your back. Now, you panic.

“Ghost, wait,” you frantically begin, trying to undo the ties as he quickly stands up from his position. Your teeth grit in frustration, he was too fast at everything to deal with in this field. You hadn’t even seen anything in his hands to tie you up with. “Please, you have to listen to me.”

Standing in front of you, the burly man crosses his arms, looking down with his piercing gaze. His head tilts for you to go on.

Swallowing, your tone firm but had an undeniable shake to it. No person could ever scare you like this, trained as you are. No one. But Ghost was a whole different entity in himself.

“I’m here for Graves.”

Ghost shoulders lifts in a sigh, like he doesn’t have time for this. “If you aren’t going to talk, love, I can find a way to make you.”

You try again, “There was a botched Ops job a few months back. I’m supposed to be dead right now, Ghost. The Company thinks I am dead right now.” You can’t tell what side he was on. Was he here to kill you under the command of Shepherd?

A knife produces from his gloved hand as he kneels in front of you. Tantalizingly slow, he brings it up, the light flashing against the metal, and he trails the tip of his knife against your collarbone. Your breath catches in your throat. If he thought you’d be able to talk now, trembling in fear, with tears pricking in your eyes, good luck.

“I already know that, Princess. Took me a bit to figure it out, but I did. Now tell me why you’re here. In Las Almas. You spying for Graves? Keeping an eye on us? Didn’t think I’d catch you sniffing around the Company’s vehicles?” As he speaks gently in that rough voice of his, like he’s talking about the fucking weather, his free hand whipping out to grip your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

A whimper comes out of you and his grip tightens slightly, knife trailing down the thin tank top you’re wearing. “Ghost, I swear, I didn’t know you were here. I had no idea 141 was involved. I’ve been tailing Graves. I’m not a part of the Company anymore.” Anger flashes through you, thinking about Erickson and Vance. How Dipaolo was just getting out of the burning vehicle, the hope that had blared through you as he was getting out only for it be shot down. How you had to suppress your shout as you laid out in the grass, hidden, unable to do anything as the massacre began.

The anger and hurt is what brings your spirit back. Ripping your chin out of his grip, your lip curled in a snarl, tears threatening to fall. “I watched my men burn and die. I watched it happen and then I watched Graves and Shepherd do nothing about it. Fuck you, Simon.” Venom laced in your tone as a tear falls from your eyes. Because how dare he. How dare he think you were working for the bastard that ruined your life. Your career. Everything.

Ghost makes an amused noise at your tone before he lashes out at you, picking you up from the chair by your shoulders like you don’t way a single ounce to him. Kicking out at him, you shriek, hands still bound behind your back. You were a soldier dammit, it was time to act like one. The initial shock and fear from seeing him subsided, and now you were going to get out of here. Or die trying. No one is going Graves from you. You don’t care what side Ghost is on.

Throwing your body weight against him, you struggle, trying to get his grip off you. Slamming your heel down, you stomp on his foot, a small ounce of joy filling you as he grunts with pain. He’s got you caged against him and the table behind you. A hand comes up behind your head, grabbing a fistful of hair and tugging harshly to bare your neck to him. Panting, you look up at him as his knife presses against your chest, and you still. There was no use in fighting him with your arms tied. He’s strong, way stronger than any man you’ve ever fought.

A smile curls against your lips as a dark thought ran through your mind. “I always wondered what it’d be like to be the one against your blade.”

Something in his eyes flash through them and suddenly you feel how close he’s pressed up against you. Your core tightens despite being held knife point by him. A whole different kind of shudder runs through you now, you gaze staring up into his. You watch as his eyes slowly trail down the front of your body, your nipples tightening against the shirt you wear. His cock twitches against your thighs he’s pressed up against. A shaky breath leaves your mouth and his eyes dart back up to your lips, his fingers in your hair flexing to get a tighter grip, making you cry out in pain.

“I’m going to get the truth out of you, Princess. Going to do it my way.” He growls out, and you start to protest, going to tell him you were telling him truth until he moves you faster than you can even comprehend. He’s so big, you’d never understand how he could be so silent and quick. He turns you around the table, shoving the top half of your body onto the table, hinging at the hips. You can’t hold yourself up with your arms bound behind your back, the side of your face pressing into the wood. A blush hit your cheeks as you realize what kind of position you were in for him.

“Ghost,” you start, almost panicky as heat envelopes your body. What was happening?

“Quiet.” He grinds out, his gloved fingers hooking into the waist band of your pants, tugging them down with force. You squeak, going to move up from your position, embarrassment and arousal running its course through you. He pushes you, forcing back down against the table and you try to hide yourself with your bound hands. “Don’t move, Princess. That’s a direct order.”

Your arousal slicks further and you nod, trying not to squirm under his gaze. “Yes, Lt.”

A groan coming from him behind you makes your pussy clench on air. You want to whimper and squirm further, feeling more vulnerable than you ever have in your life.

Hands run up the length of the backs of your naked thighs, palming your ass and spreading your cheeks. You stifle a gasp, trying not to move from the abrasive texture of his gloves against your skin. Moments pass and your whimpering, trying to get him to do something, anything, but he stays where he is, just looking at your pussy as it leaks down your thighs.

“Please.” You whine, trying to move from under his hands.

“Please what, pretty girl? Use your words.”

“Please touch me, Ghost. Anything. Please. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” Tears are falling from being in this frustrating position, as he just looks and does nothing. Your arms are burning from being bound. And you’re so turned on to the point it hurts.

A hum comes from him, and you hear him shuffle up from behind you, no longer kneeling to watch as he pleased. He grabs your hands, unbinding you and you sigh out in relief, only for him to move your arms up over your head, binding them again. A pained moan comes from you from the change of blood flow, but you’re not allowed to dwell on it too long before he hauls you up from the table. He turns you towards him, setting you down on your shaky feet. You look up at him, tears staining your cheeks, and you swear you can see him smiling under his mask.

Humiliation settles in. Shielding yourself with your bound hands in front of you, you start to shy away from him. “You’re teasing me, Ghost.” Your tone is hurt and accusatory and you wonder what the hell this all about it. He’s teased you on the field before, calling you Princess and making jabs about how you do your job, but never something as cruel as this.

“Arms above your head, love. Don’t give me that look.” Ghost’s tone is light, like this could all be joke to him. Despite the swirling feelings in your stomach, you do as your told because who knows what he’ll do if you don’t?

Ghost takes his knife out again and you try to step back, arms quickly coming back down to your front. He tsks at you, pining you back down against the table, your legs dangling off the edge of it. His free hand jerks yours above your head and you start to shake again. The fear and arousal a dangerous mix inside of you. “Am I going to have to tie you up like this or are you going to listen?”

You nod frantically, “I’ll listen, I’ll listen.” To prove the point, he lets go and leans up from the table, eyeing you like you’ll move any second. You stay still. “Good girl.”

You press your thighs together, trying to ease the throbbing you can feel through your entire body.

Silently, he trails the knife down the front of your body, the tip catching against the fabric of your shirt. Goosebumps erupt on your body, as you tremble even further. His knife gets to the edge of your shirt, just above your belly button before he stops. His hands grip your thighs, spreading your legs open to stand in between them. He presses against your bare pussy and you let out a small groan.

“Ghost—” You gasp out as his knife suddenly swipe up against your shirt, cutting it down the middle, his hands quickly shoving the material aside as he yanks your bra down, freeing your tits. He discards the knife on the table beside you.

“If you’re good, I’ll make you cum, Princess.” Ghost hisses as he meanly pinches one of your nipples, making you cry out.

Tears falling again, you nod frantically, almost out of your mind, ready to beg him.

He starts.

Ghost’s gloved hands trail down your body, squeezing and touching his fill. You’re so sensitive it feels like torture being touched like this. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry as he spreads your pussy, cruelly swiping his gloved thumb up and down your wet slit. The abrasive texture is too much on your clit, making you squirm, unsure if you want to press against the pressure or run away from it.

“You’re trying to kill Graves,” he says, like he’s unaffected by what he’s doing to you. Like you’re just a toy he’s playing with.

You nod frantically, unable to form any words as he teases you. There’s not enough pressure but the rough texture of his gloves is driving you insane.

“Words, love.”

Panting out you nod again, “Yes. I want to kill him for what he did. What he’s done here.” Your head clears just slightly, looking up at him. His gaze is soaking you up like he can’t get enough of looking at you.

“Hm.” Is all he says as he beings to take his gloves off. Your skin pricks with anticipation, barely moving so he doesn’t change his mind. “Let me see how wet you are for me.” He brings his bare fingers down to your wetness, a groan coming from him as he feels your pussy, his thumb starting small circles around your aching clit.

A whine comes out of you, your hips bucking up, trying to get him to go faster. He chuckles, sinking a finger into you. “That’s it, love. Fuck.” He groans as he looks down at where you’re fucking his hand, adding another finger in you, his thumb starting up again. “Show me how bad you want it.”

Obliging, you rock your hips against him, the edge of your orgasm coming quickly. Your pussy grips his fingers, and you mewl out at how good he feels. Ghost starts thrusting his fingers into you, fucking you as the pressure against your clit gets tighter and you cry out, stars coming into your vision. Clamping down on him, you scream as you come, as it tears through your body violently, your vision blackening with how intense it is.

“That’s it, atta girl. Come for me.” He doesn’t stop his assault even as your pussy spasm around him, throwing you into another debilitating orgasm. Panting as you come down, he takes his fingers out, putting them under his mask to taste you and you moan at the sight. You want to tell him to take it off but you know better than to poke the bear. Your limbs feel like liquid, and even though your arms above your head are killing you, you can’t seem to complain.

Watching him, he takes his fingers out of his mask, producing a groan. His hand palms his cock in his pants and your pussy pulses with need. You need him in you. You start to try to sit up and he quickly pushes you back down, one of his hands on your inner thigh.

“Wrap your legs around me.” His voice is graveled and husky, and you smile up at him as you do. He shudders against you as he takes his cock out and you want to cry. There’s no way he’s going to fit.

“Wait, I don’t think—”

“You’ll take it. Be good, remember?” Ghost growls out, gripping the base of his cock to press the head against your aching hole. “I need to fuck this cunt. It’s going to drive me insane.”

His crass words make you blush and moan as he slowly starts to press inside of you. Your squirm, his other hand coming to your hip to keep you still. Crying out, he pushes inside, his girth tearing you apart as he spears inside of you. You both pant as he starts to bottom out, feeling him too deep, pressed tightly against your cervix. Then he starts pushing more against it.

“I-it’s too much,” you cry, fresh tears in your eyes. You feel full, like he’s going to rip you apart.

“Ah, fuck. So fucking tight, such a good cunt.” He doesn’t wait for you to adjust before he starts fucking you. He leans his weight on you, your bound arms coming up to wrap around his neck.

“Ghost, oh my god.”

He growls out, thrusting up into you, “Say my fucking name, Princess. Tell me who’s making this pussy feel good.”

You cry out again as he pounds into you, his cock hitting all of the right places and then some. “Simon, Simon.”

“That’s it girl. Take this cock. Fuck, you’re so fucking good. Love this cunt.” A hand comes up to curl in your hair, forcing you to look up at him, “Look at me, keep your eyes on me.”

Your gaze locks with his under his mask, and you moan out. He was going to ruin sex for you. Nothing was going to come close to this. Your walls tighten around him, making him curse out, fuck, you were going to come again.

“Simon, please. Please please, I’m going to come again.”

His pace starts to brutalize you, your eyes rolling into the back of your head, cock drunk. Your orgasm takes you by surprise, stealing you so violently you scream out, chanting Ghost’s name.

“Oh fuck, that’s it. Milk my cock, baby. Good fucking girl. Fuck, I’m going to come.” Ghost growls out, pounding into you as he groans. Your pussy clamps around him, and you pull him closer with your legs.

“Come in me, Simon. Please.” You beg, tears streaming down the side of your face. Ghost inhales sharply, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that, before his cock throbs inside of you.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” He growls out, his thrusts slowing as he fucks his come into you. You moan lowly, your cunt spasming against him again, coming with him. His hips still, letting the both of you feel how tight of fit he was, squeezing around him.

Another groan falls from him as he pulls slowly out, dropping to his knees to watch his come leak out of you. You can’t think straight, still trying to gather your surroundings and think of exactly what just happened. It all went down so fast. Taking a shaky breath, you tentatively ask him, “Do you believe me now?”

A dry chuckle comes from him as he spreads your pussy lips, smearing his come on you purposely, making sure you were properly filled. A whine comes from you as he does this. “Did after the first time I asked you, Princess. I wasn’t going to let this pass up.”

You gasp with disbelief, tugging at your tied wrists now, “Simon!”

He hums, holding a finger up to silence you as he stands, his free hand clicking on his radio. “Soap – this is Ghost. How copy?”

A blush deepens on your cheeks as you close your legs, sitting up from your position on the table. Of course, he was on an op. You wait until Soap responds, Ghost telling him to meet at the church. He comms off and looks back down at you, taking in your state before cutting the ties at your wrists.

“C’mon, Princess, get dressed. Let’s go light up Graves.”

[lexisnotasimp]

Welcome home movie idea!

Note: It would be placed in 2010

Main Character: Blaye dills. She is a 10 year old girl with brown hair and blue eyes.

Blaye just moved into a neighborhood in Texas.

She is lonely since all the people living there are older people. Blaye's parents moved in because it was cheap, which is suspicious to Blaye. As Blaye unpacks her stuff into her room, she sees a dresser with an old tv on it. She thought, "Maybe the last people gave it as a gift for us.. Or mom and dad bought it, and I didn't know...." Then she looked through the drawers and found some cassettes that say: "Welcome Home" on it. Blaye was confused, so she put the cassettes on her bed.

Time skip a day later:

Blaye was just chilling and decided to search up the show that was labeled on the cassettes. She found a website all about it. She was amused and decided to look through it.

She looked at it for a while and then decided the next day while her parents were gone, she would look at it.

Time skip another day later:

Blaye's parents left her home alone for the whole 24 hours since it was a safe neighborhood, and they were going to a one day hotel stay. Blaye was watching tv, eating, and doing normal stuff. Then she decided to watch the cassettes. She put the cassettes in the player on the old tv. She saw the show introducing the main characters in the theme song. Wally Darling, Howdy Pillar, Eddie Dear, Poppy Partridge, Sally Starlight, Barnaby B. Beagle, Frank Frankly, Julie Joyful, and home. The whole episode had parts with the characters (like crafts with Eddie, shows with Sally, Ect.). Blaye was so intrigued, so she watched more. Then she got a text from her mom saying, "Me and your dad are staying a second day hun. Please be safe." Blaye then sighed, It was obvious her parents didn't care for her that much. So she kept watching the episodes. The weird part is that every episode it gets more fuzzy. Blaye just brushed it off, though, because she was certain it's because they are just old.

1 hour time skip:

Blaye went into the basement to get paint to pant a drawing. And then she saw something weird. It was the real puppet of the Mailman from Welcome Home: Eddie Dear. Blaye saw that it had dirt all over it and looked old. She then picked it up, and Eddie Dear stared at her as he said, "Stop playing the tapes...". Blaye was shocked, so she threw it on the ground in fear. Blaye then brushed it off as a hallucination.

1 day time skip:

It was 11:00 pm and the next day her parents were coming back. She kept watching the tapes and she saw one that was named "Homeworming". Blaye turned it on. She watched the whole 22 minutes (insert her watching the awayfrompryingeyes.net video). She was so scared at the part where Eddie was in fear that she turned it off. Blaye then heard talking outside. She walked outside and saw that she was in the Welcome Home neighborhood. She knew she was not sleeping because it hurt when she pinched herself. Then Eddie Dear the mailman grabbed her and went into her house with her. He then said, "I told you not to watch anymore of the tapes!!! It's dangerous.. Stay in your house with me.." Blaye was in fear and started crying. Eddie hugged her. "As long as Wally ain't here, we will be fine.." Wally then comes in.. "Hello, Neighbors.. It's nice to meet this new face.." Wally says,"Go away!" Eddie says in anger

Wally then snaps his finger, and they appear in a dark room.

"No! No!" Eddie screams. Blaye then curls up in fear. The room goes dark, and Eddie screams in pain... The room lights turn back on, and Eddie's legs are missing... Blaye screams in shock. "I'm okay, kiddo... I'm just a puppet. A sentient one.." Blaye sighs and keeps crying. Eddie pats her head. "It will be okay, kid.. I hope.." Eddie says. Then Wally comes in with a knife. Eddie stands in front of Blaye. "MAKE A RUN FOR IT!!!!!" Eddie says as Blaye then runs out, and Wally chases her. "Get back, neighbor!!!" Wally says manically. Blaye then runs into her house, and just before Wally can kill her, she turns off the tape, and then Wally dissolves into nothingness. Blaye looks out her window and sighs in relief when she sees her normal neighborhood out the window. Blaye immediately hides the tapes back in the drawer. She then rushes to the basement and sees the Eddie Dear puppet.

"Keep me in a box in your closet, and when you ever want to watch those tapes again, please tell me first!!! I can tell you how to watch them without getting transported to Home.." Eddie says in a calm but firm tone.

"You're actually alive!!!" Blaye says.

"I've always been.. When you saw me get hurt, that was a hallucination.. But home is a real place.. you were transported to another world.." Eddie says.

Blaye then puts him in a box and takes him to her room.

"Untill your parents come back just keep me on the bed so I can protect you if Wally somehow gets out..." Eddie says looking at her.

A day later:

Blaye's parents come back and Blaye hugs them but her parents obviously don't care about her. Blaye goes back to her room, sighing. She puts the puppet of Eddie Dear in the box and puts him in the closet.

The end.

[eagledovetail]

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[urhoneycombwitch]

lulu I experienced a moment of hubris that almost took me out eating spicy food. I was too confident... I bit off more than I could chew... I thought the devil was going to take me from my seat and now my tummy hurts

anyways I also imagine that Eddie gets in similar situations where he pulls his pants up high, puffs out his chest and is like 😤💪🏻I can do *insert thing here* and then leaves the situation whimpering like a scared dog with his tail between his legs

like it's such a Thing™ that people will go "Eddie, NO!" or "don't you think that's a bad idea?" but he does not listen

“what do you have?” “A KNIFE!” “NOOO!!”

yeah Eddie is such a dumbass (affectionate) who lives to show the fuck off. he gets one (1) sangria in him and is dancing on tables. you’ve had to pry open his mouth and pull horrifying NON-food items from between his teeth like a giant toddler on MULTIPLE occasions bc Dustin dared him to eat something sourced from the ground or a desk drawer.

tbh I really think Eddie’s the type to play it cool bc he’s got such dorky swagger but he’s only fooling like… 5% of the group each time. and then when it’s just you and him later he’s sniffling and begging for cuddles because him tummy hurts 🥺🥺🥺

[losfacedevil]

Change // SFK (Pt14)

a/n~ What even is an update schedule? Here’s this weeks installment of the market realm!

Unintentional giggles erupted from Sophia’s chest as she watched Sam jump back, his feet turned in pigeon toe style and hands up in surrender as the pan of molten blueberries hit the floor. His head fell back and he reached up, dragging a hand down the length of his face. Sophia but down on her bottom lip, stifling the giggles as she realized he was truly upset over the spilled blueberries.

“It’s okay babe, there’s no use in crying over spilled blueberry guts.” An exasperated sigh slipped past Sam’s lips as he bent at the waist and picked up the pan before it scorched the linoleum flooring.

“But it was the last of the blueberries, that was for your blueberry bars.” His tone held a hint of a whine, his disappointment evident in his facial features. A soft smile caressed Sophia’s lips as she reached out and placed a hand against his shoulder, her eye never leaving the mess on the floor.

“Let’s wait for it to cool so we don’t scorch our skin off and we’ll clean it up. It’s okay, I promise. Let’s start working on something else, teach me something else.”

A defeated look washed over Sam’s face as he tossed the pan he was holding in the sink and turned to face Sophia. A sad smile kissed his face as he looked at the mess, turning his attention to the counter and plucked the roll of paper towels off of the free standing holder.

“Lemme show you how I slice the apples to make them cook more evenly for the apple jams and then I’ll clean the mess I made.”

Sophia’s eyes lit up as she made her way over to where he stood, selecting her favorite paring knife from the knife block and pulled the cutting board in front of her. Sam couldn’t help the chuckles that slipped past his lips as he dug the apple corer out of the utensil drawer and with a raised eye brow, held it out to her.

“You gotta core it before you peel it and cut it, you wouldn’t want any straggler seeds to sneak into your jam - those aren’t nice to bite down on.” He shrugged as memories of the first time he made apple jam crossed his mind, how the small seed had somehow gotten through all of his precautions to remove them and he had bit down on it hard.

“Kind of like when you’ve missed some of the strawberry seeds in your strawberry jam?” She asked, carefully inserting the device she held into the middle of the apple. Sam’s brows furrowed and he turned his head in Sophia’s direction.

“Excuse me?” He said, eyes growing wide at her statement. She giggled softly, cutting the apple in half and picked it up, running the peeler over the outer layer of the fruit.

“When I first started buying your jam the strawberry one was always kind of grainy? Then I realized there were seeds that had slipped through into the jam but it’s okay it was still good jam. Now how do you cut this?” She asked, placing the now peeled apple half down against the cutting board. Sam’s jaw fell slightly agape, his eye never leaving her side profile as he scooped up the knife off of the counter and rested his hand against the fruit.

“So what you’re saying is, is that I’ve been selling gross jam and no one’s told me?” He quipped, raising his eyebrows and pursed his lips in her direction. She turned her head slightly, cutting him a side long glance and giggled as she took in the expression on his face.

“No, it’s not gross it… it gives it character is all. It was still good jam.” She leaned forward slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his dramatically pursed lips. He shook his head lightly and turned so he was facing the counter. He sliced the apple very thin and placed the knife down in favor of picking up an apple slice.

“It gives it character, what is it the official jam of fucking Camp Green Lake? See how thin this is? Try and slice the rest of the apple just like this, it’ll boil faster and cook evenly.”

Sophia nodded her head gently and picked up the knife off of the counter. Sam’s eyes brightened as he stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around her body and shadowed her hands with his. She watched as he took her hand and placed it gently against the apple, curling her fingers in just the right manner.

“Now cut it, place the blade right up against your nail and cut.” His voice was soft as he spoke directly into her ear.

Sophia’s eyes fluttered shut as her body reacted to his breath fanning across her neck and his voice dancing directly in her ear. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before moving the hand that held the knife and sliced the apple just as thinly as he did.

She placed the knife back down on the counter and rested her head back against his shoulder. A soft smile tugged at the corner of Sam’s lips as he took the knife and gently removed her hand from the fruit.

“See, just like that, sweet girl. The thinner you slice it the easier it cooks so instead of boiling the whole apple for forty minutes you can boil the slices for half the time and get the same results. And then you blend it, strain it, jar it and voila! Delicious jam.” Sam rambled, placing the knife down against the counter as he finished cutting the apple.

A soft smile tugged at Sophia’s lips as she spun where she stood and reach up, wrapping her arms gently around Sam’s neck. He rested his hands against her waist, the apple they had been slicing clearly forgotten. Sam’s eyes found hers and a soft chuckle escaped him at how her eyes were glazed over and she looked almost drunk.

“I love when you talk about your passions, y’know? I love that you share them and take the time to teach me things about them. It’s almost like… you want me to share your passions.” She said, letting her fingers dance lazily over the back of his neck.

“Of course I want you to share in my passions. I want to be able to turn to you and say oh we’re making this jam or this pastry today, are you in?” Sam chuckled, resting his forehead against hers.

“I mean, that’s why I started making all the little goodies for Rosie. I may not fully understand your jam but I can make Rose a mean meal and some snacks.” Sam’s eyes lit up at the mention of her dog treats and he lifted his head, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.

“I want you to start selling at my booth - I’m sure the patrons would love everything you’ve made for Rosie for their own furry friends. We just have to figure out a cat treat and you’ll be in business. And then in the winter you can sell your crochet rather than the pet goods.”

Sophia’s eyes grew wide and a sheen of tears clouded over them. She reached up and cupped his cheeks in her hands, running her thumbs over the apples of his cheeks before pressing up onto her toes and capturing her lips with his.

“Say that again.” She mumbled against his lips, disbelief of what she heard washing over her. He chuckled lightly and nodded against her.

“Sell the pet goods you make, at my booth. Cmon it’ll be fun!” A wide grin spread across Sophia’s face as she nodded enthusiastically.

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