#his voice really stands out to me so i can easily imagine it

[kittyandco-archive]

sometimes the only thing that can get you through is imagining your f/o softly telling you that it's okay, everything is okay, and that they're here for you through everything

[joelsgoldrush]

“guilty pleasure” | 8.6k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: After saving Earth-10005 from impending disaster, Wade convinces Logan, the alcoholic and easily irritated mutant, to stick around for a while. He’s convinced that nothing good can come out of this experience, until he meets you: the charming bartender with a soft spot for swearing that matches his own. Suddenly, sticking around doesn’t seem so bad after all.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ fluff. drinking. dirty talk. slow-burnish. grumpy!logan x sunshine!reader. reader is really kind but cracks a lot of jokes. age gap (25 vs 200 - they’re basically the same age). oral sex (f receiving). fingering. finger sucking. soft dom!logan. wade being the funniest asshole. logan calls reader "kiddo/kid”.

A/N: HI! first of all, i'd like to thank you for all the support you showed me on my recent post. let me just tell you that i’m LOVING writing for logan. but none of this would be possible without YOU, so yeah, i fucking love y’all.

** regarding this story, i was planning on making it even longer, but writing these two has been so much fun, and i didn’t want it to end just like that (i have attachment issues as you may infer from this note). therefore, i’ve made the decision to write a second part to this fic, which will contain fluff and other stuff (you already know the drill). i don’t know when i’ll be posting it, but i’m sure it won’t take me that long.

*** i’m also working on other one shots (purely fluff/domesticity because i want this man to cradle me in his arms). anyway, i don’t know if anyone’s going to read this, but still, all I have to say is THANK YOU FOR READING MY WORKS! i hope you really like this silly story i made up :)

**** english is not my first language so if you come across any mistakes don’t hesitate to tell me :)

special recognition to @zloshy who allowed me to rant about my own fic 😭 the sweetest human ever

The bar is far from packed, but then again, it never truly is.

Studying your regulars has become your favorite hobby. Soon you end up knowing their names, the drinks they like, and what time they come through the door. It’s what happens when standing on your own two feet and refilling glasses lose all their charm. A part of you thinks you also do it to make them feel safe. No matter how much you try to deny it, you truly care about their well-being.

Is this your dream job? Nope. Definitely not. You’re pretty sure that holding some stranger’s hair while they empty their insides wasn’t on your bingo card for this year. But sadly money doesn’t grow on trees, and university isn’t going to pay itself. Plus, this was the only job in which your resume was not immediately rejected. It should also be stressed that the drunks happen to love you. 

Perhaps this isn’t the life you had always imagined for yourself, but you were getting closer to it. You’d often talk to Adam, a retired psychologist in his seventies. He was without a doubt one of the most loyal clients you’d ever encountered. In the past, he’d even given you free advice on some of your failed hookups. You once told him that in less than two years, you’d be just like him when you got your degree in Psychology. To your surprise, he replied: “You’ll be much better than me, doll. I’m a mess, can’t you see it? You don’t wanna be like me,” his voice was hardly above a whisper as he continued. “I should be at my daughter’s birthday right now, but I didn’t get an invitation this year. Believe me, you don’t want to end up like this old man.” 

Like Adam, most of the men who frequented the bar day-to-day saw it as an opportunity to hide within the shadows. In comparison to the other pubs in the area, the one you work at doesn’t receive that much attention from the general public. A dimly lit place where only music from the 80s is allowed. You’re certain that if a health inspector ever came down here, you’d be in serious problems. But hey, you know what they say: do not worry about tomorrow; instead, live in the now.

The atmosphere of the bar shifts dramatically as the main door slams shut with a resounding thud, pulling you abruptly out of your daydreaming. You turn to see who’s arrived, but as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re compelled to look away. Nevertheless, the brief glance you catch of the stranger’s features is enough for you to unlock your phone and send a quick text to your best friend. 

You:

cutie patootie alert

there’s this really handsome guy at the bar

i don’t think i’ve ever seen him before

i think i’m in love with him

my night just got a 100% better

Allison:

age

what does he look like

is he bald?

You:

he looks like he could be in his early fifties??? it’s hard to tell UGH i wish you were here

brown hair, beard, 6’2 if i’m not wrong 

i didn’t stare at him for too long

otherwise that would’ve been very weird

and no he’s not fucking bald

that happened only once and i was not aware of that gentleman’s lack of hair 

Allison:

so you’re dating retired now

get it grandma!

You:

oh fuck you allison 

Allison: 

it’s okay girl we all have our flaws

just make sure it’s nobody’s father

wait it’s not mine right?

You:

nah your dad’s way hotter don’t you worry about it

Allison:

bitch 

Even with the music blasting through the speakers that are attached to the ceiling, you can still hear the low murmur and the whispers. The mysterious stranger seems to have attracted the attention of the other patrons, some of whom have even raised their phones to take photos. Your eyebrows draw together. Why would they do something like this, approaching the man as if he were a celebrity? Since curiosity never fails to kill the cat, you decide to get involved.

“Do I have somethin’ on my face?” you hear him ask the crowd, his raspy voice making your knees wobbly. He sounds enraged. You step on your tiptoes, trying to see what all the fuss is about, albeit it’s pretty hard considering how these men are caging him with their bodies.

The glow of a phone’s flashlight catches your attention, and suddenly, a chair is dragged without much elegance. “Enough of that, y’hear me?”

Enter you now. “Okay, gentlemen, I’m sorry. I’m gonna need you to make some space for me, alright?” you mumble as you gently push them aside. “Thank you, thank you. Y’all can be real sweethearts when you put your minds to it.”

Then you spot him, and it becomes clear why everyone is making such a fuss. 

Gary, your worst client ever, steps forward. His nasty breath clouds your senses as he rests one of his sweaty hands on your shoulder. “Doll, it’s the fucking Wolverine. Don’t ask him for a picture, though. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for that.”

The last thing you needed to see today was a fight (despite your knowledge of who would be the winner). You locate yourself amidst them, shaking your head like a disappointed mother, so as to add a tiny bit of drama to the situation.

“Guys, what you’re doing here is completely inappropriate. I thought I’d taught you better. Imagine if I were to pull this crap on you. You wouldn’t have it.”

Adam presses his lips together, flushing a bit. “She does have a point.” 

“Thank you, peanut. You’re still my favorite,” you flash him an honest smile. Scrutinizing the rest of the men, you continue with your speech. “You can still make up for it and fill my tip jar all the way to the top. Deal?” they all scoff, barking their disagreement. “Oh, you don’t like the sound of that? Then leave him alone, okay? Class dismissed! Back to your places,” you clap your hands repeatedly, signaling them to go away. “Chop chop. All this alcohol won’t be drinking itself.”

Just like that, everything goes back to normal in the blink of an eye. Wolverine sits back down in his chair, leaning closer to the table and resting both elbows on it. He examines you, lifting his chin while his brown eyes take in every inch of you.

“Thank you,” he utters, his eyes still trained on your features. 

“No need to. It’s what I’m here for,” you point to your work clothes, which consist of an antiqued apron and a silly sticker that has your name written on it. “Can I get you anything to drink? It’s also Burger Night. You can get one for half the usual price.”

(No. It’s not fucking Burger Night. You just happen to find yourself deeply attracted to him.)

He doesn’t seem too eager to hear you talk. “Not hungry at the moment. But I could use some whiskey.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, kid. Very sure.” Well, now he does look annoyed.

“Great. I’ll be back in a minute,” you move as if you were in a race, returning to him after a hot minute. Setting his glass down on the table, you fill it with some old whiskey you don’t even know the name of. Still, he omits that detail, gulping down two-fingers of whiskey as if it were water. “I see you’re thirsty.”

“Could you leave the bottle here?” those brown puppy eyes are begging you to do as he says, and although you’d be happy to oblige, rules are rules. 

“Actually, I can’t. The bottle stays on the counter. But you can always join me at the front,” your proposal doesn’t appear to have the desired effect on him. “I won’t talk to you if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he rubs his neck, drawing a long breath as he stands up. 

You can feel many pairs of eyes searing into your soul. The others ask you for more drinks and you pour them, pricking up your ears when you hear them talking about him.

“What a weirdo. Didn’t you see it on TV? He’s not even from this universe,” Gary explains, looking for accomplices to hate on Wolverine. “Let me tell y’all something: he shouldn’t even be here. He’s fucking dead on this earth.”

Yeah… that you knew.

It had been all over the news for weeks. Some would even swear that he was back from the dead, but that was until the representatives from the TVA spoke their truth. If someone would’ve told you a month ago that multiple universes were a thing, you would’ve laughed in their face.

As if that weren’t already difficult to process, your mind does the job of reminding you that there’s a man with metal claws sitting a few meters away from you. Despite that, you can’t seem to be scared of him. There’s something magnetic about his personality and that don’t-come-near-me-or-there-will-be-consequences expression that he has. Why had you promised not to speak to him? Dammit.

“I can hear your thoughts,” a muscle in his jaw twitches after knocking back another glass of whiskey. He squeezes his eyes shut before tapping the table with two fingers, silently asking for a refill.

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk,” you raise one of your eyebrows, and you behold how the corners of his mouth turn up for an instant. “I can assure you your liver hates you.”

“Alcohol won’t kill me, so don’t be afraid. Keep ‘em coming.”

For nearly twenty minutes, he does nothing but drink. He attempts to light a cigar at some point, and you stop him. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“No special treatment?” he inquires, placing the cigar between his parted lips and tilting his head back. He’s so… dreamy. He has to know it.

“I saved your ass today. The least you can do is not cause me any trouble.”

His eyes widen at your words, blinking owlishly. “You saved my what?”

“Your goddamn ass. You were about to start a fight.”

“Blame the idiots you have for clients,” he says, jerking his thumb toward your direction. “I was just mindin’ my own business. They came for me, not the other way around.”

“Look, Wolvie. I–”

“Wolvie?” giving a bitter laugh, he rams a hand through his hair. “That’s the worst nickname I’ve heard in a long time,” he looks at you through his lashes, getting rid of his leather jacket. “It’s Logan.”

“Wow. Your name is very boybandish.”

You succeed in making him laugh once again. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to observe his face without feeling like you were just about to get caught. He has deep creases and worry lines etched between his eyebrows, a brown beard that perfectly frames his jaw, and a few white hairs scattered in his sideburns. Pearly teeth that go hand in hand with one of the most impeccable smiles you’ve ever seen, and a pair of brown eyes that make you feel weak in the knees. You know for a fact that he’s a lot older than you; his exact age remains a mystery, but his appearance is enough for you to start fantasizing.

Shit, you want him. You should feel sickened by the mere thought of being with him. He was born God knows when, has lived hundreds of years. Still, the idea of tracing his cheekbones with your fingers while lying on his chest doesn’t leave you. This is fucked up. You are fucked up. A fucked up Psychology student. The joke is pretty much self-explanatory.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, you preening slut. Can’t even bother to answer my calls now?”

The tension between you shatters like a glass dropped onto the floor. He doesn’t dare to look in the direction of the owner of that voice, not even as the seat next to him gets taken. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Wade, what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“It hasn’t been exactly easy, raising our kid on my own. I don’t even have money to hire a babysitter, Lo. I spent nine months carrying your child, and for what? You end up going after a bartender,” the masked man turns to you, giving a sly wink. “No offense, baby. You must be a real sweetheart. In fact, do you want my number? The name’s Wade, but you can call me whatever you like.”

“You dumb fuck. Are you flirtin’ with her?”

“No shit, smartass. You’re the future of this country.”

A soft giggle escapes you despite your attempt to hold it back. You take a step back, admiring the two men. “Well, aren’t you two a beautiful couple?”

“You should see our little munchkin. He’s got my eyes and Logan’s hair. His first word was gubernatorial.”

“Would you like to have a drink while you’re here?”

“A beer would be great. Thank you, sugarbear. You’re the cutest,” Wade sinks back into his chair, resting his chin on his palm. He jerks his head in Logan’s direction, bumping his shoulder. “She’s the cutest. Are you two together?”

Logan rubs his forehead, speaking through gritted teeth. “How did you find me?”

“It's the power of love, baby. I had It’s All Coming Back To Me Now on repeat for hours. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Handing Wade a cold beer, your eyes scan Logan’s face. “I didn’t know patience was your strongest suit.”

“Me neither.”

“Enough of that! I can’t stand not being included in a conversation,” Wade throws his hands in the air, and you look at him. “There you are. So, what about you? Are you even allowed to be here? Did bars change their policies?”

You can’t help but snort. “I’m 25.”

Wade looms closer, lowering his voice. “Now that I think about it, you could totally be Logan’s caretaker. He’s been having some issues recently, given his age. Do you… know anything about adult diapers?”

But then Logan’s face contorts, turning crimson. He rises from his seat, grabbing Wade’s arm. “That’s it. We’re leavin’,” his eyes lock on you for a moment. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

The things you’re willing to do for a man, right? You should be ashamed of yourself.

(But you aren’t.)

His mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Kiddo, are you–”

“Completely sure,” you finish his sentence for him, bowing your head and clasping your arms behind your body. A tight-lipped smile takes over you. “Just don’t tell my boss.”

Wade shifts his gaze back and forth between Logan and you. “I usually don’t mind third-wheeling, but I sort of feel left out.”

“I’m gonna sew your mouth shut, Wade.”

“Oh, come on! I was just making small talk,” the masked man tries to excuse himself while Logan pushes him towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sunshine. I’m free on Thursdays. Hit me up if his whiskey dick fails to impress you! Mine’s way more agile and young!”

As you watch them leave the bar, you remain frozen in your place amidst the clamor of ongoing chatter and clinking glasses.

What the fuck had just happened?

“Patrick’s normally the first one to get wasted during weekends,” you explain to the blonde woman sitting in front of you, and she writes that information down in her notebook. “He can usually handle himself, but at some point, he’ll try to call his ex-wife, and that’s when you know you need to stop serving him.”

She clicks her tongue, the color draining out of her face. “This is… definitely a lot to remember. I think I already forgot half of what you said.”

You shake your head, shoving your hands in your pockets. “You’ll get used to it, believe me. I’ll be with you at all times, so if you have any doubts, just ask me.”

After a whole year of working solo at the bar, you finally get to have a coworker: Gwen, a mother of two teenagers in her forties. You had met her at the grocery store, and in the process of helping her find a specific brand of cookies, you found out that she had recently lost her job. One thing led to another, and now she’s your trainee.

Your savior complex strikes again!

It has been four days since your first encounter with Logan. The thought that he could show up at any moment makes your heart race and your hands sweat. Allison had received countless voice messages where you narrated the entire experience in full detail. 

Touching your arm softly, Gwen’s face lights up. “Another man came in. Is he a regular? I don’t think you told me about him.”

Fuck, it’s him. Manifesting does work wonders. He locks eyes with you and raises a hand in greeting.

“Leave this one to me,” you tell her as your feet take you to where Logan’s sitting, contemplating the way in which his leather jacket hugs his wide frame. “Long time no see.”

“Hey, kid,” he grins. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Nobody has puked yet, so that’s a good thing,” you crinkle your nose, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Whiskey?”

“You know me so well,” a smirk takes place in his lips, and he smiles cockily. “Though this time, I won’t be leavin’ without payin’.”

“We’ll see about that,” you go back to your usual spot behind the counter, looking for a glass. Your cheeks kind of hurt from smiling so hard. Next to you, Gwen studies your reaction to seeing Logan. “Is that your boyfriend?”

You almost drop the whiskey bottle. “God, no. He’s not my boyfriend. Barely know the guy.”

“It’s funny,” she says, raising her eyebrows with a knowing look, as if she knows something you don’t. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you since he arrived.”

“It’s probably because of this,” you reply, lifting the bottle in her direction before pouring a small amount into a glass. Just as you’re about to walk over to him, a girl slides into the sit beside him, her long blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. She’s wearing a stunning red dress and black heels. You wonder if she’s a model, because she certainly looks like one.

Her hand creeps up his arm, fingernails scraping against the worn leather. Although Logan’s expression is hard to read, he doesn’t even flinch.

“You know what? Here’s his drink– You take care of it. I’ll stay here,” you don’t give Gwen a chance to talk back, instead staying behind the bar, engaging in small talk with other clients. 

“Doll, are you okay?” Adam asks you after noticing you struggling to open a beer bottle. He takes it from your hands and opens it with ease. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Adam. I’m fine, never been better. Why you ask?

“You sure?”

“Affirmative.”

“You mixed up our drinks,” he explains in his most psychologist-like voice. “This never happens to you. Michael has my wine, and I’ve got his martini.”

“Fuck! I’m so sorry. I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you chew on your bottom lip, rubbing your temples. “I feel stupid.”

“Oh, please. Don’t say that. You’re far from being stupid,” he sits up straight, reaching for your fingers and giving them an apologetic squeeze. “If you ask me, I think you’ve got your mind on someone else,” he must notice how you visibly get tense because he adds: “Remember: I know when you’re lying. You didn’t charge him the other day, which means that you must really like him,” taking a tentative sip of the martini he didn’t even ordered, Adam shrugs. “I’m a great observer. That’s all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the blonde girl from before returning to where her friends are chatting. Logan is left alone, and you watch him grab his glass and head towards the counter.

“As I said, your mind’s somewhere else,” Adam sighs, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. “Go get your man. I’ll survive.”

“Not my man. But thanks, older-and-wiser-version-of-cupid.”

Pretending not to have seen Logan, you continue with your work. He remains silent for some minutes before finally saying: “Hi.”

Hi? It sounds so out of character for him.

“Hey, claws,” you force a smile, still avoiding to meet his gaze. “Do you need anything?”

Logan points to his empty glass, like a toddler asking for more cereal. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

“I thought you were busy over there,” you say, surprisingly managing to sound nonchalant, despite the jealousy bubbling underneath your friendly tone. “Did you get her number?”

“What? No.”

“Why not? She’s cute.”

Yeah, maybe you don’t sound as collected as you think.

Whether Logan notices it or not, he chooses not to mention it. He folds his arms over his chest, fixing his brown eyes on you. “I’m not interested.”

“And what is it that interests you, champ?” your question elicits a low chuckle from him. Just as he opens his mouth to seemingly reply, Gwen appears out of nowhere to ask you about the price of a certain drink. Your gaze shifts between her and Logan, who remains focused on you while sipping his drink.

After that, Gwen leaves. The man in front of you goes poker-faced, pursing his lips, and his abrupt change in demeanor alarms you. “Wade wants to have dinner tomorrow at his apartment– well, our apartment. I live with him now. It’s complicated,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, and you laugh. “Anyway, he asked me to tell you that you’re invited. I know we don’t know each other that much, but… he said you seem like someone worth havin’ around,” he mumbles awkwardly, eyes downcast. “I think the same as well.”

You could die at peace.

“You’re a lucky fucker because I don’t work on Sundays,” you quip, smiling. “I’d be more than happy to attend your feast.”

“Great. I thought you would turn down the invitation.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“‘Cause you barely know me– us,” he corrects himself rapidly. “Plus, Wade’s annoying as hell when he puts his mind to it. You’ll see.”

“Marital problems?” he actually in response. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Oh, I’ll bring the dessert.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I do want to,” you tilt your head in an effort to hide your longing for him.

“Just want to get under my skin, huh? I can see why Wade likes you,” Logan beams, reaching out to tuck a $100 bill into the pocket of your apron. “The tip’s included.”

“I don’t know how things work in your universe, but you’re giving me way more money than you’re supposed to. I can't accept this.”

“Oh, but you will,” his gravelly voice fucks your system up, and you’re glad he can’t see how you squeeze your legs together behind the bar.

He writes down Wade’s address on a random napkin, holding his breath as he stands up. “I should get goin’. See you tomorrow then.”

Before he walks out the door, you stop him. “Logan? You didn’t answer my other question.”

His back shakes momentarily with laughter. Turning around to face you, his stare leaves you even more confused. “Good night, doll.”

This is becoming a habit: every time he goes away, you feel as though you’ve just run a marathon with no water available. Your mouth is completely dry, your fingers are numb and there’s a knot in your stomach that’s becoming all too familiar.

“Would you mind telling me where you got him?” Gwen’s voice makes you almost jump out of your skin.

“He’s not from around here. I think he’s Canadian.”

You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

Knocking softly on Wade’s door, you step back, the container holding the tiramisu cold to your touch. It’s your first time trying out this recipe, so you’re expecting it to at least not taste like shit.

Wade answers the apartment door, acting surprised when you remain silent. “Well, look what the wind blew in: if it isn’t my husband’s lover. How dare you? We’re still going to couples therapy.”

You show him the container, and he squints at it. “Tiramisu. You want it or not?”

“I hate twenty-somethings,” he says with a defeated sigh, stepping aside to let you into the apartment. 

Leaving your purse on the nearest surface, you scan the living room, wondering where Logan might be. There’s a small mirror beneath the couch, and you check yourself for the hundredth time tonight. “Don’t get too excited. He’s still showering,” Wade’s voice rings in your ears, and you turn to look at him, your eyebrows knitted. “Yeah. I noticed. You’re already drooling over that big piece of metal between his legs.”

“Keep quiet!” you cover his mouth with your palm, noticing the scarred state of his skin up close. “Wade, you fucking dog. Are you licking my hand?”

“Couldn’t help it. You taste like mascarpone cheese and espresso.”

Then Logan emerges from the bathroom, with only a white towel draped around his waist. Droplets of water fall from his wet hair, tracing the muscle of his abs, ending somewhere beneath his happy trail. Your eyes keep flickering between him and his torso until he clears his throat. “I thought you were comin’ later.”

“Me too, but I…,” you trail off, your brain struggling to catch up, “I didn’t know what else to do at my place.”

“It’s fine. Just– let me put on some clothes.”

“Please don’t,” Wade murmurs next to you, but Logan only scoffs. “I was just being honest. Communication is key.”

When Wade and you are alone again, he lets out a harsh breath. “That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. My pants are really tight right now.”

“Thin walls, buddy!” Logan shouts from his bedroom, earning a laugh from you. 

Like A Prayer starts playing. Wade moves his hips to the beat, getting lost in the melody. “Is that your phone?”

“Yeah, but I always take a few seconds to dance to it. Such a banger!” he says, then picks up his phone, accepting the call. “Hey, Ness! What´s up?” Wade covers the speaker before telling you: “It’s Vanessa. My ex-girlfriend. We fuck once a week, sometimes even twice.”

From behind, Logan nudges your arm with his, looking at you. ”Hey, kid.”

“No, I’m not busy at all,” Wade exclaims, grabbing his crotch and thrusting into the air. “I’ll be there in ten, cupcake. See you,” he spreads his arms wide and whistles. “Someone’s getting laid tonight!”

“You made me come all the way here… and now you’re leaving?”

“What? My friend Wolverine wanted to invite you over. I just had to provide the apartment,” in one quick movement, he presses a kiss to your cheek, then does the same to Logan. “Shave yourself, will you?”

“Go fuck yourself, will you?”

“Love you too, honey. Hope you two lovebirds have a good night, because I know I will!”

Wade throws a wink over his shoulder before heading out, the apartment going dead silent. Logan and you stand frozen, staring at each other, although he quickly drops his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact. A giggle threatens to escape you: he wanted to see you. Could he possibly enjoy your company as much as you enjoy his?

Logan watches the spot where Wave had just been. The absence of his chaotic energy makes the room feel strangely empty now. He coughs lightly, the sound awkwardly loud in the quiet room.

“So... I, uh, bought pizza,” he says, his voice a little too casual, as if trying to cover up his nervousness. Averting his eyes, he focuses on the pizza boxes on the table.

You catch the hesitation in his tone, your curiosity piqued by his discomfort. Tilting your head, a teasing smile forms on your lips. “Pizza, huh? You sure know how to impress a girl.”

Logan chuckles, the sound strained, as he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I figured it was a safe choice. Didn’t want to ruin it, y’know?”

You move closer to the table, the warmth from the pizza boxes radiating against your hands as you open one of them. The rich smell of melted cheese and pepperoni fills the air, a comforting scent that makes your stomach growl softly. “Thank you. I’m a big fan of pizza.”

He sits in the chair across from you, taking a bite of his slice. You watch him quietly, your own thoughts churning. The truth of his origins had been a shock at first, but now, it just made you want to know more about the man. What was his life like in the other universe? Did he miss it? Was he happier here, or was he longing to return?

“Logan…,” you begin, your tone gentle but probing, “Can I ask you something?”

He glances up at you, eyes widening. There’s something in your eyes –an understanding, maybe– that makes him feel like you could see right through him. 

“Sure,” he replies, trying to sound more at ease than he really feels. “Ask away.”

You hesitate for a moment, not wanting to push too hard. “I was wondering... would it be okay if I asked you some questions? About, you know, your life. Where you're from.”

The bite of pizza suddenly feels heavy in his mouth. He hadn’t talked much about his world, not even with Wade. Partly because it was too painful, and partly because he wasn’t sure how to explain how things turned out for him. He nods slowly, setting his slice down. “Yeah, it's okay. I’ll answer what I can.”

“I just... I want to understand you better.”

“Well, first and foremost, I’m no hero. You should know that by now.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Kid, I’m the worst Logan. A complete failure. Of all the variants out there, Wade just had to pick the one despised by every living soul on his earth,” Logan looks away, his voice low and heavy. You’re wondering if doing this was a good idea. “I need a drink.”

He gets up and you follow him into the kitchen. He rummages through the fridge, in search of a cold beer. Meanwhile, you attempt to find the right words. “I don’t think–”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, three metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. A gasp catches in your throat as he uses his claws to pierce the beer can, drinking from the punctured holes. Once he’s done, he goes back to staring at you. Your gaze, on the other hand, is still glued to the now-empty beer can. “What?” he asks, exhaling slowly.

“That was completely unnecessary,” you mutter, and he lets out a bitter chuckle, tossing the can into the trash. “But, back to what you said before– I don’t think you’re the worst Logan.”

“You didn’t know me back then, darlin’. I fucked it up,” he leans against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Like the Logan from this universe, I once belonged to the X-Men too. I remember that Scott used to beg me to wear my suit. So did Jean, Storm, Beast– All of them,” his gaze grows more distant, and you can tell that memories are flooding his mind. “Wanted me to be part of the team, but I wouldn’t do it. Told them they looked fucking ridiculous.”

The pizza’s long forgotten. You take the risk and get a bit closer to him, your eyes never leaving his. 

Logan’s silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again. “One day, while I was off on my own, the humans came. They went mutant hunting.”

Your heart clenches at the pain in his voice. He still remembers everything as if it had happened yesterday. “I can guess the rest. You don’t have to–”

But he cuts you off. “No, let me say it. I need to say it,” he takes a deep breath, lowering his head. “By the time I stumbled home, shit-faced from the bar, it was too late. They were dead. They called after me and I walked away.”

Reaching out, your hand gently brushes against his. He doesn’t pull away, but instead searches for your eyes. “My suit's all I've got to remind me of who they were. What I did. I found them and they were… dead. I started killing, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I turned the whole world against the X-Men.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, knowing there’s nothing you can do to change how he feels. “You’re not a bad person, Logan,” he shakes his head, mumbling something you can’t quite catch. “I mean it. What happened back then doesn’t define you. You took the blame for their deaths upon yourself. I can tell you loved them deeply, and I’ll never fully understand the pain you feel. I wish I could. I wish I could take it away, make you forget somehow, but I can’t. That’s not how life works. But you got your second chance: you saved this world. My world,” gently cupping his face in your hands, you allow your fingers to caress his cheeks. He leans into your touch, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “You’re my hero. I’m your biggest fan– after Wade, obviously, which is a lot to say.”

He grins, letting out a laugh. “Easy there, bub.”

“Should I give you some space?”

That’s the last thing he wants from you right now. You already know that as he looks you up and down, placing his hands on the small of your back, his thumbs drawing small circles on your skin. There’s no turning back– The warmth between you feels almost like a fever dream. “For a long time, all I wanted was to disappear. I couldn’t stand waking up every morning, knowing that another day awaited me.”

“And what happened?” your breath mingles with his, his closeness becoming nearly intoxicating. “What changed?”

“I met a pretty girl at a pub, that’s what happened,” he murmurs, his dilated pupils flicking up to meet your gaze. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Do all your kisses come with a warning?”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

You don’t have time to respond because he kisses you there and then. His stubble scrapes your skin as your mouths meet again and again, needy hands that hold you as if you were prone to breaking. Logan licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours and swallowing every one of your whimpers.

“So this is what it takes to shut you up, huh?” he murmurs against your lips. You can feel him smiling, and it makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Keep talking and you won’t get a single bite of my tiramisu,” you tease him, kissing him again, the taste of beer numbing your senses. “I really like kissing you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, but now that you’ve mentioned that tiramisu…”

“Am I that easily replaced?”

“No. You’re just a pain in the ass.”

Jokes aside, you’re as happy as a clam.

Since that night you and Logan kissed, you’ve been living your best life. Like a freaking schoolgirl with a crush. Some things never seem to change.

He hasn’t been to the bar in three days. Yes, you’re counting them. No, you haven’t lost your mind. You want to see him, but there’s something about making the first move that gives you the chills. What would his reaction be if you showed outside of apartment?

It’s been a long time since you’ve been with anybody. On top of that, all the guys you’ve dated were your age. Being with someone that older than you certainly wasn’t no your plans. You’d be lying if you said that the mere idea of being with him in that way didn’t excite you.

Oh boy, you miss him. You miss his scruffy voice, his gorgeous hair. And you two aren’t even official yet. To be honest, you don’t even know what he wants from you. Is he even the type to be in a relationship?

“Nighty night, gentlemen,” you say to Gary and his friends as you find yourself in front of them, smoothing your apron. Gwen had called in sick tonight, so it’s just you at the bar babysitting a bunch of grown-men.

“What’s up, doll? You’ve forgotten about us. We miss you coming in here to chat,” Gary’s eating his burger at the same time he speaks, something you find repulsive, but you’ve seen worse. “Y’know, I’d love to take you out someday. I have a place you’d like.”

The other men laugh and punch him in the back, just boosting his ego. Pathetic. 

“I’ll let you know when I’m free,” you reply with the most polite smile you can offer, intending to go on. “What are you having tonight?”

“You always pull that shit, baby. I don’t think you’re so busy that you can’t accept a date.”

You hate the way he’s looking at you, as if you were wrong for not being interested. As if you didn’t know any better.

“You’re reading minds now? Shocking, Gary.”

“Oh, doll. That attitude of yours shows you’ve never been with a real man like me, that’s all,” he leans back in his chair, resting one of his arms on the table and the other one near his crotch, manspreading. “It’s alright. I like you bratty.”

“I’ll be back when you finally have something to order,” you attempt to turn around but he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. Your eyes lock, and he seems to enjoy this: being in control. Like a predator hunting his prey. “Come on, Gary. I don’t want to have to kick you out.”

“It’s not that you don't like me, right? You’ve already got your mouth full.”

“Careful.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re not fucking that useless mutant. I see you like ‘em older. Pretty little things like you drive me wild.”

You laugh in his face, showing him your teeth. “It was never about your age, Gary. You’re right: I do like them older. I’m just not into bald, vertically-challenged pricks.”

His entourage of idiots goes silent after that. He looks up at you, eyes burning with hatred. His grip on your wrist tightens, probably leaving a mark. “Fucking bitch.”

“Get your hands off her.”

Logan’s voice forces the two of you to look in his direction. It seems that he’s just arrived at the pub, his jacket still on. 

“You joining us? We’re just getting started here, big boy.”

“Did you not hear me?” Logan lunges forward, his nose almost touching Gary’s. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Easy there, cowboy. I’m just having a chat with your girl. She’s one of the good ones, I’ll give you that,” arching a sly brow, his forehead puckers. “You don’t like sharing? We can even take turns.”

Logan clenches his jaw, lips set in a grim line. “Say one more word, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’ll give you a full sentence instead: can you even get it up?” 

The tension in the air is thick, every second stretching out as Logan's anger simmers dangerously close to the surface. Gary’s smug grin only makes it worse, pushing him to the edge. Before you can react, Logan’s fist swings forward, connecting with Gary’s jaw with a sickening crack. Gary staggers back, realising your wrist. Blood seeps from his nose, his white shirt becoming stained with it. “You fucker! You broke my nose!”

“We’re just getting started here, big boy,” Logan mocks him, repeating his previous words.

“Stop!” you shout, moving quickly to grab his arm, trying to pull him back. But he’s beyond hearing, his rage blinding him to everything else. He shakes you off, and with a fierce growl, drives another punch into Gary’s stomach. The latter doubles over, gasping for air, the wind knocked out of him. He then falls to the floor, curling into a ball. People start to gather around you, and soon your beloved bar becomes a box ring.

“That’s enough, Logan! He’s barely conscious,” you murmur under your breath, stepping between them, hands up in a desperate attempt to create some space. Logan pauses, chest heaving, fists still clenched, as he finally looks at you. The wildness in his eyes starts to fade, replaced by a dawning realization of what he’s done.

“He deserved it,” he nods vigorously to himself, as if trying to explain his point. “He was hurting you.”

“If you keep that up, you’re going to kill him. My bar is not a fucking cemetery,” your voice trembles a little bit, expecting to talk some sense into him. “I won’t let you do this.”

The room is quiet now, the only sound being Logan’s heavy breathing as he stands there, still tense, still processing. You turn to Gary’s friends, cold fury in your eyes. “Get him out of here,” you watch as they haul him up, practically dragging him to the door. The other clients continue to stare at Logan, their mouths hanging open. “Everybody out, right now! Go home. We’re closing earlier tonight.”

Adam is the last person to leave, slamming the door behind him. You rush to the counter, searching for a mop to clean the fresh blood off the floor. Still agitated, the images of Logan hitting Gary flash in your mind. He approaches you from behind, his fingers circling your forearm. “Bub–”

“Don’t. Now is not the time.”

“I was protecting you.”

“I told you to stop, and you didn’t. You just shook me off,” you snap, glancing at his knuckles which are not even bruised. Slamming your eyes shut, you get to your feet and wash your hands in the sink, the remaining water becoming reddish for a moment.

Logan moves closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. He wraps his arms lazily around your middle section. ”I’m sorry.”

You turn in his arms, your back flushed against the sink and your nose in the air. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“But– Jesus, Logan. You could’ve come sooner. I thought you regretted what happened the other day,” you say and the muscles in his face twitch, his body stiffening at your words. “Thought you no longer wanted me.”

“No, bub. I– I still want you. I want all of you, trust me,” he murmurs, and you allow him to press his body against yours, the scent of the cigar he must have smoked recently enveloping your senses. “I just… don’t know how to do this. I have a habit of ruining things, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to be with you without hurting you.”

“Pushing me away also hurts,” your eyes flick up to meet his gaze again, and he whispers under his breath. “I can’t read your mind. You need to tell me what’s going on in that ancient skull of yours.”

His face falters, flashing you a mischievous look. His hand creeps under the fabric of your shirt, fingernails scrapping against your spine. “I’m sorry, princess. I truly am.”

“You can’t just say ‘sorry’ with that voice and expect me to–”

You’re cut off by his lips crashing down onto yours. You melt into the kiss, unable to deny what your body has been craving for the past days. 

“I thought your kisses came with a warning,” you say, detaching your mouth from his, a smile spreading uncontrollably in your face as you see his toothy grin.

“Shut up and kiss me, will you?”

In a clash of tongues and teeth, your mouths meet once again. Tugging the hair at his nape, you feel him growl against your lips. His strong hands trace every curve of your body, kneading the flesh of your hips and undoing the knot at the back of your apron. You’re becoming one with the sink, but in a moment like this, you couldn’t care less. Logan’s hard on nudges your lower stomach, and he ruts against you like an animal.

“You said you wanted to know what’s on my mind, right?” his teeth nibble on the skin of your neck, syrupy voice going straight to your core. “Well, I’d love nothing more than to touch you right now.”

“Right here? On the counter?”

“Yeah, on the fucking counter,” he grabs you by your thighs, hosting you up and placing your body on top of the cold bar. He nudges your knees apart, his bulge meeting your clothed cunt deliciously. “Will you let me, baby? Can I make you come in here?”

“Please. I’m glad we have such a low budget. Camera installment is t–too expensive these days.”

“Do you always talk this much?” he slowly unbuttons your pants, and you help him to remove them.

“Yes. Next question,” your breath hitches in your throat as you feel the pad of his thumb circling your clit through your panties. Your eyelids drop, your head lolling back. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Logan hums, mesmerized with the way your hips roll into his hand, your whimpers sounding like music to his ears. “You have any idea how I felt when I saw him touching you? Wanted to rip his hands off you,” his eyes drift to your chest, how it rises and falls with impatience. “But it’s me who gets to have you like this. He can fantasize about you all he wants: I’m the only one who touches you, ain’t I right?” you sigh with content as his fingers graze your slit, aimlessly bucking your hips. He doesn’t go any further, and you tug at the collar of his flannel, needing more of his callousand hands on you. “Nuh-uh. You want something, you gotta use your words. Got it?”

“I w–want your fingers inside me,” you don’t even recognize your own voice at this point. The few guys you had slept with had never been very talkative during sex. But Logan isn’t like them. This is just the beginning and you’re already starting to realize that he has a dirty mouth, that expectant look on his face as he waits to see your reaction to his words. “Please, Logan. I want you so bad.”

“Oh, I know, bub. There’s something about me I don’t think you know,” he inserts one of his fingers in your cunt, your slick coating the palm of his hand. “These claws I have… they didn’t come on their own. Let’s just say my sense of smell is… pretty good,” Logan can almost see the gears turning in your head as you try to think coherently. He moves his middle finger in and out of you, stretching your walls. “And you… have been wet ever since the first time you saw me. Always nice to everybody, making sure they feel at ease,” you feel like you’re being stretched even further, another one of his fingers sinking into your warm pussy. “But you’re so needy, too. How long has it been since someone touched you like this?”

“Too long, f–fuck. Too long,” you’re squirming, a totally whiny mess. He retratcs his wet fingers and instead goes back to flicking your clit, this time with much less delicacy. His left hand squeezes your tits, and you hate the fact that you’re still wearing clothes. “Shit, Logan. I need you to fuck me. Please. Need your cock.”

His face comes to rest at your neck, and you feel lingering kisses and bites that keep you grounded to earth. “Not here. I need a bed to fuck you properly. You’re only getting my fingers now,” he positions them inches away from your entrance, testing your patience. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”

“L-logan–”

“Tell me and I’ll make you come,” his husky voice is making you dizzy, tears shimmering in your eyes. “Come on. Know you want it as much as I do.”

You succumb to the tentation, like divinity turned to sin. He kisses you roughly, and you struggle to find the correct words. “It’s you, Logan. You own my pussy. It’s f-fucking yours.”

With that, he goes back to nudging that spot that makes you see starts, that filthy squelching sound getting mixed up with your moans. The knot in your belly keeps growing tighter the more he pumps his fingers in and out of you. 

“I said you were only getting my fingers for now, but fuck… I need to gest a taste of this sweet cunt.”

He’s on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Your thighs tighten around his face as he licks a hot stripe up your folds, tracing a heated path on your cunt, not wishing to waste a single second. Pleasure builds quickly, your breath hitching as your hands find their way into his hair, pulling him closer when your body begins to tremble. 

“I’m close,” you pant, breathing hard, grinding your hips against his face. “I’m so close.”

“That’s it. Come in my mouth like the good girl you are.”

Who had given him a damn script for this?

The release is explosive. Like the peak of a roller coaster: you go up up up, ascending higher. You think you almost see Jesus, but at some point, you also have to crash down with force. Your shoulders slump, your entire body cramping up; yet he doesn’t let you go that easily, his fingers still working, scissoring within you while you ride out the final waves of your high, drawing out every last moment of ecstasy.

Once you finally manage to open your eyes, there he is, staring down at you. He taps your lower lip with his fingers, and then mutters: “Open.”

And you do, because you’re just as messed up as he is. Your mouth parts, and he slides his fingers between your lips, dragging them smoothly across your tongue. His knuckles brush the back of your throat, and you gag around the intrusion, tasting yourself. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, clearly satisfied with the way you’ve cleaned them off.

“I think we should really pay a visit to your apartment,” he suggests, groaning in defeat, and you feel his bulge poking your hip. He must be painfully hard. “I meant what I said earlier. I need a bed if we’re going to fuck. My back’s hurting.”

You raise an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curving into a smirk. “Why not go to yours?”

“Wade’s in there. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.”

You can’t help but laugh, pausing a moment to collect your thoughts, heat rising to your cheeks. “So we’re going rodeo?”

Aiming to silence up, Logan kisses you, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Only if you can handle it.”

part 2: “GIVE ME THE FIRST TASTE”

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

[ohbo-ohno]

animal, sick as they come

summary: Ghost has been starving his whole life. Never enough food to fill his stomach, never enough blood to cover his hands, always leaving him hungry and ready to snap. You’re the supposed solution to his problem, willing or not. (or: the kidnapped home chef au)

wc: 14.2k

cw: graphic nonconsensual sex, kidnapping but you’re lowkey chill about it, rough sex, pain play, dirty talk & light degradation, non-consensual spanking, rough/painful anal sex, gratuitous description of cooking/food written by someone who once lit a pot of boiling water on fire and is really just trying her best

read on ao3 - see the pinterest board

You may have never been kidnapped before, but you can’t imagine this is how it’s supposed to go.

The masked man looms in the doorway to the kitchen, shoulders so wide that he can’t stand in the opening properly because he wouldn’t even fit, the very top of his head hidden by the worn frame. He’s a beast of a man, hulking in every sense of the word, and you can’t help but wonder how he managed to sneak up on you in the first place. Surely you’re not that unaware of your surroundings? He’s easily 6’4, probably no less than three hundred pounds.

Not much time had passed since you’d woken in a dark room with a thudding pain between your temples, mouth dry and throat swollen. You were sure you’d been blindfolded at first, eyes dry and heavy, until ice-cold water splashed onto your face and your eyes flew open on instinct.

He’d just… been there. One minute you were walking home, trying to avoid large puddles and squinting through pouring rain, and the next you were shivering and scared, your captor towering over your crumpled and bound form.

You’d lost control of your bladder the moment the sight of him registered. He’d looked down, snorted, and lumbered away to find a hose. 

You’d been inconsolable when he told you to strip, shaking with your sobs and keeping your arms wrapped tight around your chest. Even when he’d grunted ‘m not gonna fuck you when you reek of fuckin’ piss, you hadn’t been able to calm enough to follow his demands. It was only when he’d reached up to run a hand over his face and his shirt lifted just enough for you to get a glimpse of the piece on his hip that you’d been snapped away from your panic.

You can see the shape of it now, tucked in its holster. You’re fucking terrified that at any moment he could pull it out and end your life, like that. It would take hardly any effort at all. Just a twitch of the finger and bam, you go from captive to corpse.

“How long’ll it be?” The man grunts, massive arms crossed over his chest, breaking you out of your fearful stupor. 

You blink at him, wide-eyed and silent. He’d given you clothes – clothes that fit, to your comfort and horror – so you’ve been spared the further indignity of forced nudity, but the extra layer doesn’t make you feel much safer. 

He dips his chin when you don’t answer, dark eyes boring into yours. That only makes you clam up more, joints stiff.

He huffs. “Dinner. When’re you gonna fuckin’ feed me, bird?”

You stare at him, baffled. “What?” It’s the first word you’ve said to him without sobbing, and your voice trembles, shrill and weak.

He steps forward, angling his shoulders to fit into the room, fuck, and you skitter back, pressing yourself to the wooden cabinets. They’re tall, taller than the countertops in any house you’ve ever lived in, and the lip presses into the middle of your back.

“There’s food in the fridge,” he grunts. “Get to work.”

You’re not sure you could move even if you wanted to, your fight-or-flight instinct having settled firmly on freeze. 

He rumbles low in his chest and plants one hand on the island in the center of the kitchen, leaning over it. He’s so tall that his head nearly reaches the other side of the counter, hardly a foot away from yours. The counters are the perfect height for him. 

“What’s not clicking, girl?”

You pinch yourself, a quick twist of skin to make sure that this is all real and you’re not just trapped in the world’s most confusing nightmare.

“I-I don’t… you want me t-to cook? For you?” You manage, voice strangled.

He looks spectacularly unimpressed with your lack of understanding, and a distant part of you recognizes that you should probably be worried about making your captor displeased so quickly. However, the far larger part of you hasn’t had a rational thought since he hosed you down with freezing water and is still almost entirely useless.

He turns to the side to open his fridge, hand dwarfing the handle, and drops a chunk of frozen meat on the counter. It’s wrapped in brown parchment paper, a little string holding it closed. The fridge rattles with how harshly he closes the door and you can’t help but flinch. 

If he weren’t closer to the exit than he is to you, you’d have bolted away the second he turned his back. But he’s close enough that he could reach out and grab you with one hand if you got to the doorway, and you can’t even bring yourself to think about what he might do if you were caught. 

“Cook it.” He nods at the meat, voice bored like this is simple. Like it’s obvious, and your lack of understanding is an inconvenience that he’s rapidly losing patience with.

You listen, because it is obvious. He’s the captor, you’re the captive. At any moment, at the slightest whim, he could shoot you, strangle you, beat you, or a dozen worse things you can’t imagine for fear of ruining his dinner with your bile. 

He has every advantage and you don’t have anything but the shapeless hoodie and sweatpants he gave you. Here, you are nothing and he is everything.

So with shaking hands and tears streaming down your face nearly the entire time, you listen. 

You find a pan – he doesn’t help you and it’s incredibly awkward to try and dig around in unfamiliar cabinets without turning your back to him, but you manage it – and get the burner turned on. He steps out of the doorway again, still watching you from the hallway, and that gives you just enough bravery to inch towards the fridge, snatching the butter from it like he might lurch forward at any minute. 

It’s a good cut of meat. A ribeye, think and with not much fat on it. You’ve worked in the resturaunt business for a long time and it’s obvious to you that this is cut by a local butcher, not some packing plant. This is fresh. 

You have to stand with your back to the counter beside the stove to keep him in your eyeline. He doesn’t seem to mind, though the black balaclava covering him from scalp to neckline keeps almost all of his expressions a mystery to you. 

“How do you want it?” You manage to ask, after what must be five minutes of psyching yourself up internally and darting your eyes between him and the meat. 

“Rare,” he says, and you find that you’re not exactly surprised by his answer.

Basting the meat is the hardest part, but you manage. You’ve watched your father do this since you were born, spent countless nights in the corner of your parent’s restaurant watching line cooks and chefs and dishwashers and paying them all far more attention than you ever did your homework, nodding off in class the next day because the restaurant was open until eleven and your parents never once left early.

You could cook this meat in your sleep. Even with his minimal ingredients (he just shakes his head when you ask where the garlic is, and you quickly realize the only seasonings you have to work with are salt and pepper), you’re confident that the meat has come out tender and juicy, if flavorless. 

There are no sides. No drinks. No dessert. If you’d made this meal for either one of your parents, they’d lecture you for so long that the steak would go stone cold. 

You don’t have a plate to serve it on. When you ask tentatively about the dishes, voice hardly audible to even you, the man doesn’t answer. 

He instead begins to stride towards you, sending you careening around the island to try and keep as far from him as possible, hips crashing into the sharp edges of the counter and socks slipping across the tile. He ignores you completely as he leans over the over, sniffing loudly. 

You’ve thrown yourself, completely unintentionally, to the side of the counter with a large and well-stocked knife block. Before you even really think about it, you’re gripping a carving knife with both hands and holding it straight out in front of you, like you’re hoping he runs into you and impales himself. It’s probably your best bet, considering your knees are nearly knocking and barely holding you up.

He is entirely unconcerned by you. He grabs an oven mitt that was either always black or has been scorched so badly that it’s been darkened, the back of it split with its thin lining peeking out, and grabs the cast-iron by its handle, turning back to the rest of the kitchen. 

He snorts when he sees you, the sound distinctly amused and unafraid. “You think you could hurt me? With that thing?”

You may be shaking in fear, the knife quivering in front of you even with your knuckles clenched so tight they nearly spasm, but you still manage to find yourself almost offended.

“I’ll stab you,” you threaten, voice quiet but the steadiest it’s been since you woke up in that damp basement. “I’ll do it.”

The cheeks of the balaclava pull up, the imprint of his lips clear throught the fabric as he smiles, an indent where his teeth must be. “Don’t think you’ll like what happens if you try, pet.”

He steps around the island again, striding for the door and completely dismissing you. At least, that’s what you think until he calls, “Follow,” over his shoulder, like you’re an animal being called to heel.

The dining room is visible from the kitchen, a section of one wall carved out so you can see into each room from the other. You only lose sight of him for a second before he reappears on the other side of the wall, heading to sit at the table. 

The room has a horrible dark red carpet, the walls the same old-fashioned panneling as the hallway he’d dragged you down hardly an hour earlier. He seats himself at the head of a small rectangular table. It’s the only chair in the room despite the fact that five more could easily fit at the table, one leg shorter than the other. There’s nothing on the walls, no decor anywhere, just one table and one chair for one man.

You linger in the doorway, shifty and nervous, halfway to rushing back to the kitchen if only for some deluded sense of familiarity you’ve already built. 

“Don’t make me chase you,” he warns, eyes narrowing into a brief glare before he drops the pan in front of himself, silverware already set at his place, cast iron still smoking. “Neither of us’ll like it if you ruin my meal, bird.”

Then, he digs in. 

You’ve seen a lot of people eat. More people than you can count, in fact. You’ve seen them eat good food, bad food, life-changingly good and life-changingly bad food. As a child you’d been fascinated by the expressions on customers’ faces when they tried something new for the first time.

A woman with her eyes squeezed shut and eyebrows raised high as she bites into a new chocolate cake recipe your mother spent weeks making you taste test, moaning so loudly her husband had blushed. A man nearly collapsing over his bowl of soup on a cold winter day, just barely keeping his tie from falling into it as he desperately shoveled another bite into his mouth. You’ve seen people cry over your father’s wagyu, pepper your mother’s face with kisses after tasting her dacquoise.

This man eats like none you’ve ever seen before.

He’s like an animal. It takes him just a second to push his mask up to his nose, revealing pale skin decorated with atrophic and keloid scars both, then he’s pulling the pan as close to his chest as he can and hunching over it like a predator guarding its kill. 

He seems entirely unworried about burning his wrists on the edges of the pan, instead focused on tearing his steak into barely bite sized pieces with his fork and messily rubbing it in the extra butter still pooling in the bottom of the pan. 

He doesn’t even pick the first piece up with his fork. He pinches it between two fingers and pushes it between thin, scarred lips, ignoring what must be a burn on his fingertips. He chews twice, then swallows. His digits shine under the low light of his dining room, juice from the meat dripping down his fingers to cover his hand, nails choppy and with a little piece of fat stuck under one until he digs it out with his tooth.

You gape as he does it again and again, pushing two, then three pieces into his mouth at once as he works through the meat. 

It was a massive steak. It took more than half an hour to cook, if the clock on his stove is right. It’s gone in less than five minutes.

He moans as he eats, nearly pornographic in a way that makes you shift in discomfort. The steak is rare enough that the juice dripping from it is pink, the meat itself a brighter color than the man’s thin lips. Juice sluices down his chin as he chews with his mouth open, bits of the meat caught between crooked teeth. 

When he gets to the last piece of the cut, half of it submerged in butter, he holds it in front of himself for just a moment. Then, he turns to you for the first time since he left the kitchen.

His lips are flat, expressionless, as he holds the piece of steak up in front of himself. His elbow is planted firmly on the table to keep his hand in his eyeline, and he looks at you expectantly, silent. 

Your stomach growls, loud enough for him to hear. His lips twitch up in a smirk before he smothers it. You glare. You have no idea how long the drugs knocked you out for, how many days it’s been since your breakfast omlette. Standing over the oven, smelling the steak as it cooked, has made you hungry. 

The two of you are silent as you inch forward, hardly daring to lift your feet from the carpet. It doesn’t take you very long to reach the table, not when the room is as small as it is.

You shift the knife to just your dominant hand, your now free hand reaching forward slowly as you keep your eyes trained on his. The steak is still so hot that steam is still curling from the pink center of it, right between his eyes. He’s still as a statue.

Then, the second your fingertips brush the meat, he snatches it back, slipping it between his lips. 

You flinch back as your mouth drops open, offended and startled by his sudden movement. Your fist tightens around the knife, no longer so limp at your side. 

He chews with his mouth open, smiling meanly at you. His teeth are stained pink from the juices, and you think for a moment that it almost looks like his gums are melting. 

“Forget your manners, pet?’ He asks, only swallowing once he’s finished talking.

You wince at the lack of manners, your p’s and q’s brow beaten into you with a stiff wooden spoon to the back of your hand when you were young, shocked to see someone ignore what you’ve always seen as instinctual and then ask you about manners. “What?”

He leans forward in his seat, greasy hand set on his jean-clad knee. “You didn’t say please.”

You blink at him, caught in some sort of trance that you have no idea how to pull yourself out from. “Oh.”

He sits, still and silent, for several long moments, belly rising and falling beneath his folded fingers, before speaking again. “You’ll call me Ghost while you’re here.”

Your brows furrow a bit but you nod, fingers trembling where they rest limp against your thighs, knife almost entirely forgotten in this almost-hypnosis he’s dragged you into. You can’t quite make your lips move enough to give him a verbal answer, but he seems to accept the nod. 

He snorts, eyes narrowed as he looks at you. He doesn’t even have to tilt his head up even though he’s the one sitting. The realization makes you sweat, something hot igniting low in your belly. 

Before you even register that Ghost is moving, he’s snatched the knife from your now-slackened grip. He drops it into the pan immediately, the handle and blade both becoming drenched in the butter. 

You’d nearly forgotten you even had the knife but the lack of it now drags the fear back up your throat, makes your heartbeat louder and your fingertips colder. 

“Don’t need that,” he grunts, leaning back and folding his hands over his belly, fingers sliding against the fabric and already staining. This close, you can see that it hangs over the hem of his pants just enough to cover the button. You swallow thickly. 

“‘S good,” Ghost says, looking you up and down. Just like in the kitchen, the chair and table here are taller than what you used to, like they were tailor made for your captor instead of bought from a store. You’re only barely taller than him even as he sits, but he somehow still manages to make you feel like he’s looking down on you. 

There’s something in you that keeps you from backing away, even though being hardly a foot away from him makes the backs of your eyes sting with tears. It’s like your feet have sunk through the floor, like you’re up to your knees in shag carpeting and you can’t even try to get yourself out until the behemoth before you looks away.

“Congratulations, girl,” he rumbles, lips quirked up into a mean smile. “You just bought yourself a life, right here with me.”

You can’t stop the tears from falling, shaking hands clapped to your mouth in a fruitless attempt to muffle your sob. 

Ghost leans forward, smile growing when you stumble back until the small of your back meets the half-wall. “What’re you cryin’ about, doll?” He lowers his voice, like he’s sharing a joke with you. “Think I won’t treat my new pet well?”

Your heart feels like it’s going to beat so hard it gives out, its galloping thump felt even in your teeth, gums numbing. Your tears blur your vision, but you can see enough to know when he stands from his set, the chair creaking as he scuffs towards you.

He comes into focus when he crouches in front of you, his knees hovering just above your naked feet, toes curling into the carpet in a futile attempt to get as far from him as you can. 

“I won’t,” he says lowly, hot breath gusting over your face and lighting your nerves on fire. “Not until you earn it. Y’hear me?”

Whimpers eek through your fingers at his words. There’s something in his eyes that still looks hungry, little drops of grease dripping from Ghost’s fingers to your toes, and it makes you feel like prey just inches away from the predator’s jaw. 

His hand darts out, smacking your clothed thigh and making you yelp. 

“Don’t fuckin’ ignore me,” he snarls, sharp and sudden anger upon him like a wave, your thigh stinging from his hit. 

You nod as soon as the chain of words connects in your brain to mean something, head bobbing up and down quickly in desperation to avoid any more physical contact.

His eyes narrow, unimpressed. “Repeat it, then.”

“I have to–” you cut yourself off, breath suddering out of you almost painfully. “I have to earn it.”

“Earn what?”

Exasperation mixes with terror, eyelids straining to stay widened, unwilling to miss another twitch from him.

Think I won’t treat my new pet well? He’d said. You have to earn it.

You can’t think of a way to distill that down into a singular answer, not quick enough for him, at least. 

“I don’t– I don’t know,” you sob.

His movement is slow this time, but it’s no more possible for you to avoid his touch than it was when you hadn’t seen anything coming. His hand drags into your hair, nails catching on scalp, and he tugs your head back, slamming it into the wall. 

“Everything,” he hisses, the fabric covering his nose brushing against yours, snot sliding down your fingers. “You earn everything here. You work for it all. Get it?”

You can hardly nod this time, his fingers tightening around the strands of your hair and pulling at your scalp, but thankfully it’s enough for him.

“Good,” he spits, leaning back and standing, dragging you with him. 

Once you’re standing, half crouched to try your best to ease the pain rippling from your head but pushed up on your toes so his hand isn’t practically lifting you, Ghost grabs you by the elbow instead and drags you out of the room before you can even fully realize what’s happening.

He grabs you in the exact spot he had when he’d dragged you to the kitchen in the first place, each finger laid precisely where there were already bruises emerging. His grip so tight you can’t even think of trying to rip away – you imagine your arm would come off your body before Ghost’s hand came off of you. 

He drags you from the dining room and down a small hallway. From what you’ve seen of the house, and what you can remember that isn’t clouded over by a haze of panic, the floor-plan is closed off, more claustrophobic than anything else. 

Every room seems connected by a new hallway and they're each thin enough that you couldn’t walk by the man’s side – the two of you might not even be able to walk chest to chest without somehow getting wedged between the wood-panneling, considering the bulk of him. 

Your toes drag, catching on the warped wood floor as he pulls you behind him. Your hands are wrapped around his wrist in a wasted but desperate attempt to keep everything below his grip from going numb, leaving your choking whines and sobs and pleas to rush out of you, voice bouncing off the panneled walls. 

Ghost ignores you entirely, doesn’t even seem to notice when you dig your nails into his skin and you try your best to yank. 

You start to grasp at the walls, trying to slow his stride in whatever way you can. You have no idea where he’s taking you, no idea what you’d do even if you did somehow manage to break free from him, but you try nonetheless. 

He doesn’t react, no matter how much you scream and hiss, no matter how much you claw and kick and make your body dead weight, nearly breaking your wrist from the way you yank and twist. 

It’s only when your fingers catch on the edge of something thin that you’re given a tangible thing to wrap your hope around.

You only realize it’s a picture frame once you’ve already yanked it from the wall, the photo itself a complete mystery to you.

It’s the adrenaline that makes you pull back and slam the frame glass-first into the side of his head, reaching up as high as you can to make contact. There’s a horrible crack when glass meets fabric, a screech when you drag it down the side of his face, glass catching on mask and skin and more glass.

Ghost doesn’t let you go but he does stumble into the wall, grunting like a bull and batting your opportune weapon like it’s hardly more than an annoying mosquito, sending it crashing to the ground despite your death grip. 

He falls back into the wall, tugs you with him with enough force to nearly knock you off your feet, your head a mix of fear and victory and adrenaline and pain and more fear, coherent thoughts a far-off dream.

“Little fuckin’ cunt,” you hear him spit, heavy boot smashing fallen glass into further pieces as he turns to press you against the wall with his body, heavy and hot against you.

His eyes are raging, scarred lips curled to bare his teeth and little pieces of glass sticking from his skin and balaclava. 

You only have about four drops of blood to speak of for your desperate attack, and with your kidnapper furious and holding you down all you can manage to think is why the fuck did I do that? What was I thinking? 

There’s no room for anything but shame when you’re staring down the barrel of God only knows what he’ll deicde to do to you. 

“Off to a bad fuckin’ start,” he hisses, spittle landing across your cheeks. “Thought I’d be nice to you. Send you off to sleep with hardly a damn scratch.”

Ghost snarls, shakes his head like a beast shaking off fleas. Glass goes flying around his head. You can hardly breathe.

“Tha’s not good enough for you, is it?” He says, hand coming up to lock around your throat. You’d cry out if he left you enough air, but he’s squeezing so tight you can barely get enough breath to stay conscious. 

“You need a heavy hand, ‘s that it, pet? Need someone to show you what happens when you fuckin’ misbehave?” He pulls your head a few inches away from the wall on the last word, slamming you back enough to rattle your brain in your skull, eyes unfocused and hardly seeing and unable to groan with his hand squeezing your airway shut. 

You try to shake your head, can’t manage to do anything more than shift with the grip on your throat. You think, briefly, about how he could snap your neck with one hand. His palm rests over your vocal chords, fingertips pressing against the nape of your neck. A flick of his wrist and you’d be dead. You think your heart may give out, overwhelmed and unable to keep up with everything Ghost is drawing from you, spitting at you.

Capture myopathy, a friend told you once, sitting beside you in a required biology class only one of you was interested in. When a rabbit is so scared that their heart gives out on them and they die. Just like that. Snap. Easy dinner for a fox. Isn’t that sick?

Sick. She’d said. This, you think, is sicker than anything a fox could do to a rabbit. 

“You’re lucky your meat was good,” he says, tone calming into something less rageful and more frustrated, hand loosening enough to let you breathe more easily but still keeping you from speaking. “Don’t mind trainin’ you up knowin’ you’ll be an investment. Just need some work, huh?”

You try your best to nod, eager to pick training over certain death any day. 

He hums, thumb stroking the crease of your skin between neck and shoulder and you can’t stop your shiver.

“Don’t worry, bird.” His teeth gleam when he flashes them, finally leaving your space. He practically throws you in front of him with the hand on your neck, letting it shift to wrap around your nape so he can guide you forward. “I’ve had pets before. All those tears tell me you’ll at least be easier to break in than the boy was.”

You only have a brief moment to wonder who the fuck the boy is, if he’s in this house, and what that could possible mean for you, before Ghost is nudging open a rickety door and nudging you down the stairs. 

He lets you go once you’re firmly on the narrow staircase and taking slow, tentative steps out of fear you’ll miss one in the dark. Ghost takes his hand from you, looming as you make your leaden-footed way down.

You can’t stop your sniffles or your tears, terrified of the nightmares that must be waiting at the bottom of the staircase and back in the basement you’d woken up in. You know some of what waits for you, what the room will look like and what will be in it – Ghost had been with you since he dragged you to the kitchen, there would’ve been no time for him to change anything – but you’ve got no idea what training means or what Ghost will do to you when your feet hit concrete. 

You don’t move any further into the room when you reach the bottom, Ghost easily stepping around you and choosing to ignore you in favor of looking for whatever he’s decided he needs. The sight of a small carabiner with keys latched to one of his belt loops makes your idea of running back up to the door leave as quick as it comes.

“Over here,” Ghost calls, back turned to you as he crouches down and fiddles with something at the wall.

You don’t move, feet anchored to the floor.

He huffs when he doesn’t hear you following him, shifting one knee to rest on the ground so he can turn over his shoulder and level you with an unimpressed look.

“You really want to make me come get you?” He rumbles, and the threat is enough to get you rushing forward then pulling to just as sudden as stop just out of his arm’s reach. 

It doesn’t matter much, you can’t really do anything to stop him when Ghost’s arm darts back to grab you by the knee, his torso leaning back to get a hand on you and tugging you forward. 

You can’t keep yourself from falling to your knees right at his side, nothing around for you to grab onto other than him and even looking at a face-full of concrete you know not to make any unnecessary contact with Ghost, not if you can help it. 

The weight around your neck is sudden and unexpected, his quick movements around your head even moreso. You don’t even have enough time to decide if it would be worth it to try and fight him off before there’s a resolute click, and he’s pulling back with something thick wrapped around his knuckles.

It’s a chain. Silver, hardly a hint of rust on it, thick and well-kept, and leading right back up to your neck.

You don’t put it together until shaky hands come up to press around the- the collar. Thick leather, two or three inches wide, just tight enough that you can feel it on every exhale. 

A collar. A collar with a chain leash, heavy enough that you can feel the hint of pressure pulling you towards Ghost, the length of the chain that’s not tight in his fist resting in loops by his boot. 

You can’t do anything but stare up at him, wide eyed and trembling, can’t begin to think of what to do before he’s standing and tugging you with him.

“Here now,” he grunts, not bothering to give you any time to get to your feet. You sort of stumble after him, knee scraping the ground as your head is jerked along. You can’t let yourself lag at all, not unless you want to get dragged along by your neck.

You feel like you’re moving through quicksand, every move only making things worse for you. Every forced step forward is another step closer to him, every jerk of your head pulls at the hair stuck in the back of the collar that he hadn’t bothered to move before locking it onto you, every panicked breath only serves to keep your breathing short and hitched.

Ghost drops himself onto the small cot pressed against the wall, it’s metal legs creaking under his weight. You can’t straighten fully with how short he keeps the chain, which leves you in a terribly vulnerable hunched position, eye-level with his stomach and bent at the waist, knee throbbing.

“Over my knee,” he rumbles, voice quiet. “Get this over with.”

You stare up at him with wide eyes, panting open-mouthed, drooling. A panicked animal with its leg caught in a trap, unable to do anything but stare up at the jaws closing around its body.

“Please,” you beg, voice hardly a whisper. “Don’t hurt me.”

His eyes are hard behind the mask, mouth a firm line as he looks down at you. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat beneath the thick leather. 

Ghost doesn’t give you another chance to obey. One quick jerk of his hand and you’re toppeling forward, choking on spit and holding your hands out to catch yourself. 

He manhandles you quickly – one hand on the chain yanking it further down, head forced lower than his knee while his other hand grabs you by the hips and hefts you on top of him, elbow jamming itself between your thighs while blood rushes to your head. 

You yelp, legs kicking out as you push at the bed with one hand, the rough ground with the other, throwing your head back and forth as much as you can with the leash giving you almost no room to move.

“Settle,” Ghost hisses. You don’t listen, can’t listen with the way panic alone rules your mind, and in response he lands a harsh smack on the center of your ass, enough to push you forward a few inches.

Your pleas come to a sudden stop, breath stuck in your throat as you absorb the pain, a noticeable sting even through the sweatpants.

“You’re gettin’ fifty,” he grunts when you’ve gone silent, tucking two fingers in the back of your pants and tugging them down, lifting up one knee to lift your torso so he can yank them to your waist. “Take ‘em, then we’re done.”

“No, no, please, God,” you choke, one hand flying to your mouth and pressing against it. Tears stream down your face, cheeks blazing with heat, a horrible mix of terrified and humiliated that leaves you all but limp over his legs.

Ghost snorts above you and you jump when you feel his cold hand make a pass over the fat of your ass. “Won’t be thinkin’ that much longer.”

You only have a brief moment to think hysterically is he making a joke right now? before there’s a horrible pain on your ass, the smack loud in the otherwise silent room.

It takes a second for the pain to hit you, but when it does you yowl. You push up on his thigh with both hands as another smack rains down, pulling as hard as you can against the chain.

“Stop, stop, stop it!” You screech, toes sliding uselessly against the cement as you writhe, all of your struggles doing absolutely nothing to stop his hand from falling again, this time right on the center of both cheeks. 

“Y-You can’t- you can’t d-do this!” You wail, throat filled with tears and snot as you realize you can’t even get close to standing, not with his grip on the chain as immovable as it is. “Stop!”

His next smack is his hardest, his grip around the chain loosening at just the right time to allow you to be sent sprawling over his lap, sobbing at the pain that lights up your backside. It hurts, and now your forehead is nearly pressed to the floor, leaving you completely off balance.

Ghost grunts as he shifts one of his legs, tucking your flailing limbs between his thighs and forcing you to be bent over just the one thigh, knees hovering inches off the ground.

“Stop your fuckin’ wailin’, Christ,” he hisses, peppering you with more spanks, each of them as hard as the last and forcing all the air out of your lungs. “Damn lucky this is all you’re gettin’. I should make you count ‘em, start over every time you get one wrong.”

You cry out at that, wriggling desperately and only serving to push your ass further into the air, trapped on both ends.

“We’d be here all damn night,” Ghost mutters to himself, hardly audible over your fit. “One picture ain’t worth bruisin’ my hand over.”

Your feet just barely brush against his thighs when you manage to kick up, but you’re embarrassed to find that you don’t have the strength to do much more than hang limply in his hold, one hand reluctantly wrapped around his calf to keep yourself from falling to the floor. 

Your tears and sobs don’t stop as he continues his assault on your ass, but there’s a part of you that almost… settles. Not into the pain, not when he’s smacking you hard enough to jolt your body forward and make you wail at every new touch, but into the steadiness of his smacks.

He doesn’t wait more than a second between hits, each spank no heavier or lighter than the last. It hurts, hurts worse than anytime you’ve burned or cut yourself in the kitchen, but after the first minute or so your body comes to expect what’s coming.

That doesn’t make it any easier to handle. You couldn’t stop your crying if you tried, like his hand is resting on your tearducts instead of your ass, squeezing every bit of moisture out of your eyes. 

He stops at some point, hand resting on your cheeks. He squeezes, nails digging in deep, and pulls your cheeks apart. You sniffle at the indignity, free hand covering your eyes as your face crumples.

“Half way through now,” Ghost says, ignoring the way you cry out. You can’t imagine taking one more hit, let alone twenty five. 

He shifts back on the cot and for a moment you have absolutely no idea what’s happening. It’s not until he not-so-gently readjusts your legs, his own laid out flat in front of him with his feet hanging off the cot, your body readjusted so you’re lying properly over his thighs.

It’s more comfortable, certainly, but you’re not sure you want comfortable right now. It feels impossible to imagine the brute above you as thinking of your comfort, completely analogous to his actions and leaving you a confused and weak mess. 

Ghost shifts his hand along with the rest of him, dropping the chain entirely in favor of resting a heavy palm on the back of your neck, equally as effective at keeping you still. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t comment on your heaving breaths or shaking thighs, just lets you breathe with your hands curled beneath your chest and your forehead pressed to the thin sheet covering the cot.

The next spank catches you completely off guard, your body having gone limp and leaving you unprepared for the sudden pain. It reignites your sobbing, your throat on fire from all the screaming you’ve done. You can hear your voice crack as you absorb the pain, shoulder shaking.

“Christ,” Ghost sighs, hand briefly leaving your ass. 

He’s lifting you by your hair a moment later, thick fingers laced through the tresses as he pulls your head back and stuffs something in your mouth. You whimer at the feeling, tongue working at the frankly disgusting taste, brows furrowed.

“Keep that there,” he orders, and you just barely get a glance of the side of his head before he’s shoving you back down, face-first. You realize, blinking slowly, that he’s shoved his mask in your mouth. “Can’t be bothered to teach you to shut the hell up, gonna hafta work on that once you learn how to behave.”

He spanks you again and this time your sob is muffled as you bite down on the fabric and grind it between your teeth. 

His pace is slower now, hand more thudding than stinging. It feels like he’s putting his weight behind every smack, each one delivered with what you’re sure is bruising force. Though truly you can’t tell much of a difference, not with your whole ass already feeling like it’s on fire. 

It gets harder and harder to differentiate between new and old pain as he lays brutal spanks over spots that are already hot and throbbing, varying the strength of each smack this time. You sink into the pain, limp and unable to do anything but take it.

“Better,” Ghost says, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing your scalp when you jerk at the sound of his voice. His next hit lands on the crease between your thigh and your ass, but your whine is almost silent. “Can hear myself think now, for one.”

Another smack, and your body doesn’t even jerk this time. You’re not even fully present in yourself, mind floating. You don’t quite feel like an outside observer, more like you’re just a few inches removed from the situation. All your sensations feel dulled, and you bear the pain as best you can. 

“Can enjoy the sight too,” you hear him say, and suddenly there are pauses between each smack, a little break Ghost takes to rub your glowing ass and thighs as much as he wants before laying another handprint across your soft skin. 

“‘S too bad I don’t fuck where I eat,” he muses, and you groan into the mask at a particularly rough hit. “You don’t take much fightin’. I like that in a girl. Go down real easy with a firm hand, don’t you?”

You shake your head as best as you can, which really isn’t much at all. He snorts at your effort, tightens his fingers to keep your head still.

You’re sapped of all energy, unable to move even as his punishing spanks linger lower on your ass, and even when he bullies a hand between your thighs and spreads your legs.

“Look at that,” he says, voice low. You can feel it through his stomach, goosebumps racing from your ribs to the rest of you. “Dirty girl, are you?”

You’ve got enough wherewithal to try and squeeze your legs shut when his fingers prod at your center, yanked back into your body at the sharp turn from painful to… something else.

He strokes two fingers over your slit, and you groan at just how much slick you can feel him spreading. You have no idea when it happened, have no idea why it happened, but you’re drenched between your thighs. Your cunt feels as hot as your ass, and the realization yanks a horrible little whine from you.

“Guess that wasn’t much of a punishment,” Ghost muses, spreading your lips and letting cool air ghost over you. You feel him blow a breath across you and struggle more than you have since he’d laid you flat across him, knees coming to tuck up under yourself.

“No,” he says simply, landing a horrible, smarting slap to your pussy. It sends you flat to your tummy again, squirming against him and wailing through the pain. It hurts. “Down, girl. No strugglin’ now.”

He only continues to stroke you, now pushing the steadily dripping wetness from your clit to your asshole, making you tense and writhe where you’re pinned, his order ignored.

“Think I’ll do the last few here,” he says, landing another harsh smack to your center, this time focused on your clit. “Make sure you remember your lesson.”

He doesn’t wait any longer, just begins to lay quick, harsh slaps all across your cunt – your spread lips, your hole itself, your clit. Once, even, on your bottom hole, digging his nails into your stinging cheeks to spread you wide for him.

It hurts more than any of the smacks to your ass did, undeniably, but you’re sapped of all energy and find yourself hardly able to cry, let alone struggle. You’re too busy being swept away in a maelstrom of pain-pleasure you’ve never experienced before to even try defending yourself.

Your only option is to lie still and wait for him to finish with you. So that’s all you do.

It feels like it’s been an eternity when he finally stops. 

The hand near your ass gropes you firmly, pinching what you can already feel are tiny little raised spots from where his palm landed the hardest. 

You don’t have the energy to even think of struggling when he finally moves you off him, letting you flop uselessly to the cot as he moves out from under you. There’s the sound of metal clinking, the tension from the collar finally eased as he lets it go completely.

He doesn’t bother to pull your pants up, but he does nudge your legs closed. It’s a bit of decency you didn’t expect from him. 

You can’t do much more than blink wearily at him as Ghost reaches to tug his mask from your mouth, lip curling in disgust at the drops of saliva that fall from it. Good, you think. That’s just the start of what you deserve, bastard.

He crouches in front of you a moment later, bringing his face into full focus in front of you.

He’s… not traditionally attractive, that’s for sure. Even your defeated and exhausted mind can recognize that you would’ve avoided this man had you seen him on the street. Probably would’ve even risked being seen as rude and crossed to another sidewalk before he walked past you. Seeing as this is where you’ve ended up, your instincts wouldn’t have been wrong about him.

He’s got a square head and blond hair buzzed close to the scalp. The scars you’d seen across his cheeks and jaw extend further up his face, something textured across his temple that you can’t guess the cause of, eyebrows patchy and only half-grown in from burns, little bumps decorating his scalp.

But there’s something captivating about him. In his eyes, maybe, such a dark blue that you can only tell they’re not brown because he’s hardly a foot from you. There’s something about him that says look at me. Don’t forget where I am.

Though maybe, you think deliriously, you’re only thinking that because he’s the captor who just spanked your ass raw and dragged his fingers through your cunt.

“Rule one,” Ghost rumbles quietly, breath gusting over your lips. “You hurt me, I hurt you. Heard?”

It takes all the energy you have left to nod, eyes falling shut even as the little prey voice in the back of your head screams at the danger so near, never mind that you haven’t been able to do anything to keep him from you. You’re too loud to listen to the voice anyways, only a very distant part of you acknowledging it as you slip into a sort of half-sleep.

You don’t hear him leave.

From there you settle, bizarrely, into a routine. 

Every day begins with you waking up in the basement. Always before Ghost comes to get you, some primal instinct buried deep knowing that you need enough time every morning to brace yourself for seeing him.

He locks the chain, the leash, to a hook on the wall a couple feet above your cot every night, the key to the padlock always left on him. The chain is long enough to give you plenty of room to roll and shift in bed at night but it’s too short for you to reach the small bathroom across the basement. There’s no clock for you to keep track of time with but you spend what must be half an hour every morning just sitting on the cot, waiting for Ghost to come get you.

He’s always nearly stumbling when he comes down the basement stairs to fetch you, sleep keeping his bones heavy. It’s only in the mornings when you see him with his shoulders hunched, movements weighted down, any other time he’s perfectly alert. 

You think, at first, that your best shot at trying to hurt him would be in those early mornings when he’s groggy and slow moving, but Ghost never lets you off the chain when he’s like that. It’s always after he’s stiffened up, shoulders rolling back and permanent-scowl firmly back in place.

He’ll unhook the chain from the wall first, rarely saying a word as he half-drags-half-leads you over to the bathroom, doesn’t let you close the door while you do your business and shower.

(There’s a way he looks at you in the morning, when he’s at his rawest. Something animal and hungry in a way you don’t see even when you serve him his meals, pupils blown and lingering on your curves, unabashedly staring at your ass when you glance over your shoulder at him.

It had been terrible, at first, to get naked in front of him. He’d just stare, and most days you could see his hardness tenting his pants. Hell, some days he came down the stairs with his cock making itself plenty known, not a speck of shame in him.

You’d once listened to him jack himself off while you were in the shower. You’d had to step over the puddle of cum on the tile when he’d tugged you out of the room, nearly slipped into it when he’d pulled you just a little more harshly than usual.)

The chain stays in the basement, always unlatched from your throat along with the collar before he shepherds you up the creaky stairs, never much more than a foot or two away from you. 

Then, breakfast. 

It had taken a while for you to really believe him after he’d said you were only there to cook. What kind of person kidnaps a woman just to keep her as a private chef? But days went by where he never once touched you any more than necessary to get the collar on and off, his only reaction to your body a seemingly unintentional erection and usually ignored when you were naked. 

Days, weeks pass where all you do is cook. Three meals a day, snacks when he’s hungry (which seems to be always). 

Ghost’s cabinets were bare the first week of your captivity. He had enough meat in his freezer to last him months, but little else. There was a loaf of bread on the counter, a few condiments in the fridge with crusted lids and misshaped bottles, and some cans of soup in the pantry. Nothing else. He’d drop a cut of meat on the counter and expect you to work with it and seemed plenty content when you served him the blandest roast chicken of your life.

It took you three days until you worked up the nerve to ask him to go grocery shopping. It was the first thing you said to him that wasn’t a plea for your freedom. 

You’d been terrified that you’d end up face down ass up over his thighs again, your ass still bruised from his first punishment and his subsequent much quicker corrections. But he’d hardly reacted, had just given you a piece of paper and a short pencil with bite-marks on the eraser, told you to write what you thought you needed.

He locked you in the basement for hours (you tracked the sun through the sole window as best you could, left behind fear and anger for boredom around what you guessed was the three hour mark) when he left. Briefly, you’d regretted asking in the first place. If the bastard wanted to eat nothing but protein and die of a nutrient deficiency, who were you to stop him? It would serve him right.

But you have nightmares, sometimes, of being stuck in the basement. Your captor dead in his bed, fallen to the bathroom floor with his head cracked open, bleeding out in the forest one of the times he goes off hunting. And you, stuck here, chained to a wall. No key, no way out, no one to find you.

A part of you had breathed a sigh of relief when he came home, letting you up to the kitchen and supervising while you dug through the plastic bags and put everything where you wanted it.

He doesn’t… do much during the days, is the thing.

He goes hunting, sometimes. You find that that seems to be his most consistent outing. He’ll spend hours out there at a time, sometimes coming back with nothing and other times coming back with a twelve-point buck you watch him drain through the kitchen window. He also has to keep his weapons – his many, many weapons – in shape, and you find that it’s not rare to spend an afternoon watching him clean guns or sharpen knives.

You enjoy his hunting moods most. He’ll disappear for hours on end to even find his kill, then spend days skinning and preparing the meat, then doing whatever it is he does in his shed with the bits of the body he doesn’t bring you to cook. Those days spent in the forest or the shed for him guarantee you hours of time alone, which isn’t nearly so miserable when he doesn’t keep you in the basement. 

Sometimes he goes out after dinner. You’ll hear the front door slam shut after he locks you up in the basement, his truck’s old engine loud enough to be obvious when he revs it. You’re never sure where he goes, who he might even go with since he never takes calls, but you also have little interest in asking.

But most nights he watches TV. Almost exclusively old VHS recordings of The Price is Right, Wheel of Fortune, Password, and shows so out-of-date you’re sure you could count the pixels on the screen. He’ll roll himself a blunt and relax into an old recliner with cracked leather, eyes half-lidded and hazy.

(You watched him rest a hand in his pants, once. He hadn’t even been focusing on the TV, eyes far away and breathing heavy as he stroked himself slowly beneath his jeans. You don’t even think he finished, he was just… relaxing. You’d decided to just be glad he wasn’t coming after you for that job.)

Sometimes he’ll watch the same Manchester United games every night for a week straight, grunt approvingly or shout at the TV at the same points no matter how many times you’ve seen him watch it. By the end of your first month in his captivity, you could guess who scored every goal in the team’s 2012 championship game. You have absolutely no idea why he doesn’t just turn on the newest games.

You learn quickly that Ghost mounted a hook to nearly every wall in the house, and that he’s not shy about chaining you in the same place for hours at a time and leaving you to your own non-existent devices while he lumbers off. You spend the most time in the kitchen, undoubtedly, but you find that the horrible plush carpet in his living room isn’t too uncomfortable to sit on either.

It doesn’t take many days for your fear to turn to boredom, is the thing. Absolute, complete, mind-numbing boredom. There’s simply nothing to do but watch Ghost, and for a kidnapper he’s turned out to be spectacularly uninteresting. 

He’d laid out the rules in the first few days. You hurt him, he hurts you. Listen to his orders, don’t make him repeat himself. Don’t try to escape, you won’t find anyone to help anyway and he doesn’t want to chase you down. Don’t try to fuck with the food you make him, he expects good meals consistently.

It had been the third you’d struggled most with, though you could hardly blame yourself. You’d thought he was going to make you bleed when he caught you trying to throw yourself out of a recently-broken window.

He’d taken you over his lap a few more times for smaller infractions too. To make sure the lessons stick, he’d said. They did. Ghost hits hard, and even after just his first punishment you’d been plenty cowed. You don’t give him many reasons to punish you again.

The bright spots in your life are, as they have always seemed to be, food orientated.

There’s a part of you that hates how much time you think of ways to quite literally serve him, but you have nothing else to do. He may enjoy his shows, but after about two weeks you think you may go insane if you have to focus on much more Tom Kennedy in an other-wise silent house. 

You spend long hours staring out his windows at the foggy forest surrounding the cabin, running through the recipes you’d wanted to try before you’d been taken, notes for your parents’ dishes that were never listened to, plans on what you could make for Ghost himself with what he would provide.

And he does. Provide, that is. He provides plenty.

The fifth day of your captivity, he drops a chicken carcass on the wood island. Whole, unplucked, the blood from its neck still drying.

“I can’t…” You start, hesitating at the doorway to the kitchen as he moves further in. “I’m not a butcher. I can’t cook it like that.”

Ghost looks over at you, mask covering his expression. You find that it’s a fifty-fifty chance he doesn’t pull it on in the morning, dependent on some factor you’re not allowed to know.

“I’ll cut it up,” he grunts, turning his back to you and tugging a drawer open, digging around noisily. “Don’t need you to do anythin’ but cook it.”

You shift from foot to foot as he turns back to the bird, empty trash bag at his side and carving knife in his hand. 

For a man who you’ve always assumed to be inept in the kitchen, he handles the bird like a professional. He has it plucked in less than a minute, his mess minimal.

His butchering is less impressive, though no less effective. He’s a bit of a slob with his cuts, reckless with his knife in a way that has you craning your neck to see just how much breast is left on the bone. 

Ghost is slow-moving, careful in a way you’ve never seen him when he pops the thigh from the leg joint. It must’ve been a well-fed bird during its life, there’s plenty of meat for his thumb to dig into as he carefully rotates and pulls, not too much strength but not too little. A balance he seems to struggle to find before the thigh finally pops away from the body easily, and he moves on.

It’s… intimate is the wrong word, but it’s not far off. His hands – damp from being washed, something you’d been glad to see him do without you needing to draw his attention back to you – are shiny with the bird’s juices covering them, his thick fingers brutalizing the delicate, pale meat. The job is done quickly and cleanly enough to leave you plenty of meat.

He doesn’t butcher it completely for you. He leaves the wing connected to the breast, the breast and the tenderloin one large piece of meat when he lays his carving knife on the counter. His most precise cuts are around the oysters, each of them dug out and set to the side quickly. 

It’s not a quiet process, his knife cutting through bone and joint. But it feels particularly loud with the only other sound the soft humming of the fridge, the call of a bird outside the window. 

You feel squirmy for reasons you can’t quite place when he’s finished, bird butchered and glistening under the dim kitchen light. The look he gives you, heavy and stifling, doesn’t help. 

You make him get mason jars next time he goes to the store, mourning all the stock that goes to waste because you’ve got no way to store it. He praises the tenderloins you make for dinner that night, voice rough in a way that makes your cheeks heat.

Most of the food he buys for you to work with is store-bought, but the meat continues to be fresh. He enjoys the food most when he kills it himself – he moans when he bites into a piece of duck in a way that you feel no shame in calling pornographic – but you learn that he’ll settle for anything fresh.

There’s a calendar on the inside of the pantry. 

It’s an old military one, each of the pictures a dramatic shot of a soldier, covered in filth more often than not and staring across some sort of beautiful landscape. It’s from 2014, each of the pages worn and ripped where fingers have pinched and flipped. Each of the days is already marked off with an X in the box, some of them even with little notes written in different colors from over the years.

G birthday in Lancaster

S appointment - needs ride

L retirement on base

You know when he flips it to read June that you’ve been with him a month. You’re not happy, far from it, but you don’t spend everyday shaking in fear. 

You know what to expect from Ghost, he knows what he expects from you, and you’ve settled into an almost-peaceful cohabitation. 

He takes to ordering you prettier clothes about halfway through your second week. Sweatpants get traded in for sundresses and uncomfortably tiny shorts, sweatshirts exchanged for cardigans and low-back tank-tops. 

Some days, watching him feed the chickens through the window in your daisy-print sundress and flour-covered apron, you feel almost like a homesteader’s wife.

If not for the chains hanging from the walls, of course. 

You’re wearing one of those dresses when Ghost comes to visit you in the kitchen, nearly six weeks after he’d taken you.

He’d been letting you wander the house off-leash more and more, in small doses. Whether confident in his ability to catch you or your inability to get far from the cabin, you’re not sure, but you’re thankful nonetheless. You’re still a little sore from your last escape attempt, ass smarting from his belt, and haven’t quite gotten into your head to try again yet.

You’re leaning over the counter, tasting a fresh brownie from the middle of the pan while he smokes with his Wheel of Fortune on, having sent you off with a pat on the ass and a I want somethin’ sweet, doll. 

You’ve never been nearly as good at baking as you have cooking, and you’re not sure you’ve perfected your brownie recipe yet. But you’ve always had a bit of a sweet tooth, and Ghost keeps his house cold. Biting into a still-steaming gooey brownie, the top just enough of a crust to give the bite texture, the chocolate melting into your tongue, is one of the best things you’ve done since you first woke up in that basement. 

You don’t realize you’ve made a noise until there’s an echo behind you, Ghost’s groan so quiet it’s nearly drowned out by the TV in the other room.

You jerk back from the counter, hands braced on the rounded corner as you look over your shoulder, sure that there’s a pipe groaning in the wall.

Instead you see your kidnapper, already hardly a step away and boxing you into the counter, hulking body smothering you with ease.

Your spine goes ramrod straight, brownie abandoned in its pan as he presses himself into you, hard chest pushing against your softer back. You’re silent, stiff, too surprised and scared to do more than wait. 

“‘S got you moanin’ in here?” Ghost rumbles, heavy against you. “Thought I said I wanted a treat.”

“I–” You gasp, arching when he presses his hips into you. His sweatpants don’t do anything to disguise his length and you can feel every inch of him against your back. “I–I made brownies.”

“Hm…” One hand comes to rest on your hip, his head lowering enough that you can see his profile in your peripheral. “Let’s have it then.”

You don’t move at first, fingertips tingling and lips pressed tightly together.

He huffs, smacks your ass once. He pushes the fabric of your dress up just enough to clip your skin, simple granny panties doing little to soften the blow. You gasp and jerk forward, soft stomach pressing into the counter.

“Give me one,” he says, hand rubbing where he’d just spanked, fingertips just dipping under the edge of your underwear. “C’mon, bird, I want a bite.”

Your fingers quiver as you lift the brownie in your hand to his lips, holding it just over his shoulder as he feels you up with both hands, roughly kneading the cheeks of your ass as you try to stay as still as possible.

Ghost gives you more of his weight and bites the brownie, the sharp edges of his teeth scraping your knuckles. You jump at the feeling, unwittingly grinding yourself against him. 

“Fuck, pet,” he moans, face dropping to rest his forehead against your temple. You can do nothing but stare at the cabinet. “That’s fuckin’ delicious. I need another bite.”

You’re reaching towards the pan to cut him another piece when you realize he’s shifting to his knees behind you.

“Ghost,” you whine when he takes your hips in his hands, hefting you up so you’re fully resting on the island with your toes unable to even skim the tile. Your eyes are wide as you stare at the backsplash, unable to quite believe what’s happening.

“Hush,” he scolds, and you get a smack to the thigh for your trouble. “I want my sweet thing.”

Ghost eats your cunt the same way he eats your food: voraciously, messily, and shamelessly.

He gives you no warm up, no time to prepare for something he’s only hinted at wanting to do before. There’s one broad swipe of his tongue across your sex, then his lips wrapping around your clit and your eyes rolling back into your skull.

You’re not sure that he cares about your pleasure, but he’s certainly giving you plenty. He licks from cunt to clit again and again, tongue quick and stiff against where you’re sensitive and drawing breathy moans from you, nails scratching uslessly at the counter.

He focuses mostly on your hole, licking up your slick like it’s the best thing his tongue has ever touched and leaving you pushing back for more unconsciously, wanting more than just the tip of his tongue inside you. 

“Greedy,” he huffs when you nearly slip off the counter. He slips two fingers into your leaking hole and you squeal at the stretch, noticeable even with his mouth working you over. “This is for me, not you, pet. Settle down and let me eat.”

You cry out when he laps at your clit, quick, broad licks over the bud and just enough pressure to make your mouth hang open. He gives you almost too much suction, your brain rattling around between your ears when he crooks his fingers and tugs.

He uses just one hand on your thigh and two fingers in your cunt to shove you up the counter, giving him more space to have you practically sitting on his face. He laps around his own fingers, fucking with you just enough to coax more slick for him to drink, your knees knocking against the cabinet.

Eventually, what feels like it must be hours later, you come. The combination of Ghost’s fingers pressing at just the right spot, the suction on your clit and the sound of his mouth against you making you feel insane and finally pushing you over the edge.

It’s heaven, to have him lick and suck you through your orgasm. Your limbs feel tingly, bright white starbusts flying behind your eyes as you go limp across the counter, head pressing against the backsplash.

It isn’t until he doesn’t pull out his fingers, doesn’t pull his tongue away, that you start to feel truly gone, a puppet dancing to his tune, a piece of fruit squeezing whatever juice he wants into his mouth for as long as he wants.

“Not done with you yet,” you hear him murmur, the rumble of his voice against your cunt making you moan from overstimulation. “Gonna drain you dry, pretty thing. Shouldn’t have made yourself so sweet if you didn’t want me taking it all.”

You want to growl that you can’t make yourself taste like anything, but he slips a third finger into your hold, curls his fingers and rubs his knuckles against your g-spot, and you’re coming too hard to even attempt a protest.

By the time he pulls your dress back down and pets your ass, taking a brownie from the pan without even bothering to use the knife to cut himself a piece, there’s nearly as much drool dripping from your mouth as there is your cunt.

From there, your life centers around two things: food and sex. Both of them exist only because of and with Ghost, him your constant companion as you unwillingly grow more and more comfortable in his house. 

You cook him a stew made from cow leg he’d dropped on your counter that morning. Small russet potatoes float in the broth, popped into his mouth whole and swallowed almost as completely, pieces of carrots he chews to mush and celery he avoids, wine soaked meat leaving grease stains down his shirt. 

Ghost puts you on your knees beneath the table, feeds you his cock while he feeds himself your food. You suck him as well as you can, trace your tongue over the thick vein up the side of his cock, ignore the throbbing in your jaw and try to push his foreskin back to suckle on his head.  He wraps his fingers around the base of his cock, doesn’t let himself come until he’s finished with his meal. You can’t tell if his groaning is for your work on the stew or your work beneath the table.

Fuckin’ heaven, that mouth. Want me to send you off with a full belly, huh? Bet you like your meal as much as I like mine.

Half a dozen eggs, scrambled, served with enough bacon to make you feel sick from the smell alone and half-soaked in maple syrup. 

You, needy and desperate, grinding your cunt across his thigh. You lean back as far as you can with your hands carefully resting on the table at your back, desperate to avoid his syrup-sticky fingers, and end up with a view of his cock lancing you. He scoops your slick up with his clean fingers, picks up another piece of bacon and rips it in half, offers you the bit he doesn’t take.

Please, please, Ghost, I need it so bad, it hurts and it’s supposed to, love, I said I wanted a show with my breakfast, didn’t I?

A rack of lamb, sliding off the bone, bites of it shared between Ghost and you as three of his fingers work slowly in and out of your ass, leisurely and for his viewing pleasure more than your own orgasm. Red juices smeared across your lips and face, dripping down his chin and staining his fingers. A thumb on your clit, meat shoved between your teeth as you come. 

Gonna fuck you here too. Gonna make it hurt, listen to you cry a little when I eat. Oh, hush, you’ll be fine, don’t get yourself worked up. Not yet, at least. My cock’ll spread you out at least twice this much, save your tears for when you’ll need ‘em, pet.

Sticky fruit laid across your stomach, cantaloupe and watermelon and kiwi and banana. His fingers picking them off you piece by piece, savoring them as he fucks you hard. You laid flat to the table, legs spread why and throat sore from your cries, the stark difference between the way he relishes the food and the way he fucks you like an animal making you feel wanted in a way that threatens to drown you.

You need it bad, don’t you? Slut. Pretty, tasty, perfect little slut. Fuckin’ squeezin’ my dick off, goddamm, honey. Gonna fuck you full, gonna fill you up and feed you plenty. 

Stir fry you make with hog maw, a recipe you’d never tried before given to you by a girl in cooking school who was set to inherit her parent’s restaurant. His face moving between your cunt and his meal, your whines about a UTI and cross-contamination go ignored, and he holds his bowl beneath your cunt while he strokes your g-spot with two calloused fingers. 

Tightest fuckin’ cunt in the world. Pretty little thing and her pretty little meals, just made for me, huh? ‘S that right, pet? You’re made just for me and my mouth and my cock, hm? Gonna give me a nice little dressing for my food?

A night spent in his bed, after you make him angel-food cake from scratch. Waking up to a cock pressed against your ass, chain leash and collar heavy around your throat and locked around the headboard but the sheets soft under your skin, pillows thick and his own body warm in a way the basement never gets. 

Ghost isn’t awake yet. He’s snoring like a freight train, completely unaware of the way you stare at him in the blue-dark of the early dawn hours. 

The chain is heavy in your hand, cold against your soft palms. You feel almost like you’re in a trance, the world still hazy around its edges as you shift to kneel over him. 

You don’t know how much strength it takes to strangle a person, but evidentially you don’t use enough. 

You wrap the chain tight around either knuckle, press your hands hard into the mattress on either side of his head, and hold your own breath. His snores quiet, his breathing shudders. He coughs once, twice, you feel his hips and legs begin to shift beneath you and you really put your body weight behind your hold. He goes still.

Then, his eyes fly open. 

There’s hardly time for you to think fuck before he’s flipping you onto your stomach, harsh hand shoving you into the mattress while another rips the chain from your hands and pulls.

You wail a breath as your head is pulled back, scalp nearly touching your spine as Ghost forces your back into a steep arch, ass pushed into the air.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he hisses. You can’t tell if the heat in his words is rage or hunger or some sick mix of both, have even less of an idea which one you should be hoping it is. “You tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me?”

You can barely breathe through the anticipation, the fear that’s been gone for so many days suddenly wrapped around you as tight as the collar, but you find enough breath to shout when he lands a horribly heavy hit across your ass. 

“Ghost!” You shout when he only follows it with several more, eyes squeezed shut as he overwhelms you in pain and discomfort.

“What?” He snarls, fingers clipping your cunt and making your squeal. “What, now you don’t like pain? I watched you cream my cock without a single finger in your cunt last night, girl, but this?” Another spank, harder than you’ve ever taken and burning. “This too much for you?”

You huff, squirming as much as you can in your strained position. 

“You wake me up with a goddamn chain around my neck and bitch when I beat your ass for it?” His voice is nearing a shout now, thick with what you’re sure is anger. “You’re gonna try and kill me in my own fuckin’ bed and pitch a fit when I make you sorry?”

You can’t find it in you to do anything but cry, chest tight and eyes squeezed tighter while he doles out punishment, bruising slaps landing anywhere from your cheeks to your cunt to your thighs to your hole, his hand spreading you wide for him.

“Spread,” he grunts eventually, a harsh hand shoving your knees wide. “Need to get to that hole.”

You don’t get to listen, he makes you do what he wants without giving you a chance to, and then lays a dozen terrible, painful smacks to your asshole.

You’re nearly screaming through them all, feet slamming into the bed as the pain rushes through you. He yanks the chain hard when you try to pull forward and bury your face in the pillow, forcing you to keep the tortuous pose he’s holding you to.

You feel the bed rocking with the force of his hits, spit and tears dripping down your face as you can do nothing but lay there and take it. 

“Naughty, naughty fuckin’ thing,” he spits, two rough fingers pushing into your cunt with little care for your cry. “My own little chef tryin’ to strangle me, I can’t fuckin’ believe it. I bring you here to feed me, give you a load in your stomach anytime you need it, and you wrap your leash ‘round my throat?”

“I’m– I’m sorry!” You wail, inconsolable as he roughly rubs a palm over your clit, your cunt quickly getting slick. You’re still damp from the way he’d bent you over earlier, a mix of his and your cum wet between your thighs.

“Not good enough,” Ghost hisses. He quickly fucks his fingers back inside you, once twice, then pulls them out again.

You go taut as a board when those slick fingers move up, towards your far, far tighter hole.

“No,” you gasp, struggling even pinned as you are, a sense of panic shrouding your mind. “No, no, nonono, you can’t, oh God, please, Ghost, don’t–”

Ghost drops the chain in favor of grabbing you by the throat, tearing you back so violently that you’re staring at his sneer upside down. 

“Shut the fuck up.” His spit is tacky when it lands on your cheek, mixing with your tears, and his smile looks evil as he glares down at you. “Gonna make sure you don’t even think of that shit again. Gotta make it hurt if you’re gonna learn a lesson.”

You sob as he lets you go, head finally falling limp to the bed as you turn your face to the side so you can still breathe. You watch as he reaches for a half-full bottle of lube on his bedside table, the label peeling and stained. 

“Gonna cry for me some more?” He coos, laughing when you jump at the cold feel of the lube on your ass, thighs tense with nerves. “You know I like it when you make yourself look silly, pet. Go on, cry all you want. Still gonna fuck you.”

One finger pushes the lube into your ass, then two, then three. He gives you no time to adjust, only one thrust from each digit before he forces you to stretch further, lands slaps across your ass seemingly whenever he feels like it.

“Ghost, pl-ease,” you cry when you feel the hot head of him press against you, sure that it’ll be excruciating. 

He threads a hand into your hair, pulls you up enough that he can bend to speak into your ear.

“You’ll call me Simon while I fuck your ass,” he says, voice low. “I wanna hear you scream it when I hurt you, pet.”

You listen to him against your will, the scream he wanted tearing from you and echoing the sheer pain of being fucked by someone as massive as Ghost with such little prep.

Your hole feels like it’s on fire, the pain racing through the rest of your body and leaving you limp and panting, only able to close your eyes and endure as he mercilessly pushes forward, uncaring of your pained hiccups and cries.

“Simon,” you whine when he bottoms out, warm balls settling against your neglected cunt. “Hurts…”

His laugh is mean, nasty in your ear. “Good, fuck, say it again, girl. Tell me how much it hurts.”

“So bad…” is all you manage, even just those words warbling off into nothing as he pulls out, fucking himself back in with a harsh thrust that nearly chokes you. 

“Can’t believe you tried it,” he huffs, bracing himself over you as he sets a ruthless pace, no consideration for your comfort. You can see the chain in his right hand, feel the way it just barely tugs at your neck with how viciously you’re moving along the bed. “Been waitin’ for you to give me a chance to do this to you, to fuck you up.”

Your fists clench in the sheets as you do your best to breathe through the pain, the slide of the lube only making his thrusts marginally easier to endure.

“Been waitin’ to get my cock in this hole. Wanted to watch you cry and make you put your tears in the food, gape your little hole and make you ride me while I smoke, shit. Tightest ass I’ve ever felt, love, goddamn. ‘S that feel good?” A slap to the side of your face, rousing you. “You feel good with my cock drilling your little ass?”

“No,” you moan, miserable.

“Good,” he hisses, thrusts quickly becoming uncoordinated as he stares down at your ruined face, his eyes gleaming. “You’re so much sweeter when you’re hurtin’, girl. Wanna keep you like this all the time.”

You sob at the idea, already unable to imagine how excruciating it’ll be to sit tomorrow with your ass covered in welts.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Ghost pants, staring at you ravenously. “Cry a little more for me, attagirl…”

You feel his cum shoot deep inside you before his thrusts slow, the heat spreading as he fucked you through his orgasm, face twisted in pleasure. Your tears haven’t slowed, even as the pain lessened and lessened throughout your fucking.

“Fuck, fuck, that feels good,” he breathes, grinding himself against you as he empties the last of himself inside you.

You feel nearly catatonic as he pulls out, only able to whine when he slips free from your hole and then again when he rearranges you on the bed, limbs sore and neck stiff as he continues to hold you by the leash.

“Took it well,” he grunts, shifting to lay on his back again and tossing the lube to the table beside him. “You gonna pull that shit again?”

You sniffle shaking your head no, only verbally answering when he cocks an eyebrow. “No, Simon.”

He smirks. “I’d love if you did,” he whispers, like it’s a secret. “Would love if you gave me another chance to ruin you. Just go ahead, love. I’ll tear into you whenever you want.” He tilts his head, considering for a moment. “Whenever I want too. ‘Cause you’re mine to do whatever I want with, aren’t you?”

You nod, hands tucked beneath your chin as he tugs you closer by the hip, fingers pressing into rapidly developing bruises and making you whimper.

“Yeah, gonna fuck you ‘til you cry as often as I want. And you’ll gimme those tears every time, won’t you?”

All you can do is nod, a part of you calmed and feeling safer as you watch the predator’s teeth pull away from the prey’s neck when he nods.

The plate you balance is larger than your face and still nearly overflowing with food.

It’s filled to the edges with steak, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, and rolls. You have a bottle of wine tucked under one arm, a corkscrew held between your lips and one glass in your hand as you saunter towards Simon.

“Smells good,” he grunts. You’ve learned that his compliments are concise but rare, and you greedily take in the praise from him. “Enough for us both?”

You snort. There’s enough food on your plate to feed five people, easily. But Ghost’s stomach is never-ending, and you’d made sure that there would be no way he’d go to bed hungry.

He spreads his thighs as you approach, pats one of them like you’re not already lowering yourself to him. He takes the glasses while you lay the plate, setting his silverware to the side as he opens the bottle and fills the glass nearly to the brim.

You hum as you take in a breath of the food, that familiar sense of pride from a meal well-made settling in your chest.

Ghost cuts the food while you lean back on his chest, watching his thick fingers work. 

He lifts one of the little pieces of steak to your mouth once he’s cut it, swiping it through the potatoes and guiding you to look at him with a finger on your jaw.

He presses the tender, rare meat between your lips and you take it greedily, letting your eyes slip shut as you savor the taste. He kisses you almost immediately after, passes his tongue over the food before you can even swallow, but lets you keep it.

You giggle when he pulls back, swiping a thumb over the potato on your lip. He picks himself up another bite, pinches a bit of carrot with his steak and swallows without chewing, a moan slipping from his lips. You feel yourself dampening against his thigh, breath hitching.

“Happy Valentine’s day,” you say, voice quiet and held just between the two of you.

He snorts, ever unromantic. “Eat up, doll. Wanna have you for dessert after a meal this good.”

You smile softly at him, opening your mouth willingly when he lifts a bite of food to your lips.

[luveline]

hi!!! i have a request for roommate!spencer where he's injured during a case and reader show up at the hospital because she's his emergency contact but the team is really confused wondering who's this stranger fussing over spencer. hope you like it, love you!

thank you for requesting honey!! love you<3 fem!reader

“Close your eyes,” you command, voice all blown up and grand, already smiling. “Close your eyes, Spencer.” 

“No.” He squints groggily. “What are you doing?” 

“Close your eyes.” 

“No, Y/N, what are you doing?” he asks. 

You shake your spray bottle at him. He sighs a long-suffering sigh and finally admits defeat, his tired eyes shuttering closed all too easily. You rest your knee on the side of his bed and hear the metal squeaking at your added weight, your hand gentle as you cover his forehead. “You have greasy hair,” you say sympathetically. “This is gonna feel much nicer.” 

You blast him with dry shampoo, his brown hair turning white with powder. You drop the can in his lap and set about rubbing the powder into his hair until the grease is soaked up, and his hair feels less miserably lank. 

“When are they gonna let you shower again?” you ask quietly. 

You’re still touching his hair. More for him than you, you hope he feels comforted, but mostly you just wanna affirm to yourself that he’s all in one bruised piece. Your heart still aches as much as it did when you got the phone call in the first place —Spencer Reid’s next of kin? 

You suppose that’s you. 

“I don’t know.” 

You take his hair back into his current parting. “Well, let’s hope it’s soon. How are you liking the sponge baths? Are they awful?” 

“Humiliating.” 

Just outside of Spencer’s hospital room, Hotch and JJ stand together with a bag of essentials. They’d drawn to a sudden stop when they realised Spencer had company. “Who is that?” she asks. 

Hotch, used to knowing everything, frowns very deeply. He doesn’t know who you are, but from the way you’re touching Spencer’s hair and face, he should. 

JJ sounds a little put out. “She doesn’t work here.” 

“No, I don’t think so,” Hotch says. His frown lightens as you laugh and scratch Spencer’s hair back behind his ears. 

“Is it unkind of me to think he didn’t have any friends?” JJ asks. 

Hotch knows Spencer has friends. He’s summoned Spencer from chess games and fan clubs, picking him up occasionally on the way to the office on cafe sidewalks as he waved goodbye to a glasses-wearing bibliophile, often in coats too big for them or with hair in need of a trim. Spencer attracts the unconventional because he, as anybody in this line of work tends to be, is inordinary. So JJ probably is being unkind, but Hotch knows what she means. 

You look completely regular. You settle on one thigh on his bed while the other keeps you up and put your hand on his chest, chatting breezy words they can’t hear through the glass.

Spencer curls into you slowly. 

“You’ll be home soon,” you say, rubbing his shoulder, “don’t worry.” 

Hotch’s eyebrows rise of their own accord. He and JJ excuse themselves for coffee before they’re spotted, and when they return, you’re gone. “Spence, who was that girl?” JJ asks. Hotch notes the slightest line of jealousy tugging under her curiosity. 

He sounds as though he could use some more pain medication, and a good night's sleep, but he’s proud as he says, “That’s my roommate. I told you about her.” 

“Ah, your roommate,” Hotch says. 

“What’s that mean?” Spencer asks. 

“Nothing, Spencer,” Hotch says, using the young man’s first name in a rare show of affection. “That’s just an irregular word for it. I haven’t heard it in a while.” 

JJ laughs. Spencer hides his face with both hands, a smudge of lip balm on his hand shining under the stark hospital fluorescents. “I’m too tired,” he complains. 

Hotch hadn’t seen you kiss him, but he can imagine how it might have happened, how you’d leaned in for a kiss on the cheek goodbye and Spencer overwhelmed himself thinking about it. Or maybe it’s just an innocuous smudge. Maybe it’s nothing at all. 

“We live together,” Spencer mumbles. “I couldn’t afford to live by myself at first, it’s D.C.” 

“And now?” Hotch asks. He knows Spencer is on good enough money to afford an apartment by himself these days, a big one. He has no dependents. 

“Didn’t seem fair… She’s nice. She’s, like, my best friend.” 

“Don’t let Morgan hear you say that,” JJ laughs. 

Hotch isn’t sure she gets it, but he does. “Well, you can ask her to come back. We have work to do.” 

Spencer pretends he’s hesitant to pick up the phone. Your reply is an immediate beep. Hotch knows a good friend when he sees one. 

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 9: Save Me

Summary: You find yourself confronting feelings as you move past the events that caused your distress, and as your heat begins looming closer and closer.

Pairings: Poly 141 x reader

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, military inaccuracies, language, angst, panic, PTSD, mention of weapons, slight suggestive content

A/N: I feel like a broken record but I really don't like this one either, but I'm so ready to just get to this point in the story lol. I feel like I've dragged it on long enough. We're definitely reaching a point where things are shifting and changing and things might seem like they're moving kind of fast. Sorry for all the choppy time jumps too, I just wanted to get to this point in the fic 😭

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

A knock on the door pulls you from sleep. You groan quietly, wrapping your arms tighter around the pillow you're cuddling. 

That pillow lets out its own groan, moving slightly. 

“Gotta get up, love. Answer the door.” Your pillow grumbles, shifting in your hold. 

You're wrapped around Gaz still, clinging to him tightly. You vaguely remember an alarm going off and Gaz rolling over to turn it off before you slipped back into sleep. Gaz had apparently fallen back asleep as well, or at least had stayed with you after both of your alarms going off.

Gaz carefully untangles your limbs from around him, slipping a pillow into your arms before rising from the bed. He stretches his arms over his head, a sliver of skin visible as he does so. You stare at it until he lowers his arms, your eyes already slipping closed again as he opens the door. 

You hear quiet voices, the words lost on you as you slip further and further into a daze of sleep. 

Until the smell of food hits your nose. Your stomach growls loudly, and you lift your head, squinting sleepily as you search for the source of the delicious smell. 

“Morning, sweetheart.” Price's voice rumbles through your ears, his hand warm as it brushes over your head. “How do you feel?” 

You let out another groan, leaning into his touch as his hand strokes your hair. You’re still sore, muscles aching like you had spent the entire day yesterday training. You feel less emotionally drained, not quite so overwhelmed to the point of near numbness now. 

“Dr. Keller wants to see you after you’ve eaten.” Price says, pulling his hand back. 

You let out a quiet whine, trying to chase his hand. He chuckles, gently nudging you back so you don’t topple off your bed. He slips his hands under your arms, moving you so you’re sitting on the bed. Your cheeks warm at how easily he does it, that warmth heating to an inferno as he sits on the edge of your bed with the bowl of porridge in his hand. You’re suddenly very awake as he holds out a spoonful to you, and you feel as if your face might burst into flames. His eyes are focused, lips turning up in a small smile as you let him feed you. You know it’s appeasing his alpha, just based on the pride practically beaming from him. 

You hold his gaze as he feeds you the porridge, skin prickling from the attention as you cling to the stuffed strawberry in your lap. You can imagine him in your nest, holding you against his chest, feeding you in your heat-induced daze, making sure you eat and get plenty of fluids. 

“You alright in there?” He asks, scanning your face. 

You nod, trying to calm the inferno under your skin. “Yeah. Just thinking.” 

The content smile on his face shifts, morphing into a smirk. “Must be some good thoughts, then.” 

You nod, taking the glass of water he offers you and downing it. 

“Get yourself dressed, then we’ll go see Dr. Keller.” He says, pushing himself up to stand. 

“Yes, sir.” You nod again, letting out a yawn. 

“If you’re not up in ten minutes, I’ll be forced to make you get up.” He says, giving you a playful smirk before leaving and closing the door behind him. 

Your face warms again at his words. You’re half tempted to burrow back under the covers, if only to see if he’d follow through with that threat.

Dr. Keller said it would be a good idea. 

You tell yourself that as you stand in Price’s office. The door is closed behind you, sealing you both inside together. His scent is heavy in the air, making your head spin. You wonder how long he’s been sitting at his desk, how long he’s been shut inside today. 

“Grab a pillow.” He says, his voice thick and heavy. He sounds tired, and you wonder how much he slept last night. If he slept at all. 

Your slippers make a scuffing sound as you shuffle over to the couch, grabbing the pillow you had used last time. You move over to him as he leans back in the chair, taking your spot next to him. You sit back on your heels, letting out a breath as you try and relax. His hand strokes the back of your head, giving you a moment to adjust to his touch before he slides it down to the back of your neck. 

You fight the instinctual urge to protect yourself, stopping your shoulders from lifting to try and force his hand away. You’re still not quite used to it, the vulnerability making your omega squirm, especially after the events that took place yesterday. 

You know you can trust Price, but your omega wants to bristle at everything right now. Perhaps you’re picking up on Price’s own exhaustion, his own stress bleeding into you. 

His fingers press into your neck and your body relaxes almost immediately. Your mind begins to clear, and you feel as if you’re floating away from your body. All the emotions and the stress and the soreness in your body fades as you relax into Price’s hold. Warmth begins to flood your body as your omega finally settles, nearly preening as your alpha takes control, taking the weight of the world off your shoulders. 

You can’t see Price’s gaze on you as he watches you kneel for him, lost in his own thoughts. How easily you relax for him, how trusting you are of him in this moment. You’re putting your entire being in his hands and trusting him with it, even though you’re practically still strangers. It hasn’t even been three full weeks since your arrival in their lives and already so much has happened. It feels like things are moving so quickly, but he knows they could move faster. 

If he were a worse man, a worse alpha, he would have claimed you already. Taken what was his to take and cared little for you and your needs. 

He’s not going to be that kind of alpha. He decided that a long time ago, long before you came into the picture. 

You fall into him limply as he eases his hand from your neck, letting you rest against him and breathe in his scent. Your nose presses into his neck, your warm little breaths causing goosebumps to form on his skin. A quiet sound rumbles in your chest as you press closer to him, getting louder as you breathe him in. 

You’re...purring.

Pride wells within him again. You’re comfortable enough to purr around him. He did that. He made you feel safe and comfortable enough to open up that much.  

He slips his arms around you, rising from the floor to move to the couch. You continue to purr, the sound vibrating through you and straight to his inner alpha. The sound begins before he can stop it, his own chest vibrating as he answers your purr with one of his own. 

He holds you close to his chest, purring contently as you slowly drift off in your relaxed state. Eventually your purrs die off as sleep takes you, but he continues to sit there, his own purrs vibrating in his chest as if they can reach through and soothe you even in your sleep. 

“Too tight?” 

You move your wrists, pulling slightly at the restraints. “No.” You shake your head.

“Good.” He runs a hand over your head, tugging at the vest, making sure it’s secured before he steps back. “Alright?” 

You nod, shifting slightly in the wooden chair. “Yes, sir.” 

“Remember, it’ll be fast and intense, but they’ll take good care of you. Don’t forget to play it up a bit. It’s good to know if they can focus in this situation.” Price says, running his hand over your head again. “And I’ll be watching the entire time.” 

He leans down, pressing a kiss on your forehead before he leaves the room, the beta outside the door pulling it closed behind him. You tug at the restraints habitually, even though you could get out of them easily. Just like you could get out of the vest strapped to your chest and the chair you’re sitting in easily. 

Hostage rescue training was not how you expected to spend your Thursday morning, but you suppose there are worse things you could be doing besides being restrained in a chair with a fake bomb strapped to your chest. 

Price had told you about their training yesterday. You hadn’t expected to hear about how you were going to play hostage when he summoned you to his office, but it had been far too formal a request to be something simple. You had been hesitant when he explained, but the risk was small. They weren’t using live bullets, and the bomb strapped to your chest was hardly more than a bunch of wires and a timer counting down. Price had even ensured the restraints weren’t too tight, and had shown you how to slip out of them easily. 

The worst part had been your mind running rampant while he secured the rope around your wrists. 

You hear the distant sound of the helicopter dropping them off, the entire mood in the house shifting. The betas outside have a role to play, and so do you. 

The sound of the door outside getting kicked in makes you jump, your heart rate kicking up. You know it’s them, you know it’s fake, yet you can’t help but let the emotions in the moment get to you. 

They don’t know it’s you they’re rescuing. 

Price hadn’t told them you were involved. He wanted to see if they could keep their heads in a situation like this. It’s important to know. Gives them something to work on if they can’t. 

You hear the pop of the fake guns outside the door before two solid thuds shake the door in front of you. You hold your breath, your fingers shaking in the excitement and adrenaline as the door flies open. You flinch out of instinct, blinking at them as the three enter the room. It suddenly seems smaller with them in it, their surprise not lost to you, even in the tenseness of the situation. You know you’re scent is thick in the room, cutting through the trained laser focus in their minds as they run through a drill they’ve probably done countless times. 

Something they’ve probably done in real life situations as well. 

“Easy, sunshine.” Soap says, kneeling down in front of you. “Gonna get ye out of here.” 

“You can defuse that, right?” Gaz asks, standing behind him. You know they’re both trained in demolitions. You remember that from their files. 

“Course I can.” Soap says, looking at the wires. 

The timer starts beeping in warning, your heart rate picking up instinctively. There wasn’t anything that would actually explode if he failed, but you can’t help the chill of fear settling in as he messes with the wires. 

“Come on, Johnny.” Ghost says from behind you. 

“I got it.” Soap growls out, sweat beading on his forehead. 

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. Time seems to slow as he studies the wires, the timer continuing to beep as it counts down. Even though you’re not in any danger, you still feel the fear welling inside you. He does know what he’s doing, he wouldn’t be in this position in the first place if he didn’t. Yet you can see the struggle, the hesitation, the uncertainty in his gaze. 

He wouldn’t let you die, right? 

“Ten seconds.” Gaz warns. 

“Johnny?” You breathe, voice cracking as you meet his bright blue eyes. 

He mutters a curse before cutting one of the wires. The tenseness in the room is palpable for a moment as all four of you hold your breath. The silence is loud, the timer on the fake bomb sitting still at six seconds. Soap’s head falls forward to rest against your chest as he breathes a sigh of relief. You’re shaking, fingers trembling as Ghost cuts the rope around your wrists. 

“Hostage secure.” Gaz says into their comms. 

“I wasnae gonna let ye die, sunshine.” Soap says, removing the vest from your body. 

“Kinda felt like it.” You murmur as he helps you out of the chair, your legs shaking a bit from the adrenaline. 

“Come on.” Ghost says as soon as Soap has you on your feet. “Captain’s waiting.” 

Your legs still feel unsteady as you follow them out of the building and across the grass, hand clutched tightly in Soap’s. The fabric of his glove is rough against your skin, but you can still feel the warmth of his hand in yours. You lean against his side as you reach Price across the field, not missing the way his gaze scans you head to toe quickly before he addresses the others. 

“Not bad,” Price says. “And the hostage is in one piece.” 

You’re still shaking a little, but you can’t stop the smile that tugs at your lips. “Was kind of fun, actually, getting tied up and stuff.” 

Soap and Gaz both let out groans at your words, Ghost rolling his eyes at your cheeky smile. The corner of Price’s lips twitch, and you can’t help but beam with pride at eliciting such a reaction. 

“Let’s get back to base, and we’ll go over the specifics.” Price says. 

You wind up in the back seat of one of the cars with Soap, his arm draped across the back of the seat. You’re leaning into his side, his fingers brushing your arm every so often as the car drives down the bumpy road. 

“Ye called me Johnny.” He says quietly, leaning in closer to you. 

You stare up at him. “You were going to let me explode.” 

“I was not.” He says, looking offended. “I knew wha’ I was doin’” His brows pinch together, his hand cupping the back of your head. “I would never let anythin’ happen to you.” 

“I know.” You say, leaning your head on his shoulder. “At least I hope so. Blowing up is kind of a shitty way to die.” 

He huffs out a laugh. “Well, if it happened that way, ye wouldn’t be goin’ out alone.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Ye can call me Johnny anytime you want.” 

You smile, snuggling deeper into his side. “Okay, Johnny.” 

Your smile only widens as you pick up the subtle rumbling purr sounding from his chest. 

“How are things?” 

“Fine.” You shrug, sinking back in the chair. 

“I heard you took part in the hostage training. How did that go?” Dr. Keller asks. 

“It was fine, kind of intense but also kind of fun.” You shrug again, a smile tugs at your lips. “They didn’t know I was the hostage, so that was fun to see their reactions.” 

“Was that reassuring to see them in action and have them pretend to rescue you? I know we’ve talked about that fear briefly.” Dr. Keller says.

“In a way, I guess.” You say. “At least, I know they could do it if they had to. I mean, not that I don’t trust that they couldn’t, but...it’s different.” 

“It’s different when it’s someone you care about.” Dr. Keller says. “How are you feeling? I know we talked earlier this week, but distressing is a serious thing to go through.” 

“I’m alright.” You say, picking at your jeans. “Not sore anymore. Price called off training for a while to let us both kind of figure things out.” 

“Have you spoken to Lieutenant Riley since Monday?” She asks. 

You nod. “Yeah. A couple times. I didn’t accept his apology, not that he really said sorry directly, but he at least...explained some things.” 

“And it is totally within your right to not forgive him.” Dr. Keller says. “I applaud you for putting up that boundary. I know it’s not easy, but sometimes people need to work to prove themselves again.” She makes herself comfortable on the couch, staring at you. “How have you been aside from all the excitement? Have you started nesting yet?” 

You shake your head, biting your lip. “No. I-I feel more comfortable now that I have things for my room, but...I still don’t feel like nesting.” 

Dr. Keller hums, staring at you for a moment before she writes something down. “What do you think is causing this hesitance in your instincts?”  

Your mouth opens in surprise at her question, not quite expecting it. You had spoken last week about things you might be able to do to help if you weren’t nesting by now. You had expected to start throwing out ideas in that regard, not that you would be digging into why. 

“I’d like you to be honest with me. Remember this conversation will only ever be between us. No one else is going to hear this, no one else will ever see my notes. It’s just you and me.” She leans forward, putting her elbows on her knees as she stares at you. “Would you have chosen to be in a place like this, if it were up to you?” 

“It wasn’t up to me. It never was.” You say, starting to sweat nervously a bit. It’s getting warm in the office.

“I know, but hypothetically speaking. If you had the option to choose, would you have chosen a place like this? A military pack?” 

You stare at your hands, fighting the emotions welling up inside you. You wouldn’t have. You know that, you’ve thought about it over and over. You wouldn’t have put yourself in this position. You would have gone as far from the military and politics as you could have, had it been up to you. You want something quiet and easy with an alpha that loves you and takes care of you. Not...not this. 

You’re crying. You can’t stop the tears that are trailing down your cheeks. You feel guilty for thinking that way. It’s not your choice, it would have never been your choice. You’re supposed to be a good omega and be okay going wherever you’re told to, with whatever pack picks you. 

They hadn’t chosen you. 

They hadn’t wanted you here. Price had fought against your addition to their pack up until you arrived. You know Ghost has his own opinions about your presence here. They had been told they were getting an omega and you had been told you were going to be that omega. 

Would they have chosen you? 

You wouldn’t have wanted them to. 

Dr. Keller says your name quietly, her tone sympathetic as you sit there and cry. You’re crying for the life you were supposed to have, the life you could have had, the many things that would have been different had you just been a good pup and presented like you were supposed to. 

“I don’t want to be here.” You sob, burying your face into your hands. 

You feel guilty, admitting it, even if it is the truth. Your pack has been nothing but kind and supportive, aside from the incident earlier this week. You like them, all things considered. You can imagine yourself being happy with them. Was it what you wanted, though? Was this where you would have elected to spend the rest of your life? 

No. 

“Can you tell me why?” Dr. Keller asks softly. 

Her question only makes you cry harder. You could. You could tell her exactly why. You don’t want to bring up those feelings, those memories, those emotions. You want to leave them behind in the past, buried under everything you learned that made you such a good omega. It would ruin everything, if that got out, if those feelings came to light again. 

Your breaths are coming in gasps as you sob, Dr. Keller rising from the couch. She grabs a stuffed animal from her closet, walking back over to you. She eases it into your arms, pressing it against your chest. 

“Squeeze. It will help.” She directs you, dropping to a knee beside you. “This has something to do with the military, doesn't it?” She says softly, putting a hand on your back. “I know your father served and you spent most of your childhood on bases. Was there something that happened?” 

You take deep breaths, squeezing the bear against your chest as tight as you can. “I can’t.” You sob, shaking your head. “I can’t.” 

“Okay.” She says, gently rubbing your back. “That’s okay. Deep breaths.” 

You continue to breathe, trying to calm the tears. Dr. Keller continues to rub your back, trying to ensure you don't slip into distress again. The calming beta scent floods your nose, reaching back into your brain to calm the turmoil. 

Slowly your breaths begin to even out, and the tears slow to a stop. You’re still clutching the stuffed bear to your chest, arms wrapped around it tight. 

“You’re doing a good job.” Dr. Keller says, grabbing a box of tissues for you. “You’re handling this whole situation better than I think a lot of omegas would. But, that doesn’t mean you have to be okay with it. I’d be more concerned if you weren’t struggling a bit. You don’t have to tell me everything, you don’t have to tell me anything. It’s all up to you. I just want you to know that I’m not going to judge you for anything, and I’m not going to tell anyone anything. I’m here for you, and you alone.” 

You slowly release your grip on the bear, your hands still shaking a bit. Dr. Keller moves back to the couch as you stare down at the plastic eyes, running your fingers over its soft fur. 

“I do think it would be a good idea to address the nesting issue sooner rather than later.” Dr. Keller says, still speaking softly. “We don’t have to get into the why until you feel comfortable enough to, but you need a nest before your heat starts. I have a couple exercises in mind to help maybe jumpstart those instincts, but we’ll need Captain Price in on this issue as well for them to work. I can speak for him on your behalf, if you’d like. I won’t tell him any details.” She says as your eyes dart up to look at her. “Only that there’s a nesting issue and there’s some exercises I’d like the two of you to try.” 

You let your gaze drop back to the bear. You know you need to start nesting, and with your heat rapidly approaching, you’re beginning to be pressed for time. Your heat could start as soon as next week and if you don’t have a nest...

“I guess that’s fine.” You say, staring back down at the bear in your hands. “If you think he can help.” 

Dr. Keller nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I think he can.” 

“Thank you for meeting with me, Captain Price.” Dr. Keller says as they take a seat in her office. “I just wanted to preface this conversation by saying I was given permission to discuss this with you, because we both agree you should be made aware of what’s going on.” Dr. Keller shuffles her notes as Price sits there, back straight in the chair. “Frankly, if I’m being honest, I’m starting to get a little concerned about my patient.”

“Concerned about what?” Price asks, brows pinching. 

“She’s not having nesting instincts.” Dr. Keller watches Price’s face as she speaks. “Even with what you did for her, buying her things to make her more comfortable, she’s not getting that urge to make a nest. I know you’re aware that’s a crucial piece of a successful heat, and with that looming ever closer, I’m worried about her.” 

“What do you think is causing it?” Price asks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

“I’m not sure, yet. I did promise I wouldn’t reveal any details about anything, but I do feel comfortable saying, as I’m sure you have figured out, there’s a lot of trauma behind that institute taught, if I may be so frank, bullshit.” 

The corner of Price’s mouth twitches. “Not a fan of institutes?” 

Dr. Keller shakes her head. “No. I’m not. There’s many professionals that share the same sentiment. They’re hardly the nurturing and cultivating places they present themselves to be, though I’m sure you’re figuring that out yourself. It’s always been about control and profit. The current model most of them use is outdated and has been proven in study to be highly ineffective. There are some places here in Europe that are beginning to reform institutes and what they teach, taking a more omega-centric approach, instead of just priming them for future alphas and packs.” 

“Can it be undone, the things she was taught?” He asks, purely out of curiosity. “The way she thinks about herself?”

“I think so, to a degree.” Dr. Keller answers. “You’re already seeing it a bit. She’s already having her beliefs and understanding challenged. Supporting her through that will be an important step in your bonding. The best thing you can do is support her and prove her institute taught beliefs wrong. I think you’re doing a fantastic job already, as is she.” 

“What can we do about the nesting?” He asks. 

“I have a couple exercises in mind I’d like to try. I’ve used one in practice before in a different situation. It was at one of the institutes I worked at after I was certified as an omega specialist. Two omegas were brought in off the streets. I can’t give too many details but they’d been through something very traumatic and had bonded intensely with each other. They couldn’t be separated at all without slipping into near distress. Of course, institutes don’t allow those kinds of bonds as it’s hard on the omegas when they reach selection age. So, we did an exercise where I had both scent a stuffed animal and then gave them each other’s so they’d have something tangible to focus on. Then we started slowly working on separation, using those stuffed animals so they could keep the scent of the other close. It worked, eventually they were able to be apart. I’d like to try the same thing, but to the opposite effect. I’d like you to scent a stuffed animal so it can be used as a sort of symbol, something tangible she can use to represent you.” 

“A way to introduce me into her nest without having me there invading her space.” Price says. 

“Exactly.” Dr. Keller smiles. “Having an alpha’s scent around her might help induce not only that feeling of comfort she needs, but may also help induce those instincts to nest. Doing it this way prevents the risk of discomfort by having an alpha invading her space directly, while still allowing for the introduction of an alpha’s scent.” 

“Alright. What else do you think might help?” Price asks, running his hand over his beard. 

“Another exercise, this one more tactile in nature. This particular one she can do herself, though she may choose to involve you later as she gets more comfortable doing it. I know she’s kneeling for you already, which is fantastic. Some omegas don’t kneel until after being claimed. That she feels comfortable enough to do it already is a good sign. She’s already had these exercises explained to her, but I would like to meet with you both to walk through them again, and in the end, it’s her decision what happens.” Dr. Keller gives him a small smile. “Do you have any questions?” 

“What can be done if these exercises don’t work?” Price asks. 

“There are a couple other things that can be done, though they’re far more invasive. I wouldn’t even suggest them unless she’s showing clear signs of pre-heat symptoms and still hasn’t nested yet. They have their risks, and that’s not something I’m willing to gamble on unless it’s absolutely necessary.” 

Price hums quietly. “Is there anything I could be doing differently to help?” 

“I think you’re both doing fantastic jobs with the hand you’ve been dealt. It’s not an easy situation and the fact she’s made as much progress as she has is remarkable, honestly. My job’s been fairly easy so far. I was expecting a lot worse when Laswell briefed me. That being said, there’s still a long way to go.” 

“Thank you, Doctor.” Price says, shaking her hand. “You’ve been a big help.” 

“It is my job.” Dr. Keller shrugs. “Remember, I’m always here if you have any questions or concerns. I may be an Omega Specialist, but that also includes the omega’s pack as well.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Price says, giving her a smile. “And I’ll be sure to tell your brother you said hello.” 

Dr. Keller smirks, huffing out a laugh. “Yeah, remind him to call his sister every once in a while, while you’re at it.” 

You run your fingers over the soft fur of the teddy bear. Your eyes flutter closed as you let Price’s scent wash over you. You clutch the bear to your chest, wrapping your arms around it tightly as you lounge on your bed. You bury your nose in its fur, breathing in Price’s earthy scent from it. 

A quiet sound begins to rumble in your chest as you hug the bear tightly. A small, content smile pulls at your lips as you curl up in a ball around the bear, purring quietly. 

It’s been so long since you purred. 

You haven’t since you were a pup, still young enough to find safety in your home, before you really understood much of anything that was going on. You only ever purred with your mother, snuggled up in the nest with your siblings, warm and content and safe. 

Your dad never purred. Or, you never heard him do it. You remember the deep growls that rumbled through his chest, the scent of ozone. The warning that made you bristle, even as a pup, that tickling feeling at the back of your neck almost like your brain knew years before you even presented. 

You wrap your arms tighter around the bear, letting Price’s scent flood your mind and wipe away the fear, the feelings, the emotions mixing together. Price isn’t like that. He was so willing to help you, to jump in and do what it took to make the best of a situation that neither of you had a say in. Just an alpha and an omega bound to duty, forced to follow what someone else says. How very much alike your lives are, and yet, so vastly different. 

That’s why you’ve found comfort in him so quickly, you think. You understand him. He may be a captain, he may be pack alpha, he may be a leader, but he’s not in control. Not completely. There’s still someone behind the scenes, pulling the strings, telling him where to go, what to do. Someone’s pointing him in a direction and it’s his duty to follow. 

You were never going to be in control. You were born a subordinate, and you had been cursed to always be one by your presentation. Your entire life would be dictated for you, by someone telling you what to be, how to act, where to go, what to do. There would always be expectations for you, someone behind the scenes pulling the strings. 

Your presence here is full of expectation. You weren’t just bonding with a pack as your duty, there was expectation for it. You had been sent here with a purpose, leading an initiative that could shape the future of many omegas to come. You’re not just an omega chosen by a pack that wants one. 

You’re part of a government initiative. Your whole purpose is to see if adding an omega to a pack of highly trained soldiers really will improve their effectiveness and proficiency. 

Falling in love with them is just a side effect of your own mission. 

Love might be a strong word for it. It wouldn’t matter to those watching your progress if you hated them. You’re supposed to bond with them, be their omega. Prove that it’s worth it, that the strengths weigh out the potential vulnerabilities. Then hundreds of omegas stuck in institutes will be trained to follow in your footsteps. 

You wouldn’t wish this on anyone. 

You’re lucky they’ve been so good to you. You’re lucky you’re beginning to feel it, those spaces in the back of your mind that have been empty for years beginning to fill as your omega comes to accept her pack. The betas anchoring your omega, the alphas surrounding and protecting. 

You'll do your duty. You'll bond with them. You'll mate with Price. You'll allow him to claim you. You'll be their good little omega. 

It won't be the worst life. 

They at least care about you. Gaz and Soap have shown interest in you and mating with you themselves. Ghost...you've got a long way to go with him still, but you're beginning to make some headway into earning his acceptance. 

Price...Price has begun to show some interest as well. You've knelt for him, kissed him, allowed him into your space. He calmed your distress, bought you items to help make your space more comfortable. He scented a stuffed bear to help you nest. 

He'll treat you nicely, or at least you hope he will. He'll lose himself to his rut when you go into heat, and you've heard plenty of horror stories. You know what to expect, from the best to the worst. You could come out the other side mated and content, or you could come out half mauled to death. There's no way of knowing. Price will be a slave to his instincts just as much as you will be. 

You don't want it to be like that. 

You don't want your first encounter with the opposite sex to be lost to the haze of your heat, something that could potentially put your life at risk. How long has it been since Price has had an omega? You know he has. He's too calm, too collected around you to never have had experience with one before. 

Will he treat you well? How will he touch you? You can't imagine him as being a selfish lover, but you won't know. You won't know until you're dazed with lust as your body yearns for release, for an alpha's knot. 

You could find out beforehand. 

The thought has you sitting up in your bed. You could pursue that with Price before your heat starts. There's no rule that says you can't before your heat. You know there's omegas that don't wait. There's alphas that don't wait when omegas join their packs. Price could have taken you that first day if he really wanted to. 

Would he have bent you over his desk? Done it in his room or yours? Would he have done it in the meeting room in front of the rest of the pack? Staked his claim like some primal alpha?

The thought has warmth pooling in your stomach. The mental image of Price taking you in front of the others, sinking his teeth into your neck as he stakes his claim, marking you as his. 

“Fuck.” You breathe, clenching your thighs together. 

You could ask. What's the worst he's going to say? No? You'll just retreat in shame and hide out until your heat begins in embarrassment. He was so willing to do what you wanted, what you asked of him. Would he say yes if you asked him? If that's really what you wanted? Does he want it? Does he want you? 

All you have to do is ask. You're allowed to want things, to desire things. Everything you've asked for so far, you've gotten. 

The heat between your legs only confirms it. You want this. 

You want Price. 

Your hands are shaking as you reach for the door handle. He had given you permission to enter already, but your nerves make it feel like you’re moving in slow motion as you wrap your fingers around the nob, turning and pushing inwards. His eyes are on you as you slip in, closing the door behind you. You can’t read his face as he sits there, staring at you in your baggy shirt and leggings. 

“What’s eating you, pup?” He asks as he stares at you, watching you fidget nervously.

“I wanted to ask you something.” You say, shifting your weight between your feet. 

He reaches out a hand, motioning you closer. You approach his desk slowly, taking his outstretched hand. He guides you in front of him, lifting you to sit on the desk. He leans back in his seat, staring up at you. “You can ask me anything.” 

You bite your lip, staring down at him. His hands come to rest on the edge of the desk on either side of you. It’s comforting, supportive, instead of constricting as it might have felt just two weeks ago. It only furthers your belief that you’re making the right choice, that this is what you want. 

You stare down into his eyes, your hands coming to rest just beside his on the desk. “I want my first time with you to be before my heat.” The words come spilling out quickly, almost so quickly you’re not sure he caught them. 

He stares at you, surprise flickering across his face for a moment before he’s back to the straight-faced captain again. “You’re sure?” 

You nod. “I want to remember the first time. It’ll make me feel better after we...have to do it. I think...it’ll help me feel less like...I had to.” 

Price moves just slightly closer to you, understanding shining in his eyes. “If that's what you really want.”

You nod, sliding your hands until they're resting on top of his. “It is.”

He turns his hands so can hold yours. “Saturday, then. Let me make you dinner and then we'll go from there.” 

Your stomach flutters at his words, skin tingling as his thumbs rub the backs of your hands. “You want to wine and dine me first?” You ask playfully. 

“Call me old fashioned.” He smirks. 

“Maybe just old.” You mutter, shrieking out a laugh as he wraps his arms around your waist, tugging you into his lap. The chair creaks precariously but you know he'd break your fall.

“You want to take that back?” He murmurs, your face inches from his. 

“Depends on what my punishment will be.” You say, your nose almost brushing his. 

He chuckles deep in his chest, lips brushing yours as he speaks. “You'll have to wait for Saturday to find out.” 

NEXT ->

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[xo100]

i’ve been thinking about this for so longgg

okay so basically a fic where lando and you met at a grand prix while you were doing a tour of the paddock you accidentally meet and start talking and lando asks for your number, you and your whole family have always been huge f1 fans and so you hide it from them when you start dating him but eventually bring him to meet them and it’s a big surprise and everyone is so shocked that lando is your boyfriend

Under the radar - LN4

*:･ﾟ Summary/request: request by anon as you can read above this!

*:･ﾟ Word count: 1384

masterlist / community / request

౨ৎ

You were on a tour of the paddock, weaving through the bustle of teams prepping for race day, while you tried not to be overwhelmed by the atmosphere. Your family had always been Formula 1 fanatics, and being here was a dream come true. You were taking it all in—savoring every moment of walking through the garages and team areas that you'd only ever seen on TV.

Your family had been buzzing with excitement when you told them you won tickets for the paddock tour at the Grand Prix. They were envious, of course, but you had promised to snap plenty of pictures for them. None of them could imagine the turn your day would take.

As you followed the group through the McLaren garage, something—or rather, someone—caught your eye. Out of the corner of your vision, you saw a figure rushing toward you. You stepped to the side instinctively, trying to avoid a collision, but your foot snagged on something, and before you could blink, you were falling backward.

Except, you didn’t hit the ground.

A pair of strong hands caught your shoulders, and you gasped, steadying yourself as you regained your balance. When you looked up, your eyes met warm brown ones, sparkling with amusement and a hint of concern. Lando Norris.

“Are you okay?” he asked, a grin slowly tugging at his lips.

For a second, your brain went blank. Was this actually happening? Was Lando Norris—McLaren's star driver, F1 wonderkid, and easily one of the funniest guys on the grid—really holding onto you?

“I—yeah, sorry!” you blurted, trying to compose yourself, though your heart was beating too fast. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No worries, happens to the best of us,” he chuckled, still holding onto your arms. “But I have to say, it’s not every day someone literally falls for me.”

You blinked at him, then laughed, the tension breaking. “Does that line work often?”

“More than you'd think.” He winked, releasing his hold on you, though he seemed reluctant to do so.

The tour group was already moving on, but you hesitated, still standing in front of Lando, unsure of what to say or do next.

He tilted his head slightly, noticing your uncertainty. “Are you with the group?”

“Yeah, but…” You waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. They won’t miss me.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your response. “Hmm, playing hooky already?”

You shrugged, biting back a smile. “Maybe.”

“Well, if you’re gonna skip out, you might as well do it properly. Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the pit wall. “Let me show you around.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Why not? You already tripped into me—seems like fate, doesn’t it?” His grin was contagious, and despite the voice in your head screaming that this was all surreal, you found yourself walking beside him as he led you past the rows of McLaren engineers, their heads down in concentration, and into areas the tour definitely wasn’t going to cover.

-

The rest of the tour passed in a blur—Lando showed you parts of the garage up close, pointing out the intricacies of the car, telling you little jokes about his teammates, and talking about life on the circuit. It felt strangely…normal. The kind of normal where you could forget he was a famous Formula 1 driver and just see him as the charming, cheeky guy he was.

By the time you both circled back around to the paddock entrance, you’d learned that he loved golf, he was obsessed with video games, and he had a dry sense of humor that had you laughing far too easily.

You didn’t want the conversation to end, but you knew it had to eventually. “Thanks for, um, the tour,” you said, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

“No problem. You should come back, you know.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder toward his team, who were undoubtedly waiting for him to rejoin them. Then he turned back to you with that grin that made your stomach flip. “Give me your number.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What?”

He chuckled softly, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. “Your number. So we can keep in touch.”

You blinked, processing what he was asking. Lando Norris wants your number? This was a conversation you were definitely not ready for. But despite the swarm of butterflies in your chest, you handed over your phone.

As you typed in your number, you couldn’t help but wonder how you were going to explain this to your family. Oh, nothing major, just met Lando Norris today…

-

You didn’t tell anyone. Not at first, at least.

After that day, Lando had texted you the very next evening, something casual about how he hoped you hadn’t tripped over anything else after you left. You laughed out loud, and your reply had been easy, comfortable. Before you knew it, the two of you were talking almost daily—texts that quickly evolved into phone calls and, eventually, meeting up at a few more races.

By the time you realized what was happening, you and Lando were dating. Quietly, but officially.

Your family had no idea.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to tell them—it was just…complicated. Your parents, your siblings—everyone in your family was obsessed with Formula 1. They knew every driver, every stat, every bit of news before it even hit the headlines. The idea of telling them you were dating an F1 driver—their favorite driver—felt impossible. You could already picture their reactions. The shouting, the questions, the disbelief.

So you kept it to yourself. For now, at least.

-

Months passed, and things with Lando grew deeper, more serious. He wasn’t just the famous driver anymore—he was Lando, the guy who made you laugh when you were stressed, who sent you goofy selfies from the hotel on race weekends, and who listened when you vented about your day. He was sweet, thoughtful, and maybe a little too good to be true.

Eventually, the time came when hiding him from your family wasn’t an option anymore. You had to tell them.

-

“I have a surprise for you guys,” you said nervously, standing in your living room with Lando by your side. You hadn’t told them yet—hadn’t explained who your ‘guest’ was.

Your mom and dad were sitting on the couch, your siblings sprawled around the living room, all eyes on you.

“What kind of surprise?” your sister asked suspiciously, glancing at Lando with a raised brow. He was wearing a baseball cap, pulled low enough that it wasn’t obvious who he was, but it wasn’t going to take long for them to figure it out.

You swallowed hard, glancing at Lando, who gave you a reassuring smile. He reached for your hand, squeezing it gently before stepping forward, taking off his cap and revealing his face.

For a split second, there was silence.

Then your dad nearly choked on his drink. “L-Lando Norris?” he stammered, eyes wide. Your siblings were frozen, mouths hanging open as they stared at him in disbelief.

“Surprise!” you said, giving them a nervous smile.

Lando, ever the charmer, grinned and waved. “Hi, nice to meet you all.”

Your family erupted into chaos. Your mom jumped up, asking a million questions at once, while your siblings started shouting over each other, and your dad was still trying to process what was happening.

“I can’t believe it,” your brother said, eyes wide as he stared at Lando. “Are you really dating my sister?”

Lando chuckled, sliding his arm around your waist. “Yep. Guess you’re stuck with me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, relief flooding through you as you realized everything was going to be okay. Your family was shocked, yes—but in the best way possible.

And as you stood there, watching Lando joke with your siblings, you realized something else.

You weren’t just dating an F1 driver. You were dating Lando, and somehow, that was even better.

౨ৎ

*:･ﾟ Notes; thank you for reading, love’s! Hope you all enjoyed it! If there is something wrong or need to be edited, let me know! Also hey anon! If you read this, I hope that this is what you had in mind!

[teddybeartoji]

when co-worker!toji finds a cupcake, a note and a small paper flower on his table when he comes back from his break, he’s more than confused. he hasn’t told anybody about his birthday because he doesn’t even care about it in the first place and he doesn’t really care for the people at the office other than you either, so— 

you. 

his green eyes scan the room but he notices that you’re missing from behind your desk, he slowly slumps down onto his chair. he gnaws on his scarred lip as if he’s a little nervous – he’s used to just spend the new year’s eve with shiu and his family, and while they always gift him something nice, a little too nice even, to toji, his birthday has lost its meaning almost completely. 

he thinks this is too nice, too. 

sure, you’ve been working with each other for a good couple of months now and he gets along with you the best out of everybody here, he really can’t imagine why you’d go out of your way to get him something. hell, he doesn’t even know how you know it’s his birthday in the first place.

he eyes the cupcake and the little note beside it. and the flower. 

did you– did you make that for him? 

no way. 

…right? 

gently, he takes the small thing and places it right under the monitor, right where he can see it at all times. he doesn’t know how to describe the feeling inside him, right behind his ribcage, as he looks at the gift with his furrowed brows but it sure is something new. something he hasn’t felt in a very long time. 

next, he takes the note into his hand and glances around the office to make sure that nobody has noticed what he’s doing. they haven’t, and toji finds himself in a new type of a bubble – one that you’ve crafted just for him. 

it’s definitely your handwriting, he has seen it before. it’s a very simple ‘happy birthday toji’ with a very small heart next to his name and oh, how stupid he feels. what do you mean a doodle is making him feel giddy? 

this is ridiculous; he is a grown man, he doesn’t get giddy, he doesn’t— 

“i hope the flower wasn’t too weird.”

toji isn’t easily scared, it’s almost impossible to catch him off-guard like that, and yet, right now, his eyes are wider than ever. your voice is barely a whisper, most likely just so you wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention, but toji hears you loud and clear. 

he swallows the lump in his throat before pushing himself off the chair but since he didn’t realize you were so close behind him and you didn’t realize he’d stand up for you, he ends up grabbing onto your arms, so you wouldn’t fall over. 

“sorry…” you bite your lip and bat your eyelashes at him. he thinks he’s going to die. 

 “how’d you know?” 

he drops his hands to his side but he doesn’t move away and neither do you. 

“what, that today is the big day?”

he squints his eyes at you and you laugh. “okay, the small day.”

a ray of sun peeking in through the blinds. a warm light kissing his cheeks. you make the stupidest jokes. and he will always listen. 

“it’s a secret.” 

toji clicks his tongue.

“why?”

“why is it a secret?” 

“why’d you buy me stuff?” 

to a stranger, it’d probably sound like he’s interrogating you. but you know it’s just because you managed to surprise him. you, too, feel a little giddy now. 

“i didn’t buy you anything.”

his brows furrow again while your smile grows bigger.

“i made them, silly. and ‘why’ you ask?”

you don’t miss the slight flush that now adorns the apples of his cheeks. 

“because i wanted to. simple as that.”

[justcat-judging]

₊ ⊹𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞 𝐎𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞!⊹ ₊

˚ʚY/N told them her ideal type which was the complete opposite of them. ɞ˚

˚ʚRin Itoshi x Reader, Sae Itoshi x Reader (seperate)ɞ˚

˚ʚpt.2, pt.1, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5ɞ˚

---

₊ ⊹ 𝐑𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢 ⊹ ₊

Rin Itoshi wasn’t nosy.

He didn’t care about pointless conversations, especially when they had nothing to do with soccer.

And yet, here he was—standing just out of sight, muscles tense, pretending he wasn’t listening to your conversation.

He had only stopped by the locker room to grab his water bottle, but the second he heard your voice, he froze. He had no reason to stay, no reason to care. But then Isagi asked that question, and suddenly, walking away felt impossible.

“So, what’s your type?”

Rin didn’t know why he was waiting for your answer. It wasn’t like it mattered.

But when you hummed thoughtfully and finally replied, he regretted ever pausing to listen.

“My type?” you mused. “I think I like guys who are warm, funny, and super outgoing. Y’know, someone who can make me laugh.”

Rin’s grip on his bottle tightened.

Outgoing. Warm. Someone who makes you laugh.

That was the exact opposite of him in every possible way.

Isagi snorted. “So basically the complete opposite of Rin?”

Bachira gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Oof. Critical hit. Poor Rin-chan.”

You laughed, not even denying it, and Rin felt something sharp twist in his chest.

It shouldn’t bother him.

It shouldn’t feel like he just lost a match before it even started.

But it did.

Because, for the longest time, Rin had been harboring a quiet, inconvenient crush on you.

You were everything he wasn’t—bright, sociable, easy to like. People naturally gravitated toward you. You had a way of lighting up any room you walked into, while Rin… Rin was the type to stay in the corner, arms crossed, scowling at the world.

He knew he wasn’t the kind of person people liked. And now, hearing you say it so casually, so easily, just confirmed what he already knew.

He forced himself to walk past you, shoulders tense, pretending he didn’t hear a single word. But as he passed, you turned toward him, blinking in mild surprise.

“Rin? You okay?”

“Fine,” he muttered, not looking at you.

You tilted your head, smiling. “You should smile more, y’know. You’re kinda scary like this.”

Like this. Like always.

Rin gritted his teeth. “I don’t care.”

He walked away before he could see your expression.

Before he could let himself hope.

---

Later that night, Rin lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

It was stupid. He was being stupid.

Why did he care so much? It wasn’t like he ever thought he had a chance.

But still… the thought of you being with someone else—someone warm, someone outgoing—made something ugly coil in his stomach.

He hated it.

Because he wanted to be that person.

But he wasn’t.

And maybe he never would be.

---

A few days later…

“You really don’t think Rin’s attractive?”

Bachira’s voice was teasing, sing-songy, and Rin—who had just taken a sip of water—nearly choked.

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not what I said.”

Rin paused, heart pounding.

“Oh?” Bachira wiggled his brows. “So you do think he’s attractive?”

You huffed. “Of course I do. I’m not blind. He’s probably the most good-looking guy here.”

Rin froze.

Wait. What?

Isagi laughed. “Then why isn’t he your type?”

You shrugged. “I dunno. It’s not like I wouldn’t date him. I just… I always imagined myself with someone different, you know?”

Rin didn’t know.

All he knew was that your words sent his heart into a freefall.

It wasn’t a no.

It wasn’t a never.

And maybe—just maybe—he still had a chance.

Before he could fully process it, you turned to him with a smirk.

“By the way, Rin…”

He blinked. “What?”

You grinned. “It was a prank.”

Rin stared. “What.”

You giggled. “The whole ‘outgoing guys are my type’ thing? I made it up.”

Rin’s brain short-circuited.

Bachira burst out laughing. “Damn, Rin-chan, you looked so pissed the other day.”

“I wasn’t pissed,” Rin muttered, scowling.

You leaned closer, eyes shining with amusement. “Were you jealous?”

“No.”

“You totally were.”

“Shut up.”

You giggled, nudging his shoulder. “Relax, dummy. I don’t actually have a type. But if I did…” You paused, tapping your chin. “It’d probably be someone serious, talented, and a little grumpy.”

Rin’s heart stopped.

Wait.

Was that—was that supposed to be him?

You winked before he could respond, walking off with a satisfied smile.

Bachira patted his shoulder. “Congrats, Rin-chan. You might actually have a chance.”

Rin didn’t respond.

He was too busy trying (and failing) to stop himself from hoping.

₊ ⊹ 𝐒𝐚𝐞 𝐈𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢⊹ ₊

Sae Itoshi didn’t consider himself an easily bothered person.

Annoyed? Sure. Impatient? All the time. But bothered? No.

That was, until you decided to test that theory.

The two of you were sitting together at a quiet café, his treat after he made a promise to take you out once he had a break from training. It was rare for him to have time like this, so he enjoyed the peace—until you opened your mouth.

“So,” you started, casually stirring your drink, “I figured out my type.”

Sae raised an eyebrow, sipping his coffee. “You figured it out? What, were you confused before?”

You smirked. “Not confused, just undecided.”

He rolled his eyes. “And?”

You leaned back in your seat, tapping a finger against your chin as if deep in thought. “I think I like guys who are cheerful. Y’know, warm and goofy, someone who makes me laugh all the time. A golden retriever type.”

Sae paused mid-sip.

Slowly, he lowered his cup, staring at you with an unreadable expression. “…Huh.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was so bad at hiding his reactions.

“What?” you asked, feigning innocence.

“Nothing,” he muttered, averting his gaze. He set his cup down, a little harder than necessary. “Just sounds annoying.”

You snorted. “You think everything is annoying.”

“I have good reason to.”

You grinned. “So you’re saying you don’t fit my type?”

Sae exhaled, crossing his arms. “I don’t think anyone has ever described me as warm, goofy, or cheerful.”

“True,” you mused, taking a sip of your drink. “Guess that means I’d never date you.”

Sae went silent.

You expected him to roll his eyes or make some sarcastic remark. But instead, he just stared at you for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line. Then, without a word, he picked up his phone and started scrolling.

You blinked. “Uh… what are you doing?”

“Looking up flights back to Spain,” he deadpanned.

You burst out laughing. “Sae!”

“What?” he said, not looking up. “If I’m not your type, I clearly have no reason to be here.”

You were wheezing at this point. “Oh my God, are you pouting?”

“I don’t pout.”

“You so do,” you teased, leaning forward with a smirk. “What, did you want me to say you’re my type?”

Sae clicked his tongue, locking his phone and slipping it back into his pocket. “I don’t care what you say.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure, sure.”

You took another sip of your drink, watching him struggle to keep his expression neutral.

“…It was a prank, by the way,” you finally admitted, grinning. “I made that up.”

Sae’s eye twitched. “You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

Silence. Then—

“…What’s your actual type?” he muttered, not quite meeting your gaze.

You shrugged. “Not sure. But if I had to choose…” You leaned forward slightly, voice teasing. “I think I like serious, talented guys who pretend not to care but totally do.”

Sae’s grip tightened around his coffee cup.

“…Huh.”

You smiled. “Still booking that flight?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes—but this time, there was the slightest hint of a smile on his lips.

“Shut up.”

(Guys which duo should I make next?)

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

What if MC was sent to an alternate dimension somehow and that dimension contained all 7 overblots who woke up there after they were defeated in main story. How would they react to the magicless prefect who managed to defeat them suddenly showing up out of nowhere?

Overblot Universe | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

Imagine a trip through the mirror portal gone wrong

Ending up in this other place where it looks like an ink covered version of Night Raven

Reminding you of your dear friends’ overblots 

You hesitate to call out for help of any kind

Instead your greeted immediately by an army of ink blotted students marching towards you quickly

A single soldier steps to the front bearing a gaudy but familiar collar 

“The Queen of Hearts demands you return to his side at once!” 

Before you can say anything, another voice rings out

“Our Sultan demands the magicless one.”

This one has a smaller group but they are much more heavily armed

It leads to a brawl which you are uncomfortably at the center of

Escaping from the warring factions, you make your way to the school’s mirror room

Barely able to step on the premises you’re stopped by a small patch of sand sucking you into the ground

The only one you can think that’d use this is–

“Thought I smelled a troublesome herbivore.”

It’s Leona in all his overblotted glory

Snickering with a fanged smile he grabs you by the arm

Easily yanking you out of the sand and holding you against his chest

Still standing above the quicksand you hold on tight

You’re surprised when he almost lovingly rubs his cheeks against your own trailing down your neck with his nose

Then without warning he takes a deep bite into the crook of your neck

Holding you still as you try to shove him away

When he pulls back with blood on his smile, you can only look at him with betrayal

“What? You think I’d be gentle after you chased me away? Not this time sweet heart.”

He tosses you over his shoulder as he walks further away from the building you want to go 

Taking you to an inky territory that looks as though Savvannaclaw turned into some rocky mound in the dessert

With too much ease he tosses you into a scratchy pile of sand 

He plops down practically on top of you

“Ow! This is really uncomfy how do you sleep on this?!”

“Don’t whine. Now that you’re here it’ll be a lot softer.”

Too fast and so familiar to your Leona he falls asleep

Anytime you move a centimeter the sand whips angrily around keeping you in his vicinity

But it seems the only time it didn’t react was when a drone with a bucket of water dunked on the sand rising to swat at it

The damp sand could only bubble slowly as the drone came closer to you shooting some small metal thing on your reaching hand

“NO!--” 

The ugly snarl from the overblotted Leona dissipates as a flash of blue and black transports you someplace else

“There they are brother! You’re player 2! I told you they’d be here for the special day!”

You want to voice your confusion as you blink your blurry sight into something sharp

But something's over your mouth

And your hands and your legs

Looking around you are in what looks like a cave lined with wires and technology baring an uncanny resemblance to a friend of yours

“You were right all along brother! Let’s prepare for the final act!” 

It’s an overblotted Idia taking a heavy looking crown from the claws of some nearby machinery

Stopping to admire you, his cold clawed hands run along your face as if checking if your real

Before placing the crown on your head

The minute the device is settled how he likes it tightens on your head

Bringing a numbing pain to the sides of your skull as you desperately try to wiggle free

Nothing you do stops the inky creation that looks like Ortho manipulate your binds to stand you upright

Bringing you to an alter, it’s there you notice the swirling abyss just pass the electronic officiant

“Now say your vows, my fruit.”

“Of course my precious future husband, master of the underworld and overworld. For years–”

It’s your voice but not 

With a tinge of automation your voice chimes happily from the restraint over your mouth

At your not–real—vows Idia seems to giggle causing the abyss to widen and the suction intensify

Eventually ‘your vows’ end and Idia claims he’s going to skip his

Letting his robotic officiant carry through like a typical ceremony

Until it gets to that part

“I’d be wrong not to speak my peace when both parties so clearly have withstanding debts with me.”

Part 2

[svgarseason]

𖹭 cw: suggestive, fluff

══════════════𖹭 MINORS DNI 𖹭═════════════

PT 1 ⋆ PT 2 ⋆ PT 3 ⋆ PT 4 ⋆ PT 5 ⋆ PT 6 ⋆ PT 7

English professor Nanami places your final essay grade-side down on your desk. He holds down the corner with his index finger. He notes the way your hands tremble to turn it over with an expression that he hopes resembles his baseline stoicism.

He waits until your eyes rise to meet his over the rims of his glasses to say, in the most infuriatingly neutral tone imaginable, "Please see me after class."

"Yes, sir," you nod, hoping he doesn't notice the tremulous quality of your voice.

He fights to maintain his air of neutrality when he hears the rustle of the paper followed by your sharp exhalation when you see the red "98" scrawled in the corner. It's hard, fighting the thrill that crawls up his spine, hearing you gasp like that and knowing that he caused it. He pushes the feeling down. Feelings like that are totally inappropriate.

Professor Nanami doesn't hand out A's. Especially not on his infamous final paper. But you? You are exceptional. Your writing, that is.

You're the kind of writer who pours her soul onto the page. Little pieces of you were hidden in the spaces between every word you wrote for his class. You gave everything, and he had inadvertently collected it. Stored it away. Built a fascinating, inescapable idea of you. And he couldn't let it go at the end of the semester. Your talent, that is. He couldn't let your talent go. That's why he is offering you the coveted work-study position as his assistant. His interest, purely academic, of course.

That's why he doesn't notice the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, the way your sweater hangs off of one shoulder as you slowly pack up your things, waiting for the room to empty. He doesn't pay any particular attention to the smooth column of your neck, the line of your collarbone above the swell of your breast. His pulse doesn't quicken at the way your nervous teeth tug at your bottom lip as you finally approach his desk after the last of your classmates have departed.

Professor Nanami does smile, however, when you lean forward, nodding before he can even get the offer all the way out of his mouth. He can't help it. "Yes sir, thank you for the opportunity, sir," you say, breathless. It's beyond gratifying to see you so eager.

You've been eager to please him all semester. He could see it in the nervous pistoning of your leg under your front-row desk when he handed back assignments. It was mirrored in the shine of your eyes, the flush of your cheek at his every utterance of, 'Well done.'

"I really can't thank you enough," you say, hands trembling as you reach out to take the key to his office and the card with his number on it. Goodness, are those tears in your eyes?

Professor Nanami extends his hand for you to shake when you both stand to go, but he doesn't reject the friendly hug you offer instead. Perhaps he should have, judging by the way his head swims with the clean, sweet scent of your hair. But he couldn't bear to disappoint you. He simply ignores the way your body feels, lightly pressed against him. It was only a couple of seconds, easily forgotten. Should have been, anyway.

Professor Nanami is thankful, for once, that winter break is short.

[darlingsfandom]

what’s mine is mine !

pairing: emperor geta x fem reader!

summary: Geta has met his match.

tw: public fucking, p in v, unprotected sex, nipple play, jealousy , cream pie! Mention of hairy pussy! That’s not really a warning because hairy pussy is 100% natural and valid ! Not proofread.

Rome, the city of beauty, romance and lust the place you’ve called home since birth has expanded further than anyone could ever imagine including yourself , but over the last few years you’ve been feeling like it’s not what you need anymore. You need more!

The city was busy as always as you walked around on the cobble stones holding the bottom of your tunica with a smile on your face. Everyone knew who you were but never dared to challenge you. They would smile and nod. You were the grand daughter of one of the men in Geta and Caracallas senate and that’s how you found yourself constantly wondering around in the palace drawing the twin emperors attention. It was no shock that the two would fight over you but you never gave them the satisfaction.

As you walked back into the palace after your usual morning stroll you stumbled across Geta standing there looking out at the streets below.

“My Emperor.” You nodded your head before bowing just enough that he could catch a glimpse of your breasts. Geta straightened his posture and held his head high almost looking down at you. You placed your hand over your heart and gave him a gentle smile , but little did he know what was lurking behind your lips.

“And just where have you been?” Geta asked as you went to walk away.

“Out for my morning walk, as I do every morning MY emperor.” You spat on the word my making sure he understood that you meant business. Just like Geta, you were also a selfish, crud human being however you were able to mask the ugliness in a way that no would ever suspect. Geta walked up to you, gripped the side of your throat and made you look into his enraged eyes. His nostrils flared as your eyes softened.

“Try again.” His grip on your neck tightened making you gasp. His ears perked up to the sweet little sound. “Because you know that I know exactly what goes on in my empire.” He spat back at you.

“Fuck you Geta.” You spoke quietly since he had a grip. Geta raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Fuck me? FUCK ME? How dare you! You’re nothing more than a senators grand daughter…”

“Who was birthed from Venus herself! And raised as if Pluto himself was still around! You don’t dare mess with me Geta.” You gritted your teeth before shoving him with what strength you had left. Get scuffed at you before rolled his eyes.

“And you seem to forget that the gods speak to me! I am emperor!”

“That you share with your brother! You could never be an emperor on your own!” You huffed rubbing your throat before you felt your back against the wall as Geta shoved you backwards. His hands quickly gripped your wrists and pinned them above your head.

“Now I know you’re a sweet girl, what has you so worked up you dare tip toe the line to disobey me?” His nose rubbed against yours making you soften a little bit. Both of you stood silent looking in each other’s eyes. He could see the temper boiling behind them making him turned on.

“What’s mine is mine Geta! You are mine!” You lunged forward making Geta chuckle until he realized how what you just said was true. “I gave you my virginity many moons ago! Our souls are connected and you can not deny it. The fact I have to even say it like that makes me want to cry. The fact I witnessed you looking at a whore the way you look at me… what if I had looked at Caracalla the way I look at you? You’d have my head cut off in a second!” Anger boiled in your voice as your hands gripped onto his arms making him whimper a little since your nails were digging into his soft flesh.

Geta couldn’t deny what you were saying, he could easily have your head cut off but he also wouldn’t actually hurt a hair on your head. He was secretly soft for you and loved actually making love to you, yes fucking you was just as good but you were more than that, no one else was allowed to touch you the way he did. The issue between the two of you is that you’re both so stubborn but the difference is that you are actually acting upon your feelings for Geta. He stepped back and reached out to stroke your face as if you were made of glass. You titled your cheek into his hand.

“You my beauty, have no reason to be so jealous of such a common whore. I do not love her, she was a sight to look at. You, you’re a goddess and you know that. You are mine and only mine!” Geta ran his thumb over your bottom lip while you felt tears roll down your cherry cheeks.

“Then love me like you meant Geta! No more whores around the palace! No more staring at them until your brain is no longer functioning! If I am yours, then I want you to announce it to the gods themselves !” Your words were heard as Geta grabbed your face and kissed you hard. The kiss was nothing like you’ve felt from him before, it was making your stomach feel full of butterflies and your thighs clench together all at once. His lips moved away from yours so he could place his forehead to yours and look into your eyes.

“My beauty, I will do more than tell them and not just the gods, all of Rome will know who you belong too!” Geta pulled on your hand and took you out to the balcony. The people below stopped what they were doing when the heard the sound of Geta clearing his throat to speak but he did not say a word! You furrowed your eyebrows together in confusion as Geta put his hand on your back, pushed you over the edge enough that everyone got a good look at you and the crowd gasped when they realized it was you. As if the gods were actually watching, the sun poked through the dark clouds and illuminated your figure. Anxiety ran through your veins but your face would never show it.

Silence. Complete silence as Geta stood there holding you close until he opened his mouth.

“I will make this clear as I can so that no man will ever lay a finger upon MY beauty!” His words made you clench around nothing but your cheeks turned even redder by the second. Geta stood behind you , untied your tunica and let it fall exposing your naked body making the crowd gasp. “A true beauty shaped and birthed from Venus herself and she belongs to me. No one shall harm a hair on her head nor shall they try to make love in way to her, if anyone shall try then you will be meeting the gods sooner than you’ve thought.” He placed his hands on your breasts and massaged them slowly, rolling your hardened nipples inbetween his fingers while his lips kissed along your neck making sure to suckle on the delicate skin that made your eyes roll back.

Geta did not care who watched as he ran his fingers down your body until he reached your hips. He moved his lips along your shoulder as he moved his hands to your plushy thighs and spread them apart. His fingers trailed along your hairy folds. A soft moan escaped your lips as his finger slowly slid inside of you. Geta moaned at how wet you already were. The fact that he could easily fuck you in a public place and every other nasty kink you had made him feel proud. His finger slowly moved in and out of you making you bite your bottom lip to which Geta squeezed your cheeks with his free hand and made you open your mouth. You were melting into his touch.

Geta smirked as he leaned in and spit into your mouth making the crowd below you make mixed noises. You swallowed eagerly and Geta county deny how attracted he was to you. Who on earth would allow something like that? But that’s why he was attracted to you. His finger pulled out of your wet cunt and slipped into your mouth. You sucked softly on his finger as he spread open your legs, bent you over the railing and worked on lifting up his on tunic. His cock was leaking with milky pre-cum, the feeling of his wet head rubbing against your hairy folds made you moan around his finger until he pulled it away and wiped it on your cheek. You smiled until you felt the head of his cock pushing inside of you.

“Geta!” You whimpered as he eased into your warm hairy cunt .

“That’s it , tell them who is pleasing you so well!” He gripped onto your hips tightly as he pushed his cock all the way in making you grip the railing until your knuckles turned white. Geta groaned at stretching you out, the way you were mumbling below him made him close his eyes. He waisted no time in bottoming out before he railed you over the railing. The sound of his balls slapping against your wet cunt echoed to the people who were still watching below. A few of those people were also touching their bodies as Geta took no mercy on your cunt. You were a whimpering mess until Geta wrapped his arm around your waist and held you up straight so he could play with your nipples while his cock pounded into your cunt.

Sweat covered your skin as Geta praised how good you feel. His fingers twisted your nipples making you yelp at first before he pulled on them. His lips attacked your neck with kisses while his hand reached down and pressed his finger against your clit to rub it fast. The added pleasure had your knees buckling as your orgasm rushed inside of you.

“Geta , Geta , please , I … oh I feel..”

“I know you do, I can feel how wet you’re getting, how hard you’re squeezing me! Show them! Show them how good you’re feeling, let it go.” Geta whispered into your ear and nibbled on your ear lobe which sent you over the edge.

“GETA!” You cried out as your orgasm ripped through your body, making your knees shake and in a surprise your body was in a state of pleasure that you actually squirted against his cock, soaking him and Geta was beyond pleased. You were the first one to ever orgasm like that for him.

“What a beautiful sight!” He couldn’t hold back his own orgasm and groaned out as his cum shot into your cunt. You could feel him filling you up. The warm sticky liquid dripped down your thighs since he had such a big load. Geta used his fingers to scoop his cum up and shove them into your mouth that was panting. You suckled greedily as Geta stood behind you with a satisfied smirk while the crowd below cheered.

“Let it be known that what’s mine is mine and she is mine!” Geta clapped his hands as he did a loud boom of thunder sounded making him smirk. Geta got exactly what he wanted and so did you. You stood up slowly as he admired the number he did on you. Your neck was covered in purplish marks , cum covered thighs and pupils blown, a true beauty in his mind a beauty that belonged to him.

[novaursa]

req for an aegon ii x reader who has a similar role of margaery tyrell? (love-bombing him so they can be betrothed and stuff)

she very easily manipulates aegon and basically uses his mommy issues to get whtv she wants (obviously bothers alicent to no end).

Web of Gold

Requests are closed!

- Summary: Alicent could only watch as you handle her son like a lioness who plays with her food.

- Pairing: lannister!reader/Aegon II Targaryen

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Next part: aegon in love

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

It’s a beautiful morning, yet the tension between you and Alicent Hightower crackles like a summer storm. You can feel her eyes boring into you from across the room, but you’ve become quite accustomed to her watchful glares. If anything, you thrive on them.

You smile sweetly, dipping your head toward Aegon as he lounges on the Iron Throne, looking far more relaxed than any king should. He’s watching you with that same eager gleam in his eyes, waiting for whatever praise you’ll offer him next. It’s become a game for you at this point—how much can you say before he completely melts? And it’s easier than it should be.

"My king," you say softly, stepping closer, your golden Lannister curls bouncing as you move. "You look especially regal today. Like Aegon the Conqueror himself reborn. Do you know what I see when I look at you?"

Aegon straightens slightly, his eyes widening with interest. "What?" His tone is eager, as though whatever you say might be the single most important revelation of his life.

"I see a man destined for greatness. Aegon, you are so strong, so powerful, and—" you let your voice drop into a breathy whisper, "so very wise." You emphasize each word, drawing out your compliments in a way that sends a flush of pride creeping up his neck.

Aegon shifts in his seat, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "Do you really think so, Y/N?" he asks, his voice almost boyish, seeking that reassurance from you.

"Of course I do, darling. And I would never lie to you." You reach out, letting your fingers brush against his hand in a gentle, lingering touch, just enough to make his breath hitch. "Unlike others who may have their own agendas…" You throw a quick glance toward where Alicent stands, her expression tight, lips pressed thin. The corner of your mouth twitches into a hidden smirk.

Aegon doesn’t notice. He’s too busy basking in the attention you're lavishing on him. "Mother just worries," he mumbles, though even he seems half-hearted about it.

"Worries?" You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "I think she underestimates you, my love. You’ve already proven yourself to be a far better ruler than anyone could have imagined. I can’t imagine why she continues to hover over you like you’re still a boy."

You know exactly why. Alicent cannot stand the idea of you influencing her son. It grates on her to see Aegon so smitten, so easily swayed by your honeyed words. But that’s precisely what you’re counting on.

Aegon chuckles, clearly amused. "She just doesn’t understand, does she?"

"She doesn’t," you agree, leaning in closer so your voice is only for him. "But I do." You place your hand on his chest, right over his heart. "I see you for the man you are, Aegon. A man who doesn’t need his mother whispering in his ear, telling him what to do. You’re king now. You should be able to make your own decisions. Isn’t that what you want?"

Aegon’s eyes flicker with something—desire, admiration, a need for validation. "Yes," he says, his voice firm, though you know it’s more out of wanting to please you than actual conviction. "That is what I want."

You smile, letting your fingers trail lightly down his chest before stepping back, your eyes sparkling with the satisfaction of a job well done. "Then take what’s yours, my king. Trust yourself. Trust me." You cast another glance toward Alicent, who looks like she’s about to bite through her tongue.

She’s always there, lurking like a shadow, trying to pull Aegon back into her grasp. But he slips through her fingers every time you’re around. Alicent has power, but you? You have Aegon. And he doesn’t even realize it.

You turn to face the queen mother, giving her a radiant smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. "Your Grace, you must be so proud of Aegon," you say, your voice saccharine sweet, as though you’re not fully aware of the tension between you. "He’s grown into such a strong man under your care."

Alicent stiffens, her lips twitching in a forced smile. "He has always been capable," she says, her tone clipped. "Though I think he still benefits from wise counsel."

You tilt your head, pretending to consider her words, though you already know exactly how to respond. "Of course," you agree, "but I think he’s ready to make his own choices now. Don’t you?" You let the question hang in the air, a gentle reminder that Aegon is your king now, not hers.

Alicent opens her mouth to reply, but Aegon cuts in before she can get a word out. "Mother, Y/N’s right. I don’t need to be told what to do all the time." He laughs, clearly proud of himself for standing up to her, oblivious to the fact that he’s only echoing your words.

You beam at him, eyes sparkling. "Exactly, my love. You are your own man. And no one, not even your mother, can take that from you."

Alicent’s gaze narrows, and for a moment, you think she might say something sharp, but she bites her tongue. You know it’s eating her alive inside, watching Aegon slip further under your influence, but she can’t do anything about it. Not without making herself look overbearing in front of her son.

"Come, Aegon," you say lightly, turning back to him. "Let’s take a walk in the gardens. You could use some fresh air after sitting on that throne for so long."

Aegon rises eagerly, flashing you that boyish grin that only makes him seem more malleable. "Yes, let’s."

As you link your arm through his and lead him out of the hall, you don’t bother to look back at Alicent. You can already feel the weight of her stare burning into your back. You have Aegon wrapped around your finger, and she knows it.

But as long as you continue to feed his need for affection, for someone to praise him and treat him like the king he so desperately wants to believe he is, he will never stray far from your side. And Alicent can do nothing but watch.

[soy-soi-si]

Imagine y/n having to join the team as a stand in for another person that was supposed to be there. And everything goes wrong.

Tw. angst, brief torture, injuries, death, past abuse, helplessness, reader almost dying. Foul language! Really crappy writing and not proof read prolly missing a few Tw's as well.

Y/n doesn't like the group at first. They seem patronizing, constantly talking about the person who was going to join. Constantly asking if you could actually do what he was supposed to. Hell even when she was completing the mission they kept checking on her more than each other even if two of them were under fire. She got so annoyed with Price after the genuine thirtieth time he told her the step by step of what she already did.

“If you keep fucking patronizing me I'll bust your balls Mr. Price is right. Now fuck off I'm already done.” She sighs at the deactivated bomb having completely gutted it and made sure it's not going to explode. Not to mention rescuing the hostages and securing the building and her section.

The laughter over comes echo's in her ear as she turns to the man it was strapped to as he cries out his thanks. She already checked him for weapons along with the other hostages; she untied them all and now has them in a corner taking cover just in case. Mostly women and a couple kids like three men including the one she saved.

She also deactivated the other bombs in her building and surrounding. “Christ sake your feisty lass!” she scoffs in response to soap, no longer looking at the civilians “You cunts have done nothing but baby and patronize me the entire time I've been around you. Sit and spin you big bitch.” The others chuckle at the end of the sentence.

“What am I sitting on again lassie?” she smirks “My fuckin 31cm dildo I'm gonna fuck you with later.” The cackles echo from gaz and roach. She hums before turning back to the civilians. “She's right about you patronizing her.” Ghost's voice echoes from the coms as a gunshot does as well. “my sector is clear.” She blinks as she hears movement outside.

“I think some strays came to my sector. I'm hearing stuff outside.” She raises her gun slowly moving to a window. She catches a peak of a huge group of the enemy surrounding her building. “I'm surrounded, there's easily a hundred if not over. Shit!” she notices one of them aiming up at the windows and she drops down. “these guy were not fucking anywhere near here until now…” she pauses as she hears one of the radios from the enemy in the hall and she crawls over to the door and she spots it sitting out front by the dead body and she grabs it closing the door again.

She listens to them moving to defend the hostages. “shit, they're telling everyone to come to my building!” She puts the other Radio against her mic. “Find the hostages, and the woman…” that's all she can make out before the window shatters along with an explosion. “take her alive and kill everyone else.” her ears are ringing as she sees someone coming out of the smoker and she shoots at them.

Searing agony sweeps through her after a second. She couldn't even tell she screamed as someone tackled her. “Get the fuck off of me!” Shooting them straight in the face then she shoots once at any movement she can make out the gun quickly clicking in response so she drops it pulling her handgun.

Then it's knocked from her hand as soldiers shoot at her from the doorway and it doesn't take long for her to realize she's on the floor surrounded by enemies. Each hostage she just saved gathered in front of her an executive guilt filling her body as each of them are made to look at her. She can't lift her hands or legs anymore in pure agony as the adrenaline is gone and so is each person she just met.

The seemingly leader steps in front of her holding a knife flipping it in his hand smiling as he crouches down to her eye level. She saw his picture and couldn't help but recognize him. “Hello there doll, you mind telling me where the pretty boy who was supposed to be on this mission is?” she glares at him. As he taps it against her neck, lightly cutting her skin each time. “So you've got Intel from our base. Sorry but he's fuckin dead. Died off base via a psycho girlfriend who thought he was cheating on him.” he takes a second before smiling. “Amazing news, pity I didn't get the honor though.” he cuts her wire. “But I'll make up for that with you pretty girl.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

She never wanted to die, at least not like this, not after lying her ass off about everything they wanted to know as they tortured her. She wanted to gloat in their face after what she said gets them caught and killed. But she could be proud at least at the wide eye angel personality and face she's pulling the cries and blubbering all fake.

“Puhluse I've told you everything!” She sniffles crying in agony, her eyes wide as she's pushed into a freezer, one you would have in a garage for wild game or fish except it's more like a transport cooler in size. The lid slammed shut over her and it's pushed into a hole of sorts crashing into the side then onto the small box beneath her.

“No, no no!” She tries pushing the lid up but it's heavier and heavier as dirt covers it. “FUCKIN BASTARD!” She kicks the lid, not even budging. She lays as she notices how cold it is here, probably freshly turned off.

She takes a few deep breaths as she knows she'll die in here sooner or later. She searches for her phone in her bra quickly finding it. Looking at the battery it's almost dead. “Shit” 10% she quickly shoots a text to her brothers group chat. A simple I love you. Before she calls the number one of the idiots gave her before they actually went on field. She desperately listens to the ringing before it's picked up. “Are you the Sargent!” She can hear the vehicle running. “Yes it's fuckin me! I lied to them about the information. They're headed for West Point and go get them! I want them to die for this!” She tears up knowing damn well she's setting herself up to die sending them away from her she bites her lip sniffling at the bright screen in agony.

“I’m sorry I fucked up big time. Just tell my brothers I'm sorry and that I love them.” “Y/n where are you.” Price's voice now echoes from the phone. “Dunno, but I'll be, I'll be.” she chokes back a sob at the words memories coming back as she looks at the lid above her. “I’ll be fine, just go get 'em for me. West point I sent them towards the dummy container and warehouse they're looking for weaponry.” her hands are shaking as the cold gets to her.

“Y/n breathe for me what are your surroundings like right now.” Gaz practically chokes out his question. “They buried me. You won't find me in time even if you look. Just go get them! Stop worrying about me and go get them! I didn't just go through torture for you to fucking fail on me!” She is starting to get sleepy as she switches her phone to the most battery saving settings she can. Sniffling, she looks at the phone. “Please tell him I love him and that I'm sorry. He's the, he's the one that was supposed to be on the mission he's my little brother,” laughing once she sighs, “Thank you for everything even if it was annoying for you to patronize me.” She smiles at the screen as Ghost goes to speak “we’re not going to-” it dies in the middle of his sentence, leaving her alone in the pitch black. She begins sobbing uncontrollably holding her phone in front of her wishing it was still on.

“N-no, ple-euase, I don-n't wa-auhnnt to digh-ie,” she can't breathe with how much she's choked up. “N, Noaut liku- ke, th-This-ss,” she's just getting more distraught by the second as all the composure she's been keeping until now is gone. She just sits there remembering her life, her recent life, then her childhood remembering how her dad would lock her in their freezer when he got angry.

“Da-Daddy please I don't want to die like this.” she can practically hear him scream from the other side as white spots appear in her vision. “Shut the fuck up you little whore!”

She reaches up barely able to feel her body as she knocks on the freezer like how she used to since it was against her and her siblings room. She can't even speak as she can't move anymore and she turns looking at her phone again in her limp hand.

I'm so sorry, I said I'd be fine on my own.

She didn't even realize she passed out not until her eyes opened again as sudden warmth hit her, let alone how it grabbed her neck. “She's alive!” Roaches' voice screams from above her as she's ripped from the freezing cold and put on the burning hot dirt of the outback. Someone pushed her onto her back doing chest compression then grabbing her nose before blowing into her mouth her head tilted back. Once then twice. Then three times as suddenly she gains control of her breathing, her head no longer as fuzzy as she chokes breathing looking around dazed.

She's rolled onto her side. “She's lost a huge amount of blood, the freezer floors full of it!” She hears roach climbing out as she lays her head on the dirt, unable to move besides shaking, noticing the early signs of hypothermia in her hands as they're almost blue.

“I got her phone to come on!” Roach and the second person here get in the back of the buggy and she notices finally it's a blonde man with a balaclava pulled down showing his scarred face then she sees the familiar mask on the top of his head and the tactical gear and she hears soap cursing in the front. “Patch her up already you fuckin bastards!” she looks at Ghost, feeling her tear stained face clearly along with her snot caked onto her. Seeing some on him from mouth to mouth.

He leans over her trying to wrap her head but she reaches up using what's left of her sleeve to wipe off her snot and tears off of him. He looks at her surprised but more so worried. “Aren’t you handsome, sorry about the snot.” her voice is barely there as her arm falls as she passes out again.

She didn't know scared older military men were her type.

[starkeyisthelastname]

you got me obsessed with trailer park rafe now ugh i can imagine any time he gets into it with her dad over rent he’d take it out on her later by having her pinned to his dingy couch with a hand on her neck and her tits spilling out of her little dress from his brutal thrusts 😩

thank you angel! im obsessed with him too 😩💦

Your father had added on a late fee to Rafe’s rent, meaning he had to come up with an extra $50, when he just spent the last of his money on a case of beer and a pack of cigarettes. He was pissed to say the least, certainly not in any mood for company. Which is why when he heard a few delicate knocks to the torn screen door, he snorted as he saw your sugary self standing there. You really were a man’s dream, so beautiful and too damn innocent for this world. Not knowing the struggles a man like him had to deal with. He grumbled, his massive frame striding over to the door as clearly you weren’t leaving.

It creaked open, his blue eyes peering down at you with a stoic expression and cigarette hanging out of his mouth. You didn’t know your favorite person was in a bad mood due to your father’s actions. In fact he had just given you some money to go to the town’s carnival tomorrow and to take one of your little friends. He just didn’t know you were going to ask the older man that he had thrown a late fee on for being past due on rent.

“Get outta here, kay babydoll. Not in a good mood.” Rafe’s voice mean, despite using your favorite pet name he called you.

Your glossy lips frowned, playing with the hem of your little summer dress, unknowingly letting your bouncy tits sway as you rocked back and forth. “B-but, my daddy gave me some money to go to the carnival tomorrow and i.. wanted you to go with me.” You said, long lashes fluttering at him.

The blue eyes that had been staring at your tits, went back to your face as you said your daddy gave you money. The same daddy he had cussed out for being a cheap bastard earlier in the day for charging a late fee all of a sudden. He took a long drag of his cigarette, his height imposing and darkened irises nearly staring into your soul. “Why you tell me that for, sugar?” He finally spoke, blowing the smoke towards you. “Cause you know your old man pissed me off.” He laughed, tapping the side of your forehead, to get your dumb little brain to understand what was about to happen.

He’d have you pinned on the torn and tattered couch, his massive palm wrapped around your throat. He could easily snap your neck if he wanted to, but enjoyed the sounds of your pretty cries too much as he brutally pounded into you. “Told you I’m a bad man, little slut. Don’t you ever come round’ here and tell me that shit again.” He spat, voice gruff and breathless as he rammed you.

You squeaked, soft hands coming out to grab anything as he fucked you into the couch. Your poor little self should have been scared, but you still put all your trust in him and were too far attached to him to ever think he was a bad mean man. You thought you were doing something nice, inviting him to the carnival but now you just wanted to show him that you could be good. Oh you were so far gone, letting him use you exactly like he said he was. Like his little fuckdoll.

“Shhh, babydoll. I know..” Rafe murmured, watching your eyes start to roll back and gorgeous tits bounce as he laid into you. “Gettin’ your cunt ruined by a big cock, huh?” He laughed, assumed that you to him so well. His hand that was around your neck, came up to roughly cup your jaw, making your eyes snap open. You could feel that funny feeling come over you, this time a new pressure hitting.

“You should have just stayed away. But you just couldn’t help your lil’ self could ya? Now your fuckin sweet baby self is stuck with me.” He breathed out, watching your pretty face come undone as you began squirting and soaking the torn couch underneath you.

[st3f13ily]

HIS NAME

(𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴)

He doesn't see me. I could stand right in front of him and scream his name, and he would only tilt his head giving me the same polite smile as he does to everyone.

Everyone.

I hate that about him.

He's too nice. Too polite. He holds open doors for girls who giggle behind their hands, calls their names like it is nothing, smiles at them as if they are special.

Plot twist, they aren't.

They don't deserve to hear his voice wrapped around their names.

But his name—oh, his name.

Every syllable is a melody, a sound that melts into my bones, that rings inside my head in the quiet of the night. I whisper it when no one is listening, my lips shaping it like a secret.

And yet, when someone else says it, especially with that sweet, affectionate lilt, I want to rip the words right from their tongue.

He’s mine.

Even if he doesn’t know it yet.

Even if he never will.

I sit two rows behind him, the perfect distance to admire but never close enough to touch him.

He is always composed, always poised. Never ruffled, never faltering. His uniform crisp, his hair effortlessly perfect, his voice steady and smooth. Everyone adores him. How could they not?

And yet, the way they swarm around him makes my skin prickle with irritation.

Especially when they say his name.

The girl next to him—her voice is high and syrupy, dripping with honeyed affection. "____, can you help me with this?"

I don’t hear the rest. My blood is roaring in my ears.

I know it’s irrational. I know he’s just being polite when he nods and leans over, explaining whatever she’s too lazy to figure out herself. But I hate it.

I hate how easily they say his name, like they have a right to it.

They don’t.

I press my nails into my palm, forcing myself to look away, forcing myself to act normal. To pretend.

Because that’s all I can do.

(𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴)

She’s looking at me again.

I feel her eyes even when she thinks she’s subtle. Even when she’s silent, even when she doesn’t move.

I wish she’d say something.

No—more than anything, I wish she’d say my name.

I know exactly how she whispers it in her mind. I can imagine the way it would sound in her voice, how my name would finally feel real if she were the one saying it.

But she never does.

She stays quiet. Watching.

Instead, it's always someone else calling my name.

"____, can you help me with this?"

I suppress the urge to flinch. The girl next to me is smiling expectantly, waiting for the effortless kindness I always give.

I hate it.

But I smile anyway. Because that’s what I do. That’s who I have to be.

I help, I nod, I speak—everything except what I really want to do.

Turn around. Look at her. Say, "Say my name."

But I don’t.

Because if I did, I might not be able to hold back everything else.

———

(𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴)

I tell myself I won’t look at him today.

It’s a lie.

The moment I step into the classroom, my eyes find him. They always do.

He’s sitting in his usual seat, back straight, fingers resting lightly on the desk. He never slouches, never fidgets, never looks anything less than perfect.

And, of course, they’re around him again. The girls.

One of them leans too close, laughing at something he didn’t even mean to be funny. Another brushes against his arm like it’s an accident. And then—

Oh, I hate this part.

His name. They say it too easily, too casually, too affectionately.

I can’t stand it.

I grit my teeth, my fingers gripping my notebook so tightly it bends. But he doesn’t react. He never does. He only smiles that same polite, distant smile, the one that makes my stomach twist.

Doesn’t he ever get tired of it? Doesn’t he ever get annoyed?

Or does he like it?

The thought makes me sick

I sink into my seat and force myself to look away, my heart hammering.

He’s perfect. He’s kind. He’s untouchable.

And I am nothing to him.

(𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴)

She looked at me again today. It was brief. Just a glance. But I felt it like a brand against my skin.

She doesn’t realize, does she?

She doesn’t know that I count every second her gaze lingers. I track every time she looks away, every time she shifts in her seat like she’s forcing herself not to stare too long.

She doesn’t know that I see her.

That I only see her.

The others? The ones who say my name so carelessly? They mean nothing.

Their voices are irritating, their touch makes my skin crawl, and the way they say my name again is another irritating sigh that escapes my lips. Every time they call my name I want to correct them. Want to tell them they have no right.

Because my name doesn't belong to them.

It belongs to hers.

She just doesn't know it yet.

I want her to say it. I NEED her to say it.

How long has it been? A year? Longer? How long much time have I wasted waiting for a single word escape her lips?

She never says my name.

Not once.

But I'll wait.

I'll wait forever if I have to.

Because one day she will.

And when that day comes, I don't know if I be able to hold myself back anymore.

More of this: Silent Obsession

His Obsession Came first

[intoanotherworld23]

Lust In The Night

Summary: You pay for an escort by the name of Joel for the night, and it was definitely worth every cent

Warnings: explicit content, mature themes, smut, minor bdsm, use of handcuffs, use of toy, overstimulation, praise kink, dominant Joel, escort Joel, submissive reader, mention of safe word, dirty talk, rough sex

A/N: if anyone wishes to be added to my Pedro/or Joel tag list please let me know and I’ll be happy to add you. Heart, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated and supportive. Thanks! XOXO

Hall Of Hunks

Tag list for everything: @iam-laiya @rosie-posie08 @madzleigh01 @alwaysclassyeagle @mytbel0st @shanimallina87 @marvelstarker-mha98 @powellssugarbaby @lora21 @kmc1989

Tag list for Pedro Pascal: @pedrohoe04 @k-k0129 @livingdeadmaria @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @milly-louise @kittenlittle24 @trisaratops-mcgee @subconsciouscollapse @hooked-on-penapascal27 @red-red-rogue @fellinfromthetop @drewharrisonwriter @vickie5446 @millerfan @lover-of-books-and-tea @bbyanarchist

Silk satin sheets lay beneath your body the red lights above you illuminating your naked body. The cold metal that held your wrists to the bed was digging into your skin every time you pulled. Joel standing in front of the bed smirking down at you like a crazed animal who was staring at his meal.

"You look good enough to eat baby." Complimenting you with such pride to know that you were all his for the night. The atmosphere in the room was clouded with lust. Tensions high and thick you wanted to bite into it.

"All you can eat." Snickering at your cheeky comment spreading your legs his eyes immediately focusing at your dripping cunt like a pot of honey that was overflowing at the lid.

"I'd watch what you say cause I am a starving man." Tone of his voice clenching your thighs together. Cold air breeze rushing against your nipples Joel watching as they erect into hard nubs.

Watching as Joel walked over to the dresser and pulling something out trying to keep it from your view. Ribcage rising and falling with each breath as it felt like every step he was taking was in slow motion. It was almost like he was doing it on purpose. Enjoying your twitching and rattling around on the bed like you were trying to escape out of these handcuffs.

"How badly do you want me?" It seemed weird that a man as good looking as him needed to hear you say that. Then again he probably just wanted to hear how pathetically you could beg for him.

"I want you so fucking badly it hurts." Thrusting your hips upwards coaxing him to look directly between your legs hoping he would sense how agonizing this was for you, and you needed him more than he could ever know.

“You know the safe word?" He asked as he flashed the thick dildo in front of you. Eyes slightly widening not sure if that was really going to fit inside of you, imagining just how much it was going to stretch you out.

"Yes, sir." He couldn't help but grin at the name signaling to him that you acknowledged he was the one in charge, and he had you right where he wanted you. Reaching forward to press the dildo against your inner thigh making you gasp. It looked almost realistic, and you really wished it was his cock pressing against your skin instead of this toy. "Red."

"That's my good whore." The crude name should have offended you but right now it just made your cunt drip with desire.

Moving the toy upwards to finally reached to your sensitive cunt a loud whimper leaving your lips as he motioned it up and down your lips. Soaking the object in your juices so it would be easier to push inside of you. Although you were wet enough it didn't need to be lubricated. Gliding it in so easily that it could have slipped out if he wasn't holding onto it.

“Fuck look at you getting it soaked already.” His tone crude and mocking, but you could care less it still turned you on.

Unable to speak all you could do is keep your mouth open as it slowly stretched you out. Joel keeping it still inside of you as his free hand kept a tight grip on your ankle. His half naked body sitting between your legs to keep them open for his pleasure.

"Tell me how it feels baby." Clenching your hands into fists as he pulled the toy out all the way only to thrust it back in. Closing your eyes as you allowed your body to fully give in to what you were feeling, and didn't want to hold anything back. "I wanna hear those pretty lips tell me how good this dildo feels inside of you."

Thrusting the toy inside of you so quickly you could hear the sound of your squelching cunt. Heat rising to your cheeks as it echoed in your ear. Only making him drill it deeper inside of you to create more sounds especially from your mouth. Pulling even harder against the restraints it was starting to burn your skin.

"It feels so fucking good, sir." Patting yourself on the back for taking those shots before you decided to do this otherwise you would be acting like some sort of shy school girl. Joel could sense there was a dirty vixen hiding inside of you, and he couldn't wait to bring it out of you.

The way your bottom lip trembled as he hit a certain spot. Arousal coating the toy every time he pulled it out leaving a clear milky substance stringed across it. It was like he was staring at a piece of artwork.

"Look at me." His tone stern but playful as a hand reached up to grip your jaw. Grabbing your attention as he drew you in. His eyes were so dark you would have thought he was some sort of demon. Keeping your mouth open wide enough for him to stick a finger in your mouth. Feeling bold as you wrapped your tongue around the digit closing your mouth sucking his finger like a lollipop.

"Those pretty eyes begging to be fucked by my cock instead." He was literally reading your mind very accurately. Sensing the dildo wasn't enough for you, and you wanted more. "Wanna feel that cunt be stretched out around me."

Clearly becoming entranced at the choke hold you had on him since the movements of the dildo were starting to slow down. Like he was losing control, and becoming distracted by your sudden bold move. He was totally impressed, but he had to remind you he was in charge.

"Fuck me sweetheart you're really testing me now." Pulling his finger away from your mouth a trail of saliva being left down your chin.

Pulling the dildo out of you a hiss escaping past your lips at the sudden and empty loss. Not taking long before Joel was stripped of all his clothes so you could fully take in his naked form. Eyes falling to his cock seeing the veins popping out, the tip leaking cum like he was going to burst any minute.

Crawling towards you on the bed like a predator ready for pounce on his prey. Staring intensely at him waiting for his next move as he pumped his cock. Hands on either side of your face as he teased you by rubbing the tip up and down your folds like he did with the toy.

"Are you ready for me baby girl?" Knowing the answer to that but he always had to make sure it was something the woman wanted.

"Yes, sir I'm ready for you." That's all he needed to hear before dragging his hips down before pushing himself all the way in. Hips pressed into your pelvis as he stayed there for a second before drilling himself into your puffy cunt.

"Jesus you've got a tight little cunt." Deep groans coming from his chest as he rolled his hips deep and slow, but with such a delicious impact.

Wrapping your legs around his waist holding onto him for dear life since you weren't able to grab him with your hands. The slightly new angle had him pushing in deeper you felt him in your guts. Bodies moving up and down the bed as the headboard slammed into the wall so hard it might create a hole.

"That's it sweetheart take my cock like a good little whore." Praising you as he looked down to where you both were connected amazed at how well you were able to take him. Worried he might snap you in half or break your body just within the first few seconds.

"Your cock feels so good inside me." A drop of sweat rolling down his face as his face turned beat red trying to control himself. Not wanting to cum so quickly then ruining this whole experience for you.

Leaning forward slightly just so his mouth was hovering right above yours. If there was one rule that Joel had it was never to kiss. Kiss was such an intimate act he felt it would create feelings, and with feelings came complications. With you though he found himself struggling not to press his lips against your soft and plump looking ones.

"Can feel your cunt squeezing my cock baby." Words mocking and teasing you had you wrapped around his fingers. Enjoying the way he talked you as he continued to fuck you silly. Whispering absolute utter filth into your ear that it would even make the devil blush. He certainly had no problem saying it though.

Joel oozed confidence in every thing that he did whether it was just in general or sexually. The man knew the right things to say, and when to say them. He was good at what he did, and he certainly was worth going bankrupt over. The man was a professional in the sex department.

"Joel I'm so close." Warning him as your body started to shake a fire ignited in your stomach. Head tossed back in ecstasy as you struggled to hold on anymore. Both of you were chasing that sweet release, and Joel was more focused on you.

"Let go baby, cum for me I'm right here." Whispering beside your ear the low voice sending you over the edge. Chest rising and falling with each quick breath hands falling limp against the cuffs, and legs loosely hanging around his hips.

Joel feeling your cunt clenching around him so tightly like a viper. Cum leaking out the sides and dripping down your cheeks. Your cunt was so sore and felt absolutely raw from the pounding that it just took. Cock staying still inside of you still hard a quick twitch afraid to move worried he would squirt his seed.

"Fuck that was by far the tightest cunt I have ever fucked." Brushing a hand across his face and up his hair. Pulling out when he knew it was safe a hiss leaving your lips as he carefully pulled out your body jolting at the sensitivity from the sudden loss of him. "I seriously almost came like three times."

"Then why didn't you?" Something seemed to stir inside of him at your question as he leaned back so he could hop off the bed and grabbed the keys off the nightstand unlocking the handcuffs. Feeling your arms drop a slight sting on your skin as you sat up and rubbed the raw flesh with fresh marks.

Getting the feeling that now that you got what you wanted you were going to be on your way. His body was stiff and his whole demeanor become cold and rigid. Maybe you were just hoping for some small talk or something after instead of just kicking you out the door.

"Well I hope that was to your satisfaction." His voice now professional and businesslike which made your stomach churn. Feeling like you said something wrong, and it was making you feel sick at the thought.

"Yes it was more than satisfying Joel." Nodding your head rapidly a smirk appearing on his face at how softly you said his name making you smile at the change in his body language.

"Good I look forward to seeing you again." Tossing a card with his cell number and full name before exiting the room giving you a mischievous wink.