#layered hose

[clonehub]

Do you think the clones have like a dishwasher for their armor when it's too dirty

[cady181]

rubber hose with spiralled layer extrusion machine with winding machine ...

[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.

[cod-indulgences]

Poly!tf141 x female!reader, gangbang, free use, public humiliation, rough sex, dom/sub vibes

Poly tf141 gangbang anywhere they want it. Home base? You're getting bent over Price's desk and fucked stupid before he lets the boys have their turns filling you up, leaving you so sloppy and wet with come there's no point putting your clothes back on, so why bother princess? Everyone knows what you got up to with all that screaming you just did. Go on, go shower, it's just down the hall- no, no clothes, we just told you. Now get cleaned up or we'll just hose you down outside- there you go, good girl.

You get parked in a safe house on a mission and when the squad comes back amped up, smelling like gunpowder and explosives, you don't even get a chance to ask if they're all okay- Soap throws you down on the bed and tears your panties off, throwing the scrap of broken elastic and cotton away, barely getting his cock out before slamming into you so hard you white out for a moment. He knows he's fucking you bloody like this, but you're clawing at his shoulders and moaning, and isn't this what you're here for anyhow? You belong to them, and however they want you, and when he finishes and Gaz steps into his place you moan and let Ghost tilt your head back, work his cock into your mouth, taking them both so well, so tight and wet, we know you missed us baby. Ghost holds his cock in your throat so you'll clench down on Gaz, milk the come out of him, let Price spread you open and play with the slippery mix of come and slick between your legs. He fucks you as Ghost comes down your throat, your choking a beautiful counterpoint to the wet slapping sounds.

On the transport home there's other soldiers, other men staring at you, their own cocks out in their fists, aiming stripes of come your way. You barely even register them, your squad a knot of muscle and skin around you, each moving in turn to fuck up into your ass and cunt, Ghost and Price sharing you with their foreheads pressed together, Ghost's mask lifted just enough to lick at each other's mouths. Soap and Gaz fuck you between them, rocking you back and forth as they rub their cocks together inside you, only a thin layer of flesh separating them. Hands pinching your nipples and stroking your tongue, whoever isn't inside you fitting their cocks into your hands like toys, moving you where they want to be teased. Gaz and Price, Soap and Ghost, each taking you until you lose track entirely, only the pleasure covering your mind in a haze, drooling openly as you're fucked and fucked and fucked, until your body is so ruined that when they're finally finished Price has to carry you into base, lay you down into a bed that smells like them, let you drift out of consciousness with their come still drying down your legs, across your belly, your pussy and ass stretched open and tender.

The next morning of course, is when you get to thank them for treating you so well- and they did treat you well, remember love, how you cried and came for us over and over, begging for more? What better way than on your knees in the mess, swallowing your breakfast of come, your cunt still sticky and swollen? It's what you deserve, being so good to us.

[dresshistorynerd]

Sewing a turn of the 15th century French kirtle in doll scale

Another day, another historical doll outfit! This time it's Late Medieval. This was a popular style from about 1380-1420 France and Alpine area, but I specifically based this dress on French illuminations from the early 15th century, which mostly effects the details, like headwear. As always I hand stitched everything and stuck to historical construction methods as much as I could.

Chemise

I made a very simple chemise. The construction is based on what we know from extant finds, made out of simple rectangles and triangles, like earlier unlaced kirtles. Based on illustrations, chemise was fairly slim but unfitted enough it didn't need closures. I made it from linen, because it's not very gathered and won't bulk up too much, so I don't need to use my very fine cotton voile.

Cote

Cote is just the French word for kirtle, so appropriate here. This is the supportive layer cote, which was sort of an undergarment, but was considered fully dressed, if informal on it's own. The sleeves on this underlayer were always long and either fully fitted or gathered at the wrist. Some fitted sleeve styles had a flare at the wrist which covered the hand. The very fitted look was achieved with buttons. The silhouette was smooth and fitted, the waistline was slightly above the natural waist, though that was not as pronounced in France as in Northern Italy. Abdomen was emphasized, round lower stomach was the body ideal. The cut of the dress left plenty of room there. To fill that room I folded the chemise under the abdomen as a sort of padding. This was common to do with any kind of skirts, primarily to raise the hem when working, but why not for this purpose also? The necklines were fairly low and very wide.

I used cotton because I didn't have suitable thin enough wool that wouldn't have created too much bulk on this scale, but the cote should have been made from. The cotton is tightly woven and sells the look of a woven wool in this scale well enough for me. I didn't finish seems or line it to avoid bulk. I did give the lacing a cording to reinforce it and avoid wrinkling. The cotton was originally white, but I dyed it with iron oxide, basically rust, which at least is very much historical.

Hose

I made the hose from cotton as well for the same reasons as I did the cote. Long pointed style became fashionable around this time, as well as sewing leather soles in the bottoms of the hose instead of using shoes. Though often pattens (wooden flipflops basically) could be used when walking outside to protect the leather soles.

Cornettes or horned hair

I tied the hair with a tape on cornettes, where the volume of hair was tied on the temples to create a bit of horned appearance, especially when combined with the horned headwear. The sort of fillet which became more of a forehead loop seemed to have been tied into the hair, which I did.

Cotehardie

Cotehardie meant literally "bold cote", and in France that was what the formal outer cote was called. It was basically the same as cote, but made from more expensive materials and often had large hanging sleeves. I went with widening triangular sleeves, since they were perhaps the most popular sleeves at the time. I used fine fulled wool (verka) I had enough scraps left from. White fur was popular lining material, but obviously I can't use fur in this scale, I wish I had some light white velvet, it would have been pretty good, but I didn't. I lined the skirt and the sleeves with white cotton to imitate the look without adding too much body or extra bulk. I decorated the neckline with a simple golden trim. I thought about adding a bit of golden embroidery around it too, like seemed to have been popular, but my local crafts store had run out of golden thread so I decided to go with this only.

Accessories

Unlike the belt used with houppelande, which was below bust, the belt used with the kirtle or cotehardie, was very low, under the abdomen to emphasize it. I went for a silk belt look, which I'm imagining is embroidered/woven with golden thread, since embroidery that small would have been too painful. I had an old broken necklace, which I could use for the metallic parts.

With the pouch I went for the tasseled drawstring look, with simple embroidery manageable in this scale. I used linen for it.

Headwear

I made her a chaperon, which likely was where the escoffion got it's beginning, escoffion being the round tube-like headwear worn on top of the head seen in several primary source images above. Early form of escoffion was becoming very popular at the time, though chaperon's were still seen on women too. Chaperon, as seen below both on the left-most woman and the man in the middle was actually just the hood rolled into a circle.

Because the horned look was popular, the escoffion and chaperon were often worn over the wired horned veil, so I first made that. I made it from cotton to make it as light as possible. It was just a square I hemmed. I just used some wire to poke out the horns from her hair and pinned the veil close from the back and onto her hair from the top.

Then I made the open hood. It was just the regular hood which had become very popular during the last century and which had ever longer narrow tip, but it was pinned and worn open, probably because of the hair style and to again create the horned look. I made if from the same cotton I made the hose, even though it too should be from wool. But it was already too bulky as it was.

And finally I could make the chaperon. Here's first chaperon without wire or veil under it and then with those. The effect isn't as pronounced as I would have hoped because the hood is too bulky, but there is an effect which is nice.

[sai-int]

LOW COUNTRY | HARD LUCK

johnny mactavish x reader

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pining—but nothing ever comes easy

Ever since the fence checks some three weeks ago, you and Johnny have been inseparable.

 Always near each other. Always finding excuses to linger. The small things are driving you insane—fingers brushing when you pass tools to each other, stolen glances when you think the other isn’t looking. Thick, suffocating tension that's replaced most of the humidity since summer’s left. 

A few days after the fences  while walking back home from the stables, he bumped into you—a harmless accident, at first. You had nudged him back, bumping your shoulder against his bicep. Then he nudged you back. So you nudged him again. And then, without warning, he full-on shoved you, sending you both stumbling into a pit of mud, arms flailing, laughter bursting from your lungs as he landed on top of you, splashing each other in the process.

You had both ended up completely covered, caked in thick, cool mud, layers of it sticking to your clothes, your skin, your hair. There was no saving anything now. The mud clung to every inch of you, heavy and wet, the kind that made your boots feel like they weighed a hundred pounds each. You had looked like a couple of disasters, and there was no point in trying to salvage the mess.

Which meant there was only one solution: the hose.

You both had trekked the rest of the way to the house, mud squelching with every step, straight to where the hose lay coiled by the back door. The second you grabbed it, you turned the nozzle on Johnny, blasting him with a sharp, cold stream of water. He had let out a yelp before bursting into laughter, standing there with his hands on his hips like this was the funniest thing in the world. You had aimed right for his chest, soaking him instantly, the fabric of his shirt clinging to his skin as the mud slid off.

Then he had snatched the nozzle from you, cranking it on full blast.

You barely had time to react before he drenched you. The icy water sent a shiver straight through your spine, soaking you completely. You had shrieked, sputtering as you tried to swat at him, but he kept spraying, grinning like a devil as you both ended up more soaked than you were in the first place. Mud slid off in chunks, the water mixing with the dirt until you were both just a dripping, shivering mess.

Eventually, you had both trudged inside, still dripping all over the hardwood floor, still grinning. The evening had passed in a haze of warmth—hot showers, dry clothes, the comforting scent of the farmhouse wrapping around you like a well-worn quilt. It was one of those moments that stuck with you, one of those memories you’d look back on during the rougher days.

But the world keeps spinning, and the last remnants of August are scattered and blown away with the leaves as September rolls in. September cools the lingering summer heat, but with it comes the rain.

A lot of rain. 

The crop fields eventually flood. They barely ever have time to dry despite the tile lines, weeds take root faster than you can pull them, and harvesting is next to impossible. Every step outside is a battle against the sinking earth. 

The animals are restless and need even more attention, the barns reek of damp hay, and everything feels like it takes twice the effort. The mud is relentless, coating their coats and clinging to their hooves, and Johnny’s right there with them, hosing them down, cleaning their hooves before hoof rot can take hold. The mud pits are the worst, constantly growing, threatening to swallow everything in their path. 

It’s a never-ending cycle that chews through your patience like rust on metal.

Even the simplest tasks feel like a battle. The dampness seeps into your clothes, cold against your skin, making it impossible to feel dry for more than a few minutes. The weight of the work drags on, each chore stretching longer than the last, and there’s no break in sight. It’s exhausting, the kind of tiredness that sticks to your bones and makes you wonder if you should just sleep in and forget about the farm for one day of your damned life.

You used to dread this time of year, but now, there’s Johnny.

Every time frustration threatened to settle in, he was there, breaking the tension with some terrible joke that was so stupid you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound ringing out through the fields, cutting through the dreary days like sunbeams cascading through the cracks in the clouds.

September 8th was the start of it all— the first serious downpour since the Spring. It didn’t bring hurricane levels of devastation, per se, but it definitely gave Johnny a run for his money. After watching him scramble to fill muddy pits in the pastures with gravel, the next day you decided to teach Johnny how to do it with the tractor, for efficiency’s sake. But first, you had to teach him how to actually drive a tractor. 

The midday sky was surprisingly clear, blue skies with a couple clouds, the sun shining but hardly doing enough to dry up the ground. The air still carried the fresh scent of wet grass from the previous night’s downpour. You were both already filthy—mud smeared up your jeans, damp hay clinging to your shirts, the sticky kind of sweat settling beneath your collars from the morning’s labor.

It was the kind of day that stretched long, the kind where there was too much to do and not enough hands to do it. The both of you had spent most of the day patching up the farm from whatever damage the rain did.

Johnny had leaned against the rusting side of the machine as you gave him a general rundown of how the tractor worked—its parts, what to use it for, what not to use it for. His baby blues were locked on you, arms crossed with his faded flannel rolled up to his elbows, forearms streaked with dirt. His hair was all grown out, a mess, tousled from the wind with just a few strands curling against his forehead where sweat had dampened them.

After—you realized a slight predicament.

There was, in fact, only one seat.

Which, you obviously knew. You had just… Forgotten. It’s not like you had anyone else to share it with until a month ago, and it wasn’t exactly built for more than one person, and lord knew this old ‘72 hunk of junk wasn’t equipped with any fancy modifications.

Still, you and Johnny stood on either side of it, both perched on the step bars, staring at the problem in front of you.

“So,” Johnny had said, running a hand through his hair. “How’re we doin’ this?”

You had frowned, scanning the interior like the answer was hidden somewhere in the cracked leather or dusty floorboards. “Uh…”

“Ye gonna balance on the fender?”

You snort, “That’s a terrible idea.”

“Alright,” he said easily, grinning as he cocked his head. “Guess tha’ leaves my lap.”

Your eyes had snapped to his, narrowing as heat prickled at your neck. “Yeah, I’m sure you’d enjoy that.”

He chuckled, far too pleased with himself. “No one’s stoppin’ ye from enjoyin’ it too.”

“So, you’re saying you would enjoy it?”

He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug, palms slightly upturned as if the answer was obvious, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You had opened your mouth to argue, but before you could even think of another alternative, he had already climbed up, settling into the seat like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then, without missing a beat, he had turned toward you, eyebrows raised expectantly.

You had just stared at him. Incredulously.

He had stared right back, completely unbothered. Then,  he slung one arm over the back of the seat, stretching out like he had all the time in the world, and patted his thigh.

“Can wait all day, Hen.”

You had huffed, crossing your arms. “You’re insufferable. Genuinely.”

“Ye love it.” 

Fuck him and that stupid little grin. 

You had climbed up, settling onto his lap with as much dignity as you could muster, ignoring the way your pulse jumped at the warmth of him beneath you.

You stuttered through a more detailed explanation while ignoring the heat in your cheeks. You told him about the throttle, the gears, how to ease the clutch off when he lets go of the parking gear. You hoped he would gently ease the thing forward instead of throwing it into motion like a lunatic.

You looked back at him occasionally from where you were perched atop his thick thigh and he would nod along, serious, focused, like he was actually going to listen. You should have known better.

The second he stretched his arms around you and on the wheel, gripping it like he was about to tame a wild beast, Johnny just had to be Johnny.

The engine had growled as he threw it into gear, and before you could shout at him to slowly let off the clutch , the tractor lurched forward like it had been shot out of a cannon.

The wheels had spun up mud, slinging it in every direction. You had barely had time to curse before—CRACK, the tractor had slammed dead-on into the fence ahead. The sound of splintering wood had been so loud it echoed, the entire structure shaking as the impact sent a fresh spray of wood pieces flying. The whole thing had happened so fast, leaving nothing but the dull hum of the idling engine and the unmistakable sight of a fence massacre.

Johnny had frozen in the seat, hands still gripping the wheel like it might try to escape. His eyes had been locked on the wreckage, mouth slightly parted in dumbfounded horror. You had been the same way, staring at the fresh hole in the fence, at the broken post dangling pathetically from its base.

Then laughter erupted out of you.

It had punched through the silence, doubling you over, your arms wrapping around your stomach as you absolutely lost it.It had been the kind of laughter that stole your breath, that shook your shoulders and left you gasping, because of course this would happen. Of course.

Johnny had groaned, dragging a hand down his face, mud smeared across his cheek from where he had touched it earlier.

“Fan-tastic,” he muttered.

You had barely gotten the words out through your laughter. “If your goal was destruction, then great job.”

You felt his glare on the back of your head, but there had been no real heat behind it—just pure, exhausted exasperation. He had known, just as well as you did, that this was never something you were ever going to let him forget.

“Oh, ha-ha. Real funny,” he had deadpanned, finally releasing the steering wheel, resting one arm loosely around your waist and the other on his thigh.

“I’m sorry, I swear,” you had wheezed, still bent over, hands on your knees as you tried to pull yourself together. But the second you looked back at the fence, at the carnage he had caused, another burst of laughter had escaped. You had clamped a hand over your mouth, shaking your head. “Okay—okay, I’m done.”

Johnny had squinted at you, clearly not buying it.

“Uh-huh,” he had drawn, “Think tha’ was funny, do ye?”

You had snorted, wiping at your eyes, still breathless. “I mean—yeah, kind of.”

“Yeah? How funny’s this then?”

Before you could react, his hands had shot out, fingers digging into your ribs. You had yelped, instinctively jerking away, but he had been faster. His arms had wrapped around you, keeping you against him as he attacked your sides, relentless, grinning like the menace he was.

“Oh, god—Johnny, please!” you had shrieked, laughter spilling from you in uncontrollable waves as you twisted in his grasp, trying to escape.

“What was that abou’ ‘destruction’? Hmm?” he teased, chuckling as you squirmed, his grip strong enough to keep you trapped but gentle enough not to actually hurt you.

Through your breathless giggles, you had tried to shove at his shoulders, but your strength was useless in the face of your own traitorous laughter. “This— This can’t get worse than the fence!”

“Oh, but can’t it?” His fingers had found a spot just above your waistband, and you had nearly fell off the tractor right then and there.

“Johnny!” you had gasped between fits of laughter, trying desperately to push him off.

Eventually, either out of mercy or just the need to breathe himself, he had finally stopped, still grinning as you staggered back, hands on your knees, panting.

“Oh God—” Your breaths came in gasps, “You’re the worst,” you had huffed, face flushed, chest heaving.

He had just smirked, all smug and self-satisfied. “I know.”

Even though you had wanted to glare at him, to scowl and tell him off, you just… couldn’t.

Instead, you had rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly before turning your attention back to the fence. Another thing to add to the never-ending list of work to be done. The thought should’ve frustrated you, but instead, a quiet warmth settled in your chest—the kind that came from the easy company, the laughter, the way he made even the worst days feel lighter.

Speaking of things piling up, just two days later, you found out Shimmer was pregnant.

At first, you weren’t sure. Maybe she was just putting on weight, despite the diet you had her on. But then you started noticing the little things—how her middle grew rounder, how she moved slower, more deliberate, only bothering to graze when necessary. She’d nuzzle into your shoulder more often, leaning her weight against you in a way that felt almost… maternal. And when she missed her heat cycle, that sealed it.

You had your answer.

Pregnant mares don’t always get special treatment from their stallions, but Scout’s different. He’s a gentle giant, and he’s still sticking by her, lingering behind her. When they graze, he just hovers by, protecting her, ears flicking attentively, like he knows she’s carrying something precious. A bond like that’s a rare thing, but you can’t say you’re surprised.

It just meant more work, more things to keep an eye on. She’d need extra care in the coming months—better feed, closer monitoring, maybe even a vet visit just to be sure. And yet, despite the added responsibility, you couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of excitement. A foal.

Something new. Something good.

Maybe that was what you needed—a reminder that not everything about this time of year had to be miserable. That there were still things worth looking forward to.

Little things had a way of breaking through the routine, slipping into the cracks of everyday life in a way that softened the edges. Like the prospect of a foal. Or Johnny’s absolutely horrible jokes. Or—Dixie.

Johnny had been trying—really trying—to befriend the old girl, but there was hesitation in him, something careful and cautious. He had mentioned once  that he wasn’t too fond of dogs. You hadn’t pushed to know why. Instead, on one particularly easy day, you had found yourselves in the sheep barn, sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor. Dixie was curled up in your lap, her graying fur warm against your skin, her breathing slow and steady.

Johnny had watched from a short distance, his arms resting loosely on his knees, his expression unreadable. You had patted the empty space beside you, wordlessly inviting him closer.

Johnny had sat next to you, his gaze soft as he watched Dixie—how her chest had risen and fallen in a peaceful rhythm, her graying muzzle tucked under her paws, the faintest snores escaping her every so often. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved—just watched her for a while, his eyes following every slow rise and fall of her chest, like he was memorizing the simple, quiet moment.

The silence had stretched between you, comfortable, not needing words. There had been something in the way Johnny had focused on the old dog, something unexpectedly tender in his expression. He had reached out, tentatively at first, his fingers hovering just above her fur, unsure if he should touch or leave her undisturbed. Dixie hadn’t stirred, the slow rhythm of her breathing a quiet invitation for him to try.

His fingers had grazed the top of her head, gentle, testing. She hadn’t reacted, just let him. After a moment, he had stroked his hand down her back, a slow, uncertain motion that had turned steady as he realized—she wasn’t a threat. She had leaned into the touch, and Johnny's hand had moved with more confidence, his gaze softening as he continued.

You hadn’t interrupted. You had just watched, silently, as something had shifted in his expression—a flicker of adoration, quiet affection, the kind you had seen in moments that had come and gone without fanfare. And yet, each time, those moments had burrowed deeper under your skin, nestling into places you didn’t quite know how to name.

There had been an undeniable warmth that had settled in your chest, something that didn’t quite belong but had fit all the same. 

You never used to care for small things like this—like the way Johnny cares for something as simple as Dixie, the way he tackles you into the mud or makes you laugh until you cry.

 Everything he does—everything he is—steadily takes root in you in ways that leave you confused but increasingly and indubiously tethered to him.

And then Pa notices.

Of course he does.

He’s been around long enough to hear the way you and Johnny laugh—really laugh, not just the surface-level chuckles, but the deep, real laughter that comes from inside, the kind that makes you forget about the world for a while. He hears the little jabs, the teasing, the way Johnny’s softened around you, the subtle changes in the way you interact, the way you both speak your own language without realizing it.

Pa sees it all—the way you and Johnny are starting to slip into a rhythm, a shared dynamic that no one else quite understands. He sees the little looks that pass between you two when the other isn’t looking, how your smiles have grown more weighted, less guarded.

He’s not blind, not deaf, and he’s certainly not stupid. It’s in the way you speak to each other, the way your shoulders brush when you’re close, the quiet moments that pass between you and Johnny that tell a story he doesn’t need words to understand.

As dinner wrapped up one evening, the silence stretched just a little too long as you cleaned up. Pa leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing just a little as he watched you and Johnny exchange a look and small, pinched smiles, an inside joke that only the two of you understand.

When Johnny headed upstairs to shower for the night, Pa spoke. His voice was calm. Too calm. Eerily casual, but laced with weight, like a loaded gun aimed under the table, safety off.

“There better not be anything happenin’ between you two.”

Your hands froze in the sink. The words hit all at once, but they sank in slowly, like a thresher cutting through a field, one pass at a time. You turned your back to the sink, swallowing hard against the bile rising in your mouth. Pa’s eyes are already on you, steady, unyielding.

“That boy’s here to work—” he paused, his gaze sharpened, “and that’s that.”

Heat crept up your neck, a slow burn of embarrassment, irritation, something else you couldn’t name if you tried. Half of you wanted to snap—ask him why the hell it would matter anyway. Tell him he should mind his own damn business. But you knew he was right.

Because technically, nothing is happening—but simultaneously,  everything is. The glances. The touches, how the tension between you both feels like a wire pulled too tight, on the verge of snapping.

You scoff, shaking your head. “Nothing’s happening.”

Because what the hell else are you supposed to say? That you’re aching for something to happen? That you can always feel Johnny looking at you like he’s fighting a battle with himself—like he’s on the edge of breaking, one heartbeat away from pulling you into him and kissing you senseless, but he won’t. He’s just staring, and you’re both drowning in it. And it’s driving you insane, gnawing at you, every nerve screaming for him to make a move, but he won’t.

Yes, things are happening. But if he never actually does anything, does it even count? If you load the shells and pump the forearm, but don’t plan on pulling the trigger, what’s the fuck’s point of even bringing out the shotgun?

You clenched your jaw, exhaled slowly through your nose, and turned back to the sink, shoving plates into the drying rack with more force than necessary.

Behind you, Pa didn’t say another word. He didn’t have to.

It’s September 14th, a lazy Sunday evening, and the world has slowed to a quiet hum as the sun dips below the horizon. The air is growing crisper by the day, the subtle whispers of fall creeping in, carrying the chill that promises the change of seasons.

And then, the crack of the bat.

Cecil Fielder, the Detroit Tigers' powerhouse, smashes a home run clean out of Milwaukee Stadium. From the kitchen radio, Ernie Harwell’s voice cuts through the hum of the evening, crackling with excitement, his call booming through the house—“That one’s looooong gone!”

You can’t help but smile at the familiar sound, the way Harwell’s voice seems to carry more energy than the whole room. Even Pa stirs in his chair, the game catching his attention for a moment, though his eyes are still fixed on the TV.

You’re standing side by side with Johnny at the sink, cleaning up after dinner. Plates clink, the dish sponge flicks lazily in your hands, and you both nudge each other, sharing some silent joke only the two of you get. His whispers and half-laughs make you giggle like a teenager, the kind of stupid, effortless laughter that catches you by surprise and escapes before you even know it. It’s easy—too easy—like it’s always been this way, like you’ve been doing this for years.

Johnny’s leaning on the counter next to you, drying a plate as he cracks another joke, his voice low enough that Pa can’t hear. Across the room, Pa’s planted in his armchair, eyes locked on the TV, his face stone still as the news anchor drones on about the hurricane coming Thursday. The rain’s been on and off for days, and the weatherman’s only making it sound worse.

The news perks your ears and you put down the sponge. You wander through the kitchen doorway, leaning against the stairwell banister as you watch the screen, arms crossed, brows slightly furrowed as you listen to the predicted wind speeds for Hurricane… Bob? They were just running out of names these days. 

Johnny silently follows, pausing just behind you. You feel him before you see him, solid and steady, a quiet heat at your back. He’s gentle, reliable like the weight of a heavy coat in winter. Always lingering, steadily hovering. 

Like he’s protecting you. Whether he means to or not.

Today’s just one of those fucking days.

The 18th starts with a crack of thunder rattling the house, jerking you awake from a restless sleep. The sound is too loud, like it’s coming from inside your own room. You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders, but it doesn’t block the noise, doesn’t drown out the howl of the wind through your windows or the draft that accompanies it. You groan, sinking back into the pillow, praying for a few more minutes of sleep. You glance at the clock—7:03 AM. Shit, you should’ve been up 30 minutes ago. 

Oh right—it’s Thursday.

With a grunt, you push the covers off and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your feet hit the cool floor with a soft thud, your socks slipping slightly as you stand. You push your bedroom door open and make your way across the hall, steps muffled by the runner. The faint sound of running water comes from the bathroom, steady and constant, and you frown. 

You hesitate for a moment, then knock lightly on the door, only to hear the water stop, a muffled grunt from inside. He’s not done yet. You wait a few minutes longer, but the sound of the water running again makes your patience snap.

“Johnny,” you say, your voice rough from sleep, “I need to get in there.”

No answer. There’s no time for this bullshit, you were supposed to be up at 6:30. You twist the knob slowly, and when you crack open the door, he’s shirtless, muscles rippling as he hunches over the sink, mouth covered with white toothpaste-foam. You don’t bother with pleasantries, you just fling the door open, stepping into the space and reaching around him to grab your toothbrush.

He lifts his head, blinking at you through the mirror with a lazy, half-awake look. “Cah i no’ ha fi minuhts?”

Between the accent, the toothbrush wedged in his mouth, and your foggy mind, you don’t even try to decipher what he just said. You stare at him for a beat longer than necessary before turning away with your toothbrush in hand, mumbling something under your breath about him always hogging the bathroom. Guess you’ll have to brush your teeth in the kitchen sink. How cleanly. 

The moment you step downstairs, the kitchen feels heavy, almost suffocating like it’s been holding its breath all night. You inhale deeply, trying to shake off the tired haze still hanging on to your thoughts. 

You set to work on breakfast, but from the start, everything goes wrong. The eggs burn, the bacon curls into crispy charred strips, the toast miraculously gets stuck in the toaster causing it to burn, and when you finally start to scramble the eggs again, they spill over the edge of the pan, landing in a sizzling mess.

You curse under your breath as you glance at the clock. 7:34—already too late. You should’ve been out in the fields by now, getting everything locked down before the storm rolls in. Apparently the Universe has other plans today, but everyone’s gotta eat, right?

You try to salvage what you can from the mess you made, but it’s like everything’s working against you. Nothing cooperates. The more you try to fix it, the worse it gets, and soon, you're moving in circles, rushing, frantic. You can feel the little voice in your head nagging you—telling you you're already behind, that you’re fucking everything up. 

Just when you're ready to scream, the sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupts your spiraling. You barely look up, but when you do, you see Johnny—looking like a goddamn daydream. His work jeans fit just right, hugging his thighs and ass in a way that makes your chest tighten. And that shirt—tight, the kind that shows off the muscles you know are hiding underneath. He looks like he just stepped out of a catalog, and it makes your stomach flip in ways you're really not in the mood for.

Meanwhile, you're still in your pajamas, frizzy hair sticking up like you’ve been wrestling a tornado, and in the middle of World War III (smacking the toaster to get it to just spit up the damn bread). You narrow your eyes as he strolls into the kitchen, fresh as a daisy, not a hair out of place.

He glances at you with a grin that’s too soft for how much it’s getting on your nerves. “Mornin’,” he says casually, like he didn’t just hog the bathroom for 45 fucking minutes.

“We, uh... gonna eat breakfast?” he asks casually, as if you’re not struggling to get anything on the table before Pa’s complaints come flying in from the living room via pigeon. 

Your nerves tighten as you slam the spatula a little too harshly, the sound of it smacking against the pan filling the otherwise still air. Johnny could tell something was eating at you, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything more. You can feel the weight of his gaze, feel the way it lingers on you. Normally it’d be enough to make you weak in the knees—but today—it’s enough to make you want to slam the pans on the stove and walk away.

“I’m working on it.”

Gloves are off, now, Bob.

Once you finally get something halfway edible on the plates, you sit down at the table, hands tight around your coffee mug, just trying to breathe for a moment. Johnny’s sitting next to you and Pa’s already in his usual chair. He’s half-hidden behind a wrinkled newspaper, but you can feel his eyes flicking up to you and Johnny, that same sharp, assessing gaze you felt your whole childhood. It makes your skin crawl. It’s that look that says he knows more than he’s letting on, but purposefully keeping his trap shut.

You shove a forkful of food into your mouth, chewing with a dull, rhythmic motion, as if each bite might somehow lessen the mounting tension in the air, like you were trying to swallow the storm before it hit the farm.

Pa’s voice breaks through the stillness, “Those animals need to be locked up before the rain hits. Don’t want ‘em out there when it starts comin’ down hard.”

Your throat tightens. The Nobel Committee is waiting for your next profound revelation, Pa. You exhale through your nose, but your frustration continues to rise in a slow, steady burn. Everything about this day is stacking against you, one thing after another.

And to make it worse, there’s Johnny. Just… being  Johnny.

He’s sitting there, relaxed as ever, like there’s nothing wrong. He’s just eating, like everything’s normal. Like you’re not both staring down Hurricane Bob as he’s about to nearly ransack the farm. Johnny’s untouchable, the stress glides off his back like water on duck feathers and it fucking grates on you. The calmness he exudes feels like it’s directly mocking the chaos you’re already drowning in. 

You and Johnny don’t get to the fields anywhere near as early as you should’ve. The rain’s already started. It’s light at first, just a steady drizzle, but it doesn’t take long before it picks up, turning the soil beneath your boots into mush. The crop field is nearing the point where you can’t even walk through it without your boots sinking with every step, and harvesting is absolutely out of the question. The ground’s too wet, the crops and weeds too soft to even think about pulling.

On Johnny’s end, the animals, already edgy from the rain, get startled by the noise, their nerves running wild. They don’t want to cooperate, moving erratically and making every damn task harder than it needs to be. The usual rhythm of the work feels completely out of sync.

It’s a mess. The kind of mess that makes you wonder if it’s even worth trying today. But you keep going. Because what else is there to do?

By midday, the sky grows heavier, the wind picks up, biting at your skin as it stirs the trees, carrying the unmistakable scent of rain and earth. The pressure builds in every gust, every shift in the atmosphere. It’s only a matter of time until the storm breaks.

You finish up what you can with the crops, but it feels futile. Every movement feels wasted, undone by the breeze and the moisture in the air. You let out a heavy sigh, frustration building all on top of your shitty morning. 

With a groan, you turn away from the field. The cool air creeps in through the holes of your clothes, but you press forward, boots squelching in the mud as you walk the path toward the stables. You don’t need to look at the sky to know it’s about to break wide open.

The stable door creaks as you tug it open, the familiar smells of hay and leather greeting you like a small comfort in the growing chaos outside. You make your way down the line of stalls, pulling your jacket tighter against the chill creeping in. You spot Shimmer, her dark eyes following you as you approach her stall. 

You run a hand over her sleek coat, the gentle stroke grounding you for a moment. Her soft nicker brings a small smile to your face. You grab her tack, moving through the motions without thinking, attaching the bridle and girth with a practiced ease. It’s familiar—her, the routine, the comforting weight of the leather in your hands.

When you take the lead and step to walk her out of the stall, you freeze.

Scout’s stall is directly across from Shimmer’s, usually home to the large, chestnut stallion. But now—there’s no Scout. The stall is empty, the gate shut, the hay undisturbed.

For a moment, you just stand there, staring at the empty stall, the air thick with the growing tension of the storm outside. Your mind races for an explanation. Johnny must have taken Scout out already, right? He wouldn’t leave the horse unattended, especially not with the weather about to turn. You glance outside toward the livestock pastures, but the view’s obstructed by some hills. 

A knot tightens in your stomach, but you shake it off, telling yourself he’s probably already on it, handling the animals, preparing them for what’s to come. Still, the unease gnaws at you, but you push it down, forcing your focus onto Shimmer.

You settle the saddle on her back and then move to the stirrups, lifting yourself onto her back with ease. 

The wind outside howls, rattling the stable doors. The storm is nearing its worst, and if you don’t get a move on, the animals are screwed. You glance down at Shimmer, her steady, calm presence offering a small comfort amidst the shitshow that’s been your day so far.

You click your tongue to the roof of your mouth, urging her forward, but as you move toward the stable door you can’t shake the nagging feeling that something’s still off, but there’s no time to dwell on it now. Johnny’s out there, already dealing with the rest of the animals, and you figure you might as well give him a hand.

You ride over to the livestock pastures, gripping the reins as the wind picks up, circling around you like a pack of wolves, pulling at your jacket and tugging at your hair loose from where it’s tied up. The storm is worsening, the skies darkening overhead. The last thing you need is for the livestock to be caught out in it, panicking and running wild.

You approach the pastures, you tug on the reins, leaning back in the saddle to halt Shimmer’s forward momentum. You scan the fields, squinting through the rain, and your heart skips a beat when you realize—Johnny’s nowhere to be seen.

Instead, you’re met with chaos. Half the cows are scattered across their respective fields, their bodies jerking with erratic movements, as if the very air itself has made them nervous, spooked. Their eyes are wide, and their bodies huff short, panicked breaths as the storm bears down on them. 

Your heart drops to your ass as the panic rises in your chest. You swallow hard, trying to force the anxiety down, but the knot only tightens. You can feel it in the pit of your stomach, that sickening sense of urgency. If you don’t get these animals into the barn soon, They're already testing the fences, straining against them, and you know it’s only a matter of time before they break through and bolt. That’s the last thing you need. 

You urge Shimmer forward, kicking her into a trot as you take her into the pastures, trying to herd at least the cows in the right direction and toward the barn. But they’re not cooperating. Their anxiety is spreading like wildfire, and it’s only getting harder to keep them together. Your heart pounds in your chest as you try to make sense of it all. 

 The rain begins to fall in a steady trickle, but you know it’s only the beginning.

Where the fuck is Johnny?

After about 45 grueling minutes, you and Shimmer manage to get the cows into their barn. You see Johnny’s already fed them and cleaned their water troughs, but why were they all just out? Once you know for a fact all the cows are secure, you lock up the barn and kick Shimmer into a gallop, riding toward the rest of the pastures with your heart beating a mile a minute. Thunder crackles overhead and lightning strikes across the sky like a claw. The storm’s not waiting for you, and neither are the animals. Each raindrop that hits your face feels like a reminder of how much time is slipping away.

Your gaze darts from barn to barn, every corner, every shelter—hell, even the wells where you know Johnny sometimes checks for strays—your mind a tangled mess of questions, frustration, and fear. 

You can’t help but think something’s happened to him. Something must’ve, right? Your stomach tightens with each passing second, every minute that ticks by.

You call for him, your voice lost in the howling wind. You can barely hear yourself over the storm, but you shout anyway, hoping, praying that he'll answer, that he'll show up and make everything make sense again.

But the rain is coming down harder now, turning the earth beneath Shimmer's hooves into a slippery mess, and the more you search, the more it feels like you’re chasing shadows. The storm is swallowing the land, the mist of it clouding your thoughts, and everything is slipping through your fingers like water. The harder you try to hold on, the more it seems to break apart.

"Johnny!" you shout again, but the wind swallows the sound before it can even reach the next field. Your heart beats harder, faster—every second feeling like a threat as you urge Shimmer on, desperation creeping into your veins. You can’t afford to lose him. 

And then, finally, you spot Scout.

You pull Shimmer to a halt outside the sheep barn, your legs burning from the frantic ride, your chest tight with the effort of trying to keep your head above water. You dismount quickly, tying her next to Scout, who is securely tied up outside. Most of the sheep are already safely inside, and for a brief second, relief floods through you.

But it’s short-lived.

You push open the rattling barn door, the sound of it scraping against the floor unnervingly loud in the tense silence, and you call for him, “Joh-”

The sight of him hits you like a slap in the face.

He’s sitting there, propped up against one of the pillars, Dixie curled up in his lap, her body trembling with anxiety. His fingers stroke the top of her head in slow, calming motions, completely unaware of your presence. 

You stare, your heart still thudding in your chest. You don't know what to think. You don’t know what to feel—frustration and worry all swirling together in a tight knot in your stomach. You were pissed, thinking he’d skipped out on you, or worse, that something had happened to him. That maybe he was hurt, and you weren’t there to help him, somehow riding in all the wrong directions like an idiot. You’ve been stressed and anxious, and now here he is, sitting in the dim barn with Dixie, like the skies are blue and the birds are chirping.

You almost want to hate it— to hate him for looking so comfortable when everything about this day has been shit from the second it started. The sight of him, so quietly gentle with Dixie, should be endearing. Hell, if this weren’t happening, you might’ve thought it was sweet. 

But just like that, the moment of softness is swallowed up by a loud crash of thunder. A harsh crack that shakes the barn, pulling you back to reality, and the air thickens with the weight of the impending chaos outside. You grit your teeth and march over to him, your boots thudding against the wet floor. Each step feels like it echoes in the chaos of the storm.

You glare at him sitting there, his hands gently petting Dixie, so unbothered, so utterly calm .

“You—” your voice cracks, thick with anger, “you couldn’t be bothered to get the fuckin’ cows in, could you? Left me to deal with all that shit  by myself. They were about to break through the fucking fence—”

“Love, listen—” He starts, but you don’t let him speak. You’re already too fired up, the frustration spilling out, impossible to stop.

 “No! You don’t get to say anything right now! You’re supposed to be helping! We were supposed to be trying to get everything locked down as soon as possible, and you—” your breath hitches as you cut yourself off, “you were just—just here! Doing—” you wave your hands around in the air, gesturing to the barn, “nothing!”

The rain pelts against the tin roof, but it's still not enough to drown out your voice.

 “I’ve had a shit day, Johnny! A shit day. First breakfast—then I had to rush through everything—did you know my shirt’s on backwards?—couldn’t catch a damn break, the fucking crops all mushy, and then—then this shit!” You pant, trying to catch your breath between the ranting and the way your heart is still palpitating.

“I’ve been riding around, looking for you, calling for you, freaking out...  I thought something happened to you! I thought—God, I thought you were hurt, or worse—” Your voice breaks and you just turn away from him.

His face flickers with something. Guilt? Confusion? You aren’t sure, but the way his eyebrows are furrowed and his jaw is slack tells you it’s both.

You take a deep breath, rubbing your temples for a moment, trying to clear your head, but it’s no use. You exhale slowly, the weight of everything is too much, and you finally stop.

You face him, but you don’t meet his eyes. “Just lock up the barn,” you say tersely. “Dixie will be fine.”

Without waiting for him to respond, you turn on your heel and storm back outside, shoving the barn door open. You climb back onto Shimmer without a word, the tension between your shoulders still tight, your anger still seething beneath the surface. You urge her into a trot, the barn shrinking behind you as you make your way back to the stables

The rain feels like a waterfall now, soaking through your jacket in an instant, and it’s hard to see past the sheets of water pouring down. The wind has picked up, slapping each raindrop against your skin with a force that’s starting to sting, making the trees around you bend with it, their branches groaning under the pressure. Your boots slide in the stirrups as you urge her forward. The rain’s deafening, drowning everything but the sound of your own pulse in your ears.

You hear frantic whinnies, high-pitched and panicked in the distance, echoing from the stables. Your stomach drops. If I had just finished breakfast sooner, if I hadn’t wasted time, none of this would be happening. The thought eats at you. You grit your teeth as you push forward.

You can just barely hear Scout as Johnny follows you, his figure a blur in the rain as he rides behind you. He’s trying to catch up, but that doesn’t matter right now. You’ve got to get to the horses.

You hold the reins tighter, kicking her into a gallop, desperation mixing with anger. The wind’s so fierce it nearly knocks you sideways. The air feels thick with it, heavy and suffocating, making every breath harder to catch as you push Shimmer faster, your heart hammering, just as frantic as the animals inside.

When you finally reach the stables, Shimmer’s front is caked with mud, but you make it inside with a breath of relief. You dismount, heart still racing from the ride, and immediately lead Shimmer to her stall. She’s jittery, her sides heaving from the sprint, but she’s calm enough now that you can quickly unbuckle her tack and guide her into the hay. You slip the halter off, and she nuzzles your arm, her warm breath a small comfort.

Once she’s settled, you hurry to the other stalls trying to calm the other horses. The barn’s echoing with frantic hooves and anxious whinnies, the air thick with their panic. You work your way down the row, talking softly to each one, doing your best to calm them with gentle strokes and soft whispers, though your own nerves are barely holding it together.

You hear the heavy thud of boots on the floor just as the last horse settles down—no thanks to him. You turn to see Johnny slide in through the door, Scout at his side. His clothes are drenched, hair sticking to his forehead. He leads Scout to an empty stall, whispering softly to him as he removes his tack.

Once all the horses are okay, you find yourself standing near Shimmer, absently running your hand along her coat, trying to calm your racing thoughts, Your back is to Johnny.. He’s on the other side of the barn, taking some pieces of hay out of Scout’s hair. His back is to you.

A bright flash of lightning, then thunder booms across the sky like a gunshot. The weight of it all crashes down like a ton of bricks, the pressure in your chest suddenly unbearable. It’s not just the rain, not just the howling wind—it’s just fucking everything.

Johnny and all the weeks of what-ifs and wondering what you two are, and the hours—the fucking hours—you spent racing against time today, trying to keep everything together, Pa’s words from the other night echoing in your mind like a warning. The ever-present ache in your muscles from the long hours in the fields, the weight of your sopping wet jacket.

Everything about this day has been a fight—against the rain, against the animals, against your own fucking emotions. It feels like you’ve been battling the whole world since you shucked off your blankets this morning, and now the weight of everything else comes crashing down with it, 

You’re fucking done.

You push off the stall with a violent jerk, your fists clenched tight at your sides. Without thinking, you storm off, every stride taking you further from whatever the hell this is, whatever the hell he’s making you feel.

The adrenaline still pumps through your veins, a sharp edge that slices through the fog of your thoughts, and the anger, the rage—it explodes with each furious step, each squelch of mud beneath your foot. You can feel it all spilling out of you—every ounce of pent-up frustration, every silent scream, every moment you’ve tried so hard to hold it all together, and every goddamn moment he’s reeled you in so close you could feel the heat of his skin.

You’re sick of the rain. Sick of the way it makes everything feel like it’s flooding, drowning you in everything you can’t control. Sick of him. Sick of waiting for something to happen when all you ever get are vacillating gestures of affection and unsung words.

And most of all, you’re sick of yearning for something you shouldn’t, something that can’t happen no matter how much you crave it.

You don’t look back as you storm out. You can’t. Not when everything feels like it’s slipping through your fingers like water, drowning you in all the things you’ll never have.

The rain pelts you as you move through it, but it doesn't stop you. You head toward the old barn by the crop fields, the one long abandoned and filled with dry hay, broken machinery, and bags of bad fertilizer. It’s empty. Quiet. And that’s exactly what you need.

Johnny’s so lost in his own thoughts, in the quiet rhythm of his movements with Scout, that he doesn’t notice you leave at first. His hands are steady, methodical, as he dries the horse’s muzzle, brushing away the dampness with the cloth. The soft strokes against the horse’s coat are the only sounds in the barn, other than the wind and the distant thunder.

For a moment, it feels like time has stopped, just him and Scout as he replays your words in his mind. But then, as if pulled out of a trance, Johnny glances up, his brow furrowing with guilt when the silence lingers a little too long.

He clears his throat, the words hanging between them before he speaks, breaking the tension, “Can we talk, Hen?” His voice is low, careful—a gentle prod into the quiet.

His gaze flicks over to you, but you’re long gone.

It takes a moment for it to click. When he turns around, that’s when he sees it—the stable door is swinging wide in the wind, the hinges creaking, but it’s the wet trail of your footprints on the floor that really catches his attention. 

His stomach drops. Without another thought, he’s after you before he even knows what he’s doing. 

Of course, he’s right there, trailing behind you. Because Johnny can never let things be easy, and he won’t let you push him away even when you need him most.

You hear his footsteps behind you in the distance as he calls your name, the soft squelch of his boots in the mud, but you don’t stop. You don’t turn around. You just keep walking, your legs moving on their own as you trudge through the hurricane . 

The fury in your chest surges with every step you take, mixing with the rain that’s pouring down harder, as if the heavens themselves are pissed off too. It feels like everything is pushing you forward, pushing you away from him, away from all of it. Away from the guilt, the confusion, the frustration, the ache of wanting something that just  isn’t happening.

But Johnny doesn’t stop. His heavy footsteps continue, relentless, just like him. You can feel him getting closer, like he’s not going to let you fall apart alone. And it only makes you angrier, because goddamn it, why can’t he just let you have this? Let you be angry without trying to fix it? Let the rain wash it away like you need it to?

The storm roars, drowning out most of what Johnny’s trying to say, but you hear your name through the flashes of lightning and the deafening booms of thunder. His voice is laced with agonizing concern, and it only makes the frustration claw at you harder. You keep your head down, not slowing your pace, not giving him the satisfaction of a response. You just need to escape, to have some silence—some space to breathe.

His voice keeps calling, cutting through the storm. You can feel his presence nearing, until his hand wraps around your forearm. The sudden pressure shocks you, making you spin around, hair plastered to your face, eyes wide, breath coming out in quick bursts from the cold and the adrenaline. 

"Leave me the fuck alone," you snap, but he doesn’t let go. His grip is firm, but not forceful—steady, like he’s not letting you walk away from this. 

His face is right there, close enough that you can see the tension laced in his jaw, the distress etched deep in his eyes. He doesn’t speak at first, just stares at you, lips parted like he’s about to say something. His chest rises and falls with his breath, like he’s trying to steady himself, trying to figure out how to fix this.

"I-I’m sorry," he stutters, his voice soft, but still thick with urgency. "I didn’t mean tae leave ye hanging like that earlier. But damn it, just tell me what’s happenin’. Please."

You stare him down, your heart still racing, pulse in your ears. You’re shaking—not from the cold, not from the rain—but from the tension that’s built up between you two. It’s like everything’s been pulling tighter and tighter, and now it’s ready to snap. 

“It’s nothing,” you shout over the barrage of rain. You know it’s a lie the second it leaves your mouth. You can’t even convince yourself, and you doubt you convinced him.

He gives you a look, and for a split second, his frustration mirrors yours. “Bullshit,” he yells insistently. “I know ye better than that. Ye wouldn’t be out ‘ere in this weather, shuttin’ me out like this unless something’s up. So stop actin’ like it’s nothin’.”

You stare at him, chest heaving. Your fingers flex into fists at your sides, but they’re trembling. “What do you want me to say, Johnny? That I’m pissed? That I’m beyond frustrated?”

He steps toward you, ignoring the way the rain is soaking him through. His eyes are searching yours, his face inches from yours, and the intensity in them just makes everything worse. 

“I want ye tae tell me what’s goin’ on! This isn’t you,” he says, his words sharp but laced with concern. “The you I know wouldn’t react like this. Talk tae me, Hen.”

For a second, you freeze, your heart pounding in your ears. The storm seems to roar even louder, as though it’s trying to drown out everything, but all you can hear is your own pulse in your head. You don’t know how to say it—don’t know how to say what’s been building inside you for weeks.

It feels like you've been holding your breath too long, choking on something sharp and acrid, unfit for human lungs. The longer it sits in your chest, the more it festers, burning like acid searing down your throat.

Hold it in any longer, and you might come undone, as if the rain pouring around you could melt you down and wash you away with the rest of the puddles on the earth.

“I'm tired of waiting, Johnny,” you say, your voice unsteady but resolute. “Tired of holding my breath for something that’s never gonna happen.”

Johnny’s expression shifts, confusion washing over him like a wave. 

“What the hell are ye talkin’ abou’?” He steps even closer, his brows furrowed, his voice low but filled with something close to desperation. “What’s never gonna happen?”

You let out a breath, angry and sad all at once, “This!” you shout, throwing your hands up, motioning to both of you, the rain, the storm, everything. “Us! All of it! I’m tired of waiting for... I don’t know, for things to change, for it to finally make sense! You... you act like you want this but then never make a move. And— And I’m sick of trying to figure out what you want when you won’t even fuckin’ say it.”

The words hang in the air between you, and for a second, you regret them. You wish you could take them back, shove them back down your throat and stitch up your lips, but it’s too late now. The truth is out, and you only hope it doesn’t ruin everything.

Johnny looks like someone just hit him with two shots to the liver. His face softens—guilt, regret, maybe even hurt flash across his features—but it’s quickly replaced with something else. His lips part, but he doesn’t speak right away. He’s too busy processing everything you just threw at him.

After a second, he steps forward, his hair plastered to his forehead, wet with rain and falling into his eyes, his shirt sticking to his muscles in ways that you can’t help but notice. He lifts a hand, shaky but determined as he gently cups your cheek. His touch is like a bonfire against your frozen skin, grounding you despite the roar of the hurricane around you.

“Don’t say that,” he mutters, his voice gravelly, the storm pushing his words into your chest like a physical force. His gaze locks onto yours, a fire behind it that refuses to be put out. 

“I’m no’ tryin' to make ye wait. I just... I don’t know how to say it without messing it all up. I never did.” His lips twist, and you can tell he's trying to keep it together, like everything inside him wants to explode but he’s holding it in just to communicate to you.

The rain hits like bullets against his face, but his eyes stay fixed on yours. It’s hard to breathe with him so close, with the weight of everything heavy in the air between you two. He’s holding something back, and you can see it—he’s trying not to let it slip.

You want to say something, but the words feel lost in your throat, swallowed by the storm. He steps forward, closing the space between you until there’s nothing but rain and your ragged breaths separating you.

“God,” he sighs your name, “ye think I don’t see how ye look at me? I’m no’ fuckin’ blind.”

His hands are warm when they find your shoulders, gripping like he’s afraid you might slip away, like you might get washed away in the flood. “Ye’re scared ‘cause I’ve never made this real—’cause I’ve never said it. I’ve been scared too. Scared to let ye see how much I need you—”

One hand slides from your shoulders to cup both your cheek once more, the roughness of his fingertips tender against your damp skin as the other snakes around your waist. 

“Love, I’m no’ asking ye tae wait around for me,” he says, voice breaking just enough that it shakes you. “I’m asking you to stop wondering if you matter to me, because you do. I’m just... tryin’ tae figure out how tae make it real for the both o’ us.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, and your breath hitches. For a moment, there is no storm, no farm, no Pa, just his hand on your face and the weight of his words hanging between you. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel the hot tears mix with the rain as they slip down your face.

His thumb brushes over your cheek again, this time slower, lingering, as if committing the curve of your face to memory. He looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, the only thing that has ever mattered.

You let out a sharp breath, something between a laugh and a sob, your chest heaving with the weight of everything that’s led to this moment. The frustration, the waiting, the wondering. The days and hours spent circling each other like the Earth and the Moon—locked in orbit, never quite colliding. Until now.

He tilts his head, breath warm against your lips. His fingers tighten at your waist, and the space between you disappears. His lips meet yours, soft and searching, hesitant like he’s afraid he might break you if he's not careful. But you don’t want careful. You don’t need careful. You need real. 

You need him.

You want him.

So you kiss him back, pushing up against him, pressing into every solid inch of him, hands fisting the sodden fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.

And that’s all it takes for his restraint to snap.

He groans against your mouth, the sound low and desperate, and then suddenly, it’s no longer a kiss—it’s a claiming, a long-overdue confession written in the way his hands pull you closer, in the way his lips part against yours, deepening, consuming, drinking you in like you’re something he’s been dying for. His hands slide up, one cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist so tight you think you might just melt into him.

The storm rages on, but it’s nothing compared to what’s building between you. The air crackles, electric, charged with the heat of something unstoppable. Your fingers tangle in his wet hair, pressing him impossibly closer, and he shudders against you, a quiet, needy sound slipping past his lips that has your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

You can taste the rain on his lips, feel the fevered heat of him searing into your skin, even through the cold. And it’s intoxicating. Maddening. Because this—this is everything you’ve been waiting for.

When you finally break apart, it’s not because you want to. It’s because you have to breathe. Foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, his nose nudges yours in the softest, most aching touch. His hand cradles your face so gently, the other hand still splayed across your back like he can’t bring himself to let go.

The world goes quiet. The thunder rumbles overhead, but it sounds distant now, like it belongs to another world entirely.

“You’re it,” he says, voice hoarse, the rain still beating down.

“Fuck, you’ve been it since the second you opened your door.”

[reiderwriter]

Okay but, flirty reader majority pointed at Reid, and the scene where he has to get hosed down and says "I'mma bout to get naked, I don't think you wanna see that" and reader's just like raising her hand and says "don't worry I'll stay". And after she walks out to go to the hospital and sees everyone and with an open mouth and wide eyes just goes " woah" cause big dick energy

A/N: Hi, thank you so much for your request! I've been a bit sick lately, so I haven't had a chance to write much, but this was fun and quick to write! I might do a part 2 with the actual smut in the future, so if that's something people would want let me know in the comments!!

Warnings: suggestive content, public dirty talk?

“I really want to see that.” 

You heard the words but weren't sure where they'd come from for the longest time. It had been a confusing morning, with a high alert for anthrax and your coworker trapping himself inside a contaminated lab to save you from dying a presumably very painful death, you couldn't be blamed for not realizing that you'd said the words in question. 

He'd meant the words sarcastically, of course, and they'd warned Morgan off immediately with a chuckle and a “You better survive this, kid,” but you'd stood rooted to the earth until he'd repeated them again. 

“Y/N, they're going to strip me down. You don't want to see that.” 

“I really do, though.” Your eyes unabashedly trailed down the contours of his body, soaked from the hoses currently decontaminating him. You could've sworn that he was moving in slow motion as his hand pushed back his hair and cleared his face of water. 

If there weren't this many CDC agents around, you'd have likely joined him in his impromptu shower to feel your way along the lines of his clothing, checking to see what was outline and what was the thick layers of shirt and pants that unfortunately still obstructed your view. 

Another minute of you ogling him went by before your eyes finally returned to anywhere near his, and you realized that your desire for the man could no longer pass for camaraderie. 

“You better not die, Spencer. Not before I can enjoy the meal I'm about to sample.” 

His doctors were either ignoring the conversation completely or were busy focusing on other things, and luckily, they didn't react to your words. Other than to take Spencer's temperature one more time when he flushed bright red, and stared at you slack-jawed. 

“We're going to have to speed this along, Doctor Reid. Please start unbuttoning your shirt,” one of the hazmatted men said to him, but his eyes were fixed on you. 

“Yes, please do, Spencer. It's for your own good. And mine.” 

You expected him to blush and fawn again, but his day had been as long and confusing as your own, so you were unsurprised when he looked you directly in the eye and began unbuttoning his shirt. You watched his descent, and your breath faltered, seeing the water drip down his bare skin now. 

“I'm not sure which of us is wetter right now,” you tried to joke in earnest, but you felt a sharp jolt of lust in your gut as soon as his hands reached his belt. 

“Y/N, you need to leave now. Before you make this any harder for everyone here.” The innuendo in his words were clear, but you were thankful again for the considerate and/or oblivious doctors either side of him bagging up his discarded shirt and jacket. 

“Only if you promise I can make your life as hard as I want to when you're in the clear.” You smiled again, hoping the full force of your lust would reach him. Spencer was always oblivious to genuine flirtation, you'd observed enough women throwing themselves on him (had discouraged a few too many with a hand on his arm and a finger playing with the abandoned curls at the back of his neck, too) to know that for sure. 

You needed to make your need for him explicit. 

“I mean it, Spencer. I really mean it.” 

His eyes locked with yours for the last time ad you made to turn around, doing your best to convince him without becoming distractedly horny. 

“I know. I'll see you at the hospital.” 

“At the hospital? Risky, I like it.” You winked and turned away, leaving him calling back after you as you walked over to the car Derek had pulled around the front of the property. 

“Wait, not the hospital! Those beds aren’t comfortable. Y/N! Y/N, really!” 

You giggled as you sat down in the car, but you bubbled with anticipation still. 

[hatsbuckets]

[i do not need a fwb situation, i tell myself repeatedly. (i'm in college it'd be way too easy lmao)]

Head Canons (some suggestive stuff in this but not much)

Thinking about John Mactavish volunteering at animal shelters whenever he can. It ends up being like a few spattering of days every month, but he'll spend all day there. He loves being around the animals. And he loves getting to be useful and help wherever he can.

You, a longtime volunteer, there nearly every day, love having the enthusiastic, charming... strong... muscular... funny... extra help too. You were the one who showed John around on his first day, a volunteer event day that he happened upon. A few dozen people showed up, and this mohawked, military man was among them.

He was one of the few who came back to the shelter after the event, and on some random day every week, he's there to lend a hand, listening intently to whatever instructions you give him (he's very motivated to listen to you and help the animals out) and even after a couple weeks of absence, he comes back again, apologizing that work took him away so suddenly.

And after a few months... this silly, mohawked, (might I add effortlessly charming, handsome, pretty?) military man's scattering of volunteer days has become a welcome surprise every time. He's always so sweet when he talks to you, throwing a friendly, "good mornin', love. Survive without me?" Carrying on easy conversation throughout the day, and occasionally something that feels like flirting, but you don't read too much into it.

He's a blessing to have. Dogs need a run? He's the first to grab their leashes. Cats' litter boxes need cleaning? He's there with a scoop in hand. The small collection of rodents' pens need a new layer of bedding? He's already headed to storage.

He comes back drenched in sweat from runs, his tank plastered to his chest. Sweaty thighs peeking out from below his shorts as he squats down to pet the happy, panting dogs. And you pass him a towel, and his smile just beams up at you. God he's adorable and hot all at once.

His arms flex against his shirt sleeves when he hefts the heavy bags of food up onto his shoulder and god if only he'd do that that you.

His hands are so gentle with the tiny new litter of cats that just came in, helping you clean them off and place them safely into the crate with their mum. need I say more

You learn more about each other. Where he's from, what he does for work, and of course you'd pinned military, but he doesn't quite go into the work that he does. He talks about the men he works with, and you start to recognize names like Price, Gaz, and Ghost. He even shows you pictures of the first two. Not the latter though.

And then another few weeks he's not there... You're starting to miss the loud Scottish voice that normally fills the space as you hose down the concrete patio in the back the shelter. Your thoughts drift to how last time you did this with him he had sprayed you very intentionally with the hose. And you nearly tackled him to wrap your soaking body around him. His hand discarding the hose and wrapping under your legs as he hoists you happily up into his arms and oh you were so close, laughing, smiling, teasing about getting soaked. You were definitely blushing as much as he was.

a couple of days later, just like he'd never left, he's back, helping you organize the larger storage closet. Sharing jokes and teasing. Until you have to reach across him and his face is so close to yours and he completes the distance, catching you oh so off guard but you melt into that kiss. and he presses and prods until your job to reorganize is interrupted by the sudden to fuck each other into the next dimension.

and then a few days later it's the same... You had simply gone to grab a new leash from the closet... he had come for a bag of dog food... or that's what he'd told you at least...

And then your bodies are close, his hand at the back of your neck, your hand travelling down and down, his mouth on yours, hot, needy, quick, and amazing. You're both happy to do it. And it seems you both don't think much of it.

This becomes a routine, in his oh too few volunteer days each month, you make a habit of occupying small, mostly private spaces of the shelter, the small break room, the storage closet, his car, your car. It's only been two or three months, and it's not like it's a big shelter, not that many employees, but damn if it doesn't excite you all the same.

And then after one of these sessions, as you're slipping you shirt on in the back of your car, he pecks a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth. "I'll be gone a few weeks this time, bonnie. Jus' though' I might warn ya." (his accent gets thicker when it's laced with lust, you've come to notice.)

And he is, gone a while, that is. And during this time one of your old flings comes to town... some business trip... and God is this one always a good time, so charming and kind, buys you chocolates and all, a good person truly, just not one to settle down. That's fine by you. So, you let them take you home, let them in your bed, and have a good time. And then they head back to whatever the hell fancy job they have in whatever town they live in now.

It's longer than you expect before John comes back. And when he does, he greets you with that charming smile and you put him to work almost immediately, and he's happy to get to cleaning the dog kennels with you. You get to talking, he asks how your past few weeks have been. And John is so easy to talk to. And you mention your old friend you visited, how they visited your home, even bought you chocolates, the goof. But John gets quiet at this... you don't mention it, not yet...

And then of course, he walks you out to your car that afternoon and of course you end up in the back of it (I should mention here that you do not own a small car, after being the animal lover you are, you need the space to load crates in the back seat) and something about how John takes you this time is needy, needier, possesive in the way he nips at your skin and presses against you.

And at the end of it, he leaves with the same gentle peck at the corner of your mouth, but this time there's no quip, no tease, just a "drive safe" and a gentle smile...

A few days later this man returns to the shelter and before he even asks what needs to get done, he's offering up a small box of chocolates with a bashful little smile.

You thank him and accept the chocolates. and then it's back to work. That evening though, after a particularly long day after getting three new dogs and a new cat, when John walks you to your car, you ask if he wants to go home with you. You'd thought about it all day... somewhere between cleaning and intaking the new animals, mustering up the courage to ask. He accepts with that same enthusiasm that the dogs have when someone walks in with their leashes.

You wake up tangled in him, his arm slung heavy over your waist, his chest warm against your back, one leg thrown over yours like he’s actively trying to wrestle you into the mattress in his sleep. And this man sleeps light, military training and all, but the second you start shifting to sneak out of bed, his grip tightens. "Where ya goin’, love?" all rough morning voice and sleep-heavy slur, nose nudging against your shoulder like he could just sink right back into you and stay there. (You do not go anywhere.)

And things stay the same, mostly. He still only comes around every few weeks, still volunteers, still fills the shelter with that chaotic, obnoxious, charming energy. Still gets drenched in sweat from running the dogs, still lifts those massive bags of food onto his shoulders like he’s personally showing off for you (and he is), still sneaks off into the storage closet with you when no one’s looking, grinning against your mouth before pressing you up against the nearest shelf.

But then, one evening, right as you're closing up the shelter, he lingers by the front desk. Hands shoved deep in his pockets. That telltale shift of weight from foot to foot like he's got something rattling around in his skull, something he's been turning over for a while now.

"Was thinkin'..." He exhales sharply, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his boots like they’ve got the answers. "I've gotta go again, but maybe next time I’m back, we go out somewhere. A proper date, aye?"

And fuck. That shouldn’t make your stomach flip. But it does. You should say yes. You want to say yes. But you don't.

Because life is a cruel and petty little bastard, your old fling had waltzed back into town. Just for you. A familiar, easy thing. The kind of person you don’t have to think about too much. And for some reason, you say yes when they ask you to dinner. Maybe because you don’t want to wait for something uncertain. Maybe because John is John—flirty, gorgeous, disgustingly good at making you weak in the knees, but never around long enough for you to be sure. (And John doesn't show it, not outwardly, but it breaks his heart.)

And then John comes back. Finally. And he’s not alone. There is a mountain standing next to him. Big. Broad. Dressed head to toe in dark clothes and hoodie like he’s ready for spying, the lower half of his face covered by a black medical mask. He looks like he could crush a man with one hand and still have fingers left to spare. And his eyes, dark, cold, sharp as a fucking blade, land on you like he’s personally offended by your existence. Oh. Oh, this must be Ghost.

John, completely unfazed, grins. “Ghost wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” Ghost says nothing. Just stares. (You have never felt more judged in your life. The fuck did you do to make this walking fortress glare at you like that? You know he doesn’t know. There’s no way he knows. Right?)

And things go back to normal, kind of. John keeps showing up, keeps doing his usual thing. But there’s something off this time. A shift in the way he looks at you, something quietly considering behind his eyes. It all comes to a head one evening when you’re closing up together, standing in the back room trying to fix a shelving issue. He’s quiet. You’re quiet.

And then, you break first. Spill it out like you didn’t mean to—how your old fling wasn’t what you thought, how you shouldn’t have agreed in the first place, how you let yourself get caught up in something easy instead of something real. And John? He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, listening, nodding along like he’s already pieced this all together. Until you mutter, "And I don’t even fucking like chocolate."

And that is what makes him pause. And his brows pull together. Just a little. And then, in the softest, most John way possible—"...Oh."

And the next time he walks into the shelter, it’s not with chocolates.

It’s with a small paper bag. He hands it to you with a little smirk, and inside.

Fresh strawberries. From the farmer’s stand down the road. You’d only mentioned them once. Some passing comment made one day while you were both cleaning up in the yard outside. And John had remembered. And with a charming little smile, he takes your hand. "Let me take ya out properly." And you blink up at him, caught off guard by how easy, how simple he makes it sound. "I—yeah."

And yes, you go on that date. And yes, you end up back at your place. And yes, you have a very, very good night.

And yes, eventually, John introduces you to Ghost properly. (and Price and Gaz too, ah John and Kyle.)

And yes, somehow, someway, you end up with not just one, but two terrifyingly strong military men helping out at the shelter—John still enthusiastically doing everything he can, and Ghost looming in the doing every little thing you ask without question, surprisingly good with the most feral old cats, somehow terrifying and begrudgingly helpful all at once. (He makes it a point to lift two bags of dog food for every one John carries. Jesus Christ)

And yes, eventually, Ghost ends up in your bed too.

But that’s another story.

Thanks for reading.

[kissytoru]

playing dangerous ▬ nanami kento

PAIRING: police officer!nanami x pop star!reader

SUMMARY: the house was already on fire—or at least, that’s what you tell officer nanami when he cuffs you, suspecting you of arson. so, naturally, you switch to your honeyed tone, layering your words with a saccharine lilt to slip out of the situation. oh, but if only you had as much brains as you did charm. ﹙inspired by playing dangerous by lana del rey.﹚

WARNINGS: implied afab reader. cussing. reader is kind of a horndog LOL (forgive her she's trying to get out of jail), plot revolves around fires, arson, federal crimes, police & law enforcement, etc. talks of a corpse. mentions of motives of homicide, etc.

WORD COUNT: 1.5k | masterlist |

﹙minors/ageless blogs will be blocked.﹚

Your ex-husband had it coming.

If he believed you would silently endure the burden of his transgressions—the callous, cruel murder of your career as a world-renowned pop-star—then he was either foolishly misguided or tragically unintelligent.

You supposed you were at fault too, but you were obstinate enough not to acknowledge the same. It was you, after all, who had pursued a relationship with a mogul in the production industry, driven by ambitions to gain traction with your music by working under a more prominent name.

It had been a year ago when the scales had finally tipped irreparably, when you had discovered that he had usurped your music's legal protection and ownership rights—without so much of a whisper of an explanation in regards of the matter—which allowed him to reap all of the financial benefits that should have been yours alone.

But a divorce and an even heftier alimony wasn't enough.

All that was insufficient to rectify all that he had inflicted upon you and your career.

He had to go.

Now.

So, you watch as flames engulf the charred skeleton of his luxury mansion, and as vestiges of diminishing trails of stygian smoke claw at the night sky. The gentle drag you take from your own cigarette minimally contributes to the thriving volume of the thick fumes as you watch the home burn to the ground.

The inevitable presence of panicked neighbors fills the roads, their anxious and fearful murmurs of observance blending with the arrival of the fire department dousing the remains of the building, followed closely by inbound police officers and guard dogs. As they disembark from their cars, sirens punctuate the silence of the night, alongside the periodic flashes of red, white, and blue.

Some shakily film the scene, and others watch in horror from their windows and terraces, while the firemen and officers attempt to placate both the flames and the onlookers.

It's then that Officer Nanami notices the rather serene eye of the storm.

You, heedlessly leaning against one of the many lit lamp-posts, the glow of which renders your figure almost incandescent as you watch the authorities attempt to extinguish the destruction. Observing the scene with the faintest hints of a succubus-like simper with a knowing glint in your eye, it doesn't surprise you when the officer approaches you, in demand of an explanation.

"Miss," an observant voice comments in your direction, looking from you to the paperwork in his hands, and back again. His chest pocket gleams with a police badge and several accolades of duty, and his hair—blond—is effulgent in the halo of the streetlight. "Would you care to explain?"

"Explain?" you reiterate, turning in his direction as though the perilous display of committed incendiarism in front of you both was a mere commonality of a spectacle. Elevated fire hoses spurt boundless water and cause a draft of wind afoot in your direction. Your sheer nightgown sways gently with the breeze, the rippling silk deeming your appearance almost ghostly. "Explain what, officer?"

"You are Mr. Ricci's ex-wife, are you not?" he elucidates, glancing from the annihilated ruins of the home to you. "And you just so happen to be present at the scene of this crime, utterly and completely peaceful. That alone, along with your publicized hatred for the man, is enough for us to bring you in as the prime suspect of this crime."

"Whoa, crime?" you answer, eyebrows raising in almost mock-astonishment. "You need to slow down with your assumptions, Officer..."

Your gaze drops to the gold star resting below the collar of his shirt, and you deliberately make a show out of reading the name printed underneath the metallic insignia.

"... Nanami," you complete.

He has no reply, awaiting yours.

"Well, I suppose your conjecture is sensible. I do hate him. Publicly, as you specified," you continue, arms folding casually as you speak with utmost indifference. "But ... no, I wouldn't do a thing like that, that's for sure."

Officer Nanami raises a speculative eyebrow, non-verbally contradicting your shallow explanation. His mien is brusquely schooled into something of vexation.

"He called me." you elaborate, honestly, unlocking your phone and showing him your recent calls. Three incoming calls from the contact FUCKFACE and one outgoing lets Officer Nanami know that you may not be guilty. Not entirely, at least. "He found some of my belongings in his attic this morning and asked for me to take them back. And when I did get here, the house was already on fire, I swear I'm not a liar."

He examines your screen once more before returning your device.

"And your first instinct was to simply ... stand there?" he inquires, wanting desperately to coax a slip-up out of your honeyed words. "Not to, perhaps, inform the authorities? That said, I do not believe anyone with such enmity and distaste for their previous partner shows up to the home of the aforementioned in—shall I say—nightclothes? Barefoot, even?"

"The neighbors were already calling the fire station and the police," you counter swiftly, the tips of your fingers brushing along the bare length of his forearm. You quietly ignore his comments about your attire. His hands clench the paperwork tighter at your fleeting touches. "I wouldn't want to overwhelm the station with a barrage of calls so close to midnight. Tell me, do you always work alone so late?"

"I will not tolerate any inane deflections from the subject," Officer Nanami huffs, watching as your hand falls back to your side. "Stick to the case on hand. If you remain so uncooperative, you are reserving yourself a place in the interrogation room back at the precinct. Where is your vehicle? Can you tell me just how you arrived at this location?

"Always so serious," you muse in response, eyes flitting to the lamentable, drenched remnants of your ex-husband's home (and his pitiful corpse too, you hope), wicked hints of a grin teasing your lips. "The precinct seems like a better idea. I'm a little shy standing here in my nightgown."

"You are anything but shy," Officer Nanami manages to speak amidst his own impetuosity, patience thinning and frustration growing like the very embers of fire that had erupted from Ricci's mansion when you had doused the home's electric cabinet in gasoline mere hours ago, flicking your lighter on seconds later. "Answer. My. Question."

"You're no fun," you groan, flicking your extinguished cigarette into a nearby trash can. "My black Aventador is outside the neighborh—"

You're interrupted by the deafening crash of the final few standing planks of wood in the compound, which drop to the amalgamation of soil and soot with numerous crackles of traces of fire.

"It's so noisy," you remark, nose scrunching distastefully at the disruption. You continue almost cloyingly, pulling another cigarette out of the thin pocket of your robe. "Let's get in the back of your cop car, officer. You can ask me anything you want."

As though clinging to the final fragments of his thinly veiled patience, Nanami sighs, and his eyes flit to your pocket for a moment, clearly having noticed something of interest. Before you know it, your cheek and shoulder hit the firm, metallic surface of the streetlight pole, and Officer Nanami gathers your wrists behind your back with one hand and cuffs them together with another.

"You have the right to remain silent," Officer Nanami tells you, tone deadpan as he takes hold of the chain binding both cuffs together, all but dragging you to his police van as he informs his colleagues of the arrest over walkie-talkie. "Anything you say can and will be used against y—"

"Do you really have to put those tight handcuffs on?" you cut him off grudgingly through gritted teeth, as you near the vehicle.

Officer Nanami's only response comes in the form of you both stopping against the hood of the van, where he reaches for the objects in the pocket of your robe, pulling out a half-consumed Marlboro box, and...

Your lighter.

Fuck.

"Yes, I do," he tells you, almost ridiculously smug, as he bags the belongings in separate evidence folders. When you board the backseat of the van, he closes the door behind you and shuts the lock before he gets into the driver's seat himself.

Officer Nanami lowers the incessant, mindless hum of the radio as he drives you to the station. You glance out of one of the caged windows, and—ironically enough—spot yourself posing on a billboard, advertising a luxury fragrance called Flames of Lust. You almost snort at the sight, resentfully rolling your eyes.

Your gaze willfully turns to his hands, bare and wrapped around the leather of the steering wheel, and you have to restrain yourself from saying something brash.

You're pulled out of your salacious reverie when he leads the van through a traffic-laden road and turns on the sirens, the reverberating alarms making you realize the true gravity of the situation.

Officer Nanami may have bested you for just this one instance.

But this was far from over.

PART 2, coming soon ╱ © kissytoru

AUTHOR'S NOTE: my first ever fic on here eek 😬 it's been ages since i've actually written anything, so let me know if this was good in my asks plz :> pt 2 out soon 😋

﹙please like, share, and reblog <3 do not copy, repost, plagiarize, edit, translate, or feed my work into ai or chatbots.﹚

[atleastpleasetelephone]

Brat

Pairing: 75!Elvis x bratty!reader

Word count: 2.4K

TWs: Smut, reader calls Elvis daddy and sir, reader is bratty, Elvis is dominant, spanking, begging, praise kink, possessive kink, copious amounts of cum(!), licking of said cum, panty stealing!Elvis.

A/N: I was looking at the photo below and started imagining what it would be like to wake up the morning after the night before and put that jacket on... kind of like a fancy version of putting on your boyf's hoody.

Waking up, you roll over and see the sleeping form of Elvis Presley lying next to you. Last night comes back in flashes, the show, the kisses, the after party… you groan and rub your eyes. Looking over at him again, long lashes tickling his cheeks, furry sideburns that tickled your skin some time early this morning… one pyjama’d arm outside of the comforter. You peek under your side of the bedding to confirm your suspicions - you’re completely naked.

Wondering idly where your clothes are, you watch him, chest rising and falling as he continues his peaceful slumber. You stay like that for a while, and then your curiosity gets the better of you. Pulling back the covers, you slide your legs off the bed and let your feet dig into the thick carpet beside it. Checking quickly that you haven’t disturbed him, you stand up and wander round to his side of the room, looking for your clothes. All you find is his jacket from last night, the one he was wearing onstage. A flash of a memory pops up, you trying to free him from the million and one layers he’d been wearing, getting somehow tangled and him laughing, eyes crinkled, belly heaving. Picking up the jacket, you’re surprised by how heavy it is. You sling it around your shoulders and put your arms through the sleeves. Checking your reflection in the mirror, you can’t help but admire the way the shoulders sparkle as you move. They’re so pretty. You do up the single button in the middle and then check the status of sleeping beauty in the bed again. He still hasn’t moved a muscle. You turn the door handle slowly and then pull the door towards you, poking your face through the gap.

The scene before you is messy and brings back another ghost of a memory of the night before; a blur of bodies, laughter and singing. Some of the bodies are still there, one asleep in an armchair and a couple lying on the floor. There are bottles and glasses strewn everywhere, as well as odd shoes and random items of clothing left behind by their owners. You squeeze through the doorway and then carefully close the door behind you as silently as you can. Padding through the rest of the suite looking at the detritus of the night before, you finally find what you’re looking for. Or, some of it. There’s your dress, and your bra. Your panties are nowhere to be seen. Neither are your hose, but thinking about them reminds you of Elvis between your legs, tearing them off with his teeth. That explains that, then. Picking the clothes up, you finish your little tour of the suite at the coffee machine, setting up a pot and waiting for it to brew. The noise makes a couple of people stir in their sleep, but none of them wake up. You grab a packet of cookies that you find under the counter along with a freshly poured coffee and take your spoils with you back to the bedroom. Slowly, quietly opening the door…

“Where’ve ya been?”

His voice is hoarse and he doesn’t sound pleased. A supposition on your part that’s confirmed by the look on his face, frowning, an exasperated hand running from brow to chin. Looking like he couldn’t believe you’d leave the room without permission.

“Tryna find my clothes,” you explain, slipping into the room and closing the door behind you.

His eyes skate over you in his jacket, and only his jacket, and the look makes your nipples harden with excitement.

“Ya find ‘em?”

You nod, making your way towards him. “Most of ‘em anyway.” Cocking your head to the side, you squint at him a little. “You seen my panties?”

“Well I can tell yer not wearin’ ‘em now.” An eyebrow raised in challenge.

“I would be,” you counter, tossing your dress and bra onto an armchair near your side of the bed. “If I knew where they were. Thought you mighta seen ‘em.”

You take a sip of coffee and watch his reaction.

“You accusin’ me of somethin’, little girl?”

“If the shoe fits.” You throw the pack of cookies at him. “Want a cookie?”

His mouth curls into a smile and he laughs a little. “Yer somethin’ else, ya know that?”

“Want a sip of coffee to go with? Or I could get ya your own?”

You move closer, almost within grabbing distance.

“An’ go out there again with no panties on?”

“Well, if I knew where they were…” head to one side now, one hand on your hip.

He shakes his head slowly. “C’mere. Put that down.”

One step nearer and now you’re definitely close enough to touch, setting your cup down on the side and smiling at him. He pulls the covers back, revealing his hard-on straining against the material of his pyjama bottoms. You bite your lip.

“C’mon.”

You don’t need telling twice, taking his hand to help you back on the bed and into his lap. His hands slide up your thighs and you can see him admiring the view between your legs. Not wanting to waste any time, you reach into his pants and pull his dick out, stroking it lovingly. His breathing gets heavier and he glances up at your face.

“Ya look good in my jacket.”

You smile, wickedly. “Want me to ride you in it?”

He nods eagerly, then moans as you shuffle forward a little, rubbing him against your pussy.

“Fuck, baby.”

Moaning a little too, you keep sliding his dick against you, covering it with your arousal.

“You like that?” You tease, knowing fine well he does.

“Mmm. Put it in, baby. Need ta feel ya.”

Your brain short-circuits to last night, his head between your legs, your fingers in his hair. He’d said it was too late, or he was too tired, or too drunk, or too old. But he’d made you cum again and again with his hands and his mouth.

You get onto your knees before sinking slowly down onto his length for the first time, gasping at the way he stretches you out. His eyes are squeezed shut as a breath puffs out through his full, pink lips.

“Shit.”

Roughened fingertips dig into your hips as you sit there, getting used to him. His eyes open slowly and he stares at you. You stare back.

“Your dick feels good.”

Elvis isn’t used to women being quite so vulgar, and his eyes go wide at the words.

“H-honey,” he stammers a little as you start to roll your hips. “No need fer that kinda language, i-is there?”

Nibbling your lower lip you try to hide your smile. “But Daddy, it feels good.”

You see the blush rising over his face at your words and the smile sneaks through against your will.

“S-stop it.”

“Stop what?” You’re wide-eyed, putting on the expression of an innocent girl who doesn’t know what she’s doing. “Stop moving, Daddy? That what you want?” Your hips still.

“That filthy language, little girl,” he chastises, trying to win back the upper hand. “Don’t wanna hear that coming outta that pretty lil mouth a yours.”

You remain still, tilting your head to the side, questioningly. “I only called ya Daddy.”

“Well I didn’t ask ya ta, did I?”

His fingers dig into your flesh again, and this time it hurts a little. You wonder what kind of game you’re playing now, but you can’t stop.

“You don’t like it?”

His jaw clenches and his eyes darken. “Move.”

“No.”

His tongue runs along his lower lip slowly, and then makes it way over his upper lip too. As if he’s contemplating what exactly to do with a girl who disobeys him.

“I’ll move ya then.”

His hands are big and strong, and they move you up and down on him with ease. You press your lips together firmly and try your best to look like you’re not enjoying yourself. He looks at you with interest, you can see him analysing your every move, each little look, how heavily you breathe. You feel like he knows you’re pretending, but you have to keep it up. Can’t let him think he’s won.

“Ya look so pretty,” he observes. “Gettin’ fucked on my dick.”

Your eyes go wide, almost involuntarily. You’re outraged, you can’t help it.

“You just told me off fer bein’ vulgar!”

He smirks, and you know he enjoyed getting that rise out of you.

“That’s my prerogative, honey,” he explains, a finger moving to flick the jacket button open, exposing your naked torso. “Like ma girls ta be polite.”

“Even when they’re gettin’ fucked on your dick?”

He slaps you hard on the side of the thigh. You squeal.

“What did I jus’ tell ya?”

“But yer not being fair!” You whine, your composure completely gone.

He smirks, saying nothing in response, which makes you even more mad. How can he be allowed to say whatever he wants, and you’re not allowed to cuss? Or talk about his dick? Or even call him Daddy? You find yourself making a bratty whining noise, huffing out the air in your cheeks and frowning moodily. It just makes him smirk all the more, still moving you up and down on him.

“Ya want me ta be yer Daddy, ya haveta do as yer told.”

You whine again and he slaps your ass this time.

“C’mon, little girl. Don’t make me spank ya til yer sore.”

The look on your face is still defiant and he recognises it immediately and shakes his head, clicking his tongue too. He lets go of your hips and you sit down on him with a bump. One arm wraps around you, pulling you tightly against him and making the jacket ride up a little.

“Yer gonna do as yer told, baby,” he purrs into your ear, as his other hand moves back just enough to deliver a hard slap to your ass cheek.

You try not to react, but with your body pressed against him like this he can feel everything. Your breathing changes, you make involuntary little noises as he keeps spanking you, your pussy grips him like a vice. You grit your teeth as he keeps going, hard slow slaps and then three or four fast ones in a row. Eventually you can’t keep it together any longer and you groan into his neck.

“Please stop… please.”

You hear his low chuckle in your ear. “Ya gonna be a good girl f’me?”

“Yes. I promise.”

His lips drag up your neck, giving you goosebumps.

“No more cussin’?”

“N-no more cussin’.”

You feel his lips curling into a smile against your skin and you want to be annoyed that you’ve lost, but there’s something about him putting you in your place when you’re being a brat that’s making you embarrassingly wet right now.  

“No callin’ me Daddy ‘less I tell ya ta?”

“No… I promise… I’m sorry,” you breathe.

“Oh. Good girl,” he coos back.

You feel yourself melt. This back and forth between you is electric, you’ve never felt a spark like it. You want to be good for him. More than that, you want to be naughty and for him to make you be good for him. He lets you go and you start to move up and down on him, bouncing on his dick, your hands on his shoulders for balance. The look on his face is one of pure satisfaction; knowing he’s successfully broken a bratty little girl and made her his.

“Ya gonna make Daddy cum?”

You nod quickly. You do want to make him cum.

“Yes,” you whisper.

He grunts with pleasure, and you feel his hips buck into you erratically now. You moan too, it feels so good and you don’t care that you can’t cum like this. All you want is to please him. Without warning, he picks you up and plonks you back down on his legs, telling you to finish him with your hand. You do, and it’s seconds before you and the jacket are covered in him. The noise he makes when he finishes is so sexy you immediately want to find out what to do to make him hard again.

He looks up at you through hooded eyes. “Made a mess a my jacket, honey.”

You nod.

“Why don’tcha lick it clean?”

There’s still a hotness between your legs and that desperate urge to please him, so you do as he says, licking your sleeve and lapel and then running your finger over your belly, collecting the semen there and sucking it off again. When you’re done with yourself you get off him, lying to one side and licking his belly clean too. His hand goes to your face.

“That’s enough, pretty girl.”

He slides down beside you in the bed and kisses you deeply. Pushing the jacket off your shoulders he pulls you in close, tangling your legs together. When you eventually both draw breath, his forehead presses against yours and you look into his beautiful blue eyes.

“Thank you,” comes out of your mouth before you can think about it. 

He grins. “Ya were good fer me in the end.”

“Good enough to… call ya somethin’?” You venture.

“Maybe,” he teases. “Still wanna know what happened ta yer panties?”

You’d forgotten all about the panties, but you are interested so you nod, watching him reach into one of his pockets and pull out a black lacey pair that you recognise. He waves them in front of your face and grins.

“You kept them!” You can’t help squealing.

He smirks. “Sure did. Somethin’ ta remember ya by.”

“Am I leavin’?” You ask, trying not to let your voice wobble.

“Not unless ya want ta.”

You shake your head. “No sir. I wanna stay here and please you.”

He drops the panties onto the bed and grabs your face with his hand. You can hear the satisfaction in his tone. “I think sir is a very good place ta start with that, baby. You please me enough an’ imma let ya call me daddy.”

“Yessir.” You tingle all over with excitement. 

He moans at the honorific and starts to kiss you again. This promises to be a very fun day indeed…

***

Taglist:

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed:

@vintagepresley @arg-xoxo @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @blursedblegh @returntopresley @eapep @everythingelvispresley @i-r-i-n-a-a @sissylittlefeather @arrolyn1114 @jhoneybees @cattcb @polksaladava @lookingforrainbows @jkdaddy01 @ccab @epthedream69 @lustnhim @elvisslut @pomtherine @that-hotdog @ladelinee @angschrof @fairybloodsucker @deltafalax @makethemorning @elviswhore69 @ilovequeen978 @wildhorseinkansas @pocketfulofpresley @dkayfixates @iloveelvisss @kxnnxy

[saigeyssims]

hi guys! as it's been getting colder i know i've been needing some extra layers for warmth and the easiest way in my opinion to level up any outfit and get some extra layers is a nice pair of panty hose!

i love wearing these with a cute dress or skirt and i love to have my sims do the same. here's some of my favorites that i have in my game. i hope you enjoy!

panty hose:

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

shoes can be found here!

thank you to all of the cc creators!

[thesimline]

By the 1500s we start to see the broad and square silhouette come into fashion for men. This impressive shape was achieved through the use of over-the-top sleeves, balloon-like pants and overcoats made from layers upon layers of billowing fabric. Wealth and status were communicated through rich fabrics and opulent ornamentation, with some English and French lords even bankrupting themselves to pay for these wardrobes. CC links under the cut.

You can find more of my historical content here:

1300s ✺ 1400s ✺ 1500s ✺ 1600s ✺ 1700s

King: Crown | Hair (Dream Home Decorator) | Facial Hair | Outfit | Right Rings (TSR) | Left Ring

Noble: Hat | Hair | Facial Hair | Ruff (TSR) | Outfit | Sash | Left Ring (TSR) | Hose | Shoes (City Living)

Courtier: Hat | Hair | Facial Hair (Eco Lifestyle) | Cloak | Outfit | Sword

Page: Hair | Outfit | Cloak | Hose | Shoes (City Living)

Bowman: Helmet | Hair (Moschino) | Facial Hair | Outfit | Quill | Shoes

Halberdier: Hat | Hair (TSR) | Facial Hair | Ruff | Top | Pants | Sword & Dagger | Hose | Halberd (TSR) | Shoes (Spa Day)

Clansman: Hat | Hair (Eco Lifestyle) | Beard | Cloak (TSR) | Top (TSR) | Kilt | Shoes (TSR)

Merchant: Hat | Hair | Facial Hair | Outfit | Right Rings (TSR) | Left Ring (TSR) | Belt

Artisan: Hat | Hair (High School Years) | Facial Hair | Coat | Necklace (TSR) | Outfit | Shoes (Get Famous)

Shopkeeper: Hat | Hair | Facial Hair | Necklace | Top | Gloves | Pants | Hose | Shoes (Get To Work)

Citizen: Hat | Hair (retired - direct download) | Facial Hair | Outfit

Workman: Hat | Hair (retired - direct download) | Facial Hair (TSR) | Outfit | Hose (TSR) | Shoes (Base Game)

With thanks to some amazing creators: @simverses @plazasims @natalia-auditore @satterlly @chere-indolente @wiccandove @oydis @notsooldmadcatlady @batsfromwesteros @daylifesims @simsregalia @regina-raven @bobnewbie @ilkup @diosasims @shandir @jools-simming @igorstory @ice-creamforbreakfast @glitterberrysims @imvikai @veigasims @lehgames

[madds-is-ace-trash]

Nightwing why are you warring a cape? Well for the baby of course! Dcxdp

This takes place in the same universe as my fic Mother of the storm and her star child.

A few years have passed and Danny is completely settled in and moved to bulhaven with dick. Eventually around the time he’s Turing 9 he insists that he wants to go out at night with dick. Dick is hesitant but Danny insist, pointing out how his abilities would make him the perfect recon detective. Dick can no longer argue when Danny beats both Damian and Cass the first day of training and he is out out in the field.

Danny hose out in his ghost form and picks the name phantom because it feels right and now nightwing patrols with a bird if his very own for the first time in a while. Danny is very good on patrols, he sticks close to dick often clinging to him and hiding behind him when dick is interacting with people. He’ll often turn invisible but it still doesn’t fell like enough to dick. He quickly released that he missed the cape and the layer of securing it added when Damien was his Robin.

So nightwing starts wearing a cape, and the people of his city starts coming up with all sorts of theories for the sudden change. The range from him practicing because he’s taking over the cowl to him hiding new gadgets. Very few have seen Danny and those who have are often not believed because, “nightwing had glowing eyes under his cape!” Is not very believable.

He doesn’t wear the cape all the time just when he has Danny, the cape is long the outside is black but the inside has a blue and black feather design so it looks like wings when he glides. It has a feature where it retracts in to a role on his back when he need more freedom of movement. And I’m addition to the cape he now has an extra loop hanging form his belt for Danny to grab on to as the hop rooftops. (Danny can will him self to weigh nothing so dick tends to pull him along as he floats any way)

As the news of dicks sudden costume adjustment is circulating he has to come to the watchtower with B for a mission. Danny tags along hiding in his cape like all the Robin had before him with Bruce. Meanwhile Bruce is totally not going all mushy over his grandson he is totally normal about this. All of the Leagers keep giving dick looks.

Until flash finally ask

Wally: so um nightwing what’s with the cape? I thought you hated them?

Dick*with a bright smile across his face*: it’s for my shadow!

Wally: your shadow? How is a cape ganna hide your shadow.

Dick: no not my actual shadow it’s to hide my bird.

Diana: your bird?

*Dick flares one side of the cape revealing the feathered pattern underneath but nothing else is visible hidden under the cape*

Wally: I don’t se-

Dick: whistles like a bird call

Danny slowly fading in to view giving the league a small wave as he scrambles to hide behind dicks legs: Hello

Hal: really Bruce another one!?

Dick Smiling at the small boy in his cape before closing it : nope this one’s all mine!

Meanwhile John Constantine who is present for this mission is freaked the fuck out. Because that kid with the flowing white hair and glowing freckles is definitely not human. And worse than that from what he can sense it’s pretty darn powerful to. He watches as all of his coworkers are working to get the boy out from hiding cooing over him.

Clark: he’s looking a lot better nightwing

Wally: Waite you already new about him?

Clark: yes the boy is nightwings child I’m guessing he only is just now joining the team

Diana: what’s your name little one?

Danny poking his head out of the cape: phantom my name is phantom

Fuck why was that name familiar? Oh shit that’s right John had heard rumors of the new ghost king and a prince milling around the infinite realms this must be the little ghost prince. How the fuck did dick end up with him? Waite sups said that was dicks kid, hold did dick?

John: ha Oh my god! You crazy fucker you fucked the ghosts king!

[lunarw0rks]

Hello again! I love your works and it's super early to request another but I read your latest post and I loved it! So if you don't mind, could you do headcanons on 141 reacting to their s/o cleaning their car?

Like one of those stereotypical scenes where she's in a bikini or a bikini top with shorts and she's cleaning her car, like she loves her car so she cleans it alot but this is the first time they see the full scene. NSFW would be amazing if you would be ok with it :)

Thank you :]

In The Sunlight // 141 Headcanons (+Ale)

Warning(s): explicit content (18+), suggestive language/content, established relationship, fem!reader, no use of y/n

Word Count: 1.6k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ 141 MASTERLIST // have a request? // ˗ˏˋ ASK BOX ˎˊ˗

SYNOPSIS; summer hit, and it hit hard.

Sizzling atmosphere, sky-rocketing temps, and revolving fans working overtime. Every year, people complain that they miss winter when the high temps smack them in the face, but they wish for the heat when the leaves fall. For you—you would take any excuse to enjoy the hose and sprinkler, sometimes washing your car weekly as an excuse to cool off. Cold showers, ice packs, air conditioning; it wasn’t enough. 

On the bright side, it gave you an excuse to wash your beloved car. To run the hose on the vehicle, and most of all your sweating skin; all while wearing revealing summer attire.

Price

John was due to be home that day, the house was lonely, and you were miserable in the heat. Why not be outside when he comes home? You dressed yourself in a bikini to sprit yourself with the hose, spending about half the time searching for a cool off than washing your car. In your other hand, you had an drink with more ice cubes than liquid; a soothing cube to crunch on while you worked. You swirled your drink as you put another cube between your teeth, spreading the foamy soap with intense focus.

That focus broke when his car finally pulled into the driveway, revealing his attempt at an eager welcome. He was exhausted, but never too exhausted to greet you. Besides, you wearing a basically see-through swimsuit? How can he resist?

❝Don’t work too hard, sweetheart. You’ll get heat stroke.❞ John crept up to you, dropping his duffel. He leaned down and sipped from your drink, picking up an ice cube between his teeth. His lips leaned forward, tracing the ice along your neck and down your cleavage until it melted against your flesh. ❝Let me help you cool off, I missed all of you.❞ His lips found your drink again, meeting your lips with a dripping chunk of ice—a whole new meaning to a sloppy kiss.

Simon

Simon hates the heat—despises it, even. All year round, he wears dark colors, multiple layers, and most notably his balaclava. Does that stop him from ogling you? Not a bit. He can enjoy the view from inside, peering through the curtains at your soaked figure as you scrub your prized car. You lean over the edge, bikini top doing little to contain your breasts as he gets a good view down the top. Simon lets out an amused scoff at the sight, closing the curtains before you have the opportunity to spot him.

You come back inside for some water, wrapping a towel so you don’t dribble on the floor. A hand darts out of the doorway of the kitchen, Simon’s hand gripping the towel and giving it a yank until it falls to the floor. ❝Gave the neighbors a show, didn’t you?❞

He steps out from his hidden spot around the counter, giving your arm a gentle pull so you come towards him, until your face his inches from his. Normally, he leaves his teasing until nightfall, but he’s home and you’re soaked.

❝Need to get you into some better clothes.❞ His strong arms slither around your midsection, gripping intensely. No better excuse, assisting you in getting another change of clothes after he carries you to the bedroom.

Soap

The humidity constantly disturbed your slumber. You and Soap’s shared bedroom was more like a sauna, no matter how long the fans or AC ran. It was so severe you laid awake during the early morning, tossing and turning, peeling the covers stuck to your sweaty body. There was no point in attempting to sleep, you were wide awake at four-thirty in the morning, might as well go outside and cool off. Your car could use a wash, anyhow.

You slipped on a bikini and stepped out into the morning air. The sun hadn’t risen completely, so the heat wasn’t unbearable yet. The hose spewed a stream of water on the hood as you did your first rinse, then scoured cleaner on it. You bent over the hood of your car to reach a spot you missed, lips curled in concentration.

When you felt a pair of hands on your hips, you let out a squeal, quickly soothed by a familiar accent. ❝Don’t move,❞ he purred into your ear, tugging your bottoms down to your ankles. Soap knelt behind you, swiping his tongue along your folds. Your gaze darts around the dim streets, insisting a neighbor will see.

He speaks, then his licks only gained intensity and sloppiness. ❝Let ‘em see.❞

Gaz

As soon as the two of you find time to be outside, it’s an immature sight; chasing each other through the backyard, spraying one another with the hose, or on days where he’s beat, he’ll simply watch you from the hot tub. Today, it was betrayal. You were washing your car, completely believing the fact that Gaz was “too tired” for games tonight. He was too calculated to not have a battle plan, you should’ve known better, right?

As you’ve returned from refilling the soapy bucket, there’s an icy pour of ice water, over the top of your hair, soaking your bikini top, all the way down your jean shorts and legs. With an agape mouth, you drop the bucket and chase after his fleeting figure—a smug grin on his face the whole time. When you round the corner into the backyard, he’s nowhere in sight. As you creep up on the shed, he finally reveals himself, sending you both to a tumble in the grass.

Kyle constricts your arms above your head, grinning down at your hopeless struggle. ❝I didn’t cheat, you just need better eyes, babe.❞ He loosens his grip when you stop fighting him, leaning down to press a kiss on your lips. He places a knee between your legs, staring down at your soaked bikini top hungrily. ❝You look so goddamn sexy like this…❞

Alejandro

You were washing away, brows knitted in focus. Then, you remembered you had left your water bottle on the kitchen counter. The windows were wide open because you were airing out the house on a hot day, so it was worth a shot hollering for Alejandro. ❝Ale, can you bring me my water? Ale?❞ You raise your voice slightly because there’s no way he can’t hear you.

❝In the backyard, cariño.❞ His unmistakable voice replies, distant from the back of the house. You sigh and enter the house, finding your water but no sign of Alejandro, even through the paned glass windows and sliding door. In reality; he had been ogling you for several minutes, waiting for his opportunity for either you to ask for something, or him making something up on the spot. Lucky for him, your need for your bottle had everything going according to plan.

You exited to the backyard, holding a hand up to block the sun. Even if he was visible right now, he would be impossible to spot from the blaze of the star. ❝Right here, amor.❞ Alejandro crept out from out of the shade, wrapping his arms tight around your waist. You knew what this meant—it was inevitable with him. And yet, you fell for it again.

In the next second, you were plunged into the pool, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist. He chuckles at your whines of contempt, pressing his forehead against yours. ❝How was that? You fell for it again, que no?❞ It’s obvious he can’t resist you in a bikini.

Laswell

There are two things Kate can’t get enough of; sunbathing and eyeing you. Sitting on the lounge chairs, reclined with a book or magazine in hand. It’s not often she’s on leave, or home long enough to spend outside. Today was different—she had some time off. She intended to spend as much time outside enjoying the heat, much more preferable than being cooped up in an understimulating base. And watching you while she vedged out? It’s a common pursuit of hers, bikini on or not.

You held your hair up with one hand, the other using the sprinkler setting to mist yourself. Kate tipped her sunglasses down slightly to get a better view, a warm beam spreading on her face. Her nose crinkled slightly as you sprayed the hood of the car, spreading the suds around on the surface.

She flicked to the next page of her magazine, soaking in the sunbeams.

Though she would never say it out in the open, she was certainly ogling her favorite parts of you; your sunkissed chest, the curves hugged tight by shorts—all a cherished image for the next time she leaves, and probably later that night after dinner. ❝How much for you to do mine too, babe?❞

To add to it, she probably snaps candid photos of you, the stream of them probably ending with you blocking the lens with your hands. She’s her own favorite comedian, your complaints and embarrassed whines are a close second.

[nothorses]

So I'm thinking of going on low dose T, and ofc I'll get more feedback from doctors when I see them, but I know one of the changes is that you run warmer and have lower heat tolerance, and I'm already kind of heat sensitive (sweating is a sensory ick). Do you or your followers have any kind of coping strategies that have helped with that?

I ran warm before, too, and I'm definitely warmer now! I also have Raynaud's which kind of makes the whole experience a clusterfuck, but that's besides the point. lmao.

I live in a pretty cool/temperate area, so it isn't normally an issue except in the (increasingly horrible) summers, but I've found that the hardest time to stay cool has been at night. I share a bed with my partner who runs even warmer, and it's been 2.5 years of struggling to figure out how to be a comfortable temperature together.

The best advice I can give you is to just stay as far away from synthetic fibers as you can; "sweat wicking" and "cooling" and "athletic" stuff included. It's a lie. They're all plastic, and while they might feel cool to the touch at first, plastic doesn't breathe. It'll trap heat and moisture against your skin after enough time, especially in the form of blankets. (Fuck the Rest Evercool. Worst recommendation I've ever gotten.)

Look for 100% linen, or 100% cotton. I've heard wool also works well, but I haven't had luck with that personally. Woven fabrics are going to be cooler and more breathable than sateen, and waffle weave is like, the single most breathable weave afaik (it's more common in blankets, but some clothes are waffle).

Some of these things can be pretty scratchy at first, and I recommend a couple of washes on a high heat & some fabric softener before you start using them. We were able to break in our waffle blanket super quickly this way! (I know some folks recommend against softener for breathability reasons, but it's the only thing that actually worked for us, and it hasn't impacted breathability). After you break them in, though, cotton and linen fabrics are SUPER soft!

I also recommend staying away from leather. It's natural, but trust me: it's not breathable. It's coveted in outdoor rec spaces BECAUSE it's somewhat waterproof.

Outside of that, I'd really encourage you to lean towards multiple light layers that you can change/remove throughout the day to suit your needs (ex: light tee + fleece + wind/rain layer, maybe throw in a flannel somewhere), instead of one or two heavy ones (ex: shirt + big puffy cold weather jacket). It's a strategy common in the PNW that works great for regulating your temperature when you're dealing with humidity and somewhat unpredictable weather, and imo, it also really translates if you're just generally sensitive to heat and sweat.

Outside of that... depending on where you live, I really recommend having an AC/dehumidifier. Don't bother with trying to rig up a swamp cooler if you're sensitive to sweat- the increased humidity will make things worse. The general advice I heard when researching a good AC was that window units will always be more efficient than portable units (and a mini split is better than either), but if you have to go with a portable unit, go with a dual-hose. They'll be more efficient just because they don't create a vacuum that pulls in warm air from outside. This is the model we settled on- it was really highly recommended and cost effective for what it is, and it's been absolutely fantastic this summer.

Idk how you are about pits, but I wash mine with a benzoyl body wash and then use a deodorant with antiperspirant every day, and I virtually never smell or sweat. 🤷‍♂️ ymmv though

I'm sure folks will have things to add, so check the notes on this post- and good luck!

[buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger]

Thinking about giving Bucky a bath for the first time after he gets away from HYDRA.

You and him escaped after the Potomac fight, he'd come back only to free you from HYDRA. He knew that you had never wanted to be in their clutches. You were the only one in that had showed him any kindness in his decades of imprisonment, he couldn't just leave you behind. Now the two of you sat in what was once HYDRA safehouse, trying to figure out your next move. He sat on the opposite side of the couch from you, his knees pulled against his chest. You watched him, unsure what to do. In all the time you two had been imprisoned together you'd never seen him like this. He looked scared, confused...vulnerable.

You debated reaching out to touch his hand, but decided against it. He was like a wounded animal in this state, and the last thing you wanted to do was something that would spook him and break the fragile trust he'd placed in you for all these years. So, you simply moved closer to his side, just trying to remind him that he wasnt going through this alone. You looked him over from your spot. He was still wearing his tac suit, covered in a layer of grime and blood and dirt and smelling of river water, mixing with smoke and sweat. You saw your in. This was a former HYDRA safehouse, set up for agents to stay here for who knew how many days. Surely there had to be some clothes in the bedroom, and some soap in the bathroom?

His body went tense for a moment, but he shook his head. He didn't know how to explain to you that the idea of standing under a spray of water reminded him too much of being stripped and hosed off after missions. He could almost hear the icy water slamming into his naked body.

"Soldat," you gently called him by the only thing close to a name that you had for him. The man startled, but his eyes met yours, "why don't you go grab a shower? I can't imagine sitting around in that wet leather suit is very comfortable."

"N-no," he stammered, "I... I don't want to do that."

He thought for a moment. A bath sounded... Nice. Safe.

"Okay," you spoke to him gently, as though trying to comfort a scared injured dog, "what about a bath? Would that be better?"

"Yes. Okay."

You nodded and stood, motioning for him to follow.

"Bucky."

"Come on Soldat."

You cocked your head.

"Uh, the...the man on the bridge," he explained, "he said my name was Bucky."

"Sorry?"

The man, Bucky, grunted in response and followed behind you like a lost puppy. You lead him into the bathroom. You checked the shower/tub combination, and were relieved to find a bar of soap and a hotel sized bottle of shampoo sitting on a small shell. You closed the toilet lid, motioning for him to sit, and he complied. Bucky said nothing as the tub filled up, just simply sat and watched the water rise through vacant eyes. Once it was full, you got up and turned to leave.

"Well, it's nice to finally have a name for you other than 'Soldat'," You gave him a gentle smile, "its nice to meet you, Bucky."

"Alright, Bucky," you gave him a reassuring smile, "you get undressed and clean up. While you're doing that I'll go find some clothes-"

You were taken aback. This man, Bucky, who had endured so much pain and abuse, was now entrusting you to see him in such a sensitive state. To wash him, to take care of him. You nodded shyly.

"Wait." He looked up at you with pleading eyes, "will...will you help me?"

You turned around to give Bucky some privacy while he undressed, and when he said he was ready you turned to see him sat in the bath, looking up at you with nervous eyes. You'd managed to find a wash cloth, and knelt by his side.

"Of course."

He leaned forward, allowing you full access. You began to carefully scrub the grime from his body, asking for consent before moving onto another body part. Bucky leaned into your touch, closing his eyes as you cleaned him, a small display of trust that made your chest ache. Once he was fully lathered, you went to grab the shower head and his eyes shot back open, his metal hand grabbing your wrist. Not harshly, not to cause you pain, just enough to grab your attention.

"Can I start washing your body?" Bucky hesitated, but eventually nodded, "okay. I'm going to start with your back."

"I..." You thought for a moment, "okay. Hang on, Bucky. Let me see what I can find."

"N-no," Bucky murmured, "please. Not that."

You managed to find a cup in the kitchen, and held it up as you returned.

Once his body was free from bubbles, you grab the small shampoo bottle and smile.

"is this okay?" You asked. He nodded. You resumed your spot on the side of the tub and began to dunk the cup in the water and pour it into his skin, removing the bubbles. Bucky was shocked at your behavior. You didn't push his boundaries, you didn't yell at him for expressing he didn't want something. You simply found a new way that made him feel comfortable, even when it would take longer. Comfort and safety were things he had been denied for so long that he didn't believe they were even things he was capable of feeling, or receiving. And yet, here you were, being so careful and looking at him with eyes full of an emotion he had trouble placing. It was like he was something precious, something worthy of loving, and it filled him with so much longing it was almost painful.

He did as instructed, and you began dousing his brunette locks with cupfulls of water. Bucky hummed at the feeling of water slowly tracing its way down his locks and onto his back, and you repeated the step over and over until it was sufficiently wet. You grabbed the small bottle and squeezed a small glob into your hand, reminding him of your intentions before reaching up to start shampooing him. Bucky closed his eyes and hummed involuntarily as you worked. You took your time massaging soap into his roots, reveling in the fact you could make him feel so good. After rinsing the suds from his hair you repeated the steps over and over until it was free from grime. You smiled a bit at the little whimper he let out as your hands pulled away from his head.

"I'm going to wash your hair now, is that alright?" He nodded and you grabbed the cup, "alright Bucky. Keep your head back, I'm gonna wet your hair."

"Why don't you go lay down in the bedroom?" You ask when he's finished, "you must be exhausted after the day you've had."

"You stay here and relax, I'm going to grab some clothes for you." Bucky nodded, and you went into the small bedroom. You didn't have many options, but you managed to find a dark red t shirt and black sweatpants that look like they'll fit, and bring them into him alongside a towel. When you returned, you left them on the counter and turned around to give him time to dry off and dress.

Bucky's eyes found the ground as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt.

You cocked your head.

"Would, uh... Would you...," his cheeks were turning a light shade of pink, "will you, uh... Will you stay with me?"

You hesitated a moment, but nodded.

"I just," he finally forced himself to look you in the eyes, "I don't want to be alone."

"Let me shower and I will," you gave him a soft smile. He nodded, and left you to it. You rushed through the shower as quickly as you could and dressed in the too-big T-shirt and sweats you had grabbed for yourself before joining Bucky in the room. He was sitting on the bed, once again with his knees to his chest, his back leaning against the headboard. You pulled the sheets back and helped him lay down. Bucky sighed as you pulled the covers over his shoulders and sat by his side.

"Of course I am," you couldn't stop yourself from reaching out and gently tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, "I'll sit here with you for as long as you want."

"You're going to stay, right?" He asked. You nodded.

Bucky chewed his lip for a moment.

"Do you want to lay down?" He asked, lifting the covers. He had no idea when the last time he'd invited someone to sleep in his bed with him, but it had to have been a while. It scared him, but the warm look on your face gave him confidence.

"I'd like that," you told him, and settled down by his side. The two of you laid on your backs in silence for a long moment.

You smiled and nodded. Bucky wrapped his arms around you from behind and pulled you close to his chest. He buried his face in your neck, and you reached up to stroke his hair.

"Can I," you turn to look at him, "can I hold onto you?"

"You should rest," you whispered.

"You'll be here when I wake up?" He asked.

"Of course."

Bucky slowly drifted off with you in his embrace, soothed by the feeling of your hand in his hair. Tomorrow, the two of you will figure out your next move, where you plan to go now that you're fugitives. But for tonight, you were content to lay here, tangled up in his arms as he slept peacefully for what was probably the first time in decades.

Anyways, I love this sweet baby boy 💕💕