#trinckets of the hoard

[thegnomelord]

Lads listen

Daddy sub Price

Daddy sub price who pushes you against the desk and breathes out against your lips how much daddy missed his boy and his boy's pretty cock, then begging you to let daddy help his boy relax as he goes to his knees.

Daddy Sub Price who will happily bounce on your cock when you're too tired to have sex, whispering in your ear how good you are for daddy and to just let him take care of you. He will make you cum so many times you pass out, unable to tell between being awake and asleep with his warm cum filled hole clinging to your cock and his rumbling voice moaning about how good you are for daddy.

Daddy Sub price but he's drooling around your cock and every breath he's able to take he spends it on begging you to use daddy's throat harder, he can take it, you earned a nice reward and he wants to spoil his boy rotten.

Daddy Sub Price who never corrects the kinksters when they assume he's the Dom in your relationship, even goes so far as to agree and hold you close when he says so, because the look you give him and the way you pound him in the nearest storage closet is so worth it.

Daddy Sub Price in the leather harness and assless black leather chaps.

Daddy Sub Price in a leather harness and assless chaps with a riding crop. But the crop is for his boy to spank his ass with when he gets too loud because the sight of him in those leathers are for your eyes only.

Daddy Sub Price wants to feel more of the sting of the riding crop on his skin so he shaved his ass. And you lament the loss of all that hair, going to show him how daddy's boy wants to be treated.

God his ass is pretty all red, not from spanking him no, because good daddy's don't shave - but because you're groping his cheeks so damn hard, spreading and gripping ass so you can eat him out. You found some sort of lube that left him all sensitive and tingly, each scrape of your tongue on his hole or balls like a miniature orgasm that's not enough, leaving him shaking and leaking like a busted tap as he tries to tell you daddy learned his lesson; but you don't stop until he's so deep in subspace all he can do is drool into the pillows and moan about how good his boy is

Just. . . Just Daddy Sub Price

[thegnomelord]

This is so Simon Ghost Riley coded.

CW: NSFW, semi-public sex, riding, bratting, brat taming, lazy sex, blood as lube, quickies, creampie, cumming inside, orgasm denial, drinking, lemme know if I miss anything

Ghost who feels that dark cold rage start to simmer in the pit of his stomach the moment his boots are down on solid ground. The satisfaction of another enemy shot dead turning into sharp frustration when two more take their place, blood drenching through his clothes to turn the material into a second skin he can't shed, adrenaline making his heart bang against his ribs with the attempt to break free. The rage creeps up his spine like a slow death, claiming one vertebra after the other for every second he spends under a hail of bullets, driving him with a single minded focus until he's the only thing standing amongst the dead, unsure if he's still breathing with how loudly the silence rings in his ears, maggots crawling along the tunnels of his lungs.

Cold focus pulls on his strings, making sure his hands don't shake, don't grip your wrist too hard as he pulls you into some semi-protected room inside a crumbling house. He doesn't say a word, a low grunt and his deep breaths telling you everything you need to know; to follow the unspoken order — let him knock you to the ground and pin you, bend you in half with your knees to your chest until your back muscles scream and he has all the control.

You don't offer any resistance beyond a small hiss when sharp rocks dig into your back, watching his blood slicked gloves undo your pants and give your cock three short, forceful jerks with his scratchy glove to make you hard enough for him to sink down on. "Stay still." He orders, wrapping a hand around your throat, pushing up on your jaw until your mouth is all but sewed shut. He doesn't want you to make a sound, not now — not when he feels like he's seconds away from falling into the abyss he'd been peering into for so long — just wants you to stay down and be a good toy for him, let him get all of his frustrations out by riding you like he wants to kill you.

The blood he'd used as lube only keeps him from tearing himself up, it doesn't protect him from the raw pain of his unprepared hole being stretched, of his body being used in a way it wasn't intended; in the way his sick mind craves to be abused. He chases after the sensation — needs it more than air — bouncing on your dick in short but powerful bunny hops that nail your cock into his prostate like those nails hammered into his coffin. Your hips are bruised black and blue from his hips smacking into yours, a new bruise formed every time he gets you balls deep. Ghost can feel your cock twitching inside him against his irritated walls. He doesn't care when he cums too quickly across your tactical gear, nor how the pleasure steadily turns so sharp it's agonizing, his cock soft against his thigh when he still continues to ride you with the hope the pain will drive out the numb fog inside his imperceptibly decayed skull. . .

This isn't about reaching some animalistic bliss.

It's about reminding himself he's still alive. Still human.

Lieutenant Riley who is just about ready to bury this batch of recruits alive with how many mindless fuck ups they've had in the morning alone. You were little better, egging them on, laughing with them, sticking your tongue out at him when he's got his back turned as you aren't aware he sees it. By noon you decide to show him 'mercy' — only your mercy is the same as the immortal life God gifted Cain.

You tease him; bend over just enough to draw his eyes to the tightness of your pants, wandering hands groping his ass or cock under the table and only answering his silent glare with an impassive look, whispering in his ear how you want him on the captain's desk when you pass him. Fucking brat.

It's in the very short time he has between meetings that he decides he needs to remind you the chain of command. He doesn't wait to see if the coast is clear after your latest meeting where you had stroked him to hardness, pulling you from the meeting room to a dusty supply closet with a "Heel." ordered so lowly into your ear that it vibrated your marrow. He's willing to give you a kiss, balaclava raised up to his nose and hungry lips devouring the air in your lungs, if only to distract a simple creature like you so he can knock you to the ground. He doesn't hesitate when he pushes one of your legs up up up until you're practically doing the splits. "Dirty dog." He murmurs so sweetly against your neck when he grips your cock and finds you harder than you've ever been.

Lt. Riley knows how to deal with brats, how to enforce his will: No mercy.

Thick thighs tense to raise him up until your weeping cockhead kisses his rim, only to slam down and take you balls deep with a thunderous clap of his ass against your thigh, rocking his hips to grind you just that extra centimeter deeper before rising up again. He's not gentle about it, holding you tight so you can't squirm away, every single pound making up his massive frame used to bruise your hips. He knows how to set his pace, paying attention to your flushed face and doing minute changes in the way he bounces on your cock, in the way he grinds down, in the way his tight walls clench — receiving maximum pleasure while keeping you deep in the haze of Tantalian desperation. The walls are thin, but he doesn't care, letting moans bounce around the room as a later punishment for you.

Idly he remembers he still has another meeting, pressing a bit harder against you as he redoubles his bouncing until he brings himself to completion, not even trying to spare you from your uniform becoming absolutely filthy. "Good soldier." He lets out a satisfied sigh, sliding off your cock and happily pushing your cock back into your pants. He only gives you a soft-ish kiss on the lips as a reward, before slapping you on the ass and ordering you to return to your duties.

Simon just wants a break; from the battlefield, from the bloodshed, from being Ghost. So he calls for you, knowing you will come crawling to him like a desperate dog.

He pours himself a hard glass of dark rich bourbon he can enjoy after he's settled in your lap, well stretched hole languidly fluttering around your hard arousal as he rests against your chest. He doesn't mind your hands gripping his waist, moments like these are when he's at his most generous, but under no circumstances are you allowed to buck or shift your hips — he expects total submission.

But he doesn't make it easy for you; Maybe he lets you moan freely as a reward for being good, maybe he gags you with his own underwear when he wants silence. Either way he doesn't stray from the confusing pace he sets that you can never grasp — slowly grinding his hips in shallow figure eights while he enjoys the burn of bourbon on his tongue, pairing it with the slight sting of the stretch and the slow relaxing of his muscles as your cock grinds on his prostate. Then he slowly rises up a short distance, just enough for the muscles deep in his thighs to tense and the drag of your cock to pull him from the fog of pleasure. He holds the position long enough for your hands to tense, for your cock to start twitching and throbbing, before languidly sliding back down to take another sip of his drink.

It's a maddening purgatory you're stuck in, rocked in the sea of a sensation on the leaking boat of your quickly evaporating willpower. You watch the muscles in his broad back tense and relax, listening to his soft little sighs and the occasional deep moan he makes between the rocks of his hips. You want to so desperately fuck up into that tightly clenching hole, to draw ragged moans from him, but you grip his hips tight and try to hold on. He knows you'll survive this — trusts you to survive this the same way he trusts you with his naked nape, with his turned back, with his complete lack of attention to his surroundings.

You don't know how long it takes for his orgasm to roll through him as lazily as the sex had been, a deep pleasant heat crawling from the pit of his stomach to slither through his veins, his cock dribbling cum over his loosely clenched fist. Absentmindedly wiping his hand on your thigh he reaches up to pet your head, leaning further back to place a burning coal kiss on the side of your lips. The rim of his glass replaces his lips, shaky hand tilting it up until the thin layer of leftover alcohol nibbles on your lips, breathless gravely voice murmuring in your ear a sweet command, "Go on, drink, an' no pulling faces."

You do as he orders, opening your mouth enough for the bourbon to flow into, swirling it around around inside under his watchful gaze before slowly swallowing. His lips are there on your neck to feel your Adam's apple bob, you can feel him smirk. "Just like that." He purrs, setting the glass down next to the mostly full bottle, whispering what your fraying mind had been desperate to hear. "Cum for me, want to feel you deep inside."

You do as he orders, hips snapping up once, twice, before you spill yourself inside him, hugging him close. You pant like a racehorse, muttering your 'thank you's against his shoulder, eyes closed to fully submerge yourself in the afterbliss. Burying your nose into his neck you can almost taste the cologne and something that is explicitly Simon on your tongue, like the scent of an old childhood favorite books, his pulse racing just a bit beneath your lips when you kiss his scarred throat.

He lets you rest like that, enjoying the fullness your cum adds, patting your head before pouring himself another glass — the night is young, and he's nowhere near satisfied.

When bottoms are the ones bending you in half, feet pushed past your shoulders and riding your cock, setting their own pace focusing on their own pleasure barely acknowledging that youre there mm wanna be used so bad

[tinylittletreasures]

Some more shinies, buttons, and sparkly nicknacks! We got a sunny outdoor photo shot today after lots of rain, nice to see everything sparkling!

[thegnomelord]

just read about demon hunter reader and demon ghost cuddling, and the first thing i thought was how ghost would react if, one of these times, reader ends up having a wet dream and dry humping his ass 😋

about time that our demon thinks of getting laid, he's disgusted and turned on at the same time

Sorry this took a while lads :Dd, I'm getting back into writing after all that shit with my school but I got a summer job as an assistant medical worker with 12h shifts every other day so It might take a bit for me to write stuff.

Hush, Hunter

CW:NSFW, MDNI, demon Simon Ghost Riley x male hunter reader, grinding, wet dreams, handjob, blowjob, size difference (demon ghost is like 11 feet tall.)

Your ‘husband’ is strange, even by demon standards.

He grumbles about the inconvenience brought on by your mortal failings and fragility, growling whenever you have to stop at a gas station to buy food or at some dingy motel to sleep. He grumbles even more about being confined in the stolen human skin suit he's forced to wear to blend in.

You can ignore the stranger with the stolen face and hellfire eyes throwing dark glares at you for the most part, except for when the demon decides to make the binding ring around your finger heat up when you spend too long talking to the pretty cashier. And it only takes a few more seconds of not paying heed to the incessant burn before Ghost Simon looms behind you, glaring at the flustered cashier like she’s a fey trying to trick you into the Fey Lord’s court.

And the big bastard never gives you any explanation on why he’s acting like that, just drags you back to your car, slamming the doors closed with enough strength to shake the entire vehicle. He’s like a cat honestly; hisses at you, but doesn’t want to let you out of his sight or claws.

But when your nightmares get so bad your only chance of sleeping is on the floor, well hidden behind the bed with your back flush with the dingy motel wall, Ghost surprises you by laying down with you. Sure he grumbles about the demeaning position - laying like some mongrel dog - but he still does it.

Ghost is on his side, his broad muscular back to you, rough inky scales swallowing all the moonlight that filters through the blinds and turning him into a pitch black wall of muscle. He’s so still you might even think he’s sleeping – you know he’s not; demons aren’t tied to mortal laws, nor are they subject to time’s iron grip, that’s what makes hunting demons so dangerous. The only indication you have that he’s awake is the occasional twitch of his tail and the slight shuffle of his wings when you accidentally get closer to him in your attempt to get a comfortable position.

You flinch when his one wing spreads out and back, but the blanket of black and blood dyed feathers soon eases the tension in your body. Probably too quickly, definitely too quickly, but Ghost doesn’t draw attention to it and neither do you and the night is cold and he is blissfully warm and he stays stock still when you shuffle a bit closer. You're glad he pays no attention to you when you get comfortable against him, barely an inch of space between you two.

His feathers tickle your face, they’re softer than you’d expect a wrath demon to have, fluffy like the down of chicks. His scent invades your nose, rough leather and steel oil and something distinctly demonic you can’t name. . . but it’s strangely comforting.

Laying only an inch or two away from a demon goes against everything you’ve ever been taught. Your nerves should be on a razor’s edge, but instead you’re calm. You don’t know why your fucked up mind finds comfort in the fact a possible threat would need to go through half a ton of murderous wrath demon to get to you. And you don’t want to think about it either, you’ve had far too many sleepless nights for your brain to care how you manage to sleep so long as you do. And the moment you close your eyes, you’re out like a light.

Ghost has gotten used to your nightmares.

Just like his father’s absent love, your nightmares are consistent. He’s almost impressed how such a frail thing like you could hunt the likes of hydras and Hell Dukes when you barely sleep a wink most nights. The longest you’ve gone is a couple of hours of restful sleep before you woke up trying to claw your eyes out. You never talk about it, nor does he, Ghost may be a demon but he knows far too well how the mind can haunt someone.

And Ghost has gotten good at telling apart the individual nightmares by how you squirm in your sleep.

It takes a little longer for the nightmare to start than usual, but he knows you’re neck deep in it when you heart starts it’s frantic drumming in your chest. He ruffles his feathers as your hands grip his sides, your breath fanning over his skin. He thinks it might be the basilisk haunting you this time by the way you press yourself flush with his back, burying your face into the space between his shoulder blades until your nose is flush with his spine, back hunching to further shield your eyes.

Ghost doesn’t, nor will he ever, mention the low happy rumble that escapes him when you snuggle up to him. His feathers fluff up, the scratchy hair of his tail flattening down - about as silk soft as he can make them. It’s little better than throwing pearls before swine, you won’t remember any of this after all, but doing this strangely doesn’t feel as much of a burden as it should.

Usually the low deep purring growling will chase away your nightmares and lull you into a dreamless sleep for a little while, but not this time. You squirm against his back like an eel, muscles tensing to grip his sides until dregs of pain dance along his spine. Your breath fans across his scales, your heart pounding in his ears like that of a rabbit’s caught in a snare. He’s just about ready to turn around and wake you before he feels it—

Your arousal pokes his back, hard like iron.

Only now does he pick up the slight sweetness of arousal in your adrenaline rich scent. “Hm- fuck.” You mumble as you roll your hips to grind your cock against him. “Slow- fuck fuck- slow down.” You breathe out, and Ghost swears this must be another part of his father’s eternal punishment. The sudden thought that your dream is of a sexual nature smites him with all the intensity of his father’s rage.

Who do you think you are, taking his little mercies for granted? Who do you think you are, grinding against him like some mongrel mutt? Who do you think you are holding him as if you are more than the eventual reward for the maggots fervent prayers? Who do you think you are—

“Ghost- Simon. . .” His name, his original name, leaves your lips; it’s the softest he’s ever heard you speak.

“Human.” He seethes and rolls around, pushing the warm feeling –warm like a campfire compared to the blistering pits down below that usually dwell in his chest– out of his mind. “Disgusting.” You’re so small compared to him, your head could easily fit in his rough hand, a momentary lapse in the binding’s protection all that it would take for his flesh rending claws to cleave through your skull. He’s thought about it often, of the look in your eyes as your life fades, of how good your blood would taste, of how nice your shoulder would look with his teeth marks on it. . .

His hand is gentle as he reaches to brush your cheek, like he’s handling glass, rumbling when you lean into the touch. “Wretched thing.” He growls, hand sliding from your cheek to your back and pulling you close. He feels you nuzzle into his wide chest, carefully bullying his thigh between yours, steel hard muscle tensing to give you a good surface to grind on. “Nothing more but a mongrel waste of flesh.” He doesn’t notice how quickly his voice has lost heat, barely above a murmur as he listens to your breathless gasp and watches your back arch.

For someone usually so guarded, you are painfully naked in flesh and soul, responding so wantonly to his touches; from low moans to soft little murmurs of ‘Simon’ and ‘more’ that has him mindlessly rubbing his thigh against your crotch in hopes of getting more of those so painfully human sounds. You moan and nuzzle into his chest, your body like soft clay in his hands now that you’re no longer shackled by the chains of pride and prejudice that your mind conjures around him

You’re like a strange bug to him; a part of him wants to pin you down, to tear you apart with vicious claws and see if there’s anything different in the way your heart beats, in the way your lungs move, in the way you exist — something substantial to show why holding you in his arms doesn’t feel as degrading as it should.

He wonders, briefly, if this is what God saw that made him love Adam so much. Why God did not have the heart to kill Adam for his disobedience.

Greed moves his hands like they’re puppets on strings, flesh rending claws carefully tracing the bumps of old and fresh scars that dot your abdomen — perhaps you aren’t so pathetic, it takes strength to survive this long. Your skin prickles from his touch, your breath fanning over the rough belly scales protecting his front as his hand slowly moves down. He hooks a claw under the band of your underwear and pulls down until your cock springs out right into Ghost’s hand.

Ghost hasn’t seen many cocks before, why would he?, but a low sound comes from his chest at how neatly your cock fits in his hand, how neatly all of you fit against him. And only now does it dawn on him that he doesn’t know how to do this— he’s a wrath demon for fuck’s sake, he understands war and bloodshed like it’s the back of his hand, but this? This is new territory.

Well, he’s never been one to back down when he’s gotten this far.

His hand slowly closes into a fist, just a little loose around you. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t be anything but gentle in the way he strokes you. Your hips move on their own, gentle little rocks to fuck your cock into his fist and he follows along with the motion. It’s a little rough at first, he feels how the dry slide of his hand makes you shiver, but he soon finds a nice pace as your precum eases the glide of flesh on flesh.

He wants to see your face when you moan, but he can’t bring himself to pull you away from his chest when you cling to him so sweetly, your lips mindlessly ghosting over his scales. So he contends himself with coiling his tail around your leg, draping a wing over you so there’s a barrier between you and the rest of the world, so no creature from heaven high or deep below may entertain the thought of taking what’s his.

No good thing lasts for long.

He feels you wake like the first thaw in spring, slow and gradual, eyes fluttering open, mind still clouded with pleasure to really understand the position you’re in. He takes advantage of that, gripping your hip to keep you close, swirling his tumb in the precum beading at your head and squeezing his hand just right to coerce a breathless moan from your chest.

Then your eyes snap open, realisation hitting you with the same intensity as the punch you throw at his skull. But the ‘marriage’ turns that show of force into a gentle caress of the skull cheek of his ‘face’. “Ghost what the fuck are you-” You begin, cut off as another clench of his hand has you gripping his forearm and biting your lip to silence yourself. 

“Oh hush hunter.” Ghost rumbles low in his throat, his wing tensing behind your back to bring you in closer, soft blood dyed feathers encasing you in a cocoon of warmth against his cool belly scales. “No need to wake the other worms.” Disdain and mockery drip from his voice like molasses, yet strangely it doesn’t feel aimed at you. . . it must just be the pleasure making you believe that.

“You- bastard!” You snarl, trying to summon the hunter savagery that had been meticulously beaten into you, but it slumbers like a fat cat. “Fuck off- get away from me.” You aim to slam your fist against his scaled abdomen, just a little lower and to the side where the floating ribs should be, but all you manage is a slow caress of his side and back up his chest where you can feel his eternal soul burning beneath the flesh.

He laughs and slides his hand down, rolling your balls in his wide hand and squeezing just enough to be at the edge of pain– shit, that should not feel so good. You hiss and throw your head back despite the inherent danger of exposing your throat. He tilts his head down, ghostly breath washing over your ear, “We both know if you wanted this to stop you would have done so.” Oh, now you can just feel the mockery in his voice, sweet like honey that it is.

Some petulant part of you thinks of arguing, anything to retain what remains of your damn pride, but then he slides his hand back up, pressing your cock against your stomach and grinding the palm of his hand against your shaft and all the thoughts of arguing are pushed to the side by the tide of pleasure. Fuck, it’s been far too long since you ‘took care’ of things, it’s not like you have much time to wank off, let alone with Ghost hanging over your shoulder like some grim reaper. And hell, if any other hunter heard you let a damn demon jack you off, yours would be the next head put on the stake but. . . but Ghost is surprisingly gentle with you, not a single hint of pain coming from his touches, not even from his claws gently running down your side.

“Fine-” You suck in a sharp breath, head fixed to stare directly at his chest. “Make it quick.”

You feel him smirk against your ear, “As you wish, hunter.” He laughs lowly, like you’re nothing but a cute puppy chewing on his shoelaces, “Though, you should thank me for debasing myself like this.” He growls, and with a sharp move of his wing he rolls you on your back. 

You gasp as your back hits the sleeping mat, and before you can even struggle Ghost looms over you, a wall of muscle and dark scaled flesh. “Fuck no.” You growl, some scraps of pride still clinging to your mind, though even those are threatened when his broad hand returns to stroking your cock, faster this time, the drag of his palm making pleasure sizzle up your spine. Your head rolls back to rest on the mat and you don’t even notice when you close your eyes. You’re not sure how Ghost is so good at this, something sharp like jealousy curling in your stomach at the thought of him doing this to someone else. But it’s hard to think when you can feel and hear him purring, his claws gently tracing your stomach and leaving lingering heat everywhere they touch.

You jump as something slick brushes over your balls, “Look, good hunter.” He growls and you listen without thought, eyes wide when you see his tongue— it extends from the darkness of his head just beneath the rotten upper teeth of his skull, long, black, thick strings of oil coloured spit dripping off his tongue. “That’s better,” He purrs; you’re not sure how he can talk, and you’re unable to ask because he leans in closer until your cock rests against his skull, his hellfire eyes burning in the darkness and giving just enough light for you to see his long black tongue curl around your base like a snake. 

Shit– he wants to kill you.

“Holy fuck Ghost-” You breathe out, lungs burning before you remember how to breathe. His tongue moves, squeezing your base and sliding lower to lap at your balls. You’re forced to bite your finger to stop the painfully pathetic sound burning on your tongue.

He stops moving and you’re thankful he doesn’t mention the whine that slips past your lips. “Simon.” He demands, oily spit clinging to your skin and making it tingle with heat.

“Simon.” You nod along dumbly, “Fuck- Simon.”

“Good.” You imagine he’s smiling when he says that, his hand returning to stroke your cock in reward. “Call me that again.” He says, a purr rumbling in his chest and you can’t help but moan at how the vibrations travel through his tongue, making it act like a vibrating toy.

Your hands fly to grip his horns, the pleasure making you throw your head back yet you try to keep your eyes on him, hiccuping his name between harsh breaths. He doesn’t mind the touch on his horns, leaning into the touch before flicking his tongue at your taint. He rewards you for each time you say his old name, tongue and hand working in tandem to slowly and steadily march you towards release. 

You try to tug on his horns to warn him, or maybe to pull him away, but he pays no heed; he doubles his efforts, wetly slurping at your balls and base while his hand toys with your crown, his free hand holding your hips down so all you can do is weather the pleasure until you’re finally pulled under the waves. “Simon-” You gasp, cum spurting all over his hand and your stomach. 

You watch through lidded eyes as he retracts his hand, keeping his gaze on you as he lazily licks up your cum from his hand. “Better than I expected.” He rumbles, more to himself than you, leaning up to drag his long slimy tongue across your stomach to gather up all your cum.

 Shit, that sight got you hard again before you could even soften.

You’re not sure if the greed you see spark in his eyes makes you scared or even harder, but you’re not left any room to think further about it before his tongue wraps around your cock again.

Unfortunately for you, demons have no concept of time as mortals know it, so his ‘quick’ ends up being the entire rest of the night. At one point you get to the point you’re sure Ghost is trying to kill you with all the pleasure, spit polishing your cock until he’s satisfied and by that point the sun is rising and your voice is hoarse.

You can’t meet the gaze of the motel receptionist in the morning, but Ghost Simon, looks smug like the cat who ate the canary.

[thegnomelord]

You're walking alone at night, the streets are well lit and the air cool enough to make you go at a brisk pace. Nobody is out this time of night, not even a lone taxi to break up the quiet.

You're looking at your phone so you don't look where you're going, and bump into somebody. It feels like walking into a tank, the man doesn't even flinch while you almost fall on your ass. His hand grabs you before he can and your eyes naturally follow the firm muscles of his arm before looking at his handsome face.

He's apologetic about being in your way - "that's alright lovie, wasn't looking where I was going." - he says despite you having walked into him. Turns out he's walking in the same direction as you, and he doesn't look like some mugger, so you chat while you walk. He's a charming devil, dark skin looking ombre under the streetlights that turn his brown eyes a polished amber.

You learn a lot about him; his name is Kyle, he's in the military and coming back to the base from a bar, he used to be a gymnast. He even tells you of how he fell out of a helicopter, soft voice turning into a rumbling little laugh to make it lighthearted and you don't notice when you start laughing along. He's just so easy to talk to.

You don't even notice him leading you off the beaten path; some shortcut he knows. Some part of your mind, that dumb dumb animal, bleats deafly in your ear, but it's his smooth voice that bounces around your skull and pulls on your strings to keep you putting one foot in front of the other.

Next morning you wake up back in your bed (how did you even get back home?) and it's not until you go shower that you notice two puncture marks on your neck.

[thegnomelord]

Suggestion: he's a switch, and it depends who he is at the time.

Simon wants to be safe, wants to be cared for and pampered and loved like he couldn't be growing up; a warm smile to ease his nerves, gentle hands to hold him close and lay him bare, a gentler voice giving him simple orders he can't fail and mountains of praise for the most minute of task — that's all it takes to have him melting into the sheets, drooling and bleary eyed and mind so blissfully empty of everything other than you, and how you make him feel, his body so pliant and welcoming you in, his arms clutching you tightly. It doesn't even need to be sexual, just having him rest his head on your thigh beneath the desk or have him cuddled up to you is enough to have him rooted in place and giving you the most pathetic eyes you'd ever seen when you suggest moving.

Ghost doesn't care about any of that, not when he's hoped up on adrenaline and rage; after a fucked mission, a training drill gone bad, bad day of recruit duty— something gets him angry and he needs you there — Not to catch him, but to handle the punches he throws. Needs you pliant and rock hard so he can ride you as long as he wants, uncaring if the overstimulation becomes painful or when you physically can't get hard anymore, teeth digging into your throat the same way violence gnaws on his bones, not a single inch of your skin free of his bruises and teeth marks and claim on you. He's the one your cock up the arse yet you're the one who hobbles the morning after, looking like you'd been attacked by a pack of wolves.

inside you there are two wolves: one believes ghost would be the meanest power bottom, the other believes he would be the most submissive bottom

[thegnomelord]

Good Dog

CW: NSFW, DARK-FIC, murder, gore, power imbalance, size difference(reader's bigger), description of torture and brainwashing, oral, anal, blood as lube, plot and exposition with porn, pet play(collars and leashes), toxic relationship, dub-con, very very self indulgent.

Моя гончая- my hound, Хороший солдат - good soldier, Расслабьтесь, братья мои - relax, my brothers, приносить - fetch, есть - eat

The thick door and walls of the private room do nothing to damped the bass of the club pounding in his ears, the annoying music made bearable by the high of a recent victory. Puffs of cigarette smoke lazily curl in the air as Makarov leans further back into the couch, the buzzing sting of a fresh tattoo helping him relax. The scent of expensive liquor only adds to the heady atmosphere, crystal clear vodka swirling in his glass before Makarov takes a sip. His dark eyes peer over the rim of his glass, like doorways to a dark abyss, his gaze dancing across the faces of his most trusted men before settling on the lieutenant's as the man tries to prove his worth with pointless words.

Above all else, Makarov values loyalty.

It doesn't matter how strong a man is if he can't follow orders. The number of soldiers he can lead is pointless when he can't keep his men alive. How well he can shoot is meaningless when he can't devote himself to a cause. A man who is disloyal is a man of single use.

Makarov doesn't even try to listen to whatever drivel the lieutenant's spouting, he doesn't see a reason to sour his mood when he already knows everything: the embezzling, the lying, the adorable double agent act. He has you to thank for that, you'd sniffed the lieutenant out the second you met him, diligently uncovering every speck of dirt the lieutenant had attempted to hide from Makarov.

And you? You are very loyal. His loyal hound.

His fingers curl around the leash, the smooth black leather sliding against his calloused palms. A barely there tug is all it takes for you to lean down over the back of the couch, bracing one large hand near his head for support as the other remains over the grip of your sidearm. You loom over him, and while Makarov may be a fearsome man, he can't deny the type of foreboding fear a goliath like you inspires — a towering figure always a step behind him, broad body big enough to easily cover him fully if you need to take a bullet for him, arms strong and palms wide to easily crack a man's skull.

Settling the glass down he takes another drag of his cigarette, "Hound," Another tug — sharper, harsher; such a small correction yet the fact you needed it at all has acrid disappointment burning on your tongue — makes you bend down more, your face now next to his. He doesn't draw attention to the reprimand, breathing out a puff of smoke near your face. "Were you listening, моя гончая?"

It's a pointless question, he knows you were listening, he trained you to. But he asks because he loves to see the way your eyes darken, jaw tight. The cigarette smoke dances in the air, making the club's low lights reflect off the sharp spikes adorning the thick collar snuggly wrapped around your throat. Your day collar suits you well, no different than the spiked collars put on hunting hounds.

"Yes sir." You answer, your attention now solely on the lieutenant.

Makarov hums, eyes flickering from the lieutenant to you. "And?" He chuckles and lets the leash go, his word keeping you in place as he casually pats your neck. "What did you hear?"

"Lies. . ." The slow slide of his fingers across the uncovered parts of your throat makes your breath stutter, static crackling beneath your skin. "I heard lies, sir." Your answer causes the lieutenant to try and sputter excuses and denials, all cut short by the harsh look you give him.

Makarov chuckles, hooking a finger over the silver loop at the front of your collar, pulling on it and tilting his head so his lips can ghost across your jaw. "Хороший солдат." Makarov murmurs. His stubble scratches your skin as his lips brush a path to your ear, so very close to a lover's kiss.

But a brush of skin is all it is. Nothing more. Your body earns for more, to turn your head and experience the bruising possessiveness of his kiss once again, to feel his teeth bite down on your lip until blood floods both of your mouths. But you don't move; A spoiled dog isn't loyal and Makarov won't lavish you with attention for nothing. no �� you must earn it.

"Stay." The soft 'click' of the leash unclipping sounds the same as a sentencing gavel, the strip of leather falling away until only his word keeps you from tearing the lieutenant's throat out with your teeth. Makarov smirks against your skin, his words honey sweet to your ears as he whispers: "Sick him."

That seals the ex-lieutenant's fate.

You're on the lieutenant in an instant, crashing into him like a truck. Makarov leans back and lights up another cigarette as you stomp down on the man's leg, all the weight you carry around bearing down on his bones until they break, erasing any foolish thoughts of escape when you snap the bones of his other ankle; Makarov has truly taught you well.

The screams of a traitor are much better than the atrocious club music, letting him enjoy the smooth burn of the vodka as another stomp breaks a couple of ribs. Some of his men are still nervous around you, trying not to shuffle in their seats lest they grab your attention and become the new outlet of your violence.

"Расслабьтесь, братья мои." Makarov gives a charming smile, resting his ankle on his knee as he takes another drag. "Hound is well trained, you have nothing to fear." He chuckles, lazily watching you as he holds conversation with his lieutenants. Honestly, you're like a dog with a new toy, tossing the man around and pinning him down under your heavy body, each swing of your fists steadily turning the ex-lieutenant's face into pulp.

It's as entertaining for him as it is therapeutic for you.

And to think Price had tried to suppress all that beautiful savageness you possessed.

Makarov remembers how you'd been nothing but a snarling and cursing ball of anger when his men had captured you after a botched mission. He had been both annoyed and amused by how loyal you were to Price, weathering every beating and starving and humiliation with the same 'fuck you' response, baring your teeth like the cornered dog you were. With days turning to months and your resolve refusing to waver under their 'care' Makarov had considered just putting you down, sending a nice video of blowing your skull open to Price but oh — is he glad he decided to indulge in the game your stubbornness presented.

He set out to train you like he would any mongrel mutt, clear expectations making it easy to tell whether your actions would get you a reward or an even worse punishment, giving small rewards for the behavior he wanted; not snarling at him might earn you a better meal. Biting your lip and taking your beating without back talk could get you a couple of minutes outside the claustrophobic walls of your cell. Letting him touch and inspect your body without complaint might reward you with a book or some other little creature comfort he could, and did, easily take away the moment you stepped out of line.

Of course you were weary, perceptive enough to know when he was scheming. But every man has his limits, yours were simply reached when he handed you official C.I.A documents proclaiming you as K.I.A, the mission itself creatively rewritten to sound like you had gone and deserted to the enemy — no one was looking for you, no one was coming to save you, your captain, Price, wasn't coming to save you.

He had taken great enjoyment in running his fingers across your scalp as you clutched the documents in a white knuckled grip, your mind far too worn down to question or guard against the soft touches. His lips had brushed against your ear, soothingly raspy voice comforting you — you're a good soldier, strong, reliable, everything a commander could dream of. It wasn't your fault you trusted the wrong man, truly, what a shame to have your loyalty repaid with betrayed like that.

After that, it became laughably easy to train you. He stuck with simple commands, spoken only in Russian so he could amuse himself with the way your head would tilt before you'd perk up, recognition making your dull eyes brighten before you did what he wanted in exchange for a small scrap of his affection, learning to seek his praise and appreciate his touch even when your body still prickled with disgust. So when he handed you the knife, standing so close you could have easily slit his throat, and ordered you to kill another member of your previous taskforce, you hadn't hesitated for a second. "Good boy." He had purred, caressing your jaw as he used his thumb to wipe away the blood staining your cheek.

"Hound." His voice is as effective as any physical tug on your leash, making you stop mid punch with your fist inches away from the ex-lieutenant's caved in face. You're covered in blood, the rich crimson bringing out the violence swirling in your eyes.

Yet you look at him with utter adoration he wants to shove his cock deep down your throat just so he can see your tears smudge the blood on your cheeks. "Приносить." He taps his thigh.

You nod your head, grabbing the knife strapped to your thigh. There's no hesitation in your movements as you shove the knife into the ex-lieutenant's throat. An arc of blood spurts across your front when you yank it out just to stab another spot, the man coughing and choking as you cut through cartilage and muscle until with a good yank and a sickening 'crack!' you separate the head from the body.

Makarov had never seen the appeal of large hulking brutes until you — your body had filled back out with muscle and fat nicely after you became his, towering body demanding attention simply by existing as you stand up. The loud stomp of your feet and the blood staining your body making you look like a barbarian, casting a shadow over him before you kneel at his feet, offering the decapitated head as a knight does to his king.

Oh yes, he definitely sees the appeal now.

"Good dog." He purrs, reaching out to stroke your jaw, smearing some of the blood with his thumb. Fingers sliding down to hook on the silver ring on your collar he pulls your head closer. "Do you think you earned a reward?"

It's a test. One you're intimately familiar with. The judgmental stares of Makarov's trusted men are the last thing in your mind when the closeness of his body and the sharp crisp scent of his cologne threatens to shatter your resolve. "Only if you permit it, sir." Your throat feels dry, trying not to show how eager you are for his attention as you place the head on the floor so you don't get a drop of blood on him.

Makarov smirks, "Smart dog," His hands move to the back of your neck, unbuckling the collar. You're no longer ashamed to admit you feel naked as the thick piece of leather is pulled away; the time when you didn't have a collar wrapped around your neck feel like a distant memory and now the sensation of breathing without it pressing against your skin is disturbing. You have to bite your lip to keep the low whine from escaping your chest.

His hand wraps securely around your throat, bringing your breath back to you. Your Adam's apple bobs beneath his fingers as he traces the 'V.M' shallowly carved across your throat. "It's already starting to fade." He tuts, squeezing his fingers to restrict your breathing just the slightest bit more. "We'll need to have it tattooed. That would be nice, yes?"

You suck in a sharp breath, "Yes sir."

"Хороший солдат." He purrs. He pulls out another collar from his pocket and you feel yourself chub up in your pants just at the sight of it. It's the chained pronged one he uses exclusively when he wants you to pleasure him, particularly because it leaves such pretty bruises along your skin when he tugs on the leash.

You eagerly tilt your head back to bare your throat, a shudder rushing down your spine as soon as you feel the cold metal against your skin. You stay perfectly still as he secures around your neck, the sharp pull of the leash making the prongs dig into your skin, prickles of pain making you even harder. "Go on," Makarov hums, spreading his legs wider so your attention falls to the hard bulge in his slacks, his belt undone but the rest left to you. "есть."

You don't think you could enjoy servicing him as much as you did if he didn't let you work for it, the reward made sweeter because you earned it. Truly, he's so good to you, you'd thank him profusely but he hasn't given you permission to speak freely. So you lean in, careful not to get blood on his pants as you take the metal zipper between your teeth and pull it down. You've done this enough not to have any problems undoing the button, your hands obediently planted on your thighs and your gaze firmly on him so you can see the pleased smirk that spreads across his features when you bite the band of his boxers and pull them down until his cock springs out, already hard.

A pleased sigh escapes him when your warm lips wrap around the head of his cock, the leash wrapped firmly around his hand and the slightest tug on it has pain prickling down your spine. "Моя гончая, don't waste my time." You can't help but whine lowly at the admonishment, quickly trying to make up to him by sucking on the tip and licking the slit in just the way he likes it.

His leg shifts, hard boot coming up to grind the sole against your clothed cock. "That's better." The praise makes you moan deep from your chest and try to take more of his cock into your mouth, your boxers wet and sticky against your own cock as you give an experimental hump of your hips against his boot. You scrape your teeth along the vein on the underside of his cock and it earns you a rough grind of his boot. His hand tangles in your bloodied hair and pulls you down until his cock bumps the back of your throat.

You nearly choke from the sudden pressure, trying to fight off the reflex to pull back and gag. "Look at me." His order rings clear in your head, your eyes meeting his as he grinds your nose into his pubic hair, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as your lungs start to burn. You fight through it, the fluttering of your throat making him five a small, rough, moan and fuck — you're hard as a rock.

Just as you feel like you'll pass out on his cock he lets you off, yanking your head back. You're only given a few seconds to take a sharp breath of fresh air before he pushes your head back down. You're prepared this time, hollowing your cheeks and relaxing your throat, swallowing around his hard cock. The way you suck Makarov off is wet and sloppy, stealing ragged breaths when you can as you trace the veins of his cock with your tongue and gently nibble on the base when his cock's fully sheathed in your throat, knowing exactly how to please him. Your efforts are rewarded with the salty taste of precum on your tongue, hearing him occasionally mutter his praises in Russian, none of his words snagging on your mind like sharp orders so you let yourself drift in the pleasure of servicing him, subconsciously grinding your cock into his foot.

But you're not mentally gone enough not to notice the squeaking of chairs, your body tensing as you pull up enough so only his head remains in your mouth, your head turned just enough to throw a sharp glare at the other men in the room. Makarov having his guard down like this makes you tense, violence buzzing beneath your skin from the ingrained need to protect him.

"Hound." Makarov's growl is followed by another sharp tug of the leash, the dull ache of the metal prongs digging into your skin dissipating some of your aggression. "Did I tell you to stop?"

You shake your head as best you can, a pathetic whine escaping your chest from the way the pain makes your cock even harder. Satisfied, he eases the leash, letting you return to your work. His head lolls back, lazily looking at his men. He couldn't care less who sees you like this, but now he wants your full attention on him. "Leave." He gives the simple command.

You track the sound of shuffling feet as you take him fully into your mouth, making him hiss a curse under his breath. Nuzzling your nose into his curly pubic hair you breathe in his musk, his heel grinding firmly and consistently against your hard cock, pleasure pulsing through your veins with such intensity you're worried you'll cum without permission, low whines escaping your throat.

He pulls you off him suddenly, your lungs burning as you gasp for air. You expect him to paint your face with his cum, stake an obvious ownership over you. But he doesn't, pulling you by the leash and leaning down to mash your lips together, teeth biting down on your lip until it bleeds.

Makarov's kisses are rough and demanding, the sweet drug your body's been craving, teeth clicking together and tongues swirling in each other's mouths. The firm grind of his boot against your crotch makes you moan lowly, a sound he happily swallows down and nearly shoves his tongue down your throat. You part far too soon, your body craving much much more, but he doesn't let you stew in the disappointment of a short kiss — it's an owner's responsibility to spoil his pet — mumbling against your lips. "Prepare me."

A full shudder runs down your spine and you surge to follow his order. Makarov loves the determined look you get in your eye just as much as he loves the rough way you grip his hips and hike them up so you can pull his pants and boxers down his legs. Your bloodied fingers grip his hips and pull them down until his ass hangs off the edge of the couch, throwing his legs over your shoulders and he can feel the muscles deep in his back strain as you nearly bend him in half, his hard cock and hole bared for you.

It's a vulnerable position, trapped between your bulky frame and the couch he has no way to escape. And if anyone else were to attempt this he would feed every inch of their flesh to themselves. But Makarov relishes the knowledge that he's in control, a single word from him would make you stop regardless of how hard and wanting you were, your loyalty to him as real as the dead man's blood you dip your fingers in to lube them.

Your fingers circle his hole before you press the pad of your finger against it. Without the heat of battle the cold viscousness of the blood feels disgusting, making him shiver and his rim flutter against your digit. But the discomfort is easily forgotten when you apply pressure, the steady and persistent way you push your finger in forcing his muscles to yield. "Shit-" Makarov clenches his teeth; your fingers are so large just one feels like two of his own, the gnawing pain of your finger pushing deeper just amplifying the pleasure of being stretched open and your other hand loosely stroking his wet cock.

You don't go slower than you need to, perfectly trained to know how to move your fingers to keep him teetering on the edge between pleasure and pain, each shift and slow drag of your finger pulling deep grunt and soft breaths from between his clenched teeth. "Yes, there you go." His praise makes your heart melt and cock throb in your pants, the pull of the leash bringing your lips together in another harsh kiss. You swallow his moans greedily, pushing a second finger in and curling them in search of his prostate, your thumb incessantly rubbing the space between his balls and ass to trap the spongy flesh between your fingers.

He nearly chokes you with how hard he yanks on the leash, hips pushing back into your hand and walls clenching down on your fingers. The stinging ache of being stretched open mixes with the building pleasure, leaving his skin feeling like a live wire. His teeth dig into your lip until it bleeds again, heels digging into your back. He grinds his hips down on your fingers, muttering praises against your lips as you push a third finger in and force him to take it.

He can't wait any more, gripping your hair and roughly yanking your head back. "Fuck me already." He growls, licking the blood staining your cheek.

You scramble to do as you're told, continuing to stretch him open as you undo your belt and pants with one hand, your hard cock bobbing against your abdomen. Pulling your fingers out you scoop up more blood, the cold helping reign in your lust as you lube up.

Before you can do anything he reaches out to grip the base of your cock, his hold firm and just at the cusp of pain. "You'll be good, yes?" He growls against your lips. "Fuck me good and hard?" His hand moves, stroking you slowly, evenly coating the blood along your cock. "I don't need to show you how to use this thing again, do I?" There's a dangerous edge in his voice.

Fear shoots down your spine, mouth going dry. You'd been too eager for human touch when he first let you mount him, and when you came seconds after getting inside him he'd been less than pleased by your abilities. You couldn't feel your cock for a full week after he'd tied you down and used your cock until you couldn't cum, using a cock ring to keep you hard and using you until he was satisfied.

You quickly shake your head. "No sir," You choke out and bare your throat. "I can do it, I'll be good." You promise.

His hold loosens, tugging you by the hair so he can peck your lips, his tongue licking over the small wound he'd made. "Don't fail me now."

You steel yourself like you're going to war, pressing your cockhead to his hole. Your nails dig into his hip, your grip ironclad to keep him still as you pull him down more and simultaneously push in. There's a second of resistance before your head pops in, the pleasure of entering his velvet soft insides being met with sharp pain as his teeth chomp down on your shoulder through your shirt. It all mixes in your brain into pure bliss, your hips bucking up into him automatically until you're bottomed out. You hold him close to you and leisurely grind your hips, letting him get used to the mind numbing stretch.

Fuck— Makarov may see the appeal of brutes but impaled on your cock he feels like he's being split in two, lungs burning and he can almost swear your tip's poking his diaphragm. He chases the pain more than the pleasure, heels digging into your back to give him some leverage so he can push his hips into yours. "Yes," His head lolls back when you slowly withdraw, only to suddenly snap your hips and hilt yourself inside him again. "-fuck, yes!"

The blood keeps you from tearing him apart but there's too little of it to keep him from feeling the painful stretch, the slow movement of your hips making his thighs shake. "Harder," He demands, yanking on your leash and biting your shoulder again. "Make me feel it." His voice is rough with a demand, because men like him never beg.

"Yes sir," You manage, bracing your feet and setting a rough pace, rutting into him like an animal. He muffles his sounds into your shoulder as your cock saws into him, his walls fluttering and clenching around you so tightly it feels like he'll snap your cock off. You do your best to focus on him and his pleasure, but the tight heat of his hole is rapidly melting any control you have, your cock throbbing and leaking precum inside him.

"Sir, please-" You whine, your muscles tight and your balls feeling so full you feel like you'll burst, your voice full of need. "I'm so close."

“Not yet.” He growls, pushing his hips down to meet your thrusts, your hand stroking his cock. “Make me cum first.” He growls.

You hold back a pathetic whine and redouble your efforts, your rough thrusts bruising his ass as you fuck into him, aiming to nail his prostate every time you bottom out. He wails, whole body shaking, his cock throbbing in your hand and leaking a puddle of precum on his stomach.

Makarov cums without any warning, going rigid and biting your shoulder even harder as pearly cum shoots from his tip, his walls clamping down on your cock. "C- cum!" He snarls, voice muffled, and it's all you need. Bottoming out fully you moan as you shoot his insides full of your cum, rocking your hips and grinding your cock against his prostate to prolong both of our highs.

You hold him close as you come down to reality but the way his walls clench around your cock makes you feel like heaven. His hands grip your jaw, bringing you down into a disorganized sloppy kiss. He's boneless in your arms, his walls continuing to flutter around you. "That was good." He slurs, chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. "Good dog."

The tug of the leash is expected and Makarov kisses the corner of your lips, tongue swiping across your skin to lick up more of the blood staining your lips. "Clean me up." He orders, "Lick up your mess." He growls, and there's not a single part of you that would refuse him.

Tag list: @lieutnt, @pastelclovds @thee-great-enigma @vladimirking24

[thegnomelord]

Gaz isn't a 'manly' man.

Sure he may be a soldier, but he doesn't believe in any of the shit single men spout on the internet on how he is meant to act and what he is meant to demand from his partner beyond love and respect. It baffles him how some soldiers in his previous units would bemoan their ended relationships when they'd treated their partners like shit.

So no, Gaz doesn't listen to those people telling him he should be in charge all the time. He's content to do more than half of the housework when he's on leave and you're still working. He's happy to 'play housewife' and make you a nice home cooked meal you two can enjoy when you get back late at night. He's elated getting to be the little spoon when you two snuggle up at night, finally able to sleep peacefully when he has his back turned to someone he trusts.

He's especially happy to let you paint his nails and put makeup on him because he loves the face you make when you concentrate, when your sole focus is on him. It's always so hard for him to try and not kiss you because you asked him to stay still and he doesn't want to smudge the lipstick you had so carefully applied on him.

And it makes it even harder to hide his arousal when you grip his chin and firmly turn his head back to stare right at you because he had moved his head to look at something that had grabbed his attention. The sudden motion never fails to send a delightful shiver down his spine, the hard scowl on your face when you see the streak of eyeliner going across his temple leaving him squirming in his seat and whispering a tense and raspy: "Sorry lovie."

Because if he tried to say just one more word he'd end up moan like a whore.

[thegnomelord]

Simon Riley hums to himself when he's alone.

He picked it up from his mom who'd hum the songs of her youth to distract her son from the drunken shouting of her no good husband. Every note clean, mellow, and quietly pulled from her throat with meathooks so little Simon would have to strain his ears and press his head to her breast extra hard to hear anything over the litany of slurs ringing through their empty home, the walls echoing the words as if to show the house itself did not want them.

The habit carried over to him, to self soothe without looking weak, be it when he was up all night studying for exams or in the bowels of a Mexico with his blood creating pools around him. It was an instinct by this point, to hum in his scratched up and raw voice so nobody could hear how broken it actually was.

The first time he did it with you, it was because he. . . He wanted to do it. Huddled on the couch watching some movie he didn't care about, with your head on his chest, feeling that Simon Riley was still alive. He felt the desire to hum bubble up inside him as he nuzzled his nose into your hair, the old songs he'd learned long ago all but leaping off his tongue.

The notes weren't as pretty as hers, his vocal chords couldn't produce clear or melodic sounds with how many times they'd been screamed raw, but you didn't care about that. You just cared that it was him who was making them, that he could be without the high concrete walls he'd usually build around himself.

Simon didn't know why that made him as happy as it did.

[thegnomelord]

i want more conventional werewolf soap and bloodborne werewolf reader but like.... wolf behavior and interaction edition

fully platonic or just non sexual pack interactions

maybe reader is older and treats soap like their pup or just a youngster in the pack idk i just think it would be cool

I can see Johnny taking his presumed pup status and running with it. You're far older than you should be, beast blood coursing through your veins with as much fervor as it had a few centuries before. So Johnny is a pup to you, and even with the beast blood always begging for bloodshed, your werewolf nature commands you to be careful with pups.

Soap gets away by being annoying, tugging on your shaggy fur or snatching an article of your clothing and dashing away, wagging his tail when you chase after him. Or he'll saddle up on the couch and scoot his ass until you're almost pushed off the side of the couch. And when you snap at him, blood and spit frotting at your mouth, all he has to do is whine and you're calming down. Of course, then Johnny is stuck with your half flayed monstrous body curled around him, wide tongue smoothing down his mohawk and preening him.

Or he'll whine about still being hungry after a night of being forcefully transformed by the full moon, and you're by his side sliding a plate stacked with raw meat in front of him. You just watch him eat, humming absentmindedly while Johnny shovels the food into his mouth like a vacuum.

Or when the beast blood turns too strong and you end up fully transformed and segregated from the others until you can calm down, Johnny's the only one who can get close. You'll growl and snarl as his human body nears you, only to quiet down when Johnny transforms into his wolf form. His wolf is smaller than yours, more inline with actual wolves than the chaotic mishmash of limbs and fur your body is. He licks at your muzzle, swallowing down the blood staining your snout, and before you know it you're curled around him in a snuggle pile, both of you sleeping through the night and long into the day.

[thegnomelord]

Demon simon who gets so damn angry when he finds out hunter had lover/crush

Why he so damn mad??? He can't stand him! And it bothers him so much

Then you have hunter who connect dots later and is howling from how funny situation is his *husband* is lil jelouse from his ex / celebrity crush that he kept clinging into him in almost painful grip for weeks

Oooh I love this idea! Lol jealous Simon is such a fun concept but I changed it a bit lol

CW NSFW: jealous demon ghost, groping at the end.

Imagine you, good hunter, in the search of a solution for your. . . problem. . . end up having to meet your Ex. Darek isn't a bad man, he's merely a merchant for all things dark and demented, or so he likes to say whenever the inquisitors come knocking on his door for devil worship. And Darek isn't a bad looking man either, he's got pretty light brown eyes and blonde hair down to his shoulders. He's a charmer who's fooled many a fey into giving their hearts with just his looks and honeyed words.

How you got together is a story echoed by many hunters; He needed some monster parts. You needed some weapons. The sex was just a nice way to soothe over any hiccups in your business relationship and give you both a way to release stress. There was never any feelings, no strings tying you together, just mindless bliss and mind-blowing sex.

Ghost hates him.

If you didn't need Darek, Ghost would already be using his skull as a cup. It wouldn't even take much to take him to the depths bellow, the man reeks of so much sin that the only question on the event of his death would be: which circle would want him the least?

Even when he's invisible, you can still feel Ghost glare at you with the intensity of the nine hells from the moment Darek leans in to brush his lips against yours. It doesn't lessen even a degree when you push Darek away, your mind too wrapped up with thoughts and the possibility of being killed like a common cultist to even think about dealing with Darek's fuck boy behavior.

"Since when did you become such a bore like the other hunters?" Darek huffs, but he's not too hung up about your rejection. The man has a revolving door of lovers, most of them definitely prettier and softer than you.

"Got a slight problem." You say as you take off your glove. An inch of space around your ring finger is burned, the flesh scarred over and blackened so it looks like a wedding ring.

You have to admit, as far as devil worshippers go, Ghost's particular cult was dumb as shit. Why they thought that burning a ring on your finger would somehow make this 'marriage' more satanic is beyond you.

Darek takes your hand, thumb brushing against the scarred flesh. Ghost has never wanted to murder some human more. "Ah, the joys of matrimony." Darek grins, "Don't tell me you already want to leave the poor bride?"

"Groom." You say quickly, tone flat, and you're unsure why you feel the need to correct him when you're talking about a demon. "And yes. I need a way to dissolve this union before some other hunter takes my head."

"Tisk tish, and here I thought you would be more considerate for others." Darek chuckles, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand and nibbling on your knuckle, a lustful look in his eyes. He does that on purpose, both of you are able to smell the sharp scent of brimstone as Ghost looms behind you, invisible but not unnoticed.

Darek lets go of your hand, starting to go over some old books that he has. They're little help in the grand scheme of things, but you're not in a position to be a chooser, so you agree to buy them.

"Now then, how will you pay?" Darek asks, resting his head in his hand. "You know, it's been so long since we both saw each other. I would be willing to give you a discount if you gave me an hour of your time." He purrs.

You consider it for a moment. It would be nice to let off some steam, especially as you haven't exactly had time to relieve yourself with Ghost always by your side.

And all Ghost can think is: the fucking audacity. He doesn't care if you and Darek have history you are his human, his 'bride', his to touch.

You feel Ghost growl. The 'ring' on your finger vibrates, heat flaring up your entire arm and it feels like a lightning jin is stuck inside your chest. It feels nice- no, it must just be the binding making you think that you're wanted just because a demon is throwing a hissy fit.

"Maybe next time." You still say despite yourself, paying in cash and leaving with Darek telling you to call him if you get bored of the married life.

No sooner are you on the street does an unseen force pull you into a dark alley. Claws, good for rending flesh from bone and not much else, gently scrape down your front before they curl around your belt and pull you close against a body bigger and hotter than yours. Ghost's tail curls around your thigh and on instinct you clench your thighs to trap it, but the crushing force behind it is lessened by the damned curse around your finger (The fact you don't try to punch him is one you will worry about later).

You look up, expecting to snarl at the same skull faced demon you've unfortunately been married to. Only for your mouth to fall to the floor when you look at. . . a man. A handsome man, in the rugged way other hunters are handsome; Blond cropped hair, short like a soldier's and your fingers twitch to scratch his scalp. Firm and strong muscles, hard won just like yours. Five o'clock shadow that many hunters sport when you forget to shave. Dark brown eyes that look very nice when mixed with Darek's hardened feature — wait a moment. . .

He looks like Darek! More precisely a hunter version of him, the version you aways thought about whenever you two would fuck. The only way you can tell it's Ghost is by the Hell reflected in the blacks of his eyes.

"Ghost what the fuck?" Is the only thing you can come up with, your eyes the size of dinner plates.

Ghost just grunts, pushing his weight until you're stuck against the wall. "What do you see in it?" He demands.

"What?" You ask, pressing your hands to his chest and trying to push him away, but your strength evaporates and all your wayward hands do is slide along his muscular abdomen.

His tail moves despite the tensing of your thighs, pressing against your groin. Mild panic builds in your brain as the spines along his tail are sharp enough to tear flesh, but all that violent potential is dampened by the marriage. Instead of tearing your balls off, those spines flatten down, creating a strange sensation against your groin that, unfortunately, has your cock chubbing up.

"What. Do. You. See. In. It?" Ghost repeats himself, each word hissed through semi-human teeth, fangs bared at you.

"Fuck Ghost!" You growl, and the best you can do is grope him in retaliation. Some part of you wants to blame the binding for your passiveness, another knows that the binding would not stop you if you didn't want this.

"Why debase yourself with that mortal?" He asks, his tone changing. He may be a demon of wrath, but he's no stranger to lust. His clawed fingers slide down, not even needing the binding to curb his strength as he cups your groin gently but firmly. "What do you get from it that you can't get from m- from someone else?"

Neither of you mention his slip up, you especially as the firm sensation against your clothed cock has you panting like a dog.

"Wh- what? Je-jealous ar-hm! you?" You manage to say, biting your lip to keep yourself from making a sound a hunter should Not make. (A hunter also shouldn't be groped by a demon but here you are.)

Ghost laughs, sharp and dark. "Absolutely not." His tail curls more around your leg, the size of it making you unconsciously spread them so you're not crushing it. "I am Not jealous of a meager mortal." He growls, his hand continuing to gently grope you, the other hand fiddling with your belt. . .

[thegnomelord]

I have had a thought.

What if dragons purr when you rub their horns..

Dragon!Price x Gaz and/or Nikolai,,,

Hehdhehehe

Hmmm, I don't usually write character x character but i'll give it a try so tell me if this sucks lol

CW: SFW, Price x Gaz, horn rubbing, purring, monster cod au, soft short and sweet. 1224 words. Cross posted to Ao3

Kyle is a good soldier. Strong. Competent. Reliable. Though the fears of losing him on every mission still linger, they're eased by the fact that Price never has to worry that his sergeant will stumble in those crucial moments when a second of hesitation can be the difference between life and death. Never has to worry that his Gaz will think of himself as expendable and rush into the hailstorm of bullets. . .

Kyle is also a menace.

Especially when he's perched on his desk and giving John the most pathetic puppy dog eyes he's ever seen. "Please, captain, just one time?" The imp of a harpy even has the gall to flutter his eyes, looking at him through his lashes because he knows how the light of the setting sun hits his eyes juuuust right to make the brown glitter like gold and amber jewels.

"Kyle." Price stresses. This really isn't the time to indulge his sergeant's need for mischief when he's got a week's worth of backlogged paperwork to go through.

"Sir." Kyle throws his tone back at him, but the way the word rolls off his tongue and he adds the smallest chirp to the end of it makes something inside him stir. "Come on mate, I promise it'll only take five minutes." Kyle's wings spread out so he can display the shininess of his feathers - peacocking transcends species it seems - the mundane dark color turned to that of rich obsidian by the sun.

"It never takes just 'five minutes'." He tries to argue, but the usual commanding rumble in his voice is gone. Price knows he's fighting a losing battle from the way his fingers itch for him to burry them into the smooth feathers and preen Kyle's wings until his treasure croons.

Kyle knows this. He's unable to hide the arrogant look in his eyes when he bites his bottom lip and leans back, muscles tensing, because he knows how such a display of his body will make John's eyes automatically roam across his hard earned muscles. "Pretty please." Kyle says, tail feathers gently twitching side to side.

Both of them know Price never stood a chance.

"That was dirty." John sighs, dejected by his own weakness. The distance between them is small, but Price purposely takes slow steps. Kyle eagerly scoots back on the desk and spreads his legs for John to fit between, hands raising to hold his biceps as Price braces his palms against the desk next to Kyle's hips.

Kyle snorts. "As if you've never stooped lower cap." He spreads his wings to wrap around Price, soft feathered wing wrists bumping against his back.

John just growls lowly in response. He doesn't resist his body's natural desire to reciprocate, to reaffirm the claim over his hoard. The atrophied muscles on his right side still ache with phantom pain after all this time, but that doesn't stop him from wrapping his one remaining wing around Kyle. The combination of their wings acts as a shroud from the rest of the world, soft feathers brushing against his green scales and their scents mixing together.

Price treasures these little moments.

The peace only lasts for a few seconds before Kyle ruins it with a grin. "Now come on, give me your horns." He says, not even bothering for Price to tilt his head before Kyle's clever fingers rise up his arms to cup his face, inching closer to where his horns grow out of his skull.

Price promises to himself to hunt down and shoot whichever wanker posted the '101 ways to make a dragon purr like a kitty' on the internet. Ever since Kyle found that blasted instruction manual he's been trying to go through the entire list to verify the information. Price had seen the article in question and had nearly choked when he'd read that the author thought pulling on a dragon's tail could get them any other reaction than an immediate bisection—

Kyle's impatient fingers still just enough to gently scratch the bumpy base of his scalp around the horns. It tingles, and Price isn't able to tell if the tingling sensation is of the good kind or a bad. A small sound rolls from his throat, but that doesn't satisfy Kyle.

"Come on John, sing for me." Kyle repeats the words Price tells him when he's preening him, voice light and just at the edge of taunting. Keeping one hand around his base, Kyle slides the palm of his other hand up the hard bone until he reaches the natural curve of Price's horn. He squeezes gently and moves his hand like he's jerking him off.

"O-oh." Price is grateful he's bracing against the desk because his legs go weak. The sensation of his palm and the pressure of his hand is neither good nor bad, just unfiltered feeling that his brain can't even begin to handle, so it shoots it down his spine like lightning. The buzz of sensation catches on every vertebra and makes his wing quiver, forces his tail to wag like he's some lost puppy.

"Not what I was expecting." Kyle confesses. Price can't see the surprise and wonder on his face as John's eyes close automatically. His head tips forward to rest his forehead on Gaz's chest, brawny biceps tensing to just support his weight and claws digging into the desk with enough force to tear through the wood.

Kyle moves his hands so he's holding Price's horns in both hands. The pale green horns are smooth under his palms besides the occasional scratch or chip in them. Kyle moves his hands with slowly and methodically, changing the pressure he uses on every stroke and paying special attention to the sharp tips of his horns.

That's all it takes to turn John's chest into an geriatric engine. Price manages to groan and mumble a curse under his breath before the only sound leaving his lips is the deep baritone purr. There's no way of stopping it; If Price was in a better mind he would question why the gentle stroking of his horns has him feeling like a puddle of goo but his brain is completely fried from the sensation.

Kyle has heard him purr before but this is different. All the other times his purrs would always be throaty and quiet. Now it feels like the sound is coming straight from the bottom of his chest and, fuck, Kyle can feel it, feel the rumble shake his ribs and the desk beneath him. The sound is loud and unpolished and so raw Gaz feels naked just hearing it.

Kyle can feel his heard beating a mile a minute, his surprise making his hands still just long enough for Price to look up at him. Kyle could die happy after seeing how fucked out Price looks — pupils dilated to the size of plates, panting, red faced, so open and unguarded. Comfortable. With him.

"You've been holding out on me John." Kyle smiles softly, starting to stroke his horns again.

Price purrs even louder, his tail curling around Kyle's leg, managing to pull the claws of one hand from the desk to grip Kyle's thigh and pull him closer, draconic hind-brain desperately seeking to get more of that gluttonous pleasure from Kyle's hands.

Safe to say they take longer than five minutes.

[thegnomelord]

Okay okay okay this is good and you give me so much brainrot and plz continue—

What if your domain is the Consequence of War; the pain of inflicted wounds, the sorrow of weeping parents and friends, the cries of children stuck beneath rubble, the hate born from suffering, the decay of corpses piled sky high, the thousands of vermin getting drunk off rotting blood.

But for all you are, you abhor war. And the twisted hand of faith makes you grow strong for every battle you fail to stop, every lost life strengthening you. Your followers preach peace in times when war is profitable, but will easily slaughter those seeking to fill their coffers as they, just like you, are good. But not kind.

It's the reason you are all but forgotten, exchanged for bloodthirsty Ares or Ruthless Athena, when Price, a young Athenian man, stumbles into your temple after having washed ashore on a forgotten island. He had just been promoted captain, and on his very first voyage to provide back up for a larger fleet he'd lead his men into a Spartan ambush— into a massacre.

He stumbles into your shrine deep beneath the earth, unnerved by the souless stares of bleached white skulls lining the walls, weighed down further because he swears he can hear his crew's cries, their screams, their hate for him. Your altar calls for him, ancient offerings covered in cobwebs, and without thought he gives you his own — his helmet, his cracked shield, his dagger, the blood pouring from his cut open wrists, the frail whimper of forgiveness coming from his lips.

You answer, awakened by his blood, his pain, embracing him, letting him cry his heart out into your chest while you remake him into something new; a new body with the same face, the same scars, your ichor gilding the slashes on his wrists.

Price is still himself, still coos at small kittens and entertains children caught in the crossfire of a raging battle, for he is good. But not kind. You don't even need to utter a word for he understands what you need, sailing soldiers catch a glimpse of a black horse standing on water before their entire ship is pulled under by vengeful dead and devouring waves, leaving nothing behind. Whispers spread, witnesses talk, myths are born and cautionary tales are passed down of being weary of black horses near streams of water— ride it, and it'll pull you down to the depths, fetch water from the river it drinks and your entire cavalry will drop dead before morning.

Gaz comes next, sold into the Pharoah's army and forced into countless battles where he's tasked to enslave his own people. He tries to resist in the ways he can, though spooking horses and 'accidentally' breaking gear does little more than earn him a lashing. But he's heard the other soldiers tell tales of you and your servant, so when he catches sight of a black stallion drinking from a river when he's ordered to fetch water, he doesn't hesitate. Gaz is careful to approach the beast, but there's no fear in him as he softly brushes Price's fur, praising and cooing over the softness and how handsome he looks. Somehow Gaz can tell Price is amused when he buckets the water from the exact place Price had been drinking from, as if it would make the curse more potent.

Gaz doesn't wait for morning to see if it worked, but he knows it did when he's chased across the desert sands by angry soldiers on the few horses that hadn't dropped dead. He's caught, a rope thrown around his neck and half dead from suffocation when they drag him back to camp. He's not shown any mercy, stabbed full of holes for good measure before hung up on the side of a cliff for the birds to feed on, his blood and tears falling to the sands bellow where your hidden altar lies as he begs, for whoever will listen, for whoever cares, to not let him die like this, to give his death meaning.

Then the rope snaps, his body plummeting down, but before he can hit the ground he's caught by Price, who doesn't have to beg or even speak for you know what he needs. Kyle's soul is barely clinging to his body when you pull them both into your firm embrace, changing Kyle like you'd changed Price while they sleep like babes.

Kyle has a hard time wrapping his head around what happened when he wakes up, surrounded by warmth on all sides, your ichor hiding the dark bruises along his neck, realigning the displaced bones. He thinks he should panic when he sees a grizzled soldier sleeping near him, but the sensation of firm hands around his waist— so protective and safe— has his mind relaxing enough for you to explain what happened.

He takes his job seriously, as faithful and obedient as Price is. Gaz takes the form of an eagle, spreading disease with every flap of his wings; food rots, wounds get infected, water becomes undrinkable, bacteria permeate the air to leave soldiers as breathless as he had been. But despite the misery of soldiers the civilians caught in the crossfire remain healthy, even the most meager piece of grass sustaining them until the war's end. For Gaz may not be kind, but he is good.

By the time your eyes fall on another potential follower enough time has passed for mortals to misconstrue what your servants are, folk tales turning them into boogeymen and monsters. Ghost never believed those tales regardless of how many times his ma' tried to scare him into bed with them, after all, he lived in a small fishing village where even a trout was an occasional sight. No-one was surprised when he got press ganged onto a naval ship, and he had to swallow his words and do as he was told, not believing a single word he was told about how he was serving the king and blah blah blah.

They landed on foreign soil and the hate and disgust that had been slowly festering in him over the months long voyage became apperant when he was ordered to shoot at innocence people who refused to give up their land. Black powder and bile burned his throat with every person he shot down, barrels of blood poured over him until one day he couldn't take it anymore, hate— at his captain, at his soldiers, at himself— festering like a disease inside him.

While everyone was sleeping and he was on deck duty he rigged the ships cannons with every grain of gunpowder there was on the ship and the next time the captain ordered to fire on an innocent village— the ship went up in flames.

Ghost was flung into the ocean along with everyone else, washing up on the shore. He couldn't feel his face or his legs anymore, pooling blood turning the sand red, the adrenaline keeping his mind from realising he's dying. He stares up at the sky and laughs as best he can with his throat clogged with black powder, because it's what he deserves for what he did, for the death he failed to stop.

He doesn't notice when a man sits next to him until Price's gruff voice invades his ears, "Quite the light show." He says, smoking a pipe, brushing Simon's remaining hair out of his eyes, worried and proud all the same. "Would you do it again?"

And Simon says 'definitely', or tries to anyway, and that's all you need to pull him into your embrace, for your altar had long since stopped being a fixed place; every battlefield, every ruined town, every place of tragedy — that was your altar. And Simon had made a sufficient offering.

You remake his body to the best of your abilities, giving him a skull mask when he asks, and when not in the body of a man Ghost stalks soldiers as a massive mountain lion, the scent of gunpowder wherever he goes. He's not as magically strong as the other two, doesn't have to be when humans rely so strongly on their machines that a single malfunction can tlake out an entire platoon. A weapon jamming, a cask of gun powder exploding, a bullet ricocheting back at you, a blade snapping— debilitating an army by destroying their tools.

He's also increadibly viscous, taking note to stalk the soldier who's dumb enough to stray from their pack, appearing between the trees to stare them down like the apparition he is, only to dissapear when they blink. Even more tales spread, more gods are born and die, yet you and your servants remain the same.

Johnny has heard all the tales surrounding the harbingers of war by the time WW1 rolls around, a freshed faced coal miner's son he joins as a clay kicker, wishing to do something good with himself. He weathers the cold, the cramped conditions, the freezing water up to his knees, his friends getting injured, with a smile on his face, seemingly nothing able to break his spirit.

But things turn weird when he starts seeing things that shouldn't be there; a skull faced man staring at him from the darkness of the tunnel right before a support beam breaks, an eagle screeching a day before his friend gets a bad case of trench foot, a stuck up commander who executes scared soldiers riding off on a pitch black stallion never to be seen again. Johnny does his best to flip off the three harbingers of war when he has the chance, and you get a good laugh at the way Ghost acts so angry as if he's not enamoured by Soap's constant display of rudeness towards them.

Yet Johnny's lucky, always able to escape the disasters that befall his fellows. And every night he offers a small prayer for whoever will listen for the war to stop, because despite his demeanor he doesn't want war, doesn't want to see his friends dying.

Then one of them messes up. A battle buddy gets spooked by enemies digging near them and ignites the dynamite while Soap's still inside the tunnel. He ends up crushed beneath mountains of mud, but not enough to die quickly. Instead he suffocates slowly, body drenched in cold mud, mind swimming as oxygen depletes and all the while he's thinking of his ma' and pa' back home, of his siblings, of what will happen if Britain looses the war.

A hand punches through the mud, his eyes barely able to focus on the same skull masked man he'd been flipping the bird to for ages. Simon doesn't do any fanfare, just shoves Soap's freezing body into your waiting arms, right next to Price and Gaz.

It's impossible to think anyone would be able to sleep in the middle of no man's land, under the constant rain of shell fire and mustard gas. But you keep them safe and away from prying mortal eyes, changing Soap just like you had done with the rest.

Soap comes back as a large dog, paws and fur speckled with mud. Buildings and strongholds crumble when he comes near, sinkholes appearing in perfectly stable roads the second a vehicle drives over them, solid ground turning into knee deep mud to immobilise horses and carts and tanks. And when he's not causing havoc to both sides, he's guiding rescuers and pulling people out of rubble, letting little kids pet his fur and running circles around Ghost and stealing meat from butchers to give to starving families, for while he may not be nice, he is good.

As years pass and conflicts continue to rage, you and your harbingers continue to grow strong, becoming boogeymen and monsters to children and soldiers alike. Then a shaky peace arises, and you are able to settle down into a comfortable rest, holding your dear servants close to your chest and praising them for their hard work, rewarding them in any way they wish, war hardened bodies turning soft and pliant beneath your touch. . .

thinking about 141 except its a different time period and theyre soldiers fighting a pointless war. they get ambushed and run away jsut to collapse on the feet of a forgotten, nature-ridden altar and offer an item or 2 on the altar despite them not knowing who they are, and they beg whoever is listening to give them a death kinder than dying.

and they pass out except they hear your voice whispering in their voice, idk whats that all about, but you rip their souls out of their mortal body of a vessel and force them to be your personal guards/servants? idk

except i like the idea that they all died in different times lol

like ghost probably got half his face blown up and you blessed him with the skull mask bc idk its poetic, soap died from someones mistake, idk how gaz died but somehow he did probably from being hung n dragged around (this is a reference 2 him having fallen out of the helicopter 💀)

n price probably died by khs after he led his own men to death bc he was inexperienced or something idk

and i just think it'd be cool if you were a war deity, like perhaps not exactly the god of war, but a deity associated w war, and if 141 were basically seen as bad omens / evil spirits by mortals or something lol

basically, I'm going crazy and i NEED people to spam me about this and continue it or ill go blow my brains out

[thegnomelord]

Ya'll wanna know my kink? Of course you do :D I blame @rodolfoparras for getting me into this brainrot. MDNI

I love to see a man's pretty little hole gape.

Not to the point of total ruin or prolapsing, but so it's loose enough for you to just sliiide right in without a snag until you're balls deep and he swears he can feel it in his throat; loose enough for you to fuck into him in long smooth strokes that has him shaking and whimpering into the sheets; so loose yet it still tries to suck you in deeper, uselessly trying to clench to keep you inside every time you pull back to thrust into him again.

I like the type of gape that his hole stays open when you pull out, the type of gape that no matter how much the poor man whines and tries to clench he can't keep your cum from slowly trickling out down his taint and balls. But the silly thing doesn't need to worry his pretty little head, it's not his fault his hole is so sloppy and loose. You're there to trail your fingers along the small rivulet of cum, gathering it on the pads of your fingers so you can stuff it back into his hole. And he's so content now that he's not empty, his puffy rim fluttering around your knuckles as you spread his already stretched hole with your fingers until you can see your cum pooled in his soft body.

I also love getting to that point.

I'd love to lay him down on the bed and oil him up, make sure he's so relaxed and pliant he's almost asleep by the time you even near his intimate parts. All he could do is turn his head to catch your gaze, skin flushing with goosebumps as you fondle and massage his ass, your thumbs circling his virgin tight hole before going down, caressing his balls and lazily stroking his cock just as it's starting to twitch with interest. And I'd keep my hands moving slowly, up and down, up and down, until he's sighing and panting against the pillow, thighs trembling with how he tries to keep them open for you, cock hard and his rim twitching whenever you press your thumb against it without trying to penetrate.

Only then would I lean in to lick around his hole, your teeth gently nibbling and sucking on his rim. A full body shiver trails up his spine and the prettiest sounds leave his breathless lips when you breach him with your tongue. And he's so tight it takes you ages of slowly eating him out to stretch him out enough for him to be able to take one of your fingers. It's heaven for you but hell for him, the movement of your tongue against his fluttering slow and lazy sensation keeping him teetering on the edge of that pleasure without it being enough.

And stretching him open slowly is the fun part, taking all the time in the world to get him used to the sensation of your finger wiggling inside him, stretching him open bit by bit so your tongue can lap at his sensitive walls as he moans and groans into the pillow, desperately trying to rut his ass into your face and his cock into the sheets. But he can cum as much as he wants, doesn't mean I'll stop until I can fit three fingers inside and his hole is begging for a fourth.

And damn the sight of his hole when you finally pull your fingers out is priceless; the small gape of his hole, the way his puffy rim continues to flutter and try to clench around nothing is as adorable as the small wiggle of his hips that he does and the soft spoken pleas to just "put it in" that has you finally giving him some relief.

And I don't know what I love more, watching inch after inch of your hard cock disappear into him until your pelvis is flush with his ass, or the long and drawn out moan that leaves his lips when you drape your body over his, catching his lips in a lazy kiss as you set a loving pace that leaves him breathless.

[thegnomelord]

I was talking with some friends and kinda came up with an original story idea where you're the new groundskeeper for a wealthy Victorian gentleman who is definitely not some kind of eldritch abomination.

Here's some touch and go snippets of what I thought of, lemme know if y'all want to see me turn this into an actual story.

CW: NSFW at the end, gay, homoerotic pining, Victorian gothic, mentions of murder.

Now I'm thinking ab a dark gothic Victorian gent who is *definitely* not some kind of eldritch abomination who marries wives who mysteriously disappear or die soon after and you're the new garden keeper who moves to work there because your old man is ill and the Victorian gent lets you live there and through no fault of your own you catch his interest and the way you smile as you handle the newly born lambs makes his, definitely not dead, heart beat.

----

You'd snuck in a 'friend' from the local brothel after your friends badgered your ears off about being a 'real man'. The night had gone poorly, she was a pretty woman, yes, but you just couldn't bring yourself to have sex no matter how hard you tried. You had to beg her not to tell anyone about your problem before paying her and sending her on her way yet. . . you can't find her anywhere.

It's as if she'd dissapeared in thin air (or was dragged by the carpets down into the maw in the basement) — Don't question the thing in the basement, you don't have to worry about that and it's probably just rats. Besides the door for the basement is never where you last remember it to be.

You could have sworn it was down the hall past the master's study but when you go to look all there is is just another grandiose painting, this time portraying the whore of Babylon riding on the many headed beast. And the master of the house appears before you can recognise the face of the whore, asking if you can fix the old light in his study that keeps flickering

---

You notice the master starts asking for you or going out of the house more often, usually to go horse back riding through the wide hunting woods you maintain behind the house. You're never sure why most of the animals shy away from the master like a devil from a cross, but there is one dove white steed that is the master's favorite. It's the only one who doesn't shy away, the one that you're not sure was in that empty paddock last night but you'd rather not lose your job by telling him you'd probably lost his horse and it came back.

The horse is sweet to you but you've seen it try to bite the other farm hands that get too close. Maybe it's just a temperament thing, animals feel more than you do after all, but. . . Hmm, where's that new farmhand that had slapped your ass gone to? And was the horse's muzzle always dyed red like that? Eh, someone must have just fed it some strawberries.

____

You get bullied by the chamber maid into helping her with cleaning the numerous bedrooms because the other two have come down with the seasonal flu and you were *sure* the nth bedroom you go to clean is empty, you'd checked it twice, but somehow when you pass through the very same door you enter the master's private bedroom and he's there in only his sleep clothes smiling at you and you can only stutter out weak apologies with your face a flame while your eyes stare at the other man in a way that would get the old town's priest rolling in his grave.

Oh yes, your ma and pa were extremely religious, dressing you up in your Sunday's best, taking you to church every Sunday regardless if it's rain or shine. You remember seeing the new master of the house when your parents were allowed to attend the previous master's seventh wedding. The master's family has long since supported the church and the local community, gaining favour from everyone despite the, erm, eccentric decorations and continuous wife deaths.

But death in child birth or from disease can happen to anyone, and what is a peasant like you supposed to understand the gentry?

Besides, the current master knows best what the wealthy people invited to his party expect from a man servant that you were commandered to be this evening. And if the young lord decides to tug off your cross necklace in favour of tying his own tie around your throat, slowly tightening it until the knot sits firmly at your Adam's apple and his ungloved fingers brush against your skin, and his smiling face is inches away looking at you like a man should not look at another man while purring how dashing you look tonight, who are you to argue?

----

The dairymaid had asked you to go get some honey from the beehives they keep. The door slowly budges open as you're forced to use more strength than you should, as if the house refuses to let you out this early in the morning, you were certain you'd oiled the hinges but it's an old house, it's bound to happen.

You go to the hives and for some reason the bees are not as violent as you remember your pa telling you about them being. They just buzz around you lazily as you carefully remove the frames with the honey.

You're nearly given a heart attack when you turn and the lord is there, behind you, staring at you with eyes you swear glint like the surface of an oil spill after a rainstorm but that must just be the light.

"Let me try some?" He asks, closing in, as if you have any ability or want to refuse.

He reaches out to grip your hand. Your fingers are still sticky with honey and for a second your blaspheming mind thinks he'll lick the honey off your fingers (god smite you down for that thought, you don't even know how many 'hail Mary's you'll need to recount for that).

He dips his fingers in the honey, rivulets of the golden liquid trickling down his knuckles as he slowly brings them up to his face and sticks them in his mouth. You know enough of the gentry and their weird customs to know this would be seen as unsightly, but you're neither gentry nor do you find yourself caring when he keeps his gaze locked on you even as his lips part, pink tongue swirling around his fingers to lick up all the honey in a way that makes you think it's purposeful. (It can't be, he's the lord for crying out loud, you can already hear your ma reaching for the lord's word to bash those sinful dirty blasphemous thoughts from your skull)

He pulls his fingers from his mouth with a loud sound that goes straight from your ears to your chest and down to where it shouldn't. Your hands itch to grab the cross around your neck and hold it but you only now remember the lord still has it, his tie still loosely wrapped around your neck. His eyes sparkle like stars "You should try some." He says, and he's tugging you by the arm before you can even start spouting your excuses about how it's not your place for such things.

----

Getting down on your knees in prayer, only for him to appear and gently grasp your chin - murmuring lowly how worship can be done later, that he needs you to do one more task before you pray and head to bed

That 'one more task' turns out to be a simple fix that for some reason takes longer than it should. The house does not want another's name to be spoken by your tongue and isn't above petty childish ploys of constantly flickering the one light in the lord's private chambers regardless of how many lightbulbs you change. The lord doesn't mind despite your growing emberassment, he likes the sight of your muscles tensed to stay balanced on that rickety ladder and how, despite your annoyance, you still treat the house - him- with care.

And it's late at night when you finish, so late everyone is asleep and there's no point in waking everyone up by trying to maneuver through the dark house with a candle.

"Stay the night." He says, order clear even without his hands tugging on your shirt. It's improper to sleep in the lord's bed in your work clothes after all, and you swear you see his eyes harden when he noticed that cross you'd managed to find, but it's soon discarded when he pulls the shirt over your head, cross dropping to the floor to be quietly swallowed by the carpets.

----

The only prayer he allows to be uttered in his house is the one you mutter when you fist your cock, squirreled away in your tiny room in the house. The only time he allows you to pray to your god is when his name is right next to Jesus and God the father, asking them for forgiveness for your sinful thoughts while you rut your cock into the sheets and moan his name as quietly as you think you're able to get away with.

He's learned not to 'stumble' on you in such a state, humans and their privacy, you were stone cold like a nun for a month when he'd did that once, and he'd missed the sweet prayers you sing him late at night when you think he's not listening.

[thegnomelord]

Thinking about John Price taking care of you while you're sick(totally self indulgent)

CW: NSFW

And you're a stubborn idiot, you don't think you're that sick to stay in bed even if you can barely stand on your feet. He takes one look at you and before you know it he's corralling you back to your room, hands on your sides to keep you walking and answering all of your complaints with "Zip it. You're sick you bloody Muppet."

Price who scowls and flicks your forehead and calls you 'bad boy' when you attempt to get out of bed when he's not looking. Price who fluffs your pillow and pulls several different layers of sheets and quilts over you. Who makes you hot tea with lemon and ginger just like his nan used to make it and holds the steaming cup to your lips so you don't spill it. Who checks your temperature by pressing the back of his hand and his lips to your forehead because he knows that'll get you from squirming.

Price who lays down behind you when you're still shivering under all those layers, thick arms securely wrapping around your middle to pull you against his chest, your legs intertwining and his strong belly pressing against your back to leave not even an inch of space between you two, his breath fanning over the back of your neck, his beard scratching your skin as he kisses you there. His hands are warm as he gently rubs your aching muscles, raising one hand to instead card his fingers through your hair. "Get some sleep, I'll be here when you wake up." He says, voice low and calming and so safe you don't notice when you nod off.

But also Price smiling at you when you get hard but are too exhausted to have sex or rub one out. Price who settles between your thighs, rough hands shimmying your pajama bottoms and boxers down enough for your cock to spring up. Murmuring a soft "Stay down," against your stomach, pinning your hips down to keep you from bucking up when he pecks the tip of your cock and trails kisses down your shaft to the base, "That's a good lad," he humms against yours sensitive skin, "just relax 'n be good for me."

You can do nothing but groan, eyes rolling into the back of your skull amd eyelids closing as Price takes you into his hot mouth, lazily suckling on your shaft. He's not racing to finish you off, tongue moving slowly and methodically across the veins of your cock up to swirl around your sensitive head before going back down. He lets you float in the same mindless pleasure you like to give him after a rough week, all the tenseness in your body melting away bit by bit every time he swallows around you, pulling off to lick around the cumslit before taking you to the root, savouring the salty taste of your precum.

And you're so out of it you can't tell apart if you're dreaming or awake, pleasure simmering beneath the surface of your skin like a kettle until it boils over, a weak noise escaping the back of your throat and your hips giving small little bucks as you cum down his throat without even noticing. Your eyes only open when your frayed nerves register the slight sting of overstimulation, Price's clever tongue cleaning your cock and swallowing every last drop before he tucks you back into your boxers.

You try to say something, offer to get him off in return, but he just shushes you, "no need lad." He climbs up your body to spoon you from behind once again, his body like your personal heater. "You'll get that chance when you're better," he trails kisses from your jaw to the back of your neck, nuzzling his nose into your skin. "Now be a good lad and go to sleep, yeah?"